Theo is my oldest, dearest friend and will carve me to ribbons if I call her by her full name in public, which is Theodora Eunice Weller. Personally, I like Dora better than Theo but she looks murderous when I say it. She says Theo is perfectly mysterious and androgynous, which she thinks compliments someone so very feminine. Theo indulges her curves wonderfully, and while she might be a trifle plump, most men spend too much time staring at her overdeveloped bustline to worry if her waistline overdeveloped a smidge, too. And she is the only girl I’ve ever seen put platinum in her hair and have it look natural. She is already so fair that when her hair went from blonde to white she went from pretty to angelic. On the days we actually see sunlight she glows in it and the boys stand slack-jawed like cows in a ditch.
But not Alan. When she comes over he notices her as much as he notices Mrs. Rowley at the butcher’s counter. Which is why I fear there is no hope for me. I don’t compare to her in any category. My hair is nondescript, ten colours all brewed together into a flavourless soup of nearly brown. My only true claim to anything interesting are my eyes. Apparently my body doesn’t like settling on one colour for anything. My eyes are equal parts brown and green and yellow. Only you must look closely in good light or those, too, seem only a sludgy brown. I suppose I am proportioned well, but I’m usually working too hard in men’s clothing for anyone to know.
I’ve made a special point to try to wear a few more dresses around home, but it is February; the world is crusted in ice on top of snow on top of ice and it simply isn’t manageable. I usually give up before noon tea and Alan never sees anything but me shivering by the cookstove, trying to recover from my bare legs all morning. I’ve worn my new blue dress every Sunday for a month, but Alan hasn’t shown up for one service. Now my blue doesn’t feel so new anymore and it’s lost that crisp, out-of-the-box feel. Perhaps I’ve lost that crisp, out-of-the-box feel, as well. Is it possible for one so young to feel all dried up?
But then, if I am honest with myself, he did come to my room. He did speak so gently when he handed me the case. He did look embarrassed when he looked past me to my bed. Surely, there is something psychological in that. If I turn to a block of ice as blue as my dress, I will wear it today. Only I will put it on right before the men come in for tea and stoke the stove so I don’t shiver my way through our meal; there is no romance in chattering teeth.
I was going to wait until tomorrow to write any more, but the half moon is so bright it looks like a pillow that split a seam and is spilling out white feathers on the entire world. The snowflakes are so big and the night so windless they float much more than they fall. They land on my window and turn to clear crystal for one instant before they disappear into drops of water. I’m back in my long underwear and flannel nightclothes and a hot brick is wrapped in old sheets between my feet. How delicious and strange to be able to lie in my warm bed and still type! Who ever imagined they could make a manual so light and sturdy? The q stuck just a tiny bit today, but Alan greased it and it snaps like the heels of a soldier now. Pity it is so underused because I keep wanting an excuse to press my pinky into it. His finger was there, fiddling and testing and it feels like he left a touch behind if only I could find a way to work in something about the queen or something queer. Perhaps that is the right word, because I am queer all over at the moment and I can’t seem to make sense of the day.
I did iron and wear my dress and when the men came in, rattling from cold almost as fierce as the windowpanes rattled from the wind, I smiled bravely as if I didn’t miss my woolen slacks at all. I’ve certainly put in long hours outside all my life, and I want to say something plucky about a woman’s strength, but truly the men bear the bitter elements better than I ever shall. Dad sends me in when I begin to look a bit purple, but he and Alan will march to the high buildings in drifts up to their thighs. Sometimes the trek there takes more than an hour. And once they get there, they break through the ice in the troughs and fork out fresh hay while the sheep stare dejectedly, barely perceptible from the white mountains of snow except for their dark eyes and noses.
