He pulled up to the back street that borders the vicarage. “I can’t let them see me like this,” he explained, pointing to his pajamas.
“Fair enough.” I buttoned my coat.
“Do try to be penitent,” he told me as I got out. I slammed the car door shut but he just smiled through the glass and drove away, the old engine coughing its way down the street.
It wasn’t until I picked my way through the hedges between two homes so I wouldn’t have to circle the entire block that I realised I still had Alan’s note in my hand. I read it twice as I skirted around the graveyard. (Fresh graves set my teeth on edge.) I tried out several emotions as I read it. First I let myself be furious. That was my favourite. Next I tried sadness, but my temper made it hard to get all the way into it. And then I forced myself to attempt sympathy. Perhaps I truly had broken his heart. Which meant I owned it much more than I ever realised.
That thought soothed me as I stepped into the empty chapel, grateful the door was open and made my way to the bench nearest the stove. It was already stoked but hadn’t yet warmed the room. Hearing my footsteps, Vicar looked up from the pulpit with a curious frown. “A bit early today, Eve.”
“Just putting my soul right,” I responded, shifting on the cold seat. “And praying for a soldier.”
“Ah,” he nodded like one syllable could convey everything he was thinking. “Praying to save one or to find one?” he gave me a knowing grin I couldn’t help return.
“Bit of both, I suppose. Alan ran away and joined the army. I wish I could find him.”
A cloud drifted over Vicar’s face, fogging his dark eyes. “God bless him.” He ducked his head and went back to his work, but I felt his troubled thoughts quite loud in the stone room. As Vicar thumbed through his massive Bible I imagined Alan packing his clothes that morning and leaving in the frigid dawn without anyone to wish him well. He must have walked all three miles to the nearest bus stop and waited for hours. What a poor frozen fool. I tried to think quietly because I wasn’t sure if Vicar could sense my thoughts. I always assume men of the cloth are more clairvoyant than the rest of us.
I folded my hands together, ignored the rumble of my stomach in the silent room, and imagined Alan with his blonde head resting against a window as a bus rumbled away with him.
Keep him safe, I prayed. And then because I was still angry, And knock some sense into him while you’re at it.
CHAPTER 3
3RD APRIL 1939
The only real thing of interest in the past several weeks was a letter that came from Alan on official army stationary. I am so glad because once I stopped fuming I felt terrible I didn’t know where to find him or how to write to him. When I picked up post in town and saw the Air Mail letter my first emotion was a cutting disappointment because there was no return address on the outside, just a stamp with the British crown and our address written in Alan’s hand. I took it from Mrs. Fulton who runs the counter for her husband and stepped outside where no one could see my face. For a long time I considered walking all the way home before I opened it to ensure my privacy, but the Porter’s Arms Public House was open and serving meals. I didn’t have money to order food, but Mrs. Buckey let me sit in the kitchen with a glass of her chilled cider because she was one of mother’s old friends. She swept through several times, but just to go to the range and get food, so I was mostly alone at her tiny table by the window.
When I unfolded it I yelped with delight when I saw he included his address inside. He was at Woolwich. I had to stop myself from panting because I’ve stopped being so angry and feel almost romantic about his leaving now. I will transcribe it to you, but fix his spelling mistakes because I think it more important to be kind than accurate, especially for a boy who left school at thirteen, and perhaps never did very well when he was in it. He never has struck me as scholarly and I daren’t ask him about it. He is only spelling it as it sounds and it isn’t his fault he only hears mispronunciations in these parts. And besides, my father is the worst offender. He has a Yorkshire tongue so thick it sounds like his mouth produces glue instead of saliva. I can duplicate it if I try very hard, but since William and I went to the district school on scholarship and our teachers trained the dialect out of us, our generation sounds much more proper. I think I learned more about diphthongs in school than history, literature, and arithmetic combined. The ones who attend the village school, however, sound the same as ever, like Alan.
