He sometimes felt himself completely surrounded by women. There were activities which another man might have undertaken to remedy this—sports, shooting, the public house (though that particular recourse was hardly open to a man of the cloth), a club in town—but none of them appealed to his solitary nature. If there were just someone, some other male presence, to restore the balance . . . He and Vivien had been married for some years now and though they never discussed it he was beginning to accept that there would be no children. He would have liked a son, if only for simple reasons of male vanity, the continuance of the Mariner line, the signs of his genetic legacy in another. But when his thoughts strayed to the dark and mysterious details of pregnancy, birth and infancy he shied away from them, so perhaps it was just as well that parenthood was not to be.
In one of those subversive, uncalled-for shifts of the imagination he found himself entertaining a picture of Vivien, gleaming and fecund, a baby at her breast, one hand cradling its head, the other guiding her nipple into its rosebud mouth . . .
Saxon shifted in his chair and banished the picture. Even through two doors he could hear the Delamayne woman’s voice.
There was a tap on the door. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s me, sir, Hilda.’
‘What is it, Hilda?’
‘Mrs Mariner wondered if you’d like a cup of coffee.’
‘Um, let’s see . . .’
‘ ’I’ve got one here, sir.’
‘Very well then, thank you.’
Hilda came to the desk and set the coffee down at his elbow. It always seemed to him that she moved with maddening, deliberate slowness. By the time she was out of the room and the door had closed behind her, Saxon’s teeth were clenched.
He picked up Beyond Self again. The gloss of newness had already gone from it and he was beginning to notice infelicities in the production and, worse, the writing.
Seeing that car had given Ashe an idea. After eating a pie at the other pub in the village, the Jug and Bottle, he went back to his room, entering the bar quietly and slipping up the stairs so as not to attract attention.
He certainly wouldn’t want to work at Eaden Place, with all that would entail in terms of hierarchy and claustrophobic ‘below stairs’ power politics—it had been all right in the army but he never wanted to do it again—but he’d learned to drive before the war, and was good at it. He knew how cars worked, too. He wondered how many people there were in Eadenford who could afford a car; those were the ones to be with.
He also thought about Mrs Mariner, with her strange clothes and untidy hair. The spectacles which gave her a schoolgirlish air . . . She was definitely the one he’d seen at the window. A woman with a direct manner, but who could still blush. Not, he’d have thought, your usual clergy wife. What would the man who was married to such a woman be like—the vicar? They’d repay investigation.
The vicarage, of course, had a garage.
That afternoon, Vivien saved the puppies till last, her reward for visiting Sam Proudie in his disgusting cottage. To fortify herself she dropped in at the school first. Saxon went once a week to take morning assembly, which both he and his audience found a high trial and were hugely relieved to get out of the way. Her visits were by way of salving his reputation, but they were also an indulgence. She liked children, and was happy reading to the younger pupils or playing games on the small field at the back with the older ones. They in their turn were entranced by a grown woman who would grab up her skirt in one hand in order to race after the ball or between the wickets, her face pink and her hair falling out of its pins.
‘Go on, Mrs Mariner!’ they yelled. ‘Get it, Mrs Mariner, run!’
After this, half an hour in Sam Proudie’s noisome company was just about supportable. She reminded herself that he was stricken in years, had no family, and that cleanliness was only next to godliness if keeping clean was something you could manage for yourself. Worse even than the reek of unwashed clothes, dirty bedding and furniture and mouldy food was Sam’s ghastly flirtatiousness, all rheumy, rolling eyes and toothless smirks. When she came out she walked quickly down the alley between the cottages, leaned on the wall and smoked a cigarette rapidly and furtively, like a naughty child.
Clays’ Forge was round the back of their house, its entrance on to the lane at the rear, but there was no missing its hiss and clatter, and the singeing reek of iron and horses’ hooves. Ted Clay had once told Vivien that horses liked being shod and even the flightiest of them would stand quiet, heads low, while it happened. ‘The way some women like having their hair done so I’m told,’ he added, which meant little to Vivien.
