Hymn From A Village

by Nigel Bird

  It was nice for Danny to have something else to look at while Charlie prodded and poked, but he couldn’t help turning back to see what he was up to.

  He was half way through. Had reached the feisty one. Maybe Danny should have warned him.

  She was turning into a woman alright, her hips accentuated in a newish pair of jeans.

  Charlie’s put his hand up into her armpit. Let his thumb rub at the buds protruding from her chest. Slid his palm down her waist and then along the curves.

  A ball of spit she’d been saving flew from her mouth and landed in Charlie’s eye.

  He pulled his hand back and went for the slap, but he was too slow.

  The girl ducked and ran.

  There was nothing anyone could do, but she was never going to get away. Probably knew that all along.

  Straight for the maid she went. Pounced like a lioness. Had her down in one movement.

  when down flew a blackbird and pecked off her nose.

  She had her teeth around the poor maid’s nose like it she was born to such a thing. Her head from side to side like she was watching a pulsating tennis game.

  When she straightened up there was a lump of flesh in her mouth. It was small, but she was smiling like it was the biggest prize of all.

  Ralph got to her first. Dragged her off by the arms.

  Charlie was next. Gave her such a kick in her belly that the nose spilled free from her jaws. It lay there in the grass like an end of raw sausage.

  hearing the commotion, little Jenny Wren,

  came down into the garden and put it back again.

  The maid stayed down like a boxer taking the eight, her mouth hanging open and trying to scream.

  Jenny reacted first. Picked up the tip of the nose and pressed it back where it was supposed to be, connecting it to the blood supply as if everything might be right as rain.

  Ignoring his bit on the side, Charlie followed Ralph as he dragged the girl away.

  Didn’t need to be a clairvoyant to see what her future held.

  Danny saw the look of satisfaction in her face. Wished he’d taken her under his wing. Sent her home and given her a chance, the chance she’d given her friends - twenty three girls sprinting in different directions towards the perimeter hedge, hoping to find their land of milk and honey.

  Sea Minor

  Mum always speaks in Gaelic when we come up to Skye. She speaks in Gaelic because that’s what Gran likes to use in the house. I can’t join in when they’re talking, but I understand some of the things they say. Mum thinks that I might go to school here soon and they’ll teach me, only I want to stay at my other school with my friends.

  Skye’s an island so you have to go over a bridge to get there. Davy told me it was a troll bridge and that some people didn’t want to pay, but I said I would because you wouldn’t want to make them angry like in Billy Goat’s Gruff.

  It’s always dark when we arrive. When we step out of the car we can see how this place gets its name; all you can see for miles and miles are millions of shining stars. Maybe they put an ‘e’ on the end it’s so stretched out. In London the heavens seems so small. There are always buildings in the way.

  This time the journey had been awful. We packed in more than usual because Mum thought we might stay longer. I got wedged up against suitcases and dresses and stuff. Davy was fine though; he got to sit in the front where Dad usually went because Dad wasn’t coming this time.

  And we didn’t get to play any of our usual games like I-Spy or making words from registration plates.

  Davy said that Dad always had a map in case we got lost. Mum told him that she didn’t need maps; she was a human compass. Then she didn’t say anything for the rest of the journey.

  Lots of things are different here. Some are better and some aren’t. It’s wonderful wandering around in fields and woods, but it’s not so much fun walking to the shops and back, especially the back part. I love swimming in the sea and paddling, but I’m not so keen on taking a bath in the old tin thing we fill with buckets. I love the way Gran gets us quiet for the weather forecast every evening, but I miss the television and my computer.

  It was even more different when Mum was young. There wasn’t a road, the toilet was outside, the washing was done by hand, things like that. Mum said that the only things that hadn’t changed were Gran’s tabard and the weather.

  Whatever time we get up Gran’s always ready with a pan or two frying. We have a big cooked breakfast “to keep the wind out,” Gran says, and we go out and explore. When we get back we wash our hands and by the time we get into to the kitchen there’s a plate of fresh scones on the table and a jug of milk from Nancy the cow, all warm and creamy.

