by H. E. Bates
‘Mariette, come over here a jiff. Young man here’s crazy on horses, like you. Wants to meet you. Comes from the Ministry of Revenue or summat.’
In astonished silence the young man stared at the new celestial body, in its yellow shirt, as it floated across the background of rusty iron, pigsties, abandoned oildrums, goat-chewn hawthorn bushes, and dusty earth.
‘Mister Charlton, this is my eldest, Mariette. The one who’s mad on horses. Rides everywhere. You’ve very like seen her picture in the papers.’
‘Hullo,’ Mariette said. ‘I spotted you first.’
‘That’s right, she saw you,’ Pop said. ‘Who’s that nice young feller in the yard, she said.’
‘So you,’ Mariette said, ‘like riding too?’
The eyes of the young man groped at the sunlight as if still unable correctly to focus the celestial body smiling at him from three feet away.
‘I say every kid should have a horse,’ Pop said. ‘Nothing like a horse. I’m going to get every one of my kids a horse.’
Suddenly the young man woke from mesmerism, making a startling statement.
‘I saw you riding over at Barfield,’ he said. ‘In the third race. At Easter. You came second.’
‘I hope you won a bob or two on her,’ Pop said.
Again he laughed in ringing fashion, bringing from beyond the stable an echo of goose voices as three swaggering grey-white birds emerged from a barricade of nettles, to be followed presently by the half-sleepy, dainty figures of a dozen guinea fowl.
‘Pity we didn’t know you were coming,’ Pop said. ‘We’re killing a goose tomorrow. Always kill a goose or a turkey or a few chickens at the weekend. Or else guinea fowl. Like guinea fowl?’
If the young man had any kind of answer ready it was snatched from him by the voice of Ma, calling suddenly from the house:
‘Dinner’s nearly ready. Anybody coming in or am I slaving for nothing?’
‘We’re coming, Ma!’ Pop turned with eager, tempting relish to the young man, still speechless, still struggling with his efforts to focus correctly the dark-haired girl. ‘Well, we got to go, Mister Charlton. Sorry. Ma won’t have no waiting.’
‘Now, Mr Larkin, about this form –’
‘Did you see me at Newchurch?’ Mariette said. ‘I rode there too.’
‘As a matter of fact, I did – I did, yes – But, Mr Larkin, about this form –’
‘What form?’ Mariette said.
‘Oh! some form, some form,’ Pop said. ‘I tell you what, Mister Charlton, you come in and have a bite o’ dinner with us. No, no trouble. Tons o’ grub –’
‘I’ve eaten, thank you. I’ve eaten.’
‘Well, cuppa tea then. Cuppa coffee. Bottle o’ beer. Bottle o’ Guinness. Drop o’ cider.’
The entire body of the young man seemed to swirl helplessly, as if half-intoxicated, out of balance, on its axis. ‘Oh! yes, do,’ Mariette said and by the time he had recovered he found himself being led by Pop Larkin towards the house, from which Ma was already calling a second time:
‘If nobody don’t come in three minutes I’ll give it to the cats.’
‘Know anybody who wants a pure white kitten?’ Pop said. ‘Don’t want a pure white kitten, do you?’
‘So you were at Newchurch too,’ Mariette said. ‘I wish I’d known.’
A moment later Pop threw up his hands in a gesture of near ecstasy at the overpowering beauty, which suddenly seemed to strike him all afresh, of the May afternoon.
‘Beautiful, ain’t it?’ he said. ‘Perfick. I got a beautiful place here. Don’t you think I got a beautiful place here, Mister Charlton?’
*
In the kitchen a radio was loudly playing jazz. In the living room next door, where the curtains were half-drawn, a television set was on, giving to the nine faces crowded about the table a grey-purple, flickering glow.
‘Have just what you fancy, Mister Charlton,’ Pop said. ‘If you don’t see it here, ask for it. Bottle o’ beer? Glass o’ sherry? Pass the vinegar, Ma.’
Soon the young man, arms crooked at the crowded table, was nursing a cup of tea. In the centre of the table stood the three pineapples, flanked on all sides by plates of fish-and-chips, more coloured blocks of ice-cream, pots of raspberry and strawberry jam, bottles of tomato ketchup and Guinness, bottles of Worcester sauce and cups of tea, chocolate biscuits and piles of icy buns.
‘Perhaps Mister Charlton would like a couple o’ sardines with his tea?’ Pop said. ‘Montgomery, fetch the sardines.’
