Crossing the Lines

by Melvyn Bragg

  Isaac was drawn up to the fire though it was not cold. Although her entrance was deliberately unquiet he did not turn to look at her nor did her lingering provoke him in any way to alter his hunched concentration on the fire, simply tapping the grate with the poker. Her mother also looked away. Rachel was flustered and the walk to the village hall was a fortunate opportunity to calm down. Her anger at him had yet again flooded violently into her mind.

  It would soon be over. Tomorrow was her sixteenth birthday. He could not legally hold her after that and her preparations were under way.

  Her mother had noticed the steady departure of clothes and possessions, on the way to Claire’s at Wigton. Should she tell him? If Rachel did go, and now she feared it to be a real possibility, then Isaac would ask her if she had known about it or suspected it and she would have to confess she did but had not told him and then God help her. If she told him now - she dared not think, truly she dared not imagine what he would do.

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘I was thinking should we go up to that dance,’ he said, without turning. ‘There’ll be plenty there.’ He meant adults, farmers, their kind. ‘You used to like putting your glad rags on.’ He turned and smiled. She could not interpret it. ‘You were very light on your feet,’ he said.

  ‘You weren’t as bad as I’d expected either,’ she dared. ‘Better at the slow ones. Things with a bit of class to them. The valeta.’

  ‘That did surprise me.’ That courtly dance, hands on hips, fingertips touching, something like the dances in historical films. ‘I’ve half a mind …’

  And for a moment peace flared, years were wiped off, he was the bold strong country labourer come to court her, defying her disapproving parents, that irresistible smile of his and while they were out that warning to others that to touch her they would have to step across his dead body. Even now she could remember that basking in being so protected and cherished. How had mere time changed all that, eroded so much until now there was scarcely a grain of her which could escape the demands of his ambition, the rays of his driving rages. Moments such as this were as rare and as potent with brief pleasure as the sight of will of the wisp down on the moss.

  ‘I’ll get you that tea,’ she said, for she knew he would not go.

  She went to the sink.

  ‘What you got her for tomorrow?’

  Her back stiffened.

  ‘We went to Redmayne’s on Tuesday. She needed a new coat.’

  ‘New coat! Money talks, Mother, eh?’

  She filled the kettle too full and poured some down the sink. I'll give her a fiver,’ he said. ‘She’ll appreciate that.’

  ‘A fiver.’

  Isaac’s tone was neutral but it spoke in tongues. The fiver meant amazement - how could he give to his sixteen-year-old daughter a sum of money he would never have dreamt of as a weekly wage until well into his late twenties and even then it would mostly be spoken for: it meant arrival, he had got there, he was one of the rich, a fiver was no sacrifice, no hardship; it implied contempt, that it was so easy now, that it was just a bit of money, that after all it meant no more than it did; it was an act of bitterness, that he could feel no gladness in it, no feeling of this expressing love between father and daughter, mere payment in recognition of a date; sadness, that a few paper notes were all that he could give; it meant anger - this would show her, this was a cold transaction and more than she deserved. It was a bribe, it was a peace offering, it was the best the man could manage.

  She brought him the tea and he poured it into the saucer. She would have enjoyed the dance. So would he, once he got there.

  Isaac’s generation were there in force and at this early stage dominating the dance floor together with the very young, mostly girls, party dresses, velvet bows in their hair, being tutored by elders, the hall brightly lit, three-piece band - drums, accordion, trumpet -refreshments laid out at the back, sandwiches, cakes, soft drinks, ready for the interval. Of those to whom the dance was vital, the adolescent, the courting age, those on the gad, on the prowl, on the chase - the males fortified themselves at the Bird in Hand, some in pubs further afield, the females arrived in good time but located themselves in the refreshment end or danced with each other as Linda did with Rachel.

