by H. E. Bates
Then gradually as the dreamy sensation of the wine wore off he began to shiver again. The heavy stone dropped back across his chest and bent his ribs inward in great, painful arcs. There were no longer hallucinations and comfortable miseries as in the house. Each piano he tuned grew colder. Between his visits the snow was venomous and froze him into an aching heap.
He turned in, ordered whisky, and drinking it very quickly went on.
Now at the houses the people seemed to know of his grief and pitied him.
‘Yes, it’s my daughter,’ he would tell them, ‘Selina. She went away to be a singer in London. It’s a long time ago. I remember I used to say she’d be a prima donna. It’s nice to think that. Yes, it helps.’
And they would shake commiserating heads, give him tender ‘Good-mornings’ and thanks, yet all the time think: ‘That’s all right. But he’s been drinking again. And they say he used to beat Selina before she left him.’
The snow shot down its white bullets faster than ever. His face began to look no more than a wrinkled blue pea tucked between his hat and shoulders. His feet seemed to die, frozen, beneath him. The desire to drink again was strong.
In the warm bar he became enveloped in reminiscence and there seemed to come back the soothing air that had shrouded the woman who had been generous with wine. From the bright face of the barmaid seemed to shine kindness. His thoughts were glowing, immense in reach. He felt that he must confide in her too.
‘My daughter S’lina. You knew my daughter S’lina?’ he muttered.
She looked sharply up. ‘Selina?’
‘She used—used to sing. She’s a singer.’
‘Yes, I know. What’s the matter?’
He muttered two words in a low voice, then closed his eyes. The barmaid stretched out her warm, soft hands and put them on his. ‘So it’s true?’ she whispered. ‘I’d heard something.’
‘Yes, it’s true.’
The girl’s hand crept upwards and touched his bowed head. ‘Don’t carry on,’ she said. The sound of her voice, the softness of her hands, the warm smell of the room comforted him. It seemed to him suddenly that Selina was no more than a child in a pink cotton dress, standing on his chest and pulling his hair. And his heart was heavy.
‘I used to say how beautifully she’d sing,’ he said.
Tears ran down his cheeks in a soft, unchecked flow. The heavy misery of his heart made him say: ‘I did everything. I made her what she was.’
And though she too knew that he had ill-treated her, quarrelled and parted with her and had not seen her since, and that in misery she had drowned herself at last, the girl went on softly stroking his hair, comforting him. And sometimes, as if in response, tears fell on her hands, sighs would shake his breast, and she would hear him murmur softly, half to himself:
‘I used to say how beautifully she’d sing. I had faith in her. I made her what she was.’
She listened with sadness. Outside the snow kept on falling in soft white flakes, sadly too.
Gone Away
As they were burying Eli Bishop a thunderstorm broke over the graveyard. The rain which fell was fierce and sombre, swishing loudly among the yew-trees, sycamores and firs, beating harshly upon the gravestones, the coffin and the bowed heads of the mourners. All the thick summer foliage seemed colourless and dreary. The thunder was terrible, and near.
In the village, in the house where Eli had lived, little Richard sat with his nose pressed up like a little pink lozenge against the window-pane.
At first, before the thunder began, he listened only to Martha, an old woman, moving about the kitchen, to the kettle singing, and the clatter of tea-cups and spoons, wondering idly where every one had gone. But as soon as the greenish-purple flooded the sky he began to fidget, looking wildly about him and pressed his nose against the window-pane with fear.
Then, just as he felt himself begin to tremble and he heard the rain begin to splash on the street outside, Martha came in and exclaimed:
‘Gracious me, how wet they’ll all be!’
Richard drew away his nose from the window. Where his nose had been was a pale little ring of moisture.
‘Who’ll be wet?’ he asked, rubbing his nose.
But Martha only looked confused, and putting some more wood under the kettle did not answer.
Richard got down from the window-seat and said again:
‘Who’ll be wet?’
Suddenly Martha rose, shook her black skirts into order and went into the kitchen again. Richard followed her and, forgetting the thunder and his fear, kept asking:
‘Who’ll get wet? Why? Who do you mean?’
But Martha would only say: ‘Don’t plague me, don’t whittle,’ and told him to sit down again.
Then suddenly there was a flash of lightning and from right above the house a peal of thunder leapt out and ran madly across the sky, striking terrifying echoes. After casting one frightened look at the greenish clouds, Richard ran to Martha, buried his face in her black dress, and began to whimper.