  We explore a bit more and it’s lunch, then dinner, then supper for the weather forecast, and in the evenings we listen to stories. I think some of them are true because they have real people in them and some are made up because they’ve got fairies and giants in them.

  Mum’s the best storyteller though. Perhaps that’s because she reads so much. She was reading when we were down by the sea last week - ‘A Perfect Day For Banana Fish’. She’s been reading that lots recently; it must be her favourite.

  Thinking about banana fish makes me laugh because I start to think of other fish: orange, grapefruit, kiwi, potato... Maybe there’s a pineapple shark out there too. The one I like best of all is the onion fish. It’s always crying, even if fish can’t cry, not really.

  When she finished it she put the book face down on the rock, pulled her knees to her chest and held them there, “giving herself a hug,” she said. She didn’t move for a long time, staring out over the water into the distance; perhaps that’s what distant means. I played with Davy till it began to get chilly and went for a cuddle to warm up. This was a safe place. Old Man’s Jaw it’s called. If you stand on top of the hill behind you can see the face and this long, flat rock sticking out. I’ve seen it in a photo at home, Mum pointing across the bay to where she was born. She had one more story for me that day, about how I was made in that very place almost eight years ago. This is where I started out as a tiny seed.

  “Just look at you now,” she whispered and I wondered how big I’d been when I began and how big I’ll be in the end.

  A few days after that we went out to collect peat. A tractor came along and we all helped to load the trailer. The midgies kept biting everyone so we put on this cream to keep them away. It’s for moisturising the skin really and smells like perfume, so it’s not for the midgies at all, but they didn’t come near me after that. Uncle Tam’s hands were green from the string by the time we’d finished and Bob had a bad back. The children got to sit on the trailer all the way home, and we piled into the kitchen when it was unloaded for cakes and biscuits or whatever you wanted.

  Most of us went for a walk after that. We turned round when the dark clouds started rolling in and got back just before the storm. I don’t know how she’d managed, but Gran had moved all the peat into the shed by then. The stacks in front of all the other houses were getting soaked through and Uncle Tam was struggling with a tarpaulin in the gale and the gale was winning.

  “He’s only himself to blame, now. They said the rain would be coming,” said Gran shaking her head, wiping her hands on her apron and putting on the kettle. We all had tea to warm up our hands, which made Davy and me feel very grown-up. We watched the flames thinking about how much we deserved to be cosy, especially me with my blister and Tam with his green skin.

  Then yesterday happened.

  Gran took off her tabard and put on her wellies so that she could take me and Davy to the shore. Mum couldn’t make it. She stayed in bed because of a headache. She kissed us goodbye and said she’d join us later, and reminded me to look out for the banana fish.

  It took about twenty minutes to get there.

  There were lots of people with bags so they could tidy up the beach. For the children it was going to be a competition. Whoever collected the most rubbish would get
to light the bonfire later. Second prize was a toffee apple.

  We put on our huge rubber gloves, took a handful of bags and walked over to where no one else seemed to be. Uncle Tam was just over the way collecting whelks. He’d sell them later on and said he’d make a pretty penny.

  I found the rusty bit of an old spade, a plastic bottle, a long metal stick and a burst football. Davy spent most of his time digging a piece of rope from the sand. It looked small at first, but the more he dug, the longer it got. In the end it filled up half the bag. Daddy was always asking how long a piece of string is when we asked him things; I didn’t think it would be that long. Gran had sawn off a gill net from the post in the water using the blade of her penknife and that filled the bag. Just think of all the birds we were saving and how nice it would be for all the walkers to see it so wonderfully clean.

