Marlford

by Jacqueline Yallop

  Twenty-One

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, the land flattened under heavy anvils of cloud. From farming habit, Oscar studied the sky for a moment, but its patterns meant nothing to him in his state, and the action was simply some kind of duty fulfilled. He hurried on towards the stable yard, tidying his appearance as he went, brushing down his jacket, pulling his sleeves into shape, fastening his buttons, rubbing his shoes in clumps of clean grass – all awkwardly achieved because of his insistent grip on the shotgun.

  In the slanting greenish light of the on-coming storm, the van’s elaborate paintwork shone, the gaudy rainbow making the air shimmer in the tight square of the yard. Oscar blinked at the display.

  ‘Ellie.’

  He called quietly at first, as though he still could not believe that she might be there, but then he caught a glimpse of her, sitting on the mounting steps, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.

  ‘Ellie.’

  This time he spat her name. She jumped up and hurried towards the van, but as she pulled herself up through the door the hem of her dress caught beneath her, snagging in the door mechanism and pulling her down. She struggled quickly to work it free, tearing at it, in the end, in the hope of slipping inside, pulling the door closed and blocking Oscar out. But time seemed to clog around her, slowing everything; she could not work swiftly even in her panic. He was upon her.

  He placed a firm hand on the handle of the van door, preventing her from closing it. ‘I’m pleased to have found you. Here – in our midst, after all. I believed you might have taken off somewhere; for a while I was rather anxious.’

  Thunder broke close to them; Ellie flinched and moved away from him, her skirt stretching out from where it was held so that it gave the impression that she had grown a wide, bright tail.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Ellie.’

  ‘Why have you got the shotgun? Was it you that I heard? I thought I heard shots.’

  ‘Are you here with that boy, the squatter? The Marxist?’

  ‘Mr Quersley, I heard shots.’ She looked hard at him.

  He was forced to reply. ‘I believe there were several shots, yes.’

  From her position on the door-ledge of the van she was slightly above him; it appeared to her that this should help her divine the truth of things.

  ‘What were you doing? What happened?’

  ‘I was assisting your father. It’s my duty to assist your father.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness, what have you done?’ She sank into a crouch, dropping her face into her hands. ‘Tell me you haven’t been shooting them – the squatters. Please tell me, Mr Quersley, that you’ve not followed Papa’s crazy scheme, when you know he’s just…’ She looked up.

  There was too much to answer all at once.

  ‘I haven’t shot anyone,’ he replied.

  ‘But you fired at them? That’s what I heard?’

  ‘It’s your father… he has a rifle.’

  ‘But don’t you see? How can you just…? I thought you’d see, of all people – I thought you’d be sensible. You can’t shoot them.’

  ‘You thought I would—’

  ‘—know better, Mr Quersley,’ she finished for him, wearily. She sank back to rest on her heels. ‘Yes – I thought you’d be better.’

  He offered her a slight bow. He looked thin and worn, a stick man with a heavy gun. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But it’s not a compliment, is it? Because you’ve been shooting at them, at my friends, as though it’s a sport of some kind… as though they don’t matter.’

  ‘But if you thought that of me, at least… if you had a good opinion of me…’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ With an angry tug, she yanked her skirt free of the mechanism and tried to stand, wanting to flounce from him and leave him there so that he would know he was ridiculous.

  But he reached up and put a hand hard on her leg. ‘And, bearing in mind that in assisting your father in this manner I have, indeed, maintained my side of a mutual agreement, a bargain, if you like; one in which you are implicated…’

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  Her words distracted him. He became aware of the softness of her flesh in his hand, the down of the hairs on her leg prickling lightly, like baby-bird feathers. He made himself speak with purpose. ‘Ellie, I agreed to help your father rid the place of squatters in return for your hand in marriage.’

  ‘Mr Quersley, stop it. You’re hurting me.’ But she could not manage to pull away, and then she realized what he had said.