Dad pushed off a pile of snow from his shoulders as they came inside and beat his wet hat on the countertop to break off some of the ice before he landed his backside hard in a kitchen chair. Alan came in a bit softer, blowing his hands and scrubbing the bottom of his boots on the mat. It took him a minute to look up from his frozen hands and snowy clothes to see the room around him. His eyes brushed past past me, but then his face froze, his expression not moving the tiniest muscle, except for the barely noticeable widening of his eyes. I should have been coy. Theo would have murdered me if she saw, but my face exploded into a smile and I stepped forward, trying with all I am to suppress my joy at catching him notice me.
“I’ve got steaming coffee and meat pie. Honestly, you two should call it a day.”
They grunted almost in unison. Grunting is a dialect for Dales farmers. It wasn’t an unkind noise. It simply mocked the idea of bundling into a warm house and doing nothing when a thing such as a farm still existed in the world. Alan stared a moment at my dress, but refused to meet my eyes. I chose to believe he was overcome and too shy to look directly at me. Timidity fascinates me as I haven’t got a lick of it. I’ve always wanted a dose because it does look so becoming on people and I nearly burn with curiosity to know what shy people think. I’m convinced Alan is a captivating person, mostly on account he rarely speaks to anyone. Theo says I am a mad flirt with all of my smiling and talking, but I would gladly give it up to be pensive and a tad helpless. I simply can’t get the hang of it.
I put Alan’s food in front of him and sat down, scraping my chair just close enough to him he wouldn’t be able to tell I did it on purpose. “Do you have a good count of how many ewes are in lamb?” I asked him, sliding a steaming cup of coffee next to his plate.
“About 110. We hope.” He set his wet gloves in his lap and wrapped his red fingers around the cup. I looked at the rough calluses, wondering how they would feel against my skin. I grinned extra wide to cover any trace of embarrassment.
“Less than last year, though, isn’t it, Dad?”
Dad had his head bent over his meal, inches from the plate filled with scalding gravy. His eyes were all that shifted as he looked up in surprise that someone interrupted his moment with his food. “S’pose,” he managed to croak. “Might get more multiples. Can’t be what it ‘tisn’t.” He shoveled in another bite to signal he’d say no more.
I’ve never agreed with the Yorkshire habit of keeping mute at meals. I turned back to Alan. “If the prices are higher this year it will balance out, right?”
His blue eyes held so still on my face that for one moment I imagined he was carved of stone. But when I searched I saw thoughts moving inside him. Worried thoughts. “Aye. Prices look to be a bit higher,” he admitted without any enthusiasm.
He looked down where my blue skirt fell to the side of my chair. I followed his glance and returned to his face, searching for clues to his secrets. He took another bite and I nibbled on my roll, savouring the thick slab of butter I’d put on top. Alan seemed to be taking much more time eating than usual. Dad finished first, with a swipe of bread to soak up all the remaining gravy and tromped back to his coat and boots.
“I’ll start moving bales in the big barn to set up stalls,” he said to Alan as he tied his laces. He put on his damp, shapeless hat and gave me a nod. It doesn’t sound kind, but it was a humble thing, artless, and full of his brand of love. He looked at Alan and I with a wrinkled brow and then stepped into the howling cold, leaving a burst of frozen air to collide with the steam rising from the boiling kettle.
After he left, the kitchen shrunk as if the walls leaned close to hear what I would say, and all along, Alan seemed to expand and fill all the extra space until I felt nearly smothered, in the most exhilarating way.
“Are you goin’ t’ the village?” he asked me, his finger gesturing to my dress.
“No. Just wishing for spring. And Iit
is Valentine’s Day. I thought if I dressed for it…” I ran out of words before I finished the thought and smiled in the silence. At least one of us had said it.
“It looks well.” He swallowed and glanced around the receding room. “I’ve actually been ‘oping to get you alone. Do you have time to bide?”
The little space between my lips closed, holding back my breath like a dam and I nodded.
Alan stood and clamped his thick hands on the back of his chair. “Eve, things aren’t looking fair for the farm this year. Not the worse threppin’,” he hurried to reassure me. “But not fair. If we get enough multiples, like your dad said, and the prices are high, we’ll squeak by. I mean you’ll squeak by.”
