A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  The second time was in their bedroom; in their bed. Vivien told herself that it was as if by removing the key to the adjoining door, Saxon had somehow made it inevitable. On that afternoon he was conducting a funeral; if she stood very still she could hear the singing of ‘Abide with Me’ from within the church. At least twenty-five minutes would pass before the congregation came out into the churchyard for the burial. Hilda was doing shopping in the village.

  Ashe had gone up into the loft to check his temporary repairs. Vivien came up the stairs to find him lowering the trapdoor above his head. She watched as he stepped down off the chair, and put it back in its place by the wall. When he’d done so he said quietly:

  ‘So. You found me again, then.’

  ‘I knew you were up here.’

  ‘Of course you did.’

  Without looking at her he pushed open the bedroom door, and went in. The room was calm and tidy, the bedspread smooth, the pillows plumped. The curtains moved gently at the open window.

  ‘In here,’ he said. ‘This’ll do.’

  They came together like dogs on the bare mattress. The spotless sheets lay in a heap on the floor. After they fell away from each other, Vivien turned her back on Ashe. She did not watch him as he dressed, and left the room. She was still shaking as her husband’s voice carried from the churchyard on the sunlit air, speaking the solemn words of the committal.

  Ashe was getting there. Just as he could push his hand into the vicar’s wife and make her cry out, so he was, a step at a time, invading their most private places. Only a little way to go, not far, and the desecration would be complete. Then, if he read things right it would only take a word, the merest suggestion from him to the husband, and her guilt would speak up for itself. The two of them were a tinderbox, there’d be one hell of a conflagration.

  Mariner would tell him to go, and they’d hear no arguments from him. He’d go like a lamb—taking with him, in lieu of notice, whatever it was worth to keep the fire contained. For the time being, anyway.

  His next opportunity came a few days later. He was doing some running maintenance on the mower when he saw Edith Clay arrive with the girl at the vicarage. Five minutes later he raised a hand to Mr Mariner and Susan, as they crossed from the garden gate to the church. Mariner didn’t respond, had perhaps not even noticed, but Susan waved back vigorously, like a child.

  He returned to his work, putting in autumn-flowering plants around the base of the memorial: wallflowers and winter pansies. They weren’t flowers he particularly liked himself, and it was a little early to be planting, but some ground cover was going to be needed over the coming months and he himself wouldn’t be around much longer. He liked the idea of leaving this small legacy right here on hallowed ground. He had made a few other preparations, too: chopped all the usable wood from the end of the garden and stacked it in the lean-to he’d built at the back of the shed; set crocus and snowdrop bulbs at the edge of the lawn for the following new year and spring; done running repairs on the garden furniture and a full service on the car, and the bicycles. When the moment came for him to go, they’d have the evidence of his work all around them, every day of their lives for weeks, months, to come.

  He heeled in the last of the plants, and tidied up, raking up the debris and stacking the flowerpots in the wheelbarrow. The soil was good round here, rich and loamy, but he hated having the stuff all over his hands, the sooner he could get to a tap—he took out his handkerchief and scrubbed them fastidiously, then threw the handkerchief into the wheelbarrow.

  ‘Mr Ashe!’

  Lady Delamayne was walking towards him from the direction of the vicarage. The car must be parked there, so she hadn’t come to arrange the flowers. What, then? Ashe could have done without her.

  ‘Mr Ashe,’ she said again, with greater emphasis. ‘Working away as usual, I see.’

  ‘Morning, your ladyship.’

  ‘I’m a bird of passage, today,’ she announced. ‘Duty calls elsewhere.’

  He waited.

  ‘These will make a lovely show of colour,’ she said, not looking at the plants, but at him. He nodded briefly.

  ‘Autumn awaits . . .’ She sighed gustily. ‘I suppose once the shorter days are upon us there won’t be so much for you to do about the place.’

  ‘I can always find something.’

  ‘I’m sure you can, I’m sure you can . . .’ She stepped up on to the grass. The thick, high heels of her shoes cut the surface. He caught a waft of her scent—too strong for someone who called herself a lady to be wearing during the day—and moved slightly away. Suddenly she noticed something, her eyes fixed on his face.

