A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  He threw away his childish drawing and addressed himself once more to the poem, which he saw now was quite simply about love: love, and charity.

  Ashe walked with the dog for over an hour, along the river bank. The surface of the water seemed to boil under the onslaught of the rain; the trees overhanging the far bank drooped and streamed beneath its weight. Even the dog’s exuberance was dampened as he trotted at Ashe’s side through the mud, head down and tail hanging, his feathery coat turning to rat’s tails.

  When they returned to the vicarage, Ashe went in at the back door to find the kitchen empty; Hilda was in some other part of the house. He tied the dog’s lead to the boot scraper while he removed his work boots and put on the almost outworn second pair reserved for indoors. Then he took off his sodden jacket and hung it across the clothes horse in the scullery. Finally he rubbed down first his own head, then the dog with the old towel designated for the purpose, and smoothed his hair with his hands before going upstairs.

  Vivien was not now daydreaming. She heard the back door, and the scrabbling of Boots’s paws on the stone flags, so when Ashe appeared she was able to appear composed.

  ‘You must be absolutely soaked! Did you have a good walk?’

  ‘We went by the river.’

  ‘And in it, too, by the look of you.’

  Ashe said nothing, but passed a hand slowly over his wet, black hair. The collar and cuffs of his striped shirt, and the bottoms of his trousers, were also damp.

  ‘Where’s Boots?’

  ‘In the scullery, drying off. I gave him a rub-down.’

  ‘Right.’ Vivien got up from her chair. ‘It would be so helpful if you could do some sorting out in the attic.’

  ‘You just tell me what needs doing.’

  ‘It’s really a question of shoring up the roof in places, and laying some more planks so we can walk about up there . . . Is that something you could do?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘But before you start you’ll need to make some space.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  Passing him in the doorway she was acutely aware of the two sides of his face—one pale and calm as a coin, the other a fiery gargoyle.

  She led the way along the hall and up the stairs. There was a profound silence on the far side of the study door; Saxon must be writing. Ashe’s footsteps were soft as a cat’s behind her. On the landing, their bedroom door was open; Hilda was in there, changing sheets, flapping and tucking energetically. Vivien was embarrassed that Ashe should be a witness to this. Something about the intimacy of the discarded sheets lying in a crumpled pile on the floor, the uncovered pillows piled on a chair, the underblanket slewed to reveal the striped mattress ticking, her book, Saxon’s water flask and alarm clock, his slippers beneath the bed—

  ‘Hilda!’ she said, a touch too brightly, ‘I’m just taking Mr Ashe up into the attic, he’s going to be doing some work up there—perhaps fix the roof.’ She glanced at Ashe for his endorsement, and he nodded.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Mariner.’ Hilda came to the door, shaking a pillow vigorously down into its case. ‘Is Mr Mariner in his study?’

  ‘He is, so if you could keep a weather ear open for the door bell, please . . .’

  ‘Of course.’ This in a somewhat mettlesome tone, as if to say that Hilda did not need reminding. She gave the pillow a couple of slaps and looked pointedly over Vivien’s shoulder.

  ‘Morning, Mr Ashe.’

  ‘Hilda.’

  ‘Hope you’ve got your umbrella with you, it’s like a colander up there in places.’

  ‘Mr Ashe is going to change all that,’ said Vivien.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Ashe.

  His manner conveyed, insofar as it conveyed anything, a quiet confidence. It did not seek an opinion. Hilda on the other hand made a sound that was typical of her, which said unequivocally that she wished them well of the enterprise but took leave to have her doubts.

  The attic trapdoor was in the ceiling at the far end of the landing. Mercifully, the doors of the two other bedrooms and those of the bathroom and lavatory were closed. A sturdy wooden chair stood against the wall to enable a person to reach the ceiling latch. Vivien went to pick up the chair, but Ashe beat her to it.

  ‘Allow me.’

