Cryers Hill

by Kitty Aldridge

  Oh to be over yonder, In that bright land of wonder,

  Where the angel voices mingle, and the angel-harps do ring!

  To be free from care and sorrow, And the anxious, dread

  to-morrow,

  To rest in light and sunshine in the presence of the King!

  Sankey reckoned he would have known straight off, if he'd been around then, that the Messiah was the Messiah. He found it shoddy when people argued about that. He knew what he knew. What did they know? He would have known it was the Messiah because he would have seen it in his eyes: the light. I am the Bright and Morning Star. He would have looked in his eyes and he would have known.

  'Cobblers.' This was Perfect's comment. Sid Perfect was a disgrace on many levels. Sankey knew he would have to distance himself or else be pulled down with Sid into the flames. 'You don't half talk a load of claptrap, Charles Sankey. A load of old tripe, hogwash, pap and piffle.' And the others all agreed of course; well, they would, Sankey reminded himself. This was what happened to believers, the lone voice in the crowd. First off they would drown you out – the rabble – and then they would stone you. The town square or the Fish and Firkin, there was no difference. Weary of wand'ring long, my sore heart saith, Show me thy way O Lord! Teach me thy path!

  Nobody asked him about his relationship with Christ. A pity, because he had it all thought out. He had contemplations and illuminations too. I looked to Him. He looked on me. And we were one for eternity. Sankey carved it with his penknife into the giant beech at the edge of Gomms Wood for any passing person to read and know.

  Fourteen

  UPLANDS, WHERE THE long grass leans and rises like a tide. From up here you can see right across the Hughenden Valley. The pasture, waxy and sheening with lushness, is rolling. Sean hangs his face over a gate for the wind to batter, while in front of him the grass sea rushes far away to the unseen point where it tips itself silently into the valley. Beyond that, wrapped in a gauze of low cloud, another hill is rolling.

  Sean climbs up on to the gate. He sits on the top bar, wobbling in the crosswind. He can see the faraway hill rising through the mist. Woodland barnacles its humpback as far as High Wycombe. In among all that forest is Hanging Wood; all the kids know it. They must have died with their heads in the clouds, those criminals long ago, dangling on their ropes. Sean had tried to strangle himself once, just to see. He'd used the bathroom light cord. He didn't think much of it. He wasn't going to do it again.

  Sean wonders about the Gomms Wood girl. Don't be morbid. This is what his mother said when he talked about what happened in Gomms Wood. 'Sean, you are so morbid,' his mother said. This didn't sound like very good English. It wasn't right to say someone or something was so more something than something else, was it? Sean, you are so more spaz. Maybe it was OK.

  His mother had said it again the time he got excited about the hearse parked outside the Co-op. It was only that he wasn't ready for it. He hadn't meant to be excited, but it was so more beautiful. All that glossy black, the limousine length to accommodate the coffin, the spotlessness; you could literally see your own face looking back, that's how clean it was. Sean stared at the spade-faced undertakers, smart in their black overcoats, solemn as priests in spite of their cigarettes. He was amazed by the glazing around the hearse that provided an unobstructed view, from every angle, of the shiny handles and the words made out of flowers: MUM. RIP. FOREVER. Proper alphabet words. Sean was excited by it all. Don't be so morbid, his mother scolded again, her irritation suggesting he was more and morbid all the time.

  The wind cannot make up its mind, it swings left then right, then twists and rolls. If he runs and runs, Sean thinks, he will get nowhere in particular. He will still be here in this green, there is so much of it. You can't run far enough, that's the trouble; you can't run away, the green will just follow you. England's green and pleasant land. They had to sing about it once. Somebody important visited the school (a gloomy man in a suit, so it cannot have been the Queen). Nobody knew it, so the teachers sang it mainly. 'And did those feet', it began in this way, like a question, as though nobody was quite sure, 'in ancient time, Walk upon England's mountains green?' Anyone know? No one had an answer, of course. No one cared a toss.

  'Wur!' shouts Sean. The wind swipes his voice away. The view's not bad, Sean reckons. Except for the green. Too much spazzing green. He stares at the hills, clotted with cows. It occurs to him that the hills are staring back. Scenery, some people called it. Because you had seen it probably.