  When Joe came in he searched her out with such ardour! Rachel felt both calmed and clarified by the direct and open unspoken declaration. He walked across to her looking neither to right nor left, the room might have been empty and deserted but for her and she felt her heart unclench, could feel it, she would swear much, much later to Linda ‘just kind of melt - I know it sounds daft’.

  Alan trailed behind him determined not to get stuck with Linda. He needed to click. These village dances were usually lucky, especially for somebody from the town with a bit of money and a motorbike.

  A slow foxtrot was just what Joe wanted, but Rachel held him firmly at arm’s length. There was torment in this. She was dancing with somebody obviously her boyfriend in front of everybody she knew, everybody she had been at school with, everybody of her parents’ generation, younger brothers and sisters, guaranteed to say something embarrassing, at least two former boyfriends, all of whom, she thought, were studying him, weighing him up, scrutinising her, was it the real thing? Smooching in any shape or form was definitely out and Joe felt a little deflated. They had stormed up from the pub, he had come in like a hurricane and now in his arms he held a tense, stiff dancing partner who seemed unwilling even to look him full in the face. He walked her back to the chairs which stood in neat order along the walls and as they came off the floor, Rachel whispered, out of the corner of her mouth, ‘Dance with Linda!’

  A quickstep was announced. Joe said, ‘May I have this dance, please?’ Linda put her handbag on the chair. The bag was dark green. It matched the voluminous green satin of her unafraid and stupendous dress, wave after wave of heavy material enfolding and caressing wave upon wave of Linda. She came quite close. The three-piece band tried to imitate the Glen Miller Orchestra.

  It was like dancing on air. Delicate hands, trim ankles, smooth unfat face, all these commanded Linda and the bulk of the body that afflicted her dropped away as the music sped on and Joe discovered the dancing partner of his dreams. Rachel was fine of course but awkward; other girls had been good; Sadie was marvellous but she was a touch too inclined to lead even though she pretended he did. Linda was gossamer. The slightest pressure on the hand that held his and she would spin into a perfectly achieved diagonal of scissor steps scything the floor. A tad of pressure from the right palm which was placed on her back and she would go into reverse spins. A mere indication and they would stop for dramatic effect and then begin again. They could have been dancing together for years. It was extraordinary, Joe thought. It was almost not dancing but gliding, skating, moving effortlessly like hawks on the wind. He led her back, intoxicated.

  ‘You’re a great dancer.’

  Linda smiled and nodded slyly.

  ‘You two should be in a competition,’ Rachel said, very pleased that her best friend had scored such a hit. And Joe got one of those rare quick fully exposed smiles that floored him.

  Next was the Dashing White Sergeant and so he could dance with both of them. Alan, he saw, had been collared by the Thompson sisters: Alan would like Sarah Thompson. The old country dance, in a circle, steps to the left, steps to the right, set against your partners, hold hands, duck under the neighbouring trio, join up the circle, start again - filled the hall and brought in six to sixties, those who could really and those who could scarcely dance, mixed the crowd, raised a sweat, called for Scottish-sound whoops as the bit of Highland Fling made its appearance and joined hands with the reels and two-steps, the Palais Glide, the Three Drops of Brandy, the Gay Gordons and the Hooligans and old waltzes which linked back to court and village green, to lute, drum, tabor and also to massed violins in ballrooms centuries and half a continent away. The new dances were spliced in. There were excuse-mes and ladies’ choice, statue waltzes a
nd, the only failure, an over-ambitious, overselfconscious and mediocre attempt at Rock 'n' Roll. Linda walked off the floor and said it was pathetic.

  For the last hour the much older lads and the bolder young men came in rather tanked up from the pub and Joe curtailed his wide choice of dancing partners - which had been encouraged by Rachel, and was implanted in Joe’s own education. But he did not want these men around her: one who must have been well over twenty-one years old did ask her up and Joe, dancing with Sarah Thompson, stalked them around the floor troubled by jealousy quick as lightning about him. The sensation was disturbing and Sarah’s attempts at conversation foundered. He handed her over to Alan a little too eagerly and went to stand beside Rachel, who was being talked at by this burly latecomer.

