Then she looks away and I see the pretence fall, and I know she is hiding all her thoughts and feelings in order to pander to him. He is an enormous tyrant baby to whom she will be forever bound.
But the story goes that she wanted him above all others, that she defied her own parents to have him. I can't help but despise her for this; she should have known better, even if she was in love. It seems love does not always guarantee happiness. In point of fact, my love for Mr Tiller has yet to bring me any happiness at all, and we are only in the early stages of our relationship, which hardly bodes well. If only love could be controlled; I would switch it off and pack it away for a more sensible use on a different occasion.
*
'Here,' says Daniel. He is as good as his word, and has taken his father's horse and cart. We meet at the place where the field adjoins the road, and I clamber over the stile, and climb up beside him. He looks so very nervous; does he see the same fears in my face?
'Let's go,' I say, breathless, and he clicks his tongue and shakes the reins, and the journey to Taunton has begun.
The great temptation upon me, immediately, is to blurt out that Mr Tiller has gone mad, but I remember that I have decided against it. It would certainly help to have a confidant in such matters, though. Instead I say, 'Thank you for this.'
'You should have your chance,' he says.
'So should we all. Have a chance at our dreams.'
He does not reply. All the lightness has gone out of him. Could we really have kissed? It seems like a moment that happened between two different people.
I think about what I observed between my mother and father this morning, and I say, 'You will not believe what I overheard in the village yesterday.' I make up some tale about the Braddicks falling out, I keep my voice sweet and clear, and slowly charm him into laughter even though it gives me no time to myself to think about what I will say in my meeting.
The miles pass. The road widens and smoothes to a well-worn path.
When we reach Taunton I see the main street, the market building, the houses, and the lines of the train tracks. It would be possible to live in Taunton and never be recognised once, I think. Or to board a train and travel to some place where nothing would be familiar – where every building blazes with electric light, and cars are as numerous as people.
I would be lost in a moment, but Daniel knows where we are, and where we must go. He clicks his tongue, and the horse travels onwards as I stare about in wonder, and imagine a future where I belong here.
*
'Miss Fearn, please,' says the man. He wears a suit and a blue bow tie, and has a greying beard, trimmed to the loose contours of his face and neck. He is exactly how I have always pictured venerable academics.
I stand and smooth my skirt. I wish I could have dressed more smartly; I look dowdy compared to the other girls, with their fine hats and bags, and shoes in the latest style. They must all come from good families. I pray these outward signs of wealth do not matter. Surely these men would not make judgements on such grounds. The only thing that matters about the presence of these other girls is that it reminds me how big the world is, and how much competition there is for the best opportunities.
I am shaking in my muddy boots when I follow the venerable academic into the room appointed for the meeting. There are dark wooden panels on the wall, and the floor is polished parquet, making my footsteps so loud that I wince with each step. And there are many steps to take; this is a hall, long and empty, apart from the table at the far end where the academic takes his seat, the last in a row of three. His two colleagues look much like him in attitude. They sit in their equidistant chairs, all facing me, all showing no sign of welcome or interest. I am just one of many girls to them.
I reach their table, and hesitate. What should happen next? Do I introduce myself?
The man sitting in the central position holds out a hand. I move to shake it, and he grimaces, and points instead. 'There, please.' I turn my head and see the chair to which he points. I walked right past it.
I have already established myself, without saying a word, as an idiot.
I move to the chair, and sit on the very edge, poised to flee. Daniel is outside this new building, with the horse and cart, and I could run for it, run to his arms, so he could hold me, and comfort me. Now I am aware of how many girls there are just like me, what do I have that makes me special? Perhaps it is better to be important in Westerbridge than to be an idiot in Taunton.
'Miss… Fearn, is that correct?' says the man on my left. He is bald, and his head is shaped rather like an egg, with a point to it as if his brain is a mountain. What lofty mental peaks he must climb every single day.
I nod, and try not to get distracted by such thoughts.
'We will ask you a number of questions in order to ascertain your suitability for the training course, and for work in the teaching field, which is, as you know, a great responsibility and an important role for the rebuilding of the country's youth. So let me start by asking you – what would you like to pass on to the next generation? What is there that you, in particular, can teach them?'
I can't think of anything to say.
But my mouth opens and I begin to talk, and I talk and I talk, amazed at myself, and at everything I have to say. There is so much more to tell them, and the words seem fresh and unplanned, unthought. I could talk for hours upon this subject: the future.
When I stop talking, the men stare at me, and I stare back. I cannot remember a single thing I have just said.
*
'It can't have gone that badly,' says Daniel.
I cannot reply. My throat is sore from so much talking. There were so many questions. At one point the man on the right had to interrupt me in order to ask his question, and yet I still cannot remember what I said.
'I'm thinking it went well and you can't see it,' Daniel says. 'You're the best in class at questions, and the like. You're the brightest girl I know, Shirley.'
It's a long journey back to Westerbridge. By the end he has given up trying to console me. We are returned by early afternoon, to the place where we set off, and nothing there is different. The grass grows, the flowers bloom. He brings the horse to a stop next to the stile, and I hop down.