  Sean jumps down and runs towards the valley. 'Wur!' The cows on the opposite hill raise their heads. The wind pushes him sideways, so he hurtles down on the diagonal, like a spider. He zags past the big hole filled with fridges and car doors and prams. The grass snatches his ankles, whips his legs. He tries to bring his knees up, pump his elbows in the correct manner. To run well you must develop a style. He aims himself at the hump of the distant hill. He knows if he keeps his eye on the hill, his diagonal descent will gradually become a straight line. Cricketers know this. You must keep your eye on the ball. It occurs to him there is nothing he cannot do. If he sprouts wings and flies, he will not be the least bit surprised. True fact: there is a feathered boy who flies. Sean saw a drawing of him in a book, his wings in flames. Sean stared at the picture and wondered who was the boy and why was he burning? Philip Dean didn't know either. It occurs to Sean that maybe that burning boy is in fact him. And he just doesn't know it yet. The hill is moving quicker than he is now. He speeds his legs, pushes up his chin, and he floats to the left in a funnel of green-rushing air. He is too fast, he can see that now. It is no longer possible to keep his eye on anything, not a ball or hill, because everything has become a blur, a nasty smear of colour and edge. He cannot stop or slow down. He is a missile. His excellent sprinting legs are gone and in their place are broken propellers. He is falling back to earth while the hill is falling into space. Neil Armstrong must have had to put up with this. Sean's feet finally leave the ground altogether and the earth tilts and tips him gently into the bowl of the valley. Gravity takes him. As his mouth fills up with dirt he thinks of the shiny hearse, the burning flying boy, the flowers that are also words, the men hanging on their ropes, and the song that asks, And was Jerusalem buildèd here? Anybody?

  Mrs Roys lives in a small red-brick house that leans to one side as though it has at one time been requisitioned to support the sky. Sean has no interest in Mrs Roys or her wonky house. He delivers the leaflet about the fete through her letter box, that is all. He quite enjoys delivering. Fete, says the word at the top in jaunty letters. Miss Day had told him you did not pronounce it to rhyme with settee, as he had; you pronounced it faet, like that. It was French, that's why. Mrs Roys has a nice wall under a tree that grows streaming leaves, like ribbons. Sean lies on the wall to have a rest and see what it is like under the ribbon tree. It never occurs to him that anyone might come out of the house to ask what he is doing on their wall. People tended not to come out of their houses if they could help it. They were either completely out or completely in, not half and half.

  Mrs Roys is white-haired and elderly. She stands on the path in her slippers, half and half, and calls out, 'Well?' as though she has already asked a question that has been left unanswered.

  Sean glimpses her through the ribbon leaves and sees that she too is ribbony: long, slim, pointy around the face. She holds a jug in her hand, as if she might chuck water at him, like people do to cats.

  'Well?' she repeats. Sean imagines he is in trouble. He can't remember ever having been told specifically not to lie on anyone's garden wall, but that does not mean it is all right. He sits up quickly and holds out another leaflet.

  'Fate,' he says carefully, remembering it rhymes with plate, and to his surprise she takes it briskly and begins to read.

  Sean slides down from the wall. He looks at her slippers and thinks that they are long and narrow for a woman. He wants to go. He wants to say, 'I better be off then,' like his dad does. But it is
awkward now that she is halfway through reading the fete words and half in, half out of her house. He stares at her slippers and waits for her to release him.

  'Come in,' she says. You can help me. Come on.'

  Sean waits. He looks about. Surely he is not expected to follow her? Don't talk to strangers. This is the new rule. Don't listen to them either, or follow them indoors. Don't accept sweets from a stranger. If a stranger offers you a lift, don't get into his car. If a stranger approaches you, run away. If if if. Don't don't don't. It is a rule. Sean looks at her banana-coloured slippers and her bony calves. He follows her in. Inside, her house smells of cardboard, though it is made of brick. She has nice things, lacy bits and chinaware. There are big swirling patterns on the carpet and photographs of people who appear appalled at the unexpected sight of him. He sees a piece of cheese on a plate with a fly on it.

  Mrs Roys places a large watering can under the sink tap. They wait while the water crashes in.

