Marlford

by Jacqueline Yallop

  ‘Miss Barton—’ Hindy began.

  ‘No.’ Her ferocity silenced him. ‘I’m going for Mr Quersley,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the farm.’ And she slipped away from them, hurrying across the hall as her father had done.

  But Oscar was not to be found. She searched the yard and the barns, completed the perimeter of the farmhouse, scrambled over the gate that led to the wood store, and ran to the hay meadows through the flat moan of small insects. Standing on top of an old stile, balancing herself with one hand against a tree, she willed the slight, black slice of him to appear against the mottled summer foliage. But there was no sign of him: just a glimpse of the mere, and the church beyond. Only the idea of him remained, a tiny kink in the familiar panoramas, as though he were just passing through.

  All she could do was return to the house alone and wait.

  Her father came home a long time later, after dark. She heard the air sigh as the front door was pushed open; a few moments later, her candle flame convulsed. She left her bedroom, stood in the corridor and listened. There was just the blunt sound of Ernest’s unhurried footsteps on the stairs.

  Her bedroom was at the very end of the corridor, no more than ten yards from the squat. As the flame from her candle leapt and flickered, her shadow cavorted against the barricade. Even though she was motionless – stretched taut by the sounds of Ernest’s arrival – the spectral girl behind her danced, unstable, frolicking against the newer bricks, edging into the cracks and joints, beckoning. Ellie felt the movement like the flit of a bat or a bird. She tried not to look at it. As soon as she returned to her room, she closed the door and extinguished the candle, preferring to undress in the dark.

  The room was as it had been since she was a child: clean and plain, more or less empty; the single bed, pushed into the corner by the window, a heavy wardrobe occupying the wall opposite. A photograph of her mother stood in front of the mirror on her dressing table, her hairbrush to one side and a small sheaf of banknotes tucked behind. Her shoes were at the foot of the bed, where a rag rug pulled up towards the faded green counterpane; on the wall was a sampler worked at Marlford many years before, in tiny confident stitches, knots of faith in the future.

  Ellie sat at the dressing table to pull the pins from her hair, her features barely visible in the dark mirror, a breath across the glass. She touched the photograph, imagining Elizabeth Barton, the warmth of her mother’s face against her fingers.

  The manor creaked. She undressed and slid into bed. But the night seemed strange; everything had changed. There were people in the house now, not far away. She thought of them playing cards, or dominoes, or dice, perhaps reading by the poor light from their candles. She thought she began to catch the faint, alluring smell of them, a warmth, the tingle of their breath.

  She sat up, unable to sleep, the dark congealing about her. She felt her heart pumping hard; she could hear its rhythm in the empty spaces of the house. She was consumed with a sudden loneliness that was entirely new.

  When Ellie finally lay down, she pushed her face into the mattress, forcing the pillow over her head. But even with the familiar smells of old linen and the comforting grumble of the oak beams, she had the queasy feeling of being thrust far away in a tin rocket, piercing the fabric of space, hurtling along at enormous speed, the stars and the moons shivering in her wake, her velocity so great that she was conscious only of a thick, buoyant slowness, an elongation of time, glutinous and distorted.

  Eleven

  Gadiel came to the edge of the portico and leaned on a column, sheltering from the steady rain, waiting. Beyond, at the bend in the drive, where the soaked grass hung long over the gravel, he saw the three men. They seemed unperturbed by the weather. They did not move and made no attempt to signal to him. They simply watched.

  He tried to ignore them. As Ellie came round from the stable yard, her face hardly visible under the droop of her mackintosh hood, he jumped forwards, springing towards her.

  ‘I’m not supposed to make friends with you,’ he announced.

  She pushed her hood from her face and looked at him coldly. He had not expected this, and for a moment he hesitated.

  ‘Apparently people like you have privatized the country for your own benefit.’ His enthusiasm sounded too strained now, rehearsed, but he pressed on. ‘For generations, you’ve taken food from the mouths of the disenfranchised poor by monopolizing the best land for your own use and luxury.’ He shook his head in mock disappointment. ‘So now we’re not allowed to be friends.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me,’ she replied. ‘You didn’t tell me that you’d come to Marlford. You didn’t tell me about the squat.’