  ‘Now then, what have you been doing to yourself?’ She reached out a hand almost as if she was going to touch the place. ‘How did you manage that?’

  He covered it with his own hand. ‘I got a scratch clearing branches.’

  ‘Dear me.’

  ‘Nothing by comparison,’ he said. ‘Hardly counts.’

  ‘You’re right! ’ She laughed, a little too heartily. ‘What a very sensible approach you have to things.’

  He waited for her to go. He still couldn’t work out why she was hanging around here, wasting his time.

  ‘All settled in at the vicarage?’ she asked, this time not looking at him but studying the memorial, running her hand up and down the stone as though it was a thing she was contemplating buying for her house.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her hand still on the cross, she slid him a playful sideways glance and adopted a stage whisper: ‘Is Hilda behaving herself?’

  ‘Hilda?’

  ‘Nose not out of joint?’ He shook his head. ‘Not even the littlest bit?’

  ‘Not that I know if. We both have our work to do.’

  ‘Oh, I know. Naturally you do. It was a sort of joke—she is notoriously proprietary about the Mariners, and the vicarage has been her fiefdom for so long.’

  She paused. Ashe thought, She thinks I don’t know the meaning of proprietary and fiefdom.

  ‘I was aware of that,’ he said. ‘The vicar made sure she’d be happy with the arrangement.’

  ‘And of course Mrs Mariner’s delighted! The house and garden have never looked better. I’ve just been talking to her.’

  Ashe felt her bright, hard stare on his face. She went on:

  ‘We all worry about her, rather. She’s not been looking well, lately.’

  ‘I can’t say I’d noticed.’

  ‘Why should you? Anyway, between us the vicar and I will be keeping an eye on her.’ There was that stare again. Then she said in a different tone of voice:

  ‘But it’s the vicar I’m after, and I believe he’s at his place of work. So—’ Lady Delamayne made a gesture as if heading a column of fighting men, in the direction of the church. ‘Onwards.’

  She strode off, but the discomfort she occasioned stayed with Ashe as he lifted the shafts of the wheelbarrow, lowered it carefully on to the church path, and headed via the lane to the vicarage.

  Better get on with it.

  Saxon never regretted taking Susan under his wing. Inside the church, she went immediately to the cupboard and took out the soft broom, suitable for collecting up the dry leaves that gathered beneath the flower arrangements. She no longer needed instructions, which this morning was just as well. Her cleaning was exemplary; she would put a cloth over her finger and painstakingly wipe round the complicated holes and crevices in the carving, her tongue protruding slightly as she did so. She kneeled on the chancel step, her head tipped upside down, face red, hair hanging, to polish the underside of the altar rail in what was (all too clearly to the other lady volunteers) a labour of love.

  On a morning such as this, when Saxon felt so unsure of himself, the girl’s simple loyalty, industry and devotion provided a source of comfort. He wished he could say the same of John Ashe. Though days could go by when Saxon scarcely saw or heard him, he felt his presence, and was surrounded by its beneficial effects. The only deleteri
ous one, and consequently the one that preoccupied Saxon, was the taking root of this ridiculous, despicable anxiety about Vivien . . .

  He took his seat near the lectern and opened his prayer book to the collect, epistle and gospel for the day. Sometimes when he did this Susan would sit too, with a book, often upside down, in her hands. Sometimes, as now, she would find something to do that was out of sight and so would not disturb him; she had a natural, an almost motherly, thoughtfulness and discretion which continued to touch him deeply.

  He could just hear her mouse-like movements in the vestry but they soothed rather than disturbed him. His little acolyte. He prayed.

  When he’d finished he saw that she was sitting at the far end of the front pew, her hands clasped in her lap, eyes squeezed shut.

  ‘Susan?’

  She opened her eyes. ‘Susan, show me what you’ve been doing.’

  She led the way into the vestry. Everything was tidy: music and books in separate piles, collection bags lying on the plate, all swept and dusted. A couple of the choirboys’ surplices still hung on their hooks: the boys were supposed to take them home to be washed but there were some who either forgot or whose parents didn’t consider it their responsibility. Both surplices looked limp and greyish.