  We started another bag. The first thing we found was an old bike tyre. Davy was trying to stuff it in when it went all quiet; he stopped what he was doing. This is the bit I don’t want to say because it sounds stupid, but you can ask Davy and Gran if you like. I couldn’t hear the sea or the birds and it was creepy, then there was music, soft at first, then louder and louder. It was like a choir in church. It was all high voices and ladies singing and it was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. There weren’t any words, just tunes. Davy held my hand tightly and then the sound was suddenly the wind again. Just like that.

  We looked at each other then sprinted over to Gran. Davy was first and grabbed onto one leg, and I got the other. He was telling her about the music and I joined in until she couldn’t tell who was saying what, so we had to start again one at a time. He’d heard the same as me.

  She went quiet for a moment and said, just like it was nothing important,

  “That’ll be bad news at sea; someone won’t be making it to supper tonight.” She looked up, touched her forehead and shoulders and chest and said something Gaelic.

  “I heard it once when I was a girl a long time ago. My mother heard it too. Like the sound of heaven itself, and yet it was a horrible thing that happened when it came to me. Two boats collided. Full of men they were - fathers, husbands, brothers – none of them seen again.” It sounded a bit like the start to one of her fairytales, but she didn’t take it any further.

  “Now don’t you worry, there’s nothing to be done. Let’s get this bag filled up,” she said, and so we did.

  The bags were heavy, but we managed to drag them to the pile.

  I couldn’t believe what was there: lobster pots, a bicycle, tubes, bottles, netting, a doll’s arm, crates and rope. The twins had brought a bag of seaweed even though the man at the start had told us that seaweed wasn’t rubbish, so that couldn’t count for the competition.

  Angus got to light the bonfire. He’d found a whole carpet, but he didn’t carry it back himself so I don’t think he should have been the winner.

  Mum hadn’t arrived. Now it was later and I wanted her to be there.

  It turned into a party. There were guitars, fiddles and songs. The people who weren’t playing were mostly dancing. The only ones who didn’t look happy were the twins, because they’d had a fight, and Gran. She was gazing into the flames, the light seeming to make her look strangely old and tired. I guess she is pretty old, really.

  Eventually we had to go because my eyes wouldn’t stay open. The music could be heard from the cottage till we shut the door behind us.

  She wasn’t in bed. It was the first thing we did, go and see if she was better.

  I cried and Davy told me to stop being a baby, but I think he was nearly crying too, so Gran made us hot chocolate. We got into Mum’s bed, wrapped ourselves up in the blankets and she told us cheery stories until I fell asleep.

  I had a funny dream. I walked down to the sea and could hear the church music again. I could see my mother sitting in the things we’d collected, except the bicycle was like brand-new. She was staring again and brushing her hair and we smiled at each other for ages.

  When I woke up I tried to keep that picture in my mind and when it faded I pulled my knees up and gave myself a huge hug.

  You Dirty Rat

  The guns behind us fell silent for the first time in two days.

  Their constant pounding had kept us awake. Twisted our minds. We hated our artillery almost as much as we hated Fritz. Nevertheless, soon as peace descended, I wanted the roars to return.

  Stopping the barrage like that we might as well have sent a telegram to the Germans - ‘We’re coming to get you’. In case they missed it, smoke-signals from a trench-line of soldiers would have got the message across.

  Stared hard and stood our ground until I got bored. I tore off a corner of my sandwich and tossed it over. It picked it up and went at the stale wedge like a teenage boy at a whore.

  “Hungry, eh?” I asked.

  There wasn’t time for it to reply. A boot slammed into its head. Knocked the bread into the puddle and emptied half its brains onto my trousers.

  “Clean that off,” Sergeant Rousseau barked. I looked into his face, the broken veins under his skin like a map of the trenches, the red bulb at the end of his nose soon to be another signal to Fritz. “Quickly.” The man thought having a career in banking and stripes on his arms made him better than everyone else. Damned fool.

  He moved on to inspect the rest of the 327th.

  “Rousseau wants you to meet your maker looking smart,” Bernard Desmarais said, leaning against the wall of woven branches as if waiting for a bus.”