  'My name is Mrs Roys,' she says. 'What is yours?'

  Sean isn't sure if he should tell a stranger his correct name. He takes so long deciding she changes the subject.

  'Are you strong?'

  Sean shrugs.

  'Good.'

  Mrs Roys places a chair beside the sink and turns off the tap. 'Off you go then, lift it down. Best to start with the pots. Then the borders, both sides.' She waves her hand wispily towards the window, beyond which lies the back garden. 'Off you go then. Off you go.' Mrs Roys' banana slippers lead her away into the room with the staring people. Sean looks at the cheese and the fly and a drip from the tap plops into the brimming watering can.

  As a matter of fact it is all right watering the plants. There is a long cat asleep on the coal bunker and a jay bird dancing about on the fence, taunting it. Sean flicks water at the bird and then the cat and they disappear. Sean stares at his reflection in Mrs Roys' windows. He puts his hand in his pocket to prove to himself he can do one-handed heavy watering. He stares and squints but all he can see in each pane of glass is a short spaz with a spout, squinting back at himself. Sean looks down at his sandals. Everything is soaked, socks, footwear, and all across his shorts, as though he has wet himself. In the palm of his hand lies the imprint of the watering-can handle. He decides it is time to say, 'Well, I better be off.' He must say it now before things get worse. He squelches towards the back door, unsure now whether he ought to knock or just go in. He stares at his reflection in the glass door panel. Wur. Spazzery. Thunderbirds are go.

  'Oh, there you are. Come in.'

  Ibetterbeoff. Ibetterbeoff. Ibetterbeoff.

  'Did you have a little spill?'

  Sean squelches behind the bananas. The fly is on the tap. The staring people are aghast. Mrs Roys hands Sean a book.

  'Do you like books?'

  Do not accept anything from a stranger. Do not speak to a stranger. Do not water a stranger's flower beds, pots, lawn or borders.

  'Read me a page before you go. Good boy. Off you go.' Sean glances down at the book. It is a small paperback whose cover features a glamorous Scandinavian-looking couple gazing distractedly in opposite directions. Poking out from behind them is an imposing Dutch-gabled house, fringed by a menacing crowd of jagged pine trees. Sean opens the book. On the first page lies a block of words.

  Saturday's child works hard for a living . . . And so did Nurse Abigail Trent, plain and impoverished and without hope of finding a husband. Why did she have to fall in love with Professor Dominic van Wijkelen, who hated all women and Abigail in particular?

  Sean stares at the words.

  'My eyes aren't what they were. Just a page would be nice. Off you go.'

  Sean searches for words he can recognise. He spots And. Mrs Roys begins to look uneasy for the first time.

  'Just a paragraph perhaps.'

  'And,' reads Sean. He looks up at Mrs Roys and she nods perkily back. Rudyell. He should tell her to p'sof. He should just leave. He should stop talking to strangers. Then he remembers Gor's song. He takes a breath.

  'And. I'm still rolling along.' He checks her face. He scans the page. 'Them Cherokees are chasing me but I'm singing a happy song. I'm singing a higgity, haggity, hoggety, high. Pioneers they never say die. A mile up the road there's a hidden cave and we can watch those Cherokees go galloping by. "George, they're catching up to us! Get back in the wagon, woman."'

  'Good,' interrupts Mrs Roys. 'Thank you. That was nice.' Sean notices that her eyebrows, level steady before, are now masted at different heights. Other than that, Sean reckons, she seems not to have guessed that anything was wrong. Wur. Daft bat. Sean gazes at the jazzily labelled bottles of drink displayed on white lace on the corner table.

  'Would you like a drink?'

  'OK.'

  Mrs Roys hoists herself up and the bananas take her away. Sean wonders whether his drink will have poison in it. He reckons Mrs Roys is too old to be a killer. Also, would a murderer have lace? Chinaware? Pansies in pots? Not on your life. Mrs Roys hands Sean a drink of lime. He tries it. It is tingly, nice. He drinks it all, sucking the last drips at the end, and discovers a piece of lemon bumping against his nose. It is the nicest drink he's ever had, he reckons. He must now say, 'I better be off.' It was the proper thing to say to make things final, friendly, cheery. Instead he hands back the cup wordlessly and watches the bananas convey it to the kitchen.