  Gadiel’s smile finally drained away. ‘You know? They told you?’ He nodded towards the men.

  ‘They’ve told Papa to get rid of you.’ Rain dripped from the bottom of Ellie’s mackintosh, darkening the fabric of her skirt.

  ‘Oh, no, he can’t do that. You see, squatting’s a right—’ He caught sight of her expression and stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on, weakly. ‘I did want to tell you.’

  Now that he was in front of her, she found that her disappointment at his betrayal stung more than she had imagined: it was physical, engrossing, like bees beneath her skin.

  ‘You didn’t tell me about Neil Armstrong and Apollo 11, did you? Even when we went to the pet cemetery together and… and now this, about the squat, when you could have told me.’

  ‘It had to be a secret, Ellie. Dan wanted it kept a secret. I’m sorry.’

  She did not acknowledge the apology. She was determined to maintain her composure, her distance. She had expected too much of him, she knew that now.

  Gadiel saw the way her hands were clasped in front of her, curled tight, her nails digging into her palms. ‘Look, Ellie – it doesn’t matter. You know now, that’s the main thing, and it needn’t make any difference. We can—’

  ‘Of course it matters. Don’t you see? I invited you to Marlford, as guests. I accommodated your needs with regards to the van. And that implies a certain amount of trust, and you have thoroughly betrayed that trust.’ She glared at him through the rain.

  He wondered, for a moment, if she was beginning to weep; it was not clear with the drops falling so steadily on her face.

  When she spoke again, her voice had lost its tone of reprimand. ‘I thought you were taking account of me,’ she said, softly.

  He scuffed the gravel with his boots.

  She was suddenly frightened that he might try to touch her, perhaps hold her. The idea came unbidden, unwanted, settling timorously like a mayfly over water. She stepped away.

  He started, as though her retreat had pricked him. ‘Come on, Ellie. Cheer up! Let’s make the best of it. I’m bored to bits being stuck indoors. Let me do something to help you. You’re always trudging past going to work. Let me help you.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m fine.’

  ‘Surely there’s something?’

  ‘No. Thank you. I greatly appreciate your offer of assistance, but there’s nothing to be done.’

  Her hauteur was unassailable again; Gadiel could not find a way to answer it. ‘Come on, Ellie. Don’t be like this. Don’t hold it against me. It was Dan’s idea. It wasn’t up to me. And, besides, we’re not doing any harm up there. We’ve not damaged a thing. You can come and see for yourself, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d rather not.’

  ‘Oh, Ellie, come on. This is stupid, being like this. Let’s be friends.’

  The rain still fell heavily between them. Ellie pulled up her hood again, over her hair, allowing it to fall low on her forehead so that her expression was obscured. ‘I’m mistress here at Marlford,’ she said. ‘I have a right, I have a duty, to know what happens.’

  ‘Ellie, I’ve known him a long time. We’ve always been mates. I couldn’t just blurt it out – I had to stand up for him. I’ve always done that.’ He paused and smiled an apology. She did not say anything. ‘I’ve never let him down, Ellie
.’

  ‘Very noble.’ Uttered so scathingly, the word unsettled her, drawing her eyes somehow towards the broad sweep of his shoulders. She looked away quickly. ‘But you’ve put me in a very difficult position,’ she continued, sharply. ‘With the van in the stable yard – and the invitation to supper. I could be seen to be complicit. They’ll think I had something to do with it.’

  ‘What? Who will?’

  Ellie inclined her head very slightly towards the three men. Her hood slipped.

  ‘Oh, come on, Ellie. No one will think it’s your fault. How can it be your fault?’ Gadiel stepped towards her.

  They were close now. She could see the flecks of colour in his stubble; she knew how softly his eyes had settled on her, how hopefully.

  She concentrated on the patchy gravel between them.

  ‘You didn’t think about me at all, did you, when you intruded into Marlford like that – unfairly?’