I could hear his voice as I started reading:
Dear Eve,
I hope you are not too vexed with me. I know I left in a blind rush and there’s a streak of coward to that. But I feel different since getting here. I’m with the Wilmington boys and Jack Spicer’s son, Bart. I wanted to enlist early to make sure I got in a unit with some Yorkshire lads I know. If I do end up fighting I want to do it beside farmers. They know all about life and death and accepting both, but only when you have to. I don’t know a thing about flying or sailing, but I know the soil and I will fight best on the ground. I’m being trained in artillery and I think I show some promise. I’m starting as an NCO so my gunnery course will run for two months after basic training. I hope to come home for a visit betwixt the two.
I worry everyday about the sheep. Keep the feed in the barn dry. Make William turn it or it will rot. I will pray for a good melt so there is some pasture showing when the lambs come. Don’t overgraze them, no matter how plaintive they look. Keep the sick ones warm and watch for nettles and worms and…I best not name it all. The longer I think on it the more there is to go wrong. Call the vet if you don’t know. He’s not over savage with his pen and it’s cheaper than dead sheep. Tell William I left a stack of National Geographic magazines in my desk. He may keep them all. I like the Polish article from 1932. When I decided to volunteer I was looking at a picture of the Polish sheep farmers and thought the man with the glasses looked like your dad, who always took good care of me. I can’t stand to think of not protecting a man like that. Perhaps you’d get a picture done of you so I can show it, that is, if you’re still agreeable. You haven’t had a picture since you left school and the lads would think I robbed the cradle if I showed that. I’m all out of room and they’re turning out lights. Please write.
Love,
Alan
I sniffed but refused to cry, even if my heart did break a bit. He’s never strung so many words together in all of his life that I know. I imagined him in a cot with other boys writing to their parents next to him. It does make them all endearing because I’ve always thought Bart Spicer a menace since he scratched foul words on the groundskeeper's shed back in primary school. Thinking of him in a barracks made him harmless and I felt homesick for him, though I had no idea he’d gone until I read it.
When I see Alan’s letter typed correctly on my page I notice even more how sweet it all is. For some reason I got distracted by his “lites” and “fites,” “desided” and “bes nots” to fully appreciate what he said. Perhaps Marion Doran can’t spell a lick either. He just has enough money to get posh calligraphers to do it for him. But really, I don’t believe that for a moment. I only wish it were true so I could say there was one thing about Alan that made him superior to Theo’s rich no-gooder. Unless you count beauty its own merit, because then Marion does a great deal of good in the world.
Against all odds, I suppose I will be mentioning Marion more and more because he seems to have stepped too close and got himself ensnared in Theo’s net. Apparently when she finally did kiss him she did it very nicely because he keeps coming back for more, which she sometimes gives and sometimes does not. She even turned down a date last weekend, which I said was mad, but it worked! He sent more chocolates and wouldn’t take no for an answer when he invited her to his house for tea. She goes next Saturday. His parents are both in London so she won’t get to meet them, but this way is much less frightening.
Mrs. Weller ordered Theo a new dress and the seamstress is working it up now. It is a raspberry-coloured linen with
tiny pleats running down the skirt. I saw the pattern and it is deceptively stunning. How overworked the silks and satins will look when he sees a fresh Kepsdale girl in spring linen! I still cannot replace all my childish daydreams about Marion with this new possibility that he may love my best friend. Goodness, it’s almost as good as my daydreams because heaven knows I’d have never snagged him. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d tried flirting with him that night, but I do it in the most scientifically curious way. I suppose I haven’t much more time to wonder because Dad just threw open the kitchen door and told me he found the first lamb shivering next to its mother at the edge of the flock. “It’s a bonny ‘un,” he called as he slammed the door again. So it begins. The madness is upon us. I will bid goodbye to my free time, my paper, my Corona, and most of all my sleep.