But though Martha’s black dress was soft against his face, and the way she stroked his hair and whispered to him was kindly and warm, he was not comforted. And kneeling there he thought suddenly of his grandfather, his big, silver watch, his fat old belly, his red neckerchief, his silky white hair, and remembering suddenly that for three whole days he had not seen the old man, wondered anxiously where he was. And without raising his head he asked:
‘Where’s grandfather? Will he get wet too?’
But Martha only said: ‘Hush, hush. It’s all right. It’ll soon be over.’
Suddenly Richard was afraid of the green, stormy sky and the thunder no more. He longed only to know where his grandfather had gone, why for two days everything in the house had seemed strange and silent, and why his mother had put on a black dress and wept.
‘Where’s grandfather?’ he kept asking. ‘He’ll get wet as well, won’t he?’
But Martha only said: ‘Hush, hush, be quiet,’ and stroked his hair.
Once there was a silence and he listened to Martha’s wheezing breast, the kettle purring, and the rain swishing on the roofs and trees. Once the thunder snarled. Once it reminded him of a big drum he had heard in a circus.
Suddenly he lifted up his head and said excitedly:
‘When’s grandfather coming back? As soon as he comes back we can go fishing. Fishing’s best when it rains!’
He looked up at Martha’s face with sudden joy and began beating her knees and crying:
‘Yes, that’s it! We can go fishing! I want to go fishing!’
In his joy he thought of the broad river, the thick reeds, the willows lolling over the banks, and of the hours he had spent lying there with his grandfather, watching the sunshine under the water and the little fish trooping in and out of the shadows.
Then suddenly Martha said:
‘Get up, let me do something. They’ll be back directly.’
She lifted him to his knees.
‘Who’ll be back?’ he cried at once. ‘Will grandfather be back? I want him to come – I want to go fishing.’
He followed her into the kitchen. When she returned he followed her back again.
As he followed her he kept chattering and looking at the long table laid with many cups and plates, dishes of gooseberry jam, cherries, cucumbers, lettuces, caraway cake and pots of summer flowers. And he felt he must ask:
‘Who’s coming? Whose birthday is it? Is it grandfather’s birthday?’
‘You be quiet.’
‘Whose is it? Why are so many people coming? Where’s grandfather?’
And suddenly, in an exasperated voice, Martha said: ‘You sit still and perhaps he will come. Perhaps he will.’
And he sat down. It was quiet, and in the quietness, above the sound of the kettle and the rain, he could now and then fancy he heard footsteps coming. Sometimes it thundered, but only far away, and over and over again he would watch the rain, think of the river, and whisper to h
imself: ‘When he comes we can go fishing. It’s best in the rain.’
But time passed; still no one came and he stared at the ring his nose had made on the window-pane, trying to be patient.
Presently he remembered that when he had seen his grandfather last he had been going upstairs. And after pondering a moment he crept out, tiptoed along the passage and went upstairs also.
How silent it was on the stairs, he thought. And on the threshold of his grandfather’s room what a funny smell there was, like the smell of a sheep he had once seen turned over on its back in a hollow.
Because of this smell he pushed open the door and entered softly as if afraid of waking some one. As he stepped inside, looking at his grandfather’s big patchwork-covered bed, at its emptiness, at the walls and ceiling, and their emptiness, he felt awed at the silence and repressiveness. He kept listening and sniffing. When he went forward and looked in the bed, he felt timid and drew away again. Then suddenly his eyes alighted on his grandfather’s red neckerchief hanging on the bed-post, then on his trousers and jacket lying in a chair, and lastly on his watch suspended from its nail in the wall.
He stared, then, going to the watch, put his ear against it and listened. It had stopped. He touched it and for a moment it went again, then the silvery ticks ceased.
And at once he thought: ‘If grandfather’s gone out why hasn’t he put his trousers and the red handkerchief on and taken his watch?’
He continued to gaze about himself, especially at the empty bed and the pillow, where there was a hollow as if some one had been sleeping, and the watch on the wall.
And for a long time he remained silent, pondering. Rain was still falling, but gently and half-heartedly, from a soft, yellow sky. And soon, Richard thought, the sun would creep cautiously out over the grass, setting the meadows steaming and drying the path to the river. And still in the evening, there would be time to go down and fish under the dark willows in the twilight.
Then, at that moment, a sound of voices reached him. He listened and thought there were many voices and many footsteps, too. He had a longing to go downstairs, to see who was there, to ask his mother about his grandfather, to eat nice things and tell every one how lovely fishing would be.
He went down stealthily. In the room below was a great confusion of voices, of clattering crockery, and of people shaking wet umbrellas and clothes.