  She stared at him.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Quersley. That’s nonsense.’ But even as she protested, she was disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. ‘Surely you don’t think—’

  ‘It was agreed upon in good faith, Ellie. I shook hands with Mr Barton upon the matter and therefore consider it binding, on both sides. It’s for that reason that I agreed to bear arms for him.’

  She groaned. ‘“Bear arms for him?” What are you talking about?’

  He let go of her leg and held up his hand instead, its palm flat to her, concluding the debate. The gesture was balanced, unwavering, allowing the sense of where they were to settle upon them, so that she would know herself again, feel the binding embrace of the Marlford stone and smell the ancient lives in the crushed air; hear the inescapable crank of the stable clock pushing everything into the past. There was another rumble of thunder, further away, the storm blowing over harmlessly. He dropped his arm slowly and spoke calmly. ‘I’ve come to claim you, Ellie.’

  He could never have imagined it.

  She laughed.

  She looked at him from her perch on the ludicrous vehicle and she broke into a real laugh, unrestrained, her eyes disbelieving.

  He floundered, grappling for something to say. ‘Ellie, you’re mistaken if you believe that some kind of dalliance with another man might—’

  ‘I’ve not been dallying.’

  He could not bear her laughter. ‘This is not a matter for mirth.’

  ‘Sorry, yes – I know it’s not.’ Her laugh petered out; gradually her smile faded. ‘It’s just the way you’re so… so sure of it all.’

  ‘I’m sure of what is right. The deal was made, Ellie. I’m at liberty to claim you.’

  ‘But it’s complete nonsense. You must see that?’

  ‘It was an agreement, Ellie.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care. I won’t have it. I won’t go along with it.’

  He stared at her. ‘Of course you will. It’s settled. There’s no reason for you to object.’ He looked away for a moment, along the colourful flank of the painted van. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, a plea. ‘Step down, Ellie. Step down here and we’ll discuss it sensibly.’

  ‘This place. It’s horrible. I hate it.’ She folded her arms, pressing them against her stomach as if the pain of everything was located right there, deep within, unshiftable. ‘I hate it all – Papa and you and… all of it. Don’t you see what it’s done to us?’

  He did not answer, shaking himself hard instead, like a wet dog, as though he could fling off his doubts. ‘Look, Ellie, you’re overwrought. Overstimulated. That’s all. The squatters have been filling your head with unfounded theories, with foolishness, and you’ve taken it to heart. I don’t know what’s been going on here, with the van – I can’t believe what he told me, I can’t believe that, but – you’re young. You have little experience of things. I can see that—’

  ‘They have not been filling my head with anything.’ Ellie’s interruption was fierce. ‘If anyone’s been filling my head it’s you, with all those lessons at the library, teaching me all those old texts as though they were somehow… relevant. As though we might go on living like that.’

  ‘But, Ellie, you wanted that, you wanted to read that – you requested those texts yourself.’

  ‘Because I didn’t know anything else.’

  ‘No. That’s not true. Because you liked it. We both liked it – don’t you remember th
e excitement of the Dante, Ellie?’

  Ellie laughed again, but briefly, too harshly. ‘While we have been reading medieval Italian, Mr Quersley, the rest of the world has been setting a man to walk on the moon.’

  ‘But, Ellie, does that really matter? Does it? To us? What difference does it make to us? Oh, Ellie, dear Ellie, you’re very naïve.’

  ‘Of course I’m naïve. What else could I be?’

  ‘Ellie—’

  ‘The point is, Mr Quersley, I realize – now – that I’ve listened too long to you, and to the men, shut up here with your fables and nothing else, as if Marlford’s the whole world. It has been, to me; you’ve made sure of that, haven’t you? It’s been my whole world and is that a good thing, Mr Quersley? Do you think that’s a good thing?’ She shook her head wildly in reply to her own questions. ‘It’s as if I’d been sunk with those poor babies, isn’t it, cast down into the depths of the mere, submersed and forgotten and—’

  ‘Ellie, calm yourself. You’re being ridiculous. I won’t have it.’ He held out a hand to her, offering to help her down. ‘Come with me now – come inside the house and we’ll discuss these matters rationally; we’ll discuss the terms of the agreement with your father.’