14TH APRIL 1939
I had to count days since I last cranked a fresh paper into this carriage. Eleven. Even now I roll my shoulders, trying to loosen sore muscles. Nearly two weeks of newborn care. I’ve done nothing but huddle over the bleating masses. We’ve had eleven sets of twins, seven triplets, and this is just the first wave of lambs. Most of our ewes haven’t even birthed yet and won’t for almost a fortnight still. We’ve eleven orphaned lambs, mostly runts from our triplets who got rejected, so William, who abhors farm duties, postponed all of his classes to help. He swears he will never pass the term now, but I told him that starving can’t be redone but classes can. That mostly shut him up. I told Theo if she has anything to say to me she must say it with a suckling lamb at her feet because I hardly leave the barn, let alone the farm. At least once a week she comes and helps me with a feeding and today she brought a basket of food from her mother. How good to not have to cook tonight on top of everything else.
Dad and William and I have all slept in the barn for the past two nights because there hasn’t been an hour without some small crisis. I’ve never missed Alan so much in my life. It is funny to think of all the years we all slept in the barn together and I never thought a thing of it. I would certainly think on it this year if Alan were still here.
Even though winter is starting to thaw, I cringe with guilt whenever Dad goes venturing out in the middle of the night to see if any sheep are in trouble. We cannot keep the ewes in the close pasture because the melting snow made the ground so boggy and the temperature soared so quickly that the grass is alive with worms. We lost two pregnant ewes to scour last week and they were our best crossbreeds. Dad took off his hat and stood over their lifeless bodies for several minutes, his thoughts completely unreadable, before he shook his head and called the knackerman to come collect them. Now he keeps the entire flock on the drier, higher pasture, but that just means almost all of Dad’s time is in the open where there is nothing to buffer the high-wailing wind.
Whatever free time I have, I scratch hurried letters to Alan. He is allowed to write once a week and the paper they give him is only one front sheet unfolded, so there is precious little he can say. He keeps giving me advice on the sheep and saves just a bit of love for the end. He says he will come home for a week in May before going on to gunnery training. I’ve imagined going to the pictures with him and taking him through the herd to see how well I handled lambing. I am waiting for warm-weather kisses!
16TH APRIL 1939
I got another letter in the post. The postman hasn’t seen our box this busy since mother died and we got flooded with condolences. A note came last week from Marion Doran’s brother, Jonathon, asking if he might come by and ask a few questions about our herd. I was bitterly disappointed it came from the wrong brother, but I understand his wish to look things over here. We are the only farm to cross our Dalesbred with Border Leicesters and last year the wool went for much more than we expected at market auction. He said he would like to see if he can similarly improve other flocks around Kepsdale that are kept by his renters. I sent back a note saying Alan won’t be home until next month and my father won’t be available until then, either. I’m certain I don’t know enough to answer all of his questions, and I know William won’t. I told him, “I regret being unhelpful, but if you are able to wait until summer my father would be able to meet with you then. We are fully in the middle of lambing.” As if anyone could possibly know anything about the rigors of lambing who hasn’t tried it.
As I penned my response I got the most terrible knot in my gut because I imagined Jonathon trying to speak with my father and cupping his hand up to his ear saying, “Come again?” whenever my father said anything about “ta ole ew-el” for an old ewe or “a bay-ern” for a newborn. I hope my note put him off enough he won’t bother to come at all. There is a lamb determinedly suckling on the leg of my stool so I know I must go, but I resent it.
19TH APRIL 1939
Back in my own bed! Do you know how glorious my mattress feels, or my combed cotton sheets after a week in a bedroll on straw? I actually picked a flea out of my shirt yesterday and I decided my nights in the barn are over, come hell and all. William howled like a fiend, but when I promised to take all duties during the days so he can return to school he finally agreed. No one has quite figured out when he will sleep, but he is on the bus for almost an hour each way so we decided he can at least get in a good nap before and after classes. Usually I find at least one stretch a night when I can fit in three hours.