  ‘Those lazy boys,’ said Saxon. ‘We should take these over to Hilda and get them washed.’ He took them off the hooks, bundled them and placed them in Susan’s arms. ‘Why don’t you do that now?’

  ‘I’ll do it now,’ she agreed.

  He placed a fatherly hand on her head—her hair was thin and fine as a child’s—and opened the vestry door.

  This was the sight that met Felicity Delamayne’s eyes as she entered the church. Quite affecting in a way: the fat, simple girl gazing up adoringly, the vicar’s hand laid gently on her head, but Felicity had heard murmurings. It wouldn’t do.

  ‘Vicar—there you are!’

  ‘Lady Delamayne, I was expecting to see you later. Run along, Susan. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I wanted—’ Felicity paused as Susan lumbered past. ‘That’s it, off you go . . .’ She advanced up the side aisle and met Saxon by the lectern. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Vivien told me you were here, I shan’t be at home when you come up this afternoon, and there are a couple of things I wanted to discuss about harvest home, so I thought I’d drop in en route to the Ladies’ Guild.’

  ‘Right,’ said Saxon. ‘I suggest we go back to the vicarage.’

  As they walked together towards the garden gate, Felicity said: ‘Your man Ashe has made the memorial blossom as the rose.’

  ‘I must take a look.’

  ‘I tried to have a chat with him, but he’s a man of few words.’

  Saxon had some sympathy with Ashe here, and said pointedly: ‘No, he likes to get on.’

  ‘He doesn’t give very much away.’ What point was she trying to make? ‘How do you find it with him living at the house?’

  ‘Very convenient, it suits us very well.’

  ‘Good! I was talking to Vivien, she seems rather less enthusiastic.’

  Really, the woman was intolerable. ‘She hasn’t said anything to me.’

  ‘And Susan Clay, always bustling about. Doing your bidding.’ Felicity glanced sharply at the vicar’s grim profile. ‘Still, I suppose it’s the job of a vicarage, isn’t it? Taking in waifs and strays.’

  Saxon couldn’t bring himself to answer.

  Hilda was cleaning the silver cutlery; she had it spread out on newspaper on the kitchen table and was applying her special solution. Ashe poured himself a glass of water at the sink in the scullery. He watched her as he drank, then put the glass down and wiped his mouth.

  ‘Want a hand with that?’

  Hilda bridled. ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have offered.’

  ‘Go on then.’ She tossed him the polishing cloth. ‘Give them some elbow grease.’

  He applied himself. After a couple of minutes he asked: ‘Not cooking lunch today?’

  ‘The reverend’s going up to Eaden Place, visiting.’

  ‘I just saw Lady Delamayne.’

  ‘She was here.’ Hilda jerked her head upward. ‘Don’t ask me. She’s a law unto herself. That’s where he’s going, anyway, and lunching with Sir Sidney.’

  Ashe allowed another minute to elapse, during which he brought the soup ladle to a high shine. He looked at his face in it—a bulging gargoyle. ‘Mrs Mariner not eating then?’

  ‘She says she’ll make herself something . . . Which means nothing.’ Hilda sucked her teeth. ‘She’s off her food.’

  ‘Less work for you,’ he volunteered.

  ‘Out with the dog at the moment.’

  They polished a bit more. ‘Where’s Susan?’

  ‘Her mother came for her.’ Hilda nodded at the basket by the sink. ‘She brought those over from the church. Little tykes are supposed to take them home.’

  ‘Why should you wash them,’ agreed Ashe.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  When they finished the job it was half past twelve. They heard the vicar go out, and the car starting up in the drive. There was no sign of Mrs Mariner with the dog—she must have gone miles, as Hilda remarked, adding: ‘I’m surprised she’s got the strength on what she eats.’

  ‘Speaking of which . . .’

  He took his usual bread and cheese, with a bit of ham on this occasion in honour of the polishing, and went out into the garden, where he sat on the grass with his back against the shed to eat.

  When he’d finished he returned to the kitchen to find Hilda asleep in her chair. She was sagging half over the arm, threatening to dislodge the cup of tea that stood on the edge of the table next to her. He coughed politely and was sure to be busy dusting the knees of his trousers when she started awake.