His face reddened at his mistake, but surely he knew that our family thought of him as “we” by now. He lives in a tiny flat inside the west barn Dad built just for him his second year here. It has only one power plug, but he takes meals in the house with us and an iron stove keeps his quarters toasty. Sometimes when the sheep ail, he brings them inside and lets them sleep in makeshift stalls in his room. It doesn’t make for a pleasant odor, but the fierce wind has its uses. While it nearly takes off our skin, it does scrub out a good deal of the stench, too. Alan spends so much time in the elements he smells of nothing but wind-dried wool.
“And if there aren’t multiples or high prices?” I asked, refusing to forsake my cheerful smile.
“Well,” he rubbed his chin, sanding his finger against the bristles. “We’ll figger it.”
We’ve been figuring it out for plenty of years. For just a moment I had a memory of hearing my mother say something similar.
Alan’s eyes fell to the wet floor where his boots had shed streams of water and mud over the flagstones. “Are you going to the village dance Saturday?” he asked in a thick, forced voice.
How mixed I am! I smiled at his news that the farm was in peril and when he asked me about the dance my face collapsed into a frown. “Theo says we must because they always do the best one for Valentine’s Day,” I told him, not able to manage coy or flippant or even pleasant. A dread filled me, swelling in proportion to the hope in my chest. Only his next words would help me settle on an emotion. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought I might ‘appen into you there. Talk w’ you.” The words cost him. His red face tightened and the muscles refused to let out another syllable.
“That sounds lovely.” My chin trembled! I clenched my back teeth to steady my mouth. That only made it worse.
“Good,” he breathed. He snatched up his gloves and shoved his feet into the boots. “Sorry for the floor. You always keep it so sterling.”
I waved his comment away. No one wins against sludge in winter. “I’ll look for you there on Saturday? I’ll be getting dressed at Theo’s.”
He nodded and wrapped his damp coat around him before opening the door. Reaching into his pocket at the last moment he pulled out a cherry stick of Brighton Rock and thrust it into my hand. He looked to say something more, but settled on a curt nod instead. So I did get a Valentine after all, even if there was no love note. I’m quite glad for small favours. I waited until he was well across the yard, his steps stiffer and faster than usual, before I ran up to my room and circled it, looking for some place to put the new feelings I couldn’t fit inside me. Seeing nothing suitable I fell onto the bed, and released a small scream into my blanket, still clutching the candy in my fist. That seemed to loosen everything that had screwed up so tight in my chest and little waves of happiness washed over me like shivers I couldn’t still.
Even now just writing it, I feel them race up my limbs leaving gooseflesh. Every memory of him is like a touch. So now I must lie down and force myself to sleep, knowing he is lying in his bed just across the yard. I’ve never envied a sheep before, but today there was a pregnant one breathing hard in the snowdrifts and Alan brought her inside to rest by his stove. Now all I can imagine is her puff of white wool drying in the heat and Alan’s face in the moonlight as he sleeps across the room from her. I wonder if he could ever have enough imagination to think of my typewriter in my lap, stroked by my hands, and get hot with happy jealousy. Most likely not. What a curse to be a romantic person. No one will ever put as much thought into you as you put into them. But then, I wouldn’t trade one thought of Alan for an army of admirers. I am beginning to think I’ve discovered love.
20TH FEBRUARY 1939
Theo insisted I get ready at her house because she didn’t want Alan to see me before my big reveal. Not that I had anything new to show. I hadn’t a shilling to buy anything and I’d wasted my blue dress on a Monday tea instead of saving it for Saturday night. Though, he did ask to see me at the dance, so perhaps it wasn’t wasted after all.
Theo rummaged through all her dresses (she has ever so many!) but it was hopeless. Nothing fit me right. We belted her silver jacquard and got so close, but the fabric over my chest kept caving in and truly there are not enough socks to give me Theo’s figure. But she is nothing if not resourceful, and she found a trim of lace we hemmed to the end of my blue and I wore her white rabbit stole. With the soft white at the top and bottom of my dress, it turned from baby blue into ice blue and Theo declared I looked liked a snow queen when it was all said and done. She got my unruly hair to behave in glossy curls and gave me her pearl necklace. After her adjustments it looked much more like a dancing dress than a church dress.