  He glances around at the peculiar pictures on the wall. He examines a deserted lane with a wagon heaped with straw pulled by a horse; the Wild West probably. Another is just trees, hundreds of trees, and funny little men in caps balancing two at a time on circus ladders among the trees; p'raps it is the circus, in fact, because on the ground are painted wagons and horses, and the balancing men have baskets in their arms, probably for collecting money. Some pictures are photographs; a huge sideways bull for instance. Why, Sean wonders, would someone want a picture of a bull standing sideways? You couldn't even see its expression. There are lots of sideways animals: dogs, horses, pigs, and even sideways people. Then there are the photographs of longways animals, dead ones mostly, dangling from fists: birds, rabbits, giant fish. And beside them on the wall are the photographs of just fields, nothing else, with maybe one house in the valley, that's all. One of these has tiny distant cows in it, but you have to squint to see them. Sean feels sorry that all Mrs Roys has to put on her wall are these brown pictures of nothing. Still, she has the chinaware and the lacy things, and the carpet whose dizzying pattern rises up under your chin like a wave.

  'Will you come and see me again?' Mrs Roys is banana-fast when she feels like it.

  'OK.'

  'Do you like mushrooms?'

  'No.'

  When Mrs Roys opens the front door the sunlight bursts in. It makes Sean think of the police. The long shadows in the hall are momentarily gone and a mist of glittering dust floats up between them. He can't be certain whether elderly people get arrested like anyone else.

  He means to say goodbye, he has already decided it. But when he reaches the end of the path it is too late and he says nothing. He senses her watching him, half in, half out as usual.

  'You are a very nice little boy.'

  The words follow him. He feels them hanging over his head like a crowd of flies. He puts his hands in his pockets and tries, as he walks along, to think clearly how and why he now knows a woman called Mrs Roys. All along the path lie blown ribbons from the ribbon tree. It makes him think of weddings and dancing around the maypole, the way in the juniors you had to every springtime, like a twit. Then he remembers he has left all the fete leaflets at Mrs Roys' house.

  Fifteen

  WALTER HAS WARMED the pot and brewed the tea, and arranged plates and small forks and two cotton napkins. The bread is sliced and the cake too and the watercress is washed and cut and still she does not appear. She is upstairs wasting time in order that he may become agitated. She will have succeeded if he loses his temper. He will not lose his temper, he decides, no matter that he is late for t
he cricket match; no matter what.

  'It's going cold.' He sings it cheerily up the stairs as if it is a line from a musical revue. It betrays none of his irritation, he is certain. She does not reply. Very well. Walter pulls out his chair to sit down. He hums a tune he has not heard before. He forces it into bright quavery squirls, te-dum, tee-dee. He helps himself liberally to bread and watercress that is peppery green and chilled with droplets of water. Delicious. Ta-da, ta-dee, ti-doo. Through the window there is a burst of unclipped green, sliced at the corner by a margin of bright blue. He hears a floorboard creak. Excellent. Tra-lee, tra-la, tra-lie.

  'Walter?'

  Walter stops pretending to sing. He waits.

  'Walt?' She rarely shortens his name. More often lengthens it, as in 'Walter Frederick Horace Brown you are a peculiar man, not to mention a nuisance, so you are'. His tune drains away while the food turns sour in his mouth. He will have to wait it out.

  'Walter?' A little stronger this time, but there is no mistaking the flaunted enfeeblement.

  'Walter?'

  Blast. 'Yes, Mother?'

  'Walter?'

  Blast. Righto. Walter bounces out of his chair, athletic with anger. As he does so a figure bolts past the window. Walter stops. He half expects Mr Looker to follow in pursuit, or a herd of stampeding livestock. It is Charles Sankey, he knows it. It has been mentioned lately that Sankey is the object of some unpleasant rumours. Village gossips: Walter has no interest in women's clack. As he stands there, there is a knock at the door.

  'Don't answer it, Walter! Who is it?'

  Ah. Her frailty is flown. She is recovered, and so speedily.

  'Wally?' A voice from the other side.