  ‘Why don’t you cut along home,’ he suggested, ‘have a bit of peace and quiet while they’re out.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she said, ‘it’s not my day.’

  ‘What’s there to do?’

  ‘Not much. Silver’s done thanks to you, and supper’s cold . . .’

  ‘There you are then,’ said Ashe. ‘I told them I’d do the grates, so I’ll get on with that. If they ask, I’ll say you were tired and I told you to. Come back teatime.’

  ‘Do you know,’ Hilda rose heavily from the chair, ‘I think I will. No point in my sitting about here.’ She began untying her apron. ‘You make sure to tell them, Mr Ashe.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Because they’ll believe you,’ she said, hanging up the apron. ‘They trust you.’

  When the house was empty, and quiet, Ashe went upstairs, carrying in one hand a bucket and shovel, in the other the wooden basket containing scourers, cloths and brass polish for the grates.

  With Mr Mariner out, it seemed only sensible to start with the study. The fireplace in here was quite small, with a black iron hood and red and green leaf-patterned tiles. He kneeled down and began his work, scraping out the remains of last year’s clinker and shovelling it into the bucket. The holy-of-holies thing meant nothing to him, though he knew it did to everyone else in this house. He wasn’t interested in prying or poking about, he was cleaning the grate. To show there was no secret, he left the door open.

  When he heard her footsteps, and those of the dog on the gravel outside, he didn’t look up. He was applying blacking to the hood, rubbing it in with steady, circular strokes. She did not, as he expected, go round to the back of the house but crossed in front of it to the garage. There was a brief silence: she was checking whether the car was there. Then she ran up the steps and opened the front door. She came in with the dog still on the lead and stood in the study doorway. He heard the dog panting and straining in the doorway, but could tell, without looking, how still she was standing, like a statue.

  ‘You’re in here.’ Her voice trembled.

  He sat back on his heels. ‘Just doing this.’

  �
�No one—’ she began, then said: ‘I suppose he won’t mind.’

  He felt a flare of pure rage, but said nothing, and turned back to his blacking. She pulled the reluctant dog away and he heard her go downstairs, shoo it into the scullery and close the door. When she came back, she said: ‘Where’s Hilda?’

  ‘Gone home for a couple of hours. She was done in. I said you wouldn’t mind.’

  He put down the blacking cloth and looked up at her. Her cheeks and mouth were flushed, her pupils dilated.

  She walked over to him in her muddy shoes. He saw her eyes flick to the window behind them, back to him. Her breathing was shallow. He could feel the heat coming off her.

  ‘I don’t—’ she began.

  He clasped her ankle, tight and hard like a trap. ‘No,’ he said. ‘In here. Now.’

  Saxon returned to find a note on the hall table from Vivien: she was feeling a little below par, and was taking a nap. He went quietly upstairs and looked into the bedroom where she was lying on top of the eiderdown in her dressing gown, her hair in a ruffled pool, her feet incongruous in their thick socks. One of the socks had a hole, and her toe poked through. She looked so innocent and childlike—and so very beautiful—that he was tempted to lie down by her side, to make his peace with an embrace. But he decided against disturbing her. She had had a long walk, the rest would do her good.

  He wasn’t in a mood to work, but when he went into the study to fetch his book he noticed the fireplace had been cleaned. He was pleased to see it looking clean and bright, less pleased that Ashe had forgotten to wipe his shoes. But it was so unlike the man to be anything but fastidious that he decided against mentioning it, this once. Crouching awkwardly, he picked up the small pieces of dried mud between his finger and thumb and dropped them in the coal scuttle.

  At supper Vivien asked about Eaden Place, and Sir Sidney, and he was happy to oblige, although she spoke scarcely at all and appeared not much refreshed after her sleep. Afterwards she went to the drawing room, and Saxon went out into the garden to collect up and put away the badminton set. It looked untidy and besides they’d scarcely used it this summer and it was starting to get on his nerves—a reminder of a kind of accidie on his part. Perhaps exercising the dog had consumed more of the spare energy they’d once spent playing this slightly ridiculous game . . . He thrust the net and its attendant bits and pieces into their canvas bag and put it in the shed along with the racquets and shuttlecock. That was better. The lawn looked more peaceful without it.