  She put her hands behind her back, where he could not reach them. ‘There’s no agreement, Mr Quersley. There’s no agreement I could possibly recognize.’

  ‘I expect you to marry me, Ellie.’

  He would have pulled her down perhaps, and forced her to come with him, settling it for her there and then. She thought she saw him begin to lunge at her. But there was a cry from the archway, and they both turned to see Dan running towards them, shouting.

  Immediately, Oscar stepped back and lifted the shotgun. ‘Stay back. Stay away.’

  ‘What are you doing? Leave her alone.’ Dan slowed, wary. He put his arms up in a gesture of surrender but still came forward.

  ‘I said stop.’

  ‘Come on, man. You wouldn’t fire at me. Let’s just talk.’ He threw a glance at Ellie. ‘Are you all right? I was coming back to the van. I thought I could hide out here. I didn’t… I’m sorry—’

  She nodded.

  Oscar saw the look they shared in that instant and felt Dan intruding still, coming closer, steadily, without fear. He thought of Ellie behind him, watching him.

  He fired the shotgun.

  The blast filled the stable yard, sinking into the damp stone, held there, repeating. Ellie screamed.

  The impact of the shot made Dan stumble backwards; he gripped his right shoulder, his eyes wide, unbelieving.

  Oscar levelled the gun again.

  Ellie screamed a second time and leapt from the van, catching Oscar by the arm in the same movement, pulling him off balance, the gun skewing at an angle.

  It was not a struggle. He yielded to her immediately, becoming limp in her grasp, as though exhausted or sick, toppling towards her; the gun fell at his feet.

  Ellie tried to wriggle from beneath Oscar’s weight; the smell of his clothes and hair, spiked through with the musk of gunpowder, disgusted her. She looked desperately towards Dan, who had his back to them, bent over. ‘Are you all right?’ She dared the question. He was not dead at least, not yet; there might be a way to save him.

  He did not answer.

  ‘Dan? Dan, are you all right? Say something.’

  She pushed at Oscar, trying to free herself. He groaned. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr Quersley – stand up.’ She dug her nails into him where she could. ‘Get out of my way.’ She shoved him again and ran to where Dan was now crouching, bending alongside him.

  ‘He shot me,’ he said to her, raising his head.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’

  ‘At that range… he could’ve killed me.’

  ‘Is that it? Is that where he shot you? In the shoulder?’ Ellie bent closer to look. There was blood seeping from the wound, reddening Dan’s hand where he was pressing at the pain. The relief of such a small calamity made her dizzy; she had to steady herself on the wet ground. ‘You’ll be all right then, won’t you? If he hasn’t… shot you properly.’

  ‘What do you mean “properly”? How was he supposed to shoot me?’

  It was a joy that he could be so irritable. She smiled.

  ‘I just meant – well, he didn’t kill you. It looks fine. Can you walk?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You won’t collapse or anything?’

  He shook his head. Ellie looped her arm around his waist.

  ‘Lean on me. We’ll go back to the house together. Then if we need help… a doctor—’

  ‘But your father… he’s charging through the house. He came up to the squat, man, and… and Gadiel – I haven’t seen him. We lost each other somewhere. He might be trapped in the house, hurt…’

  She could not think about this just now.

  ‘Just lean on me – come, gently. We’ll be fine. Don’t worry about Papa.’

  They eased into a slow walk and hobbled through the archway, the sound of their slurred footsteps fading quickly in the damp air.

  They had forgotten Oscar Quersley. He was slumped against the side of the van, shivering, his head slung away uncomfortably so that the string of vomit dangling from his tight mouth might fall aside from his body. The shotgun lay where he had dropped it. He felt the jab of Ellie’s nails still here and there, hot prickles on his skin like ant bites, or the stab of fresh hay stalks. He called out to her to help him, to come to him at least, but she was no longer there.

  Twenty-Two

  Ellie installed Dan in her father’s high-backed chair, pulling it round to catch the shreds of late light slinking through the dining-room window. Everything was still faintly purplish from the storm, bruised.