Scores of people seemed to be there, all dressed in black, all talking at once, all in the way of each other. But besides Martha, his father and his mother, he knew nobody.
He began to look about him, at first for his grandfather, then when he could not be seen, for some one to question. And seizing suddenly the trousers of a big man with a jolly face and smelling of snuff, he asked in a loud voice:
‘Where is my grandfather? Has he come back? I want to go fishing. I’m waiting for him to come.’
But as soon as he said this the face of the jolly man grew troubled. Then silence fell and he saw that every one was watching him.
Not understanding, he cried out again:
‘He hasn’t got his trousers and his red handkerchief and his watch. They’re upstairs.’
Before he had finished three or four voices descended upon him:
‘Hush, hush!’
And suddenly, from among all the black unknown figures in the room, the familiar figure of his mother emerged, stooped, swept him up and took him out of the room. In the kitchen she sat him in a chair, pointed to the breaking sky and said:
‘There, you watch up there and you’ll see something.’
‘What shall I see?’
‘Something. You watch.’
He glanced at the sky, but catching sight of his mother’s eyes in doing so, saw that they were brimming with wetness and that her face, above her strange, black dress, looked pale and sad. And at the sight of her tears and her stained white face, he felt unhappy too and said:
‘What’s every one come for? Why wasn’t grandfather come? I want to go fishing. Shall we go fishing?’
His mother did not answer and it seemed to him that her tears were falling faster than ever, that she was not listening to him, but was clutching him so tightly he could not breathe.
But in a little while this passed. His mother stroked his hair again and looked at him with eyes that were round and lovely.
And presently, after saying, ‘You be quiet, you be a good boy,’ she left him and went back to where all the people in black were eating and drinking.
And in a little while he got off the chair and tiptoed after her.
In the room was a great hubbub of voices, a clatter of spoons and a sound of lettuce being munched. To him every one was black and looked the same. Near the window he sat down. As he did so he heard some one say:
‘A thunderstorm like that, and just at the very minute! All the flowers and everybody drenched. And the black ruined. But it’s a blessing it’s over – even the clergyman, I’m sure, thought it was a blessing it was over.’
But staring at all the people in black, munching contentedly, Richard did not understand and only longed desperately for his grandfather to come, for the rain to cease, for the meadows to dry and that they might go and fish together in the twilight.
Presently, tired, sad and bewildered by waiting, he cried out:
‘Why isn’t grandfather coming home? Where is he? I want to go fishing. I keep waiting for him!’
And suddenly, catching sight of his mother’s white, plaintive face against the breaking sky, he burst into weeping.
Harvest
On most evenings between April and September she had chosen this walk for her children, choosing it because from the top of the lane the colours of the surrounding land, from the time of fresh greens and yellows to the time of harvest, were soft and pleasant to her eyes.
This evening, as on all others, she rested her arms on the gate while regaining her breath after the journey. It was later than usual, though not yet dusk, and sultrily warm with the true oppressiveness of autumn. The air was so still she fancied now and then she could hear the rustle of her children’s feet in the grass of the adjoining field. Even if they had never spoken, had never occasionally called to her ‘Mother! Mother! here we are!’ she would have been aware of their presence because of this sound, heavy and swishing, like the sea.
In the middle of the summer she had often played with the children in this field. It had not once seemed childish or beneath her dignity to lie in the grass and let them hide their faces in her skirts, then scream in her ears and half-suffocate her with hay. She had never been able to reproach them for these things, had never been able to look into any one of their young smiling faces and utter an angry word. She remembered this had been so from the very spring of the year, through the time of daisies, celandines, buttercups and hay, thyme and clover. She remembered looking forward with a naive eagerness, as if she had been a child herself, to this time, each day, of irresponsible joys, of absurd laughter. Sometimes, on the journey back again, she remembered, she had shut her eyes and simply followed the voices before her in her great joy.
They had not once failed to refresh her in spirit. Now, for some days, for a reason she dare not let intrude upon her too often, she had not played with them. Not understanding this the children had showered uneasy questions upon her.
‘But why? why won’t you come? Mother! Mother! – come now!’
But each time, with a heaviness of her heart, she had refused them without ever giving her reason.
These refusals and the emptiness they made in her daily life, hurt her deeply. This evening more than all others, she felt the lack of their companionship, their soft voices, their faces hiding in her skirts. They had come to gather mushrooms. They had talked excitedly about it since morning. To miss such a simple thing as this and to feel sad about it seemed absurd, she knew, yet she was