  ‘Yes, Ellie, I did, I honestly did. Dan will tell you…’ Gadiel reached out and drew her to him for the slightest of moments; so short a time that she was never sure whether she had actually lain there against the damp cotton of his T-shirt, or whether she had pulled away at his first touch.

  She shook herself hard, her hood falling down and raindrops scattering from her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t overlook what’s happened. You should have told me about the squat. I should have known.’

  When Gadiel looked at her, his face had taken on an odd, aged sternness. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve said I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do.’ He kicked at the gravel again. ‘Look, never mind. Forget it. I’ve tried to explain, but you won’t have it. I’ll go and see if Dan wants anything in town.’

  She heard his footsteps, too brisk. She slapped her wet fringe from her face and stuffed her fists into the pockets of her mackintosh. One of the seams tore. With a quick movement, she ripped the rest of the pocket from its stitches and flung it away from her. It settled in a clump of dandelions, a false yellow.

  When Gadiel had gone, and Ellie had walked on towards the hutments, the men held a conference of some length. Luden threw several stiff gestures at the front of the manor, although there was nothing obvious to prompt his anger; just broken panes here and there, and an accumulation of moss, pigeons nesting on the wide sills, feathering the grainy stone and staining the wall below. There might have been a moment of disagreement, Ata turning his back on his companions and walking away to the edge of the drive, but if that was the case, it was quickly resolved, and, at the end of it all, the men took the track towards Home Farm with new determination, their age no hindrance despite the ruts underfoot. They linked arms as they walked, celebrating, as though they had settled a conundrum, or won a wager.

  Twelve

  Penned in the stable yard, the shadows moved slowly. The day hardly seemed to progress at all, the morning trapped between the high walls and fallen roofs, the clock tolling out a unique interpretation of time.

  Oscar examined the van undisturbed, tracing connections and wires, inspecting plugs, caps and cables, beginning to understand. He found the oil reserve, identified the radiator, the battery and the spark plugs; he became absorbed by deposits of grease around the carburettor, spending a long time wiping them away, layer by layer, with a clean rag. As he worked, the rain poured down his face, soaking his collar and shoulders, chilling his back.

  ‘What on earth is this thing?’

  Oscar yelped, pulling up sharply and cutting the back of his hand against a rough edge in the engine. He rubbed angrily at the scrape. ‘I didn’t see you, Mr Barton.’

  Ernest was staring at the van. ‘What are you doing, Quersley?’ It dawned on him that the vehicle must be connected in some way with the squatters. ‘Are you in league with them?’

  Oscar pressed the cloth against the seep of blood from his hand. ‘With whom do you suggest I might be in league, Mr Barton?’

  ‘The bloody kids rampaging all over the house.’ Ernest was fully dressed, a maroon tie knotted neatly at his collar, his dark suit more or less clean, a brushed overcoat slung across his shoulders. He carried a huge black umbrella, like bats’ wings, held so high above him that the rain continued to splash in beneath. ‘I’ve been looking for you, Quersley – don’t know where the dickens you’ve been hiding. I need your help with them. Though, of course, if you’ve already defected to their side—’

  ‘Mr Barton, I have not defected to anyone’s side. I am not in league with anyone.’ Oscar dabbed with care at the cut on his hand. ‘I presume you refer to the squatters. The men came to the farm and informed me of the situation. They suggested you might be requiring my help.’

  ‘Squatters! That’s what they call themselves, but they’re just kids, trespassing. Getting in the way. I want them out, Quersley.’ Ernest slapped his hand against the side of the van, making it ring, almost musically. ‘I want them out of Marlford.’

  Oscar considered Ernest’s palm, flat against the rainbow paintwork. ‘One of the young men – a Marxist, I understand – came to the library. We discussed one or two matters of some interest, actually.’

  ‘There’re two of them, that’s all.’ Ernest was not listening. ‘A bolshie one with specs and another long-haired one, solid though, built like a proper man. Better have a shot at them before they start multiplying, that’s what I say.’

  He stood straight. In his suit, with his hair combed, he looked younger, stronger, the athletic bearing of his past rekindled.