'Hey,' he calls. 'Is that it, then? Is that all I deserve, for the trouble I'll get into?'
'What would you have, then? Another kiss?' My voice is back. It's loud, with a shrill edge.
'Not in your mood. You'd bite me, I reckon.'
'So what, then?'
He looks at the reins in his hands, then ahead at the road. 'Nothing.'
'Right, then.' I hop onto the stile.
'Wait!' he calls. Can he not see I need to be alone? I want to hide in the fields until the time school ends, and then I can retreat to my bedroom to think through what will become of my life now. For if I cannot go to Taunton, what will I do? How will I become the woman I need to be?
'I'll get in trouble,' Daniel says. 'Over the horse and cart.'
'I know.'
'It doesn't matter, though. I had this idea. That you would get in. Don't laugh at me, but I wanted you to get in and me to find a job Taunton way, and for us to... live there. In a different way. Not the way everyone has laid out for us. If you go, can I come? Can we do that?'
'Do you mean – go together?' I ask. 'In what form?' I am trying to grasp what is in his head.
He frowns. I see him reaching for the words. 'I don't know. Couldn't we just be people together, and forget everything else, forget your father and my father and the farm and the smithy, and who will own what one day? And forget Mr Tiller.' He swallows. 'What would it even matter, if we could be happy?'
'Happy together?' Why am I suddenly stuck on this one word? Just hours before I could have talked for hours, and now I am like a parrot stuck to its perch, squawking, awkward. I can't envisage this life of which he dreams. Perhaps I need him to speak of love, or marriage. I need it to have a shape.
'No, I mean,
yes, but—' His mouth opens and closes. I stand on the stile, and wait.
He gives up. He shakes the reins, and the horse clatters off at speed, the cart bouncing behind it. I feel strong. I feel separate from him, and his plans. Why does he need me to lead his way to Taunton? He should be the one to lead. He is the man. If he wanted us to marry, and go to Taunton, I would think on that carefully. I might even say yes.
This seething sense of victory sings in my veins, and stings my eyes. I am crying because I have turned quickly on the stile and caught my skirt in the hedge, and now it is torn.
*
I wake late, and lie still. It is the first Monday of May, and I will be crowned Queen.
It is beyond me to be calm, even though this is a ridiculous piece of whimsy that I did not care for just a mere week ago. But no. No, I cannot call it whimsy now I am at the heart of it. There are deep roots to May Day, stretching back through the centuries. I find I have a taste for power in all its forms, on the rare occasions when it is allowed to me, and what is more powerful than a Queen? Particularly one who is the living embodiment of the spring, the soil, the seeds. I feel newborn as a lamb, as old as the rocks themselves.
I am taking this too seriously, I know. I do not care. I have so many tasks to perform today. It all starts with a knock on my bedroom door, and my mother's excited face (all our disagreements forgotten) as she says, 'The assistants are already here, come along, come along!'
I perform my ablutions, and then the white dress is brought in by the three girls who will assist me today. They are all younger than me, and sit on the other side of the classroom, but I know Gladys, Esme and Jill well enough to giggle with them as they help me into the dress, pinning it in places where it does not fit. Then my mother arranges my hair, loose over my shoulders, ready for the crown to be affixed.
But where is the crown? It is at the village green, waiting for me. I am placed upon Nellie, bedecked with flowers on her saddle and reins, and walked down the road with the assistants tripping along after. It is a fine day, bright and clear, and I smile as we pass the smithy, and The Three Crowns, waving at all I see. We arrive at the green, the maypole standing high in the centre, the open tents arranged around, and there is already a crowd of familiar faces even though it is still morning. This promises to be a wonderful day.
My mother helps me down from Nellie, and leads me across the green, to the side nearest the church, where my throne awaits. It is a wooden chair covered in a white sheet and strewn about with flowers, and a blanket has been placed on the ground around it for my assistants. But we cannot sit and oversee the festivities yet. First I must be crowned.
And here is Reverend Mountcastle to crown me, insistent on doing the job even though he disapproves. He steps forward as fiddle music starts up, and he is flanked by my father and Mr Redmore. The three of them observe me and nod, as if I have passed a test. But then the Reverend puts the crown – white flowers and green leaves intertwined – upon my head, and it does not matter what they think of me any more. I have been raised above them.
I step up to my throne and take my seat with all the dignity I can muster, and the crowd cheers.
The rest of the day is a series of moments like lanterns, strung together by the endless, spinning music, fiddle and drum, and the food and drink that is constantly brought to me by so many people I know; but they present their gifts with aplomb as if currying favour. I nibble, and watch, and sway upon my throne.
The children make a good effort at the dancing, although the little ones often forget when they should be weaving out instead of in, and the patterns are more often a tangle. Still, I salute their efforts and they laugh, and bow and curtsey.
The horseshoe competition is won by my brave Daniel, and I bestow upon his forehead a kiss as his reward, to which the crowd roars. There is no time to be with him today, but there is an awareness between us, and between everyone here, that we are together. Still, I have too much to do to dote upon him. I wave him away, and he runs off with the other boys to take up the ribbons of the maypole for themselves; they grin at each other while the women sing and they dance, and the colours tangle so there is no way of knowing where one strand ends and another begins.