  He positioned the chair, stepped up on to it, and reached above his head to undo the door. The latch was stiff and he had to wrestle with it. Vivien, standing on a level with his knees, smelled the brackish damp of his trousers, but that was all; no sweat—he was always fresh and neat in appearance, his hands immaculate, more like a businessman than a labourer.

  The latch gave with a jerk. Unbalanced, Ashe stepped to one side and the chair rocked. Instinctively, Vivien clapped one hand on the back of the chair to steady it, and the other against his leg to prevent him falling on top of her. The touch lasted less than a second but the shock of it shot through her. His leg felt thin and hard, as if beneath the pale skin his blood coursed more quickly, and closer to the surface than others’.

  She was burning herself now, not able to look up, but he seemed not to have noticed. He stretched on tiptoe to drop the door down inside the attic.

  ‘There’s a ladder inside—it should be to your left, with a torch next to it,’ she said, glad to have found her voice and to be able to give instructions. ‘Can you see?’

  ‘Got it. Got both of them.’

  Suddenly his legs tensed and flexed and he’d levered himself up on to the edge of the aperture.

  ‘All right if I hand it down to you?’

  ‘Ready and waiting.’

  Slowly, he lowered the feet of the stepladder. ‘Safe?’

  ‘Quite safe,’ she replied, shifting the chair aside with her leg. She opened the ladder and climbed up. As she did so, he turned on the torch and laid it on its side on one of the trunks so that it acted as a lamp.

  When she reached the top rung and was about to hoist herself up the remaining eighteen inches or so, he extended a hand to help her. She placed her own hand in his and felt its dry heat and the wiry strength of his arm that made her seem almost weightless, floating up in to the dimly lit space. The rain hissed on the slates, dripping and trickling through the gaps.

  ‘Just as well there are a few holes,’ he said. ‘Makes it easier to see.’

  ‘Heavens, what a mess!’

  ‘That’s attics.’ He took a wide, sideways, tentative stride, testing the makeshift wooden floor. ‘Stay there a moment.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  She had become used to his not answering. He meant nothing by it: he was a man of few words, and not one of them surplus to requirements. Moving as he was, with crablike caution, away from her to her right, she could see only the damaged half of his face in the dusty half-light, and it gave her a thrill of fear. Hilda was only a few yards away, and her husband downstairs, but they might as well have been in another world.

  ‘Plenty of bats,’ he said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘I suppose there must be.’

  ‘Don’t worry, they won’t bother us.’

  ‘I’m not scared of them,’ she said. ‘Sometimes we find them roosting in church.’

  He said nothing, but continued his slow, stooping reconnaissance of the floor. When he’d described a circle, of which he tested the centre, too, he was back at her side.

  ‘If it’ll hold me it’ll hold you. Where do we start?’

  Vivien wished she had come up here earlier to look around and evaluate the task: if she had, she might have been able to answer Ashe’s question. As it was, she could only gaze around helplessly. As well as the trunks, suitcases and boxes full of the detritus of the Mariners’ past, both separate and shared, there were great bundles of old curtains and loose covers tied with twine, some pieces of broken furniture, a stack of pictures, and a wooden crate containing china, still wrapped in newspaper.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured, hands to her cheeks in
an attitude of dismay. ‘There’s even more than I thought . . .’

  Ashe had been standing next to her also surveying the scene, with his arms folded. Now he said: ‘Mrs Mariner, may I make a suggestion.’

  ‘I wish you would!’

  ‘You have a bit of a look round and if there’s anything you know right away needs throwing out, I’ll move it so I can get it down later. Then I can shift the rest up the end on the good boards. After that the decks’ll be clear and I’ll take a look at the roof, and how much wood we need for the rest of the floor. And another light, that’d be no bad thing. Once we’ve done that you can take your time sorting through the rest of this—we can both get on.’

  ‘Yes—yes, you’re absolutely right.’

  ‘Start in the far corner, shall we.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The attic was filthy, cobwebs festooned the beams, some of them so thick and old they were gobbed with dust like fluffy necklaces. The same dust covered everything else, and there were also the bats . . . She felt him looking at her, and when he spoke his voice was gently enquiring.