As soon as I was presentable, Theo went to work on herself, grabbing her new frock out of her wardrobe. I caught a glimpse of it in the box before she swept behind her dressing screen.
“Why green for a Valentine’s dance? We’ll be the only girls there not in pink or red.” I smoothed my skirt trying to imagine if Alan would like me in pink. I outgrew my pink dress before I finished school and my only pink blouse was stuffed into a crack in my wall, fending off the cold.
“You are learning.” Behind the screen came the seductive sound of a long metal zipper lashing its teeth together. “We will look different on purpose. I knew it had to be green for me.”
“For money?” I guessed. I never can tell what motivations swirl through her head.
She laughed. “How do you think? No, not for money. Though that is intriguing.” She stepped out, the emerald green dress pressed like a fine glove against her bosom, which peeked out the top. “I wanted a dress so green it looks like I nearly envy myself.” Her white blonde curls brushed her bare shoulders, and for a moment I was awash with guilt because the white stole would look perfect, but I wasn’t willing to return it.
“Well, it worked. I certainly envy you. The girls will hate you.”
Theo pulled out her raspberry lipstick and held it next to her pink cheeks, checking the shade. “Us, darling. The girls will hate us.” Her eyebrow arched as she looked over me. “You are too, too innocent. It is precious and tiresome all at once.”
I started to protest because for all her sultry glances and talk, Theo has done nothing more than dole out the most chaste kisses with the most unchaste look in her eyes. She is full of smoldering promise, but delivers only tender pecks on the lips. She cut me off before I could speak. “But don’t be offended. I think it is perfect for Alan. If you were too passionate he would run like the river. You are just safe enough for him.” She pouted her bright lips, glistening with the dark pink colour. “He is boring, Eve.”
“He’s not boring. And I’m not safe. We don’t know what I am because I’ve never got the chance to see what I might do. Perhaps I am wildly passionate. And for all we know, he is, too.”
She tried to keep a straight face, but when I threw in that last argument she couldn’t hold back. “Eve, all you two have ever discussed is sheep. Sheep. That is as romantic as seed packets or threshing machines. But,” she held up her hand for silence, “I reserve judgement. I will not say a word against him until after he is boring tonight.”
She put some scent on her finger and stroked it down her neck onto her cleavage.
“Must y
ou torture them?” I asked.
“I positively must. When I finally fall in love with one I want him to worship me like the sky worships the sun. I want him to lose all his jobs because he races home early to make love to me.”
“Theodora!” Her full name came like a slap and she glared at me. I softened my tone. “Then you would love a penniless man and have no new dresses. Be reasonable.”
“Love that is reasonable is no love at all. I will settle for nothing less than a complete capitulation. It must be an absolute victory.” Her blue eyes burned with humor and sincerity all at once.
“Dear heavens, you’ve never sounded so British.” I slipped on my leather pumps, which didn’t look right at all, but they are all I had and Theo’s feet are two sizes bigger than mine.
“Then I will get my way after all. The British always do.” She grinned at her lovely reflection in the mirror.
I had no doubt at all a great many boys would wave the white flag and fall at her feet. But I had little space in my mind to picture her future conquests. “I don’t think he’s boring, Theo. He is handsome.” Even she couldn’t argue with that.
“Oh, he’s handsome enough. But he’s so dull his physique can’t make up for it.” She sashayed in front of the mirror and sucked in her middle. “He hasn’t a thought in that head worth hearing.”
“Or you are jealous he never pays attention to you and asked me to the dance instead…”
She utterly ignored the bite in my words. “Or that. We’ll see.” She grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the door. “You look beautiful.”
“Not too precious?” I repeated the word as if she had insulted me.
“The absolute perfect amount of precious,” she promised. “It’s downright seductive.”
To Move the World (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 2