  Dan winced at the effort of settling himself.

  ‘Let me see.’ She tried to prise his hand from the wound but she could not quite concentrate. She could not remember how long she had been gone from the manor; it seemed important to know. It must have been no time, surely, a day perhaps, a night. It could hardly have been longer. But as she bent over to tend to Dan’s shoulder, she felt that everything about the house had changed. It was as though her act of leaving had been too great a thing: she had the impression that the manor was completely empty, nothing more than a shell, the scuttling patter of human occupation ended. It distracted her; she prodded too hard.

  He pulled away with an injured snarl. ‘Can’t you just send someone for an ambulance?’

  She hesitated. ‘Maybe it’s not that bad.’

  ‘Not that bad? I’ve been shot, for God’s sake.’ He was trembling now, exhausted, cold and bewildered, intimidated by the confident decay of the dining room. He dropped his hand, sucking in his breath sharply with the pain of even such slight movement.

  Ellie bent close to his shoulder. Very gently, she attempted to lift the fabric of his T-shirt, but it was sticky with blood, sunken into the wound. She could not bring herself to pull. ‘I’ll go and find my scissors. And we’ve some bandages somewhere, I’m sure. Wait here.’

  ‘Ellie – if you… can you go and find Gadiel? Find out if he’s all right. I haven’t seen him… Can you go and look for him?’

  ‘Just wait here,’ she said again.

  She found no evidence that Gadiel had returned upstairs. Nor was there any sign of him elsewhere, no sound or commotion, no trail of blood; the back kitchen was empty.

  But her father was in his study.

  ‘Oh, Papa – I didn’t know…’ She had fetched scissors already from her room and a yellowing roll of bandage from the bathroom; it had been a last-minute idea to collect some brandy from her father’s sideboard.

  ‘I lost them, Ellie. Both of them, damn it.’ He slammed his hand on the table, making it rattle. ‘Good God, in the old days I would have had them in a trice; a good, solid pincer movement like that, known territory, two fellows with good weapons.’ He looked away at the wall, seeing the maps of old battle campaigns in the peeling wall
paper. Age pounced upon him in an instant, distorting his features, buckling him. He sat down hard in the nearest chair. ‘I should have had them, Ellie. They were easy pickings.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Papa.’

  Her sympathy stirred him. He noticed how drawn her face was, how large and dark her eyes. He leaned forwards. ‘They treated you well? You’re all right, my dear?’

  Ellie clutched the bandage. ‘I’m fine, Papa.’ She found she wanted to cry. ‘But there’s something… I need to get on.’

  Ernest stood up and came towards her. He put a hand on her shoulder. She seemed tiny in his grasp.

  ‘The buggers had the decency to release you at least. When I heard they had you held hostage… well, my God—’

  ‘Papa? What are you saying?’ She pulled from him. ‘Who had me held hostage?’

  ‘The damned squatters.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. For goodness’ sake, why would they do that?’

  He was uneasy in front on her. The arm that had dropped from her shoulder hung loose and awkward.

  ‘Don’t be cross, Ellie.’

  ‘But you’re being absurd. And I don’t have time for this just now. Where on earth did you get the idea I’d been taken hostage? That’s horrible – to think that they’d do such a thing.’

  ‘But the men told me, Ellie. They were sure you’d been taken. They’d seen you.’

  ‘The men? Oh, Papa, they’re just meddling. Can’t you see that?’

  There was a long quiet. They stood apart. Ellie clicked the blades of the scissors together once or twice, a tiny clink. It seemed for a while as though they might be lost in their own thoughts for ever.

  In the end it was Ellie who spoke: ‘Is that why you came with the guns, Papa? Did you come to rescue me?’

  He flinched at the gentleness of her questions. He had never heard her speak to him in that way before.

  He sniffed. ‘Of course I came to rescue you, my dear.’ His voice did not come as firmly as he had hoped. ‘I wasn’t going to leave you, was I? Who’d have known what they might have done.’