  ‘Mrs Mariner, will you be all right in those clothes?’

  It was a perfectly reasonable question, and a sensible one, but its implications turned her stomach to water: that he had noticed what she was wearing at all, let alone that he should mention it, or be in the least concerned whether her things got dirty. It was rare for her to consider her appearance except insofar as it affected her own comfort, but now she was made suddenly conscious of her darned cotton skirt and unfashionable blouse.

  ‘These?’ Trembling, she looked down at this homely ensemble to avoid looking at him. ‘No, nothing matters at all.’

  ‘Right you are then.’

  For the next three-quarters of an hour they worked together in near silence, exchanging as few words as possible. She made her decisions, Ashe hefted stuff either to the door-aperture or to the appointed area beneath the eaves. But though they spoke little the dusty air hummed with an intense mutual awareness that Vivien found almost unbearable. She heard every breath of his, every step and strain. She seemed to hear each muscle move, each swallow and blink, each pore open to emit its tiny pearl of sweat. She longed to escape for a moment, to collect herself, have a glass of water, for in spite of the rain there was no air up here and she felt half stifled by the heat and the turmoil inside her.

  But escape was not so easy. She was not sure how readily she would manage the ladder—especially coming back—without his help, which she did not want. Or rather which she wanted too much.

  Once they brushed against one another, no more than a touch of fabric on fabric, but her skin leapt with shock. Though he showed no sign of a similar response, her instinct told he was nonetheless complicit in hers, not just aware of it but equally aware of his role in provoking it. And yet he had done nothing—had he?—no, nothing, surely, but behave with his usual taciturn civility and restraint. So how could he know about the clattering agitation and turmoil going on in her stupid head? She did not recognise herself.

  Eventually, unable to bear it any longer, she said: ‘I think that’ll do for now, Ashe.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ He was testing the tiles surrounding one of the holes, and did not look round. ‘Leave it to me.’

  She went to the door. ‘It’s awfully hot. Would you like some water?’

  ‘Don’t you trouble. I’ll come down and fetch some if I feel like it,’ He broke off a piece of rotten tile and turned it in front of his face. ‘There’s your problem, Mrs Mariner. I can patch it up, but you’re going to need a roofer up there before the winter.’

  ‘More expense. I’d better break the news gently to Mr Mariner.’

  Ashe didn’t disagree with this; he appeared entirely absorbed in his task, testing the edges of the tiles between finger and thumb.

  Carefully, Vivien sat down with her legs dangling through the loft aperture. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have given this exercise a moment’s thought, but now she was anxious to manage it quickly, cleanly and without embarrassment. She turned to kneel, extended one leg and felt with her foot for the ladder—got it. Then she took the strain on her arms until she was standing with both feet firmly in place. Her legs trembled slightly as she went down.

  Back on the landing she paused for a second, her forehead against one of the rungs. She was sweating, her hair in a heavy, damp knot on the nape of her neck.

  ‘All right, Mrs Mariner?’

  She turned, swiping her wrist across her brow. Hilda stood at the top of the stairs, carrying a basket with duster, polish and dustpan and brush.

  ‘I’m fine thank you, Hilda.’ Flustered, Vivien beat at the front of her blouse and skirt with both hands. ‘I’d forgotten how hot and dusty it was in the attic.’

  ‘Mr Ashe still up there?’

  ‘Yes. He’s going to do what he can, but he thinks we’ll have to have the whole roof seen to before winter. Heaven knows what that will cost . . .’ She frowned anxiously. ‘Is there something nice for lunch?’

  ‘Liver and bacon,’ said Hilda, adding, to show she understood the question’s significance: ‘Mr Mariner likes that.’

  Saxon heard his wife talking to Hilda on the landing, and then her footsteps as she came downstairs. There was a slight hesitation at the bottom so that he half expected her to knock on the door, but the footsteps continued, followed by the gentle click of another door. She had returned to her desk.

  She had been with Ashe in the attic, for a long time. Over an hour, in fact—Saxon happened to have glanced at his watch when they’d gone up there—and it seemed longer.

