A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  She strongly suspected it was no accident that he had become so chummy with the Mariners; he would have his reasons. She was caught between two equal impulses: one straightforwardly altruistic, to warn Saxon that he and his wife were in some kind of real but unspecified danger (a warning he would certainly brush aside, whatever his private feelings); the other more mischievous, to stand well back and watch to see what happened.

  Of one thing Felicity had no doubt: something would happen. And her testy little outburst a few moments ago, by putting her in Saxon’s bad books, would not have helped to prevent it.

  The book-shop owner clapped his hands.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats . . . that’s it . . . don’t be frightened of the front row . . . Good . . . Now! This afternoon it’s my very great privilege to introduce a distinguished writer whom we in Bridgford can claim as our own.’

  Felicity raised her eyebrows—what about Eadenford?—as she sat down firmly at the front. One must fly the flag, and if Vivien wasn’t going to, then noblesse oblige . . . She only hoped she would be able to understand a word of Saxon’s poetry, which she and Sidney recognised as ‘deep’. Crossing her legs with a swish she fixed her eyes brightly and intently on Saxon as he picked up his book, and let her mind drift back to her private speculations.

  ‘Thank you for those kind words.’

  Saxon opened Beyond Self and took out the sheet of paper he’d slipped inside the front cover. Running his forefinger down the handwritten lines, he tried to clear his mind of irritable and distracting thoughts concerning Lady Delamayne, who was sitting only a few feet away wearing an expression of steely fascination.

  ‘I would like to begin,’ he said, ‘with a poem I wrote only the other day but which may, God willing, appear in my next collection.’ There was a polite rustle of laughter, which he allowed to die away.

  ‘It is entitled: “Caritas”.’

  Vivien felt guilty only until Saxon left the house. Fortunately he was preoccupied, and accepted her excuses without question. The instant the door closed behind him, she was caught up in an ecstasy of relief. He would be absent for four hours at least. Susan had gone; Hilda had been sent home.

  She was alone—or almost alone—in the house. The afternoon opened before her like the mouth of a cave.

  She stood in the hall, absorbing the silence. She knew exactly where he was—out in the shed, cleaning tools. He was meticulous about such things.

  She heard a click of paws, and looked down to find Boots sitting at her feet, his eyes fixed expectantly on her face, his tail swishing back and forth on the floor. Hilda must have closed the back door on her way out, or he would certainly have been in the garden with Ashe.

  ‘Come!’

  She set off in the direction of the kitchen and the dog leapt up and quickly overtook her, pattering down the stairs and jumping up excitedly at the handle of the door.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Good dog—basket.’

  He sat down with his head cocked one way, then the other, as if unable to believe his ears. Vivien pointed in the direction of the scullery.

  ‘Boots—basket!’

  Miserably, he slunk past her. When he reached his bed he paused, looking over his shoulder in one last, silent plea. Vivien closed the door.

  The afternoon was warm, the sky cloudy with occasional glimpses of blue, which made for a soft, changeable light. The shed door stood open but not wide enough for her to see inside.

  She walked into the centre of the lawn and picked up one of the badminton racquets and the shuttlecock. She hit the shuttlecock into the air high above her head, and when it came down did the same again, keeping it airborne with repeated strong flicks of the wrist. From this angle she could see the shed out of the corner of her eye, and the suggestion of movement inside, but Ashe did not appear. After a minute or so, when the shuttlecock came down she let it fall to the ground, and dropped the racquet beside it. Slowly, arms folded, she walked over to the shed.

  She opened the door wide and pushed it back so that it lay flat against the slatted wall. These days the shed was tidy and ordered, the gleaming mower parked just inside, flowerpots and seed trays arranged to size on a wooden shelf, the hose coiled round the watering can, the tools hanging on nails. Ashe was sitting on a stool at the back, cleaning a pair of pruning shears, head down in an attitude of complete concentration. There was no sign that he’d noticed her arrival.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said.

  Now he glanced up, but only for a second, and if he spoke she didn’t hear him. She didn’t think this insolent. This was an encounter on equal terms.

  Arms still folded she took a step inside and leaned against the door jamb.

  ‘You’re busy.’

  He made a little movement with his head, signalling agreement.

  ‘It looks so nice in here these days,’ she said, her eyes on his hands. ‘You’ve made such a difference.’

  ‘A lot better for working in.’

  The sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled back neatly to above the elbow, the folds encircling the ball of muscle on his upper arm which moved as he worked. His skin was so white that the veins on his wrists showed through beneath. In one hand he held the pruning shears, thumb in one loop, fingers in the other as if about to cut; in the other was the polishing cloth, feeling into the cracks and joints at the base of the handles, wiping smoothly along the blades. Unmarked, he would have been a quietly handsome man. The scar was like a scream in the silence.

  ‘Ah!’ he swore under his breath, and jumped up from the stool, dropping the shears and cloth. A bright trickle of blood appeared on his right hand, on the flap of skin between forefinger and thumb and oozed, glistening red, over the white skin.

  ‘Oh no!’ Vivien took a half-step forward. ‘Let me see.’

  He held it out, his eyes on her face, his hand spread as if about to clutch her throat. A drop of blood fell to the floor.