Edith Clay opened the door to her, and the moment she was over the threshold sniffed, and said: ‘Proudie’s?’
‘Oh dear, you can tell.’
‘You’re doing the Lord’s work there, Mrs Mariner.’
‘I’m just sorry I brought it with me.’
‘Don’t you worry. Now then, you want to see our puppies.’
‘I do—if Bramble won’t mind.’
‘No, no, she hasn’t got a mean bone in her body.’
The puppies, five of them, were in a corner of the small kitchen on a folded blanket, a row of them no bigger than guinea pigs burrowing into their mother’s flank. Bramble, a black collie-cross, looked up at the women with an expression of patient, slightly anxious, pride.
‘Oh, Edith, they’re simply adorable . . .’ Vivien sank to her knees. ‘May I touch?’
‘Yes, but better not to pick up while they’re feeding.’
‘No, I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Vivien stroked one of the velvet backs with her finger; it was fine, soft and warm, the bones beneath it delicate as a bird’s, palpitating as the puppy sucked. She was enchanted. ‘I can’t believe how tiny . . . how old are they?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘When will they be able to leave her?’
‘Another four, or thereabouts.’
‘Will you be able to find homes for them all?’
‘I hope so. Ted says we can keep one, that’ll make Susan happy.’
‘Yes.’ Vivien sat back on her heels. ‘Where is Susan?’
‘Gone to see her sister and the children.’
‘She’s a good girl.’
‘Hm.’ Edith pursed her lips. ‘She’d better be. So what do you think, Mrs Mariner, you’d like one? There’s three dogs and two bitches, if you got any preference.’
‘I would, I really, really would . . . I’m just not sure about my husband.’
‘I expect the vicar’d like a dog. A man likes a dog about the place.’
‘Maybe . . . I certainly think he should get out in the fresh air more than he does. He works too hard,’ she added, in case this had sounded like a complaint.
‘There you are then. You got to walk a dog.’
‘On the other hand,’ said Vivien, to herself as much as to Edith, ‘for all practical purposes it would be my dog. I know I want one, and I’d be the one looking after it.’
‘Once it’s there,’ said Edith comfortably, ‘it’ll be one of the family in no time.’
Though this was only a form of words, Vivien couldn’t help thinking: But we’re not a family.
She got to her feet. ‘I’ll have a word with Saxon and let you know.’ She gave a little laugh of pleasure. ‘They are the sweetest thing.’
‘They are now, but remember they’ll grow big. Bramble’s a good size, and the father was that big old yellow thing from Low Farm.’
‘That’s good! I don’t want a yappy little lap dog. And we have lots of room at the vicarage. If we do want one, when would I be able to choose?’
‘Leave it till four weeks,’ said Edith. ‘They’ll be proper little characters then, showing their markings, different sizes and what have you.’
‘I’ll come back then.’
Edith came with her to the door. ‘And if you hear of anyone else that might like a nice pup, I’d be glad if you’d let me know.’
�
�I will. I’d hate to think of them not finding good homes.’
This time, when Vivien stepped out on to the street, she felt revived and excited. They might not be a family now, but perhaps their dog would make them into one.
John Ashe was approaching Clays when he saw Mrs Mariner come out. A big woman in a pinafore held the door for her and said goodbye on the step. He waited, pretending to look at his watch, until Mrs Mariner had gone, and then went to knock on the front door. He knew the workshop was round the back, but preferred to be a little more formal.
The same woman he’d just seen answered the door. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms like a navvy. If she was shocked, she didn’t show it. Word was getting round.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Clay?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name’s John Ashe. I’m looking for work in this area and I was wondering if I could have a word with your husband.’
He stood placidly beneath her scrutiny. Unlike Mrs Jeeps, this was a straightforward woman who considered she had every right to size him up and made no bones about doing so. Eventually, she seemed to find in his favour.
‘He’s working out the back.’
‘Do you think he’d mind if I went round there?’