  The rain had eased off, but only to settle into the sort of even, steady drizzle that could continue all day. The morning dragged.

  It wasn’t until midday that Vivien heard Ashe come down. Hilda had long since retreated to the kitchen from where a faint but delicious aroma of rhubarb began to float; rhubarb crumble was another of Saxon’s favourites. Vivien did hope Hilda wasn‘t overdoing things: such an obvious embarrassment of delights could very easily prove counter-productive and make him even less amenable to the bad news about the roof, which coming as it did from—

  Ashe tapped on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  When he entered, his hair was quite grey with dust, which made her touch her own: did that, too, look grey? What did it matter.

  ‘How are you getting on up there?’

  ‘I’ve used some old material, and cardboard, to cover the holes for now. If it’s all right with you and Mr Mariner I’ll do a spot of scavenging. There’s a bit of stuff down in the station yard, left over from when they built the new waiting room, I think Mr Trodd would give me a good price, as it’s for the vicarage. Glad to get rid of it probably.’

  ‘That sounds ideal.’

  ‘I’ll go down there this afternoon, then. But Mrs Mariner.’ She looked at him obediently. ‘You still need to call in the experts.’

  ‘We will, don’t worry.’

  Vivien picked up her pen. She both did and didn’t want him to go; but he remained in the doorway, looking levelly at her.

  ‘Would you like me to mention this to Mr Mariner?’ He placed a small emphasis on the ‘me’. In anyone else she would have seen this as a touch familiar—the assumption that this was man’s business, or that he might in some way protect her from her husband’s irritation. As it was, her heart leapt as though he’d saved her life.

  ‘Would you, Ashe? I know how much he respects your opinion.’

  He inclined his head and withdrew, closing the door softly behind him. In the kitchen, Hilda invited Ashe to take his lunch indoors in view of the weather, but he declined.

  ‘Shed’ll suit me, thanks. And I could do with some fresh air.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Dog can keep me company.’

  ‘Now there’s a good idea.’

  He took his lunch and his newspaper and carried them to the shed, with Boots trotting beside him. Ins
ide he unfolded one of the garden chairs and sat down, with the door open. The dog sat by his legs, hypnotised and salivating. He fed it a piece of bread.

  Outside a mistle thrush hopped about, after the worms brought to the surface by the rain. Ashe could hear the faint sound of saucepans, the Mariners’ lunch in preparation. He himself hummed with energy and purpose. He had privacy, and power.

  He felt like a king.

  MESOPOTAMIA

  It takes thirteen days. And I was right, we do get to Basra by Christmas, but not before we’ve made two stops to offload the corpses. It would be all right if that made more space, but then we have to pick up more of the walking wounded who’ve fallen by the wayside, so the overcrowding just gets worse.

  Once any of us gets the runs, he never gets rid of them. Runs or not, men who can drag their arses to the railing do their business over the side. The sides of the boat are festooned with the stuff, all of it encrusted with flies. One chap who sees the boat coming into Basra tells me afterwards that he thought there were ropes attached to it, some sort of special safety precaution. But no, it was just dried shit.

  I recover pretty quickly once we’ve docked. We skinny working men have less to lose than big soft shiny officers, we’re evolved to withstand privation. That said, Jarvis does pretty well, too; he’s only in hospital for a few days. I say hospital but it’s a requisitioned farm building on the outskirts of town, God knows what you might catch while you’re convalescing in that place.

  And now we’re waiting again. Funny how Basra feels like home, scarcely foreign any more after what we’ve been through. Oh, those old crooks with their smelly food-stalls . . . those same old toast-rack donkeys falling down dead in the street . . . those Buddhoos fooling around, firing into the air at night . . . Home sweet home!

  I get back into the old routine, foraging for a bit of decent food, cleaning up Jarvis’s kit, mending, polishing, being a proper treasure. Discretion is my middle name, for the time being.

  There’s no getting away from it, though, we’re back to square one. The fun and fleshpots of Baghdad seem further away than ever.