Mr Charlton, bemused by the name of Montgomery, protested faintly that he did not like sardines.
‘Mister Charlton saw Mariette riding at Barfield,’ Pop said.
‘And at Newchurch,’ Mariette said.
‘Funny we didn’t see you there,’ Ma said, ‘we was all there.’
‘Mister Charlton,’ Pop said, ‘loves horses.’
‘Turn up the contrast,’ Ma said, ‘it’s getting dark.’
In the television’s flickering purplish light the young man watched the faces about the table, as they munched on fish-and-chips, ice-cream, tomato ketchup, and jam, becoming more and more like pallid, eyeless ghouls. Pop had placed him between Ma and Mariette and presently he detected under the great breathing bank of Ma’s bosom, now mauve-salmon in the flickering light, the shape of two white kittens somehow nestling on the bulging precipice of her lap. Occasionally the kittens miaowed prettily and Ma fed them with scraps of fish and batter.
Above the noise of jazz, television voices, kittens, geese hawking at the kitchen door, and the chattering voices of the family he found it hard to make himself heard.
‘Mr Larkin, about this form. If you’ve got any difficulties I could help you fill it in.’
‘All right,’ Pop said, ‘you fill it in.’
‘It’s still too dark,’ Ma said. ‘Turn it up a bit. It never stays where you put it nowadays.’
‘I’ll give the damn thing one more week to behave itself,’ Pop said. ‘And if it don’t then I’ll turn it in for another.’
Mr Charlton spread the yellow-buff form on the table in front of him and then took out his fountain pen and unscrewed the cap.
‘Ma, is there any more ice-cream?’ Primrose said.
‘In the fridge,’ Ma said. ‘Big block o’ strawberry mousse. Get that.’
‘Full name: Sidney Charles Larkin,’ Mr Charlton said and wrote it down. ‘Occupation? Dealer?’
‘Don’t you call him dealer,’ Ma said. ‘I’ll give you dealer. He owns land.’
‘Well, landowner –’
‘Farmer,’ Pop said.
‘Well, farmer,’ Mr Charlton said. ‘I’m very sorry. Farmer.’
‘Mariette, cut the pineapple,’ Ma said. ‘Montgomery, go into the kitchen and fetch that pint jug of cream.’
While Mr Charlton filled in the form Mariette stood up, reached for the bread knife, and started to cut the pineapples, putting thick juicy slices on plates over which Ma poured heavy yellow cream.
‘Real Jersey,’ Ma said. ‘From our cow.’
Every time Mariette reached over for another plate she brushed the sleeve of Mr Charlton, who either made sketchy blobs on the tax form or could not write at all.
‘How many children?’ Mr Charlton said. ‘Six? Is that right? No more?’
‘Well, not yet, old man. Plenty o’ time though. Give us a chance,’ Pop said and again laughed in ringing fashion.
‘Gone again,’ Ma said. ‘You can’t see a blessed thing. Montgomery, Primrose – switch it off and change it for the set in our bedroom.’
In the half-darkness that now smothered the room Mr Charlton felt something smooth, sinuous, and slender brush against his right calf. For one shimmering, unnerving moment he sat convinced that it was Mariette’s leg entwining itself about his own. As it curled towards his thigh he felt his throat begin choking but suddenly he looked down to realize that already the geese were under the table, where Ma was feeding them with scraps of f
ish, half-cold chips, and crumbled icy buns.
Unnerved, he found it difficult to frame his next important question.
‘Of course this is confidential in every way,’ he said, ‘but at what would you estimate your income?’
‘Estimate, estimate?’ Pop said. ‘Income? What income?’
Montgomery and Primrose, who had carried one television set away, now brought in another, larger than the first.
‘Steady there, steady!’ Ma said. ‘Watch where you’re looking. Mind the cocktail cabinet.’
‘Hear that, Ma?’ Pop said. ‘Income!’
Ma, as she had done in the truck, started laughing like a jelly.
‘Outcome more likely,’ she said. ‘Outcome I should say.’
‘Six kids to feed and clothe,’ Pop said. ‘This place to run. Fodder to buy. Wheat as dear as gold dust. Pig-food enough to frighten you to death. Living all the time going up and up. Vet’s fees. Fowl pest. Foot-and-mouth. Swine fever. Birds all the time dying. Income, old man? Income? I should like some, old man.’