  Oscar slowly peeled the cloth from his hand and inspected the wound, bending to suck at the broken skin, tasting the worn-coin dustiness of his blood.

  Ernest stepped forwards. ‘Come on, man – what are you waiting for?’

  Oscar did not reply.

  ‘Quersley!’ For a moment it looked as though Ernest might hit him; he lashed out, as if to gouge at Oscar’s face, but in the same movement let his arm drop.

  ‘Well, I suppose we should evict them,’ Oscar said at last.

  ‘Evict them?’ Ernest snarled. ‘We’re not bloody tiptoeing around – we’re going to mobilize. I’ve already spoken to the men. We’re going to mobilize, Quersley, that’s what we’re going to do. That’s why I need you.’

  Oscar wiped his hand slowly across his face, leaving a smear of engine grease.

  Now Ernest lunged for him, pulling him into the open yard by the baggy rim of his overall pocket. ‘Stand up straight. Get your wits about you.’ He brandished the umbrella towards the rainbow paintwork as though it might be a campaign map, bold lines of attack in bright colours. ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought. Tactically, they’re naïve, that’s clear. But they’re younger than we are, stronger too, probably, at that age. So we’ve got to be nifty – you know, a bit…’ He did a quick-footed jig, shuffling his shoes on the rounded cobbles of the yard, pumping his arms. The umbrella lurched. ‘We need something daring. I did a quick recce last night, and I’ve got it all in my head. There was an incident at Suez in ’15 – a great rollicking risk of a thing. I had four men with me, hand-picked, the best. We’d had information that the Germans were linking up with the Turks —’

  He looked past Oscar to the lines of men, the tents and horses, the knot of officers, the sand blowing across from an unknowable desert, the small troop of daredevils waiting for him. The glint of light on his face was from a distant sun.

  ‘Mr Barton…’

  Ernest seemed surprised to see Quersley so close. He huffed.

  ‘Look, Quersley, the men point out – and they’re quite right – well, we don’t want a fuss here, Quersley, with outsiders. No police. No interference. No surprises. That’s the way with these old places – you have to be prepared to stand up for them, at all costs. You’re born to it, I was born to it – I’m master here at Marlford, and I know what’s best. Quersley, the men will back me up on this.’

  ‘I’m sure they will, Mr Barton, but I don’t see—’

  ‘The kids have got some claptrap about their rights. They want to make a thin
g of it.’ He grimaced. ‘To cut a long story short, we’ll need guns.’

  Oscar was unmoved. ‘Which is why you require my assistance.’

  ‘I’ve got the rifle, and you’ve got two shotguns at the farm, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Two shotguns in good order.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s what I thought. And if I marshal the men, even at their age…’

  ‘But I’m not prepared to hand them over, Mr Barton.’

  Ernest blinked, taking a moment to understand what Oscar had said.

  ‘Oh, don’t be bloody wet, Quersley. Besides, it might not even come down to shooting them.’

  ‘Nonetheless, I won’t let you have the shotguns.’

  ‘Rubbish! Of course you will. And muster a good supply of cartridges, will you?’

  Oscar bent down and began to collect his tools, replacing each one carefully in the toolbox. Then he reached up to unhook the release for the bonnet.

  ‘Quersley? Quersley, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going back to the farm, Mr Barton. To give some thought to the situation in which we find ourselves, and to milk the cows.’

  ‘Don’t be such a fool. We need to get on quickly with this, before they hunker in. I told you, I’ve been thinking about it – I’ve worked it all out. Just fetch the damned guns.’

  Oscar let go of the bonnet; it slammed shut. At the same time, as though prompted or woken, the stable clock struck the hour. ‘I have discussed this with the men, Mr Barton, and we are perfectly agreed: I’m not your servant. You don’t pay me any wages; you have no hold over me. I simply live near you – we’re neighbours, if you like.’ He shifted. ‘There was, once, I grant you, a more formal arrangement between our families. But any agreement, written or verbal, has long since expired; you know that. Now I simply help you when I can.’