  “Wouldn’t want you letting the side down, now,” said his brother, Jean, his huge mole pointing at me from his chin. He threw me a Galloises.

  The brothers were ugly as sin, ruined by acne and eczema the poor buggers. They were crazy with it, and lion-hearted. I always stuck close when we went over and they’d seen me home every time.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and lit up.

  I ran the lighter flame along the seams of my jacket before snuffing it out. Gave me satisfaction to kill a few lice. Galled me to think that the ones I missed were probably going to live longer than me.

  Rousseau returned, his pistol drawn. Stood next to the ladder and looked at his watch.

  “That’ll be us,” Jean said with a smile.

  The brothers hugged tight, slapped each other’s backs then stood ready and eager.

  Rousseau’s moustache rippled as his lip twitched. I counted twenty-four before he put his whistle to his lips and blew.

  Like trained animals we climbed the ladder. Up there like we had somewhere to go.

  I followed the broad, muddy arses of the brothers.

  Five steps and all well.

  Ten, still good.

  Twenty and we were still standing.

  It was like we were under the wings of an angel for a while, calm and safe, like we might actually take their lines without them noticing.

  Still nothing at thirty.

  All hell at thirty-three, bullets flying by like whistling insects.

  I kept tight hold of the Lebel. Remembered loading the eight rounds nose to tail. Placed my finger over the trigger and plodded, trying to keep my body small with it.

  All the while, I kept my focus on the Desmarais boys, the pair striding forward into the smoke.

  My concentration was broken by the bass notes of a shell falling ahead.

  I shouted.

  Bernard and Jean turned then disappeared into a hole.

  Shame it was the same hole the shell wanted.

  ***

  Took me three years to get around to visiting Monsieur and Madame Desmarais. Spent most of that time either laying roads or drinking. Sometimes both together.

  Three years of turning in my sleep, I knew there was only one solution.

  Took a train to Rouen then a bus up to La Baille.

  The couple weren’t hard to find.

  I took directions from the young lad behind the bar where I swallowed a Pastis to settle the nerves.

  Followed
the Seine for a couple of hundred yards and found their cottage.

  An old man worked the land, tilling soil. He raised his gaze from the ground as if it were an effort. Droopy eyes and a stoop made it look like he was losing a battle with gravity. His trousers, on the other hand, appeared to be winning – red braces pulled them all the way up above his pot belly.

  I walked over and put out my hand.

  “Pierre Baltus,” I told him. My name didn’t seem to register. Why should it? “I was in the 327th at Verdun.”

  There was a trace of recognition in the old man’s face. He took my hand and shook.

  “Desmarais. Come and meet my wife,” he said, gesturing to the cottage as if he needed moral support.

  At the door, the old man shouted over my shoulder. “There’s someone to see you. From Verdun.”

  Madame Desmarais came to the door, squinting as she moved into the light. I could see straight away where her son’s got their ugliness. Her eyes were too small and her nose too big, like she’d been a lizard in a past life.

  She wiped flour off her hands onto her tabard and pulled me in. “You knew my boys?”

  “I knew them. Good lads they were.” I took off my hat as I entered, straight into the kitchen.

  The evening light didn’t seem to stretch to the indoors, a couple of low flames on the oil lamps allowing me to see around.

  A big lump of dough like an island in the middle of a sea of flour occupied the table, an open bottle with a couple of small glasses next to the mess.

  From the pot, simmering on the stove, the rich smell of stew filled the air. Made my mouth water.

  Madame Desmarais must have seen my nostrils working. “We’ll be eating soon,” she said. “Would you join us?”

  Typical poor. Always willing to share.

  It had been a long day. I’d forgotten about food. “I’d love to.”

  Monsieur Desmarais pulled out a chair and I sat.

  He seated himself over in the corner on the dimpled cushion of an armchair, picked up his pipe and scraped out the charred remains of the previous smoke.