When he heard us argue about it, Dad set his chin and said sleep is not as needed as one thinks. And he should know. I don’t know if dawn has ever caught him between the covers. But tonight sleep is not my worry. I sacrifice it all for a better reason. I am warm in bed on a beautiful spring night with my typewriter firm in my lap and my head bursting to tell you what has happened. I even grabbed a whole stack of paper so I won’t have to pop up for more.
I opened my window to catch some of the April air and a few petals from the Comice pear tree drifted in like snowflakes on my rug. It seems a sign of something wonderful and I choose to believe it is a omen about Alan coming home in three weeks. How I wish it were now so we could walk through the drifting petals and dream of our life to come. I wonder if he means for us to live in the house with Dad and William so I can keep watching after them. If he doesn’t, I mean to suggest it. I’m not sure Dad will feed himself anything other than tinned food if I go.
Alan wrote me another letter this week that I prize above all the other ones, though it is the shortest. I won’t copy the entire thing but he did tell me that at night he lies in bed and imagines walking every corner of the farm and sometimes he turns a corner and sees me smile and it makes him miss home very much. He doesn’t say so much, but I know what little he says costs him dearly, which makes his words count for much more.
Rich people use words like money, dropping them just to show they can. I know because Saturday I had had the longest visit with a very rich person and haven’t spoken so much in ages. I was home alone feeding lambs because Dad had taken William to get a fresh delivery of feed and pick up medicine for some of our ewes. I was being mauled by a white, fluffy, bleating pack when I heard a strange voice calling, “Hallo. Hallo?” It was such a pleasant voice I pulled my fingers through my hair and wiped my face with the back of my arm, hoping I didn’t have any muck stuck to me. My first guess was a traveling salesman or delivery man.
“In here,” I called, but the lambs and their answering mothers completely drowned me out. The nervous ewes kept vigil outside, complaining loudly at being separated from their offspring.
The man outside must have run into a few of them because I could just make out some human noises amongst the bleating chorus. “I say…budge back a bit. No. That’s a bit friendly there and we’ve just met...”
I tried to guess what sort of delivery man might be on the farm and I called out my location one more time, hoping he would catch the sound. I stood up and was stumbling my way out of the fleecy pack when the light streaming through the open top of the barn door showed me the silhouette of a tall man. I realised it was Jonathon Doran the mo
ment I saw his profile. In a sudden flash I remembered his letter and then recognised his voice and it was like the real world bursting into my cave of wool.
“Jonathon Doran!” I picked up the lamb most determined to stay directly in front of my ankles.
“There is a ram out here very angry with me.” His body leaned awkwardly and I knew if I could see through the lower door it would show a sheep pushing hard into his thighs.
“They’re all ewes. Our rams are put away at the moment.”
“Even the horned ones?” He slipped inside while I gave the sheep a vicious shove. She screamed at me and the 43 lambs inside screamed back, anxious to return to pasture. Jonathon’s mouth moved in a valiant attempt at speech but I couldn’t hear a word he said.
Instead of shouting over them, I herded the lambs into the holding pen at the back, keeping out only four. I handed Jonathon two bottles and motioned to him how to hold them upside down. It took several minutes before they settled down enough that we could speak in a sort of shorthand.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t leave until I’ve done this. If you help I’ll finish faster.”
“I’m the one who invited myself,” he said, as the corner of his blazer turned into a dripping pulp between the sharp teeth of a lamb who found it more interesting than the bottle.
We didn’t finish until our clothes were streaked with sticky, white formula that dries like paint on cloth. I looked at him in horror as I escorted him outside. “I am so sorry. Your nice clothes.”
He ran his eyes and hands over his trousers and his shirt. He had long since removed his jacket. “No, no, I just wore some old things for going round the farms.”
I tried to match him with the man who insulted Theo and me at the inn, but he tricked me with his friendliness again. I cannot accept he thinks horrid things of me when he smiles so kindly.
To Move the World (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 8