Before Mr Charlton could answer this the second television set threw across the room its pallid, unreal glow, now in a curious nightmare green. At the same moment the twins, Zinnia and Petunia, demanded more pineapple. The geese made shovelling noises under the table and Mariette, rising to cut fresh slices, suddenly turned to Mr Charlton with modest, almost whispered apology.
‘I’m awfully sorry, Mr Charlton. I didn’t offer you any pineapple. Would you like some?’
‘No thanks. I’m not allowed it. I find it too acid.’
‘What a shame. Won’t you change your mind? They’re nice ripe ones.’
‘Ought to be,’ Ma said. ‘Cost enough.’
‘I’m afraid I’m simply not allowed it,’ Mr Charlton said. ‘I have to go very carefully. I have to manage mostly on eggs and that sort of thing.’
‘Eggs?’ Pop said. ‘Eggs? Why didn’t you say so? Got plenty of eggs, Ma, haven’t we? Give Mister Charlton a boiled egg or two wiv his tea.’
‘How would you like that?’ Ma said. ‘A couple o’ boiled eggs, Mister Charlton? What do you say?’
To the delight of Ma, Mr Charlton confessed that that was what he really wanted.
‘I’ll do them,’ Mariette said. ‘Three minutes? Four? How long?’
‘Very light,’ Mr Charlton said. ‘Three.’
‘Nice big ’uns! – brown!’ Pop called to Mariette as she went into the kitchen, where the geese presently followed her, brushing past Mr Charlton’s legs again as they passed, once more to give him that shimmering, shocking moment of unnerving ecstasy.
‘About this income,’ Mr Charlton said. ‘Can you give me an estimate? Just an estimate.’
‘Estimate it’ll be an’ all, old man,’ Pop said. ‘Lucky if we clear a fiver a week, ain’t we, Ma?’
‘Fiver? I’d like to see one,’ Ma said.
‘We want boiled eggs, too!’ the twins said, as in one voice, ‘Can we have boiled eggs?’
‘Give over. Can’t you see I’m cutting the pineapple?’ Ma said.
Everybody except Mr Charlton had large second helpings of pineapple, with more cream. When Ma had finished ladling out the cream she poured the remainder of it into a tablespoon and then licked the spoon with her big red tongue. After two or three spoonfuls she cleaned the spoon with her finger and fed one of the white kittens with cream. On the television screen a posse of cowboys fired thirty revolvers into a mountainside and Mr Charlton said:
‘I’m afraid we have to know what your income is, Mr Larkin. Supposing –’
‘All right,’ Pop said, ‘that’s a fair question, old man. Fair for me, fair for another. How much do you get?’
‘Oh! well, me, not all that much. Civil servant, you know –’
‘Nice safe job, though.’
‘Nice safe job, yes. I suppose so.’
‘Nothing like a nice safe job,’ Pop said. ‘As long as you’re happy. Do you reckon you’re happy?’
Mr Charlton, who did not look at all happy, said quickly:
‘Supposing I put down a provisional five hundred?’
‘Hundred weeks in a year now, Ma,’ Pop said, laughing again. ‘Well, put it down, old man, put it down. No harm in putting it down.’
‘Now the names of children,’ Mr Charlton said.
While Pop was reciting, with customary pride, the full names of the children, beginning with the youngest, Zinnia Florence and Petunia Mary, the twins, Mariette came back with two large brown boiled eggs in violet plastic eggcups to hear Pop say:
‘Nightingales in them woods up there behind the house, Mr Charlton. Singing all day.’
‘Do nightingales sing all day?’ Mr Charlton said. ‘I wasn’t aware –’
‘All day, all night,’ Pop said. ‘Like everything else in the mating season they go hell for leather.’
The plate holding the two eggs was embroidered with slices of the thinnest white bread-and-butter. Mariette had cut them herself. And now Mr Charlton looked at them, as he looked at the eggs, with reluctance and trepidation, as if not wanting to tamper with their fresh, neat virginity.
‘I’ve been looking at you,’ Ma said. ‘I don’t think you get enough to eat by half.’
‘I live in lodgings,’ Mr Charlton said. ‘It’s not always –’
‘We want to have some of your egg!’ the twins said. ‘Give us some of your egg!’
‘Now you’ve started summat,’ Pop said.
A moment later Mr Charlton announced the startling discovery that the twins were just alike; he simply couldn’t tell one from the other.
‘You’re quick,’ Pop said. ‘You’re quick.’