  ‘Donald Pennington,’ Rachel said as they walked to the chairs, ‘they have a big farm near Abbeytown. Really big. And a big house with it.’

  Joe wanted to consign all farmers, especially big farmers, to a sexless limbo, to show in fireworks of wit how far superior staying on at school was, to wring from her now a declaration both absolute and binding.

  ‘That was his brother who got into Durham last year, wasn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a shame with a farm that size.’

  They put out half the lights for the last waltz and she let him hold her tight which meant a slow and deep plunge into the feel and smell of her hair, the press of her body, the slight taste of salt when he risked a light brushed kiss on her cheek, the music drawing her into him, the movement pulling him closer to her, his hand moist on the thin cotton of her dress, even their thighs close at times when he paused for a split moment and just clung to her in a state of bliss that should never have ended.

  ‘God Save the Queen’ then Alan came up, Sarah Thompson hovering behind him.

  ‘Meet outside her gate in half an hour?’

  ‘Who’s “her” supposed to be?’ said Rachel, but she smiled.

  They set Linda back home. Joe had danced with her three more times and her talent gave Rachel and himself something to talk about as they walked towards the farm.

  ‘This gate,’ Rachel said.

  It was the upper gate, leading to the barns.

  ‘Watch your feet.’

  She led. They went into the open barn and the sweet ripe scent flooded into his lungs and its sickening sweetness set off a fuse along his veins.

  ‘Bit of a stench,’ Rachel said.

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Takes all sorts.’ But she only said that out of nervousness, Joe knew.

  There was a little light from one of the far street lights in the village. Scudding clouds kept obscuring the moon. The constant barking of a few dogs, a car or two, a motorbike or two distantly heard, the wide silence of the great plain, the big sound of themselves together unseen, unhindered. She put her arms around his neck and they kissed hard and lingeringly, again and again, repositioning their lips as if for a better expression of all that was being said and done in this partial and chaste meeting of flesh, came up for air, even managed a few sentences now and then, but soon dived back to the kiss, the slender focus of all their lust, all sensuality confined to two slivers of flesh far away from the forbidden sexual zones, lips, the unspeaking voice of their desire, those kisses invested with such a charge by poetry and song, tender and powerful silent mouthings, longings, the seductive blend of internal and external skin, the tentative touchings of the tip of the tongue, extraordinary and numerous expressions and satisfactions in the only permitted lasciviousness of a budding uncertain love. After some time Joe put his hand on her breast. She did not take it off, indeed she seemed to lean into it and Joe left it at that: truly grateful.

  While resting her head on his shoulder she looked at her watch. I’ll have to go.’

  She broke the clinch immediately. Joe felt he had bobbed up after too long under water. Outside the farm gate he said: ‘I’m coming through tomorrow.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘It’s your birthday.’ It sounded like a complaint and in a way it was. He had spent hours thinking about her present. ‘What time?’

  ‘Four o’clock?’

  He had worked it out. Church. Eat. Three hours’ work. Get there. Back for evensong but not essential. As long as back by eight for another hour or two’s reading or the concert he had circled.

  ‘Two.’ Rachel had made her calculations. ‘Outside the Hall. I’ll see you there.’

  She went into the dark farmyard. He heard the door open and close, quietly both times. There was no option. He would have to miss sung eucharist in the morning and then he could guarantee getting the three hours in after he had helped his dad. She had said two o’clock but who could tell how long it would go on for - the longer the better for him - best to get the history done in the morning. He had only ever missed the eucharist before when he had been on holiday.

  ‘What was she like?’ Alan had taken about an hour. Joe was shivering.

  ‘Good,’ said Joe, as flatly as he could. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Bit slow.’ Joe climbed onto the pillion. ‘But I’ve fixed something up for next week.’

  ‘I’m set.’