‘Don’t worry,’ she pulled her chin in and her mouth down in a grimace, but a not unfriendly one, ‘he’ll soon enough tell you if he does. Here’—she opened the door and stood aside—‘might as well come through this way.’
He followed her down a short passage and through the kitchen to the back door. Everything was spotless. By the stove on a blanket lay a black bitch with a row of puppies suckling. The bitch’s upper lip quivered warningly as he passed; a single white tooth gleamed.
‘There you are.’ Mrs Clay leaned out and shouted in to the din: ‘Ted! Visitor for you!’
It wasn’t the first time Ashe had seen the forge; he’d taken a look at it on one of his walks, yesterday after supper. Being evening then, it hadn’t been open. Now, quite apart from Clay himself, and a chap in his twenties who looked like his son, there were two gargantuan horses, one tied up at the side, the other being shod. The horses were shiny and coal black as steam engines except for a white blaze on their faces and the long white feathers over their hooves. The upturned hoof that rested on the blacksmith’s leather-clad lap was the size and density of a large cannon ball. In spite of the fearsome force with which the nails were going in, the animal’s face was calm, almost torpid, with drooping lids and the big soft lower lip hanging slightly. The other horse must already have been shod, because the younger man was busy putting a finish on its hooves, rubbing in linseed oil and then running a cloth back and forth in two hands to create a high gloss, like the shoeshine at Waterloo Station. Ashe’s only experience of horses had been in the war, where there was no time for niceties like hoof-polishing. It surprised him now to see such a fuss made of working animals. His likening them to steam engines wasn’t so fanciful, after all—these creatures were, to all intents and purposes, machines. They needed oiling and maintaining. The Arabs could’ve taken a leaf out of Clay’s book . . . A real machine, a van, stood on blocks on the far side of the workshop. Some day the horses would be history. Roll on the engine, in his opinion.
Both the men were completely absorbed in their work and didn’t notice him standing there until Ted Clay, his task completed, set down the enormous hoof and straightened up. He was built on much the same scale as the horses but after a quick look, first pitying, then shrewd, he was readier to smile than his wife.
‘Hallo there!’ He came over. Calluses rasped as he wiped hands like shovels on the leather apron. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Mr Clay, I’m sorry to disturb you. Your wife said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘She did, did she?’
‘I’m looking for work. On the motor side, perhaps? I can drive and I know a bit about cars.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ Clay blew out his cheeks and shook his head slowly. ‘Not many around here, I’m afraid. Not yet. And what there is we can take care of, along with the horses. These here are Nero and Nancy.’
Ashe held up a hand. ‘Not much good with horses, and they don’t like me either. Can’t think why,’ he added drily. It was a joke of sorts, intended to get over any difficulty, but Clay seemed intent on ignoring both.
‘You’ve no need to worry.’ He slapped the great kettledrum of a rump that loomed at his left shoulder. ‘They’re gentle giants.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Doug!’ Clay called to the hoof-polisher. ‘You can have this one when you’re ready.’
The younger man, fair-haired and a tad taller and slighter than his father, flicked the cloth over his shoulder and stood up. Neither so steady nor so worldly as his father, he blinked on seeing Ashe and then coloured in confusion.
‘Whoa!’ He seemed to address his own consternation as if it were a nervous horse. ‘Sorry chum, but . . . whoa!’
‘Give over,’ said Clay affably. ‘I don’t see him frightening the horses.’
‘Not a pretty sight, I know,’ said Ashe.
‘War, was it?’ asked Clay, giving Douglas time to compose himself.
‘In a way. Accident.’
‘I’ve seen worse.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it. I wish more people had.’
‘This is Mr Ashe,’ said Clay, ‘he’s looking to work with motor cars.’
‘How do you do.’ Douglas held out his hand and stared fiercely down at Ashe’s as he shook it.
Ashe adopted a philosophical tone. ‘Not much going I understand.’
Perhaps Douglas had a conscience about his earlier reaction, or perhaps he simply wished to get rid of this grinning horror. At any rate, what he said was:
‘You could try the vicarage.’