‘It’s gone dark again,’ Ma said. ‘Turn up the contrast. And Montgomery, fetch me my Guinness. There’s a good boy.’
Soon, while Ma drank Guinness and Pop spoke passionately again of nightingales, bluebells that clothed the copses, ‘fick as carpets, ficker in fact’, and how soon it would be the great time of the year, the time he loved most, the time of strawberry fields and cherries everywhere, Mr Charlton found himself with a twin on each knee, dipping white fingers of bread and butter into delicious craters of warm golden egg yolk.
‘I hope the eggs are done right?’ Mariette said.
‘Perfect.’
‘Perfick they will be an’ all if she does ’em, you can bet you,’ Pop said. ‘Perfick!’
Mr Charlton had given up, for the time being, all thought of the buff-yellow form. A goose brushed his legs again. Outside, somewhere in the yard, a dog barked and the drove of turkeys seemed to respond in bubbling chorus. Far beyond them, in broken, throaty tones, a cuckoo called, almost in its June voice, and when it was silent the entire afternoon simmered in a single marvellous moment of quietness, breathlessly.
‘If you don’t mind me saying so,’ Ma said, ‘a few days in the country’d do you a world of good.’
‘What are we having Sunday, Ma?’ Pop said. ‘Turkey?’
‘What you like. Just what you fancy.’
‘Roast pork,’ Montgomery said. ‘I like roast pork. With them brown onions.’
‘Or goose,’ Pop said. ‘How about goose? We ain’t had goose since Easter.’
In enthusiastic tones Pop went on to ask Mr Charlton whether he preferred goose, turkey, or roast pork but Mr Charlton, bewildered, trying to clean his misty spectacles and at the same time cut into thin fingers the last of his bread-and-butter, confessed he hardly knew.
‘Well, I tell you what,’ Ma said, ‘we’ll have goose and roast pork. Then I can do apple sauce for the two.’
‘Perfick,’ Pop said. ‘Perfick. Primrose, pass me the tomato ketchup. I’ve got a bit of iced bun to finish up.’
‘Dinner on Sunday then,’ Ma said. ‘About two o’clock.’
Mr Charlton, who was unable to decide from this whether he had been invited to dinner or not, felt fate softly brush his legs again in the shape of a goose-neck. At the same time he saw Mariette smile at him with inte
nsely dark, glowing eyes, almost as if she had in fact brushed his leg with her own, and he felt his limbs again begin melting.
Across the fields a cuckoo called again and Pop echoed it with a belch that seemed to surprise him not only by its length and richness but by the fact that it was a belch at all.
‘Manners,’ he said. ‘Pardon,’ and beat his chest in stern, suppressive apology. ‘Wind all of a sudden.’
‘What’s on now?’ Ma said. On the television screen all shooting had died and two men on horses, one a piebald, were riding up the valley, waving farewell hands.
‘Nobody’s birthday, Sunday, is it?’ Pop said.
‘Nobody’s birthday before August,’ Ma said.
‘Then it’s mine,’ Mariette said. ‘I’ll be eighteen.’
‘Pity it ain’t nobody’s birthday,’ Pop said. ‘We might have had a few fireworks.’
Suddenly all the geese were gone from the kitchen and Ma, marvelling at this fact, started laughing like a jelly again and said:
‘They did that once before. They heard us talking!’
‘Tell you what,’ Pop said, ‘if you’ve had enough, Mister Charlton, why don’t you get Mariette to take you as far as the wood and hear them nightingales? I don’t think you believe they sing all day, do you?’
‘Oh! yes, I –’
‘Shall we ride or walk?’ Mariette said. ‘I don’t mind the pony if you want to ride.’
‘I think I’d rather walk.’
‘In that case I’ll run and change into a dress,’ she said. ‘It’s getting a bit warm for jodhpurs.’
While Mariette had gone upstairs the twins abandoned Mr Charlton’s eggless plate and fetched jam jars from the kitchen.
‘Going to the stall,’ they said. ‘Think we’ll put honeysuckle on today instead of bluebells.’
As they ran off Pop said:
‘That’s the flower-stall they keep at the corner of the road down there. Wild flowers. Tuppence a bunch for motorists. Everybody works here, y’know.’
‘I think I passed it,’ Mr Charlton said, ‘as I walked up from the bus.’
‘That’s the one,’ Pop said. ‘Everybody’s got to work here so’s we can scratch a living. Montgomery, you’d better get off to your goats and start milking ’em.’