  ‘That’s a bad cut,’ she whispered.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt.’

  ‘But it’s deep.’

  ‘Clean, too’ His voice was very quiet. ‘If these things were rusty it’d be a different story.’

  He moved his hand forward a little, proffering it for her closer inspection—nearer to her face, her mouth. The effect, unmistakably, was one of invitation.

  Vivien took his wrist in her hand, and closed her eyes as she guided the cut to her lips. The taste of it was warm, and salty, the smell of his skin was clean. She felt the light pressure of his finger and thumb on her cheeks on either side, encouraging her to suck, which she did. No other part of them touched, all sensation was concentrated in that conjunction of mouth and hand. She was faint with it. The rest of her seemed light and insubstantial, so much so that if she leaned forward she would be supported, even lifted from the ground . . .

  Slowly, he withdrew his hand, and her eyes opened. She staggered, and he held her elbow for a second to steady her.

  ‘There.’

  Her hands went instinctively to cover her face. From his pocket he handed her a white handkerchief, crumpled but spotless.

  ‘Now you know how it feels.’

  Tears sprang to her eyes, she mopped and scrubbed at her stained mouth while he calmly looked on. Had she misunderstood? Had she been tricked into humiliating herself?

  ‘It’s all gone,’ he said. ‘Can I have that?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, handing back the handkerchief.

  He shook his head, wrapping the handkerchief round his right hand. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know—I thought—I don’t know what possessed me.’

  He gave her a slanting, quizzical look. ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘And you?’ She stepped back so that she could lean against the side of the shed. ‘What were you thinking?’

  He turned away and retrieved the shears and cloth from the floor; when he’d hung both on a nail, he said: ‘It was going to happen.’

  The simple truth of this
required no answer.

  He stood before her, hands at his sides as if only waiting for her to step aside so he could leave—a prospect that she could hardly bear.

  ‘We shouldn’t have,’ she whispered.

  ‘What did we do?’ he asked, and when she hesitated: ‘We haven’t done anything. Not yet.’

  He stepped forward and she started violently.

  ‘This afternoon,’ he said softly. ‘You made sure you were alone, and you came to find me.’

  She couldn’t deny it. Their faces were only inches apart.

  ‘Well then,’ he whispered. ‘You come and find me again.’

  Weak, stunned, she remained where she was for a moment. There was silence as he walked across the grass, then the sound of the back door opening. He said the dog’s name, and a second door opened; a flurry, a disturbance as the dog rushed out; the click of the gate, and they were gone.

  Once she’d brought herself to concentrate, Felicity enjoyed the reading more than she’d expected, and approached Saxon afterwards to tell him so.

  ‘Quite wonderful!’ she said. ‘You had us in the palm of your hand.’

  ‘I wonder.’ He smiled anxiously, a great deal more relaxed now, she noticed. ‘My poems were not written to be read out loud, and I’m by no means convinced how well they come across.’

  ‘Quite brilliantly,’ she assured him, then seized the opportunity: ‘Saxon, I do apologise if I spoke out of turn earlier, about Vivien. I’ve been reproaching myself. I meant no criticism of her whatever.’ He appeared relieved. ‘As long as you appreciate that her absence does not mean any lack of enthusiasm or support for my work.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s your most ardent admirer,’ agreed Felicity. ‘And a breath of fresh air about the place, we’re very fortunate in our vicar’s wife—and our vicari’

  ‘Please, not another word.’

  ‘Very well then, and do give her my regards. She does too much, I thought she looked awfully tired when I last saw her.’

  Saxon eyed the door. There was no sign that he shared her concern. What more could she do?

  Vivien washed her hair and changed her clothes. When she heard the car arrive, she went to meet Saxon at the front door. She could tell at once that he was in better spirits than before, and so was unlikely to notice anything changed in her manner or appearance. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘Pretty well, I think. They listened attentively at any rate.’

  ‘I should hope sol’

  The book of poetry still in his hand, he went into the drawing room, and she followed, relieved on this occasion that he hadn’t wanted to sit in the garden. She held out her hand. ‘May I?’

  ‘Please do.’ He removed a sheet of paper from between the pages, and handed her the book.

  They sat down on the sofa, a little distance apart.

  ‘Which ones did you give them?’

  ‘Oh . . . they’re marked in pencil.’

  She turned the pages slowly, simulating interest. ‘All these?’

  ‘They’re quite short.’

  Still looking at the book, she said: ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, Saxon.’

  ‘I am too,’ he said, but mildly. ‘If you had been, you could have protected me from Lady Delamayne.’

  She fell on this distraction. ‘Don’t tell me they came!’

  ‘Not Sir Sidney. Only her. She interrogated me about your absence.’

  Vivien maintained her light tone. ‘How very embarrassing.’

  ‘It’s none of her business. She said she thought you looked tired last time she saw you, and sent her regards. Anyway,’ he turned to her, ‘how was your afternoon? Was it productive?’

  ‘Reasonably. I did those things which I ought to have done.’

  ‘And the things you ought not?’

  ‘There were none of those.’ She felt almost sick, but his expression was benign and he held out his arm to draw her into an embrace.