The evening is falling. I can see everything with a clarity that must be born of the cider I have been given. Verity Braddick has eaten five iced buns, one after the other, and the icing has stuck to her best dress. She is trying to clean it away before her mother notices. The Reverend Mountcastle is preaching at the widow Colson, his eyes casting up to heaven and then down to the front of her dress as if his faith is caught somewhere between the two. Azariah Barbery and Jeremiah Crowe are holding hands under the trestle table that holds the jam and scones. Only I can see, from my position on this throne, the way their fingers touch, pull apart, touch. Their faces look away, in different directions, watchful, while all the time their fingers touch.
I am suffused with heat. It is such a warm evening, and here is more cider, presented to me in a beautiful silver goblet with a flourish. I look up from it and look into Mr Tiller's eyes.
'For the May Queen,' he says.
I incline my head in a regal fashion, and take the goblet, while my assistants giggle. It seems that is all they are good for, and it is beginning to annoy me.
'Drink it up, then,' he says, with the schoolteacher in his voice, and I do as I am told, feeling the sharpness of the apples on my lips like a sting.
'Very good.'
He looks satisfied with me.
It occurs to me that since I am Queen, I could command him to stay, to bow, to kneel throughout the night. I wonder if he would do it. But he is too quick for me. He takes the goblet back, and holds my hand. He leans over it, and kisses my knuckles. As he straightens, I feel the cool air upon the patch where his lips touched my skin.
'My homage done, I depart,' he says. He limps away. I have missed my chance to command him.
He takes a circuitous path around the edge of the green, skirting the tables, the tents and the horseshoes. He brushes close to the lads who are playing once more, and to a couple who stand nearby. The couple seem familiar to me; the man has his arms crossed over his chest, and his back is curved a little as he stoops to listen to what the woman is saying. She is very pretty, with golden hair, but as Mr Tiller limps past she stops speaking and raises her head to look at me. The man follows her gaze, and when he frowns at me I recognise him. Daniel. He was deep in conversation with Phyllis Clemens. How handsome they looked, together.
I beckon to him.
He comes to me, moving quickly, and I see rage shining from his face, cutting through the crowd and the music, burning as strong as the stars. How he hates me, and I am afraid of him, but I hold myself tall and straight upon my throne as he approaches.
'Why do you watch Mr Tiller go like that?' Daniel demands.
'I was not watching him. I was watching you and Phyllis Clemens.'
'So what of it?' But I see his pleasure at the fact that I noticed.
This game we are playing overwhelms me. Why should he tease me so? I am in command, and by rights he should obey, and be mine, if I want it so.
'You are not a loyal subject to forget your Queen so easily,' I tell him. 'You must make amends or be punished.' These words come from some ancient place inside of me. All I must do is let go and allow this magic to cast its spell. I can see in his eyes he recognises the magic too. He leans to me, over the heads of the assistants, who are slumped, yawning. The night is growing late.
'Will you do penance?' I ask.
'What would your Majesty have?'
I shift forward in my throne and put my mouth to his ear. I whisper what I would have of him.
He straightens up. Nobody could guess from his expression what I have said. 'Very well, mistress,' he replies, and steps back. He starts across the green, and is soon out of sight.
I sit.
The music plays on.
Will I go to him? Will I go? Is everyone looking
at me? Or do they dance on, forgetting all but the rhythm and the clear night sky?
I won't go. I have no need to go, except that Mr Tiller has asked it of me, and I do not need to do the bidding of a madman.
But I could go for myself. Because it is what I want. It is within my power to command love. To want it, and to take it.
I stand up, and the world does not stop and stare. I need give no excuse. My parents are not even nearby, but lost in the crowd somewhere, and I do not look for them as I step over my sleeping assistants and start to walk, finding an invisible line towards my destination.
Past the school, past the bakery, past the churchyard, the music fading into the distance, the night increasing cold upon my face, arms and shoulders. Past the row of cottages, taking the small turn down towards the river. Past Mr Tiller's house, where a lit lamp stands in the kitchen window like a signal, but my thoughts are not with him, not any more.
Down the pebbled lane, where the trees press close, and then there is the glorious, singing shock of the river, tumbling and breaking into shining slivers that bear the glow of the moon in every piece.
I reach the bridge, but do not step upon it. I slide down the river slope, my white slippers slick in the mud. Under the arch there is the hidden place, where the children sometimes go to escape watchful eyes; it is warm and dry, and feels very far away from the village.
It is very dark, but I can make out how Daniel stands tall, his arms lifted above his head, his hands on the stone curving underside of the bridge. It makes it look as if he supports the structure. I cannot make out his face. Only his outline, and the way his body is strong.
'Your Majesty,' he says. 'This is what you commanded.'
Yes, this is what I whispered to him. To meet me here, so I can listen to the frogs sing in the moonlight. But they have all fallen silent. We must have frightened them away.
'Come here, then,' Daniel says. His voice is young, filled with fear and wonder at the moment in which we find ourselves.
The Arrival of Missives Page 7