MESOPOTAMIA
Unloading is what we’re doing, and it’s taking for ever. What I don’t understand is why the enemy doesn’t come down like the Assyrian in that book of Jarvis’s—like the wolf on the fold, and wipe us out while we’re doing it. Are they waiting for us to finish so we can all have a nice fair fight? Unlikely. I’d say there are no flies on them, except that would sound like a bad joke.
What I’m trying to say is that it’s them that put us in this situation, so it’s surprising they haven’t taken advantage of it. The entrance to the Shatt is pretty wide, but shallow; there are lots of shoals and sandbanks, and any decent-sized vessel practically drags along the bottom—the one we came in on had to creep through it as if we were negotiating a minefield. But what they did was this: before the supply ships started to arrive they scuttled a few boats in the mouth of the estuary, so now it’s the hulks as well as the sandbanks making life difficult. Our ships moor out beyond all these obstacles, and our boys have to go in and out in the little Arab boats, lifeboats, anything they can lay their hands on, unloading the stuff piecemeal and piling it up on the docks, then going back and so on and so on. If you think that sounds like a cumbersome procedure, you’re right. And because it’s slow we have to post guards on the quayside to make sure that everything that gets unloaded goes to the right place afterwards. It only takes a couple of Arab ‘helpers’ with quick wits and light fingers and you’re stuffed. They’re the slickest thieves in the world and they do it all with a smile so you don’t realise till it’s too late.
It’s all hands to the pumps. I’m on unloading fatigues like everyone else. I don’t mind, to begin with it made a change. But what I didn’t bargain for was the mules.
I never had any experience of mules, but one thing I assumed was that being a cross between a donkey and a horse they’d take after whichever one was smaller; in other words I thought they’d be donkey-sized. They’re not, take my word for it. They’re fucking enormous, with the worst qualities of both parents as far as I can see. God knows what getting a mule on to a boat is like; getting them off is—let’s just say I haven’t had so much fun since the old
Queen died. We go out in a mashoof—nothing like the man for the job, but beggars can’t be choosers—and the trick is to have the boat right up against the side of the ship so they can lower the mules down in a sling. When they arrive, it’s our job to keep hold of several hundredweight of pack-animal in a paddy, with teeth like meat cleavers and a lethal weapon on the end of each leg. On a little wooden boat. Out at sea. In temperatures the wrong side of a hundred degrees. We have to secure it first, with ropes on either side; then get the sling off so they can pull it up and lower the next one. Each one that comes down it gets a lot more difficult, there’s more angry mule and less space.
I never signed up for this. But the Turks would be having a good laugh if they could see us. A few more days of mule-disembarkation and they’ll have the BEF on its knees.
Jarvis laughs like a drain when I tell him my adventures. It’s a good story anyway and I improve on it. My salt-of-the-earth number never fails to please. I don’t mind him, but he’s like the man in the moon, shiny bright and a long way away. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be born so fortunate. Nice family, nice house, good education, good money, so much certainty. The thing is he doesn’t even know that he has certainty, because he’s never known anything else, He takes it all for granted. He talks about his life quite freely to me, mentions it anyway, and you can build up quite a big picture from the crumbs from a rich man’s table. I know that his father was in the army, too, and that his mother had her portrait painted by an artist called Sargent in New York. She’s very beautiful, apparently. I might have guessed that anyway, but he’s got a photograph of her and he’s not lying: ‘She had a handspan waist and eyes a man could drown in,’ he says. Fancy being able to say something like that about your mother. They have a house in Norfolk called Kersney Lee. That’s the address—Kersney Lee, near Sheringham, Norfolk. The bigger the house, the smaller the address.
He’s also told me he’s engaged to be married. Amanda—I’ve seen her photograph too. She’s not in the same league as the mother; I’m no connoisseur but I’d call her pretty. She doesn’t have that regal quality beautiful women seem to have, that air of looking down their noses at lesser mortals. But very charming. Jarvis calls her his angel. They plan to marry next time he’s on leave, but it won’t be the big society affair they originally had in mind.
A Spell of Swallows Page 5