  Alan cruised out of the village and only hit the accelerator when he was well clear. He was still basking in the ton which Joe had helpfully introduced into the general conversation and with Sarah present.

  Joe held on. He saw the stare-eyed rabbit, he saw Speed’s brother high on the cart, he saw Rachel across the dance floor waiting, and in the palm of his right hand he carried the softness and comfort of her breast.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  In the morning Rachel helped her mother with the baking and cleaning. Advantage had been taken of her birthday. There would be a Sunday tea for favoured relations. High tea. Cold meats, a token salad, farm butter, rum butter, brandy butter, jam, pickled onions - all home made - home-baked bread and too many plate cakes, trifle with cream, and continuous tea. The house had to be burnished clean as on no other day. The men would be uncomfortable. Strapped in suits and stiff collars grown too small - they would sweat before the reckless fire. The conversation of the men would be stock prices, subsidies, land; of the women genealogy and intense local gossip. Suez would be lucky to get a mention. Rachel enjoyed these occasions and even today there was an excitement in the anticipation, fanned, as always, by her amusement at the seriousness with which her mother took the whole thing.

  ‘You would think you were going to be inspected by the Queen.’

  ‘The Queen would be a walkover compared with this lot’

  ‘They’re family, Mam!’

  ‘There’s nobody worse for finding fault. You’ll see.’

  ‘It’s like a showroom.’

  Rachel opened her arms to the plain, solid but glassily polished table, chairs and sideboard in the sitting room already laid for the tea even though it was only late morning.

  ‘They’ll find something. You know my sisters.’

  ‘Why don’t you put a vase of flowers in the middle of the table?’

  ‘Somebody would knock them over. And imagine what your dad would say! Anyway, who has flowers on the middle of a laid table?’

  ‘You could open up new frontiers.’

  ‘C’mon, we have to get the men their dinners.’

  But the prospect of sitting down with her father and her brothers dampened Rachel’s spirits. Perhaps her excitement had been whistling in the dark. She was going to carry out her threat, which meant that in a day or so she would be in full confrontation with him. Her mother had not spoken to her about it for the past two weeks, believing that to ignore it would be to solve it. And Rachel’s good mood that morning had reassured her.

  ‘Was he at the dance?’ she asked, skittishly.

  ‘He was.’

  ‘It’s Ellen Richardson’s boy, isn’t it? We were both at school with Ellen.’

  ‘Does Dad know?’

  ‘We don’t talk about it.’

  Rachel wanted to tell her
mother that she planned to leave the next morning. To stay with Aunt Claire. To leave school at Christmas, which she was entitled to do, to get a job. She ought to tell her. Her mother would get part of the blame. It was unfair not to. It was such a big thing to do on her own. Perhaps she would not have the strength to do it. Perhaps her mother would help.

  ‘Potatoes,’ her mother said. ‘Peeled. Now.’ And she was gone.

  After dinner the brothers went out to tidy up - even more scrupulously on this day because once tea was over the men would expect a tour of the farm buildings and sightings of the home fields. Isaac waited until the washing-up had been done and then took out his five pounds. ‘Here,’ he said. Rachel knew the command was to her. She turned from the sink. He held up the notes and flapped them a little, boastfully, so that the full five could be seen. Yet there was also a diffidence in Isaac: he had waited until his sons had gone. He wanted it over with. He was aware of the wall between them now and uncertain whether the gift was a show of weakness.

  ‘No thanks,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Take it.’

  ‘I’m happy with the coat. That cost enough.’

  ‘I want you to take it.’ He was winded. He was hurt.

  ‘Take it!’ Her mother was angry. ‘Your father’s giving it to you.’

  ‘I’d rather not. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Well, Mother. She doesn’t want my money.’

  He folded the notes carefully and put them in his waistcoat pocket.

  Rachel untied her apron and made for the door leading to the stairs. There had for a moment been a crushed expression on her father’s face which had made her want to cry.

  As she passed by him, he lunged out and grabbed her wrist, held it very hard.