  ‘Let’s see.’ She counted the lies off on her fingers. ‘I did the mending, and paid the bills, watered the church flowers—’

  ‘Enough, enough! Come here.’

  She moved into the circle of his arm and he pulled her close, his other hand in her hair. How she wished, now, for the sounds of someone else in the house. Why had she sent Hilda home? Her husband’s warm, excited breathing only emphasised their inescapable privacy.

  ‘Vivien, my darling . . . Your hair’s so beautiful . . .’

  Unresponsive, motionless, she let Saxon’s hands move amorously over her head, her back. To avoid anything more intimate she put her other arm round him and clung tight as a child, her face buried in his chest.

  ‘Vivien?’ He placed a hand beneath her chin and forcibly tilted her face to his. She could scarcely believe that her guilt was not written in letters of fire in her eyes, across her mouth, but whatever he read there, it wasn’t that. She heard his murmured ‘God help me . . .’ before his kiss blotted out the light.

  Five days went by before she found Ashe again. Days during which time passed with a glacier-like slowness. The air in the house felt thick, resistant, so that the smallest everyday task became a feat of endurance. Ashe did not seek her out, or make himself available in any way, and this put her in an agony of self-doubt. She could remember, in tormenting detail, everything that had happened, but now she wondered if she had misinterpreted her own shameless behaviour. He, after all, had done nothing. It was she who had ensured the house was empty, who had remained at home when she should have been with her husband, who had sought him out, and taken his hand in her mouth . . . He had said as much himself, he was blameless. But then: ‘You come and find me again.’ That, surely, was unequivocal.

  The minutes crawled by, sticking to her skin like leeches, draining her of vitality. Her hearty appetite deserted her: food appeared intolerable, incomprehensible, a challenge to which she was repeatedly unable to rise. She toyed with her meals, and smoked a great deal. Hilda privately deplored the waste, but as to the reasons for loss of appetite in an otherwise healthy young woman, she kept her counsel.

  Saxon (remembering Lady Delamayne’s observation) asked Vivien if she was ill.

  ‘Not at all. There’s nothing the matter with me, I’m simply not hungry.’

  ‘But this isn’t like you.’

  She shrugged. ‘I should lose a little weight.’

  ‘Not for me. You know that, I hope.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  To deflect his curiosity, she did her best to eat, but could manage very little. At least his concern for her health meant that there was no repetition of that other afternoon. She was even glad of Susan, whose visits claimed his attention. Edith Clay had taken to accompanying her daughter as far as the vicarage gate, presumably to guard against further harvest horrors—although there was little fear of that, as the centre of activities had moved to the fields to the west, at the other end of the village.

  Vivien’s chance came when Saxon was engaged to attend a diocesan meeting, and elected to go by rail so that he could read the relevant papers en route. He would be gone all day. Ashe drove him to the station to catch the ten o’clock train, and would collect him again at four. It was Hilda’s half-day. Not long after the car had left the drive Vivien saw Edith, with Susan by the hand, coming in at the other entrance, and went out to forestall them.

  ‘Mrs Clay, Susan—I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’ asked Edith, whose manner did not soften with time.

  ‘Mr Mariner’s got a meeting, he’s just left.’ She turned to Susan, whose flat, plain face had already fallen. ‘So Susan, there’s no need for you to be here.’

  ‘I expect there’s odd jobs she can do for you, isn’t there?’

  ‘I’m not sure that there are,’ Vivien tried rapidly to assemble a plausible excuse. ‘I thought I might take the opportunity to go out myself.’

  Edith asked bluntly: ‘What about Hilda?’

  ‘She’
s here until lunchtime, but I don’t know if there’ll be anything to do in the kitchen, she always has things so well in hand.’

  Susan brightened. ‘Can I see Boots?’

  ‘There,’ said Edith. ‘That dog, I swear she loves it more than she ever did ours.’

  Vivien couldn’t escape the impression that the woman was in some way hostile. Now she patted her daughter on the shoulder, ushering her away.

  ‘You run along and say hallo to him while I have a word with Mrs Mariner.’

  They both watched as Susan hurried off with her awkward, rolling gait. Anxious to get it over with, whatever it was, Vivien turned back first.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Clay?’

  ‘It’s about Susan.’

  ‘I assumed that. She seems very happy.’

  ‘Oh, she’s happy enough. But she’s growing up.’

  ‘She is, all the time. She’s so sensible and dependable these days.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  Vivien’s heart sank. ‘Obviously her physical development—well, her mental abilities haven’t kept pace, have they, that’s part of her condition.’

  ‘Indeed it is. That’s what we all have to remember. She’s only a child, no matter what she looks like.’

  ‘Of course. I think everyone understands that.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘You needn’t worry, Mrs Clay.’ Vivien adopted a warm, woman-to-woman tone as though no more need to be said. ‘Everyone in the village knows Susan.’

  Edith returned the warmth with a hard stare. ‘She’s up here more than anywhere, with the vicar.’

  There was an insinuation in her voice which Vivien could not ignore.

  ‘I’m sorry . . . What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m not saying anything. Just we want her treated how she behaves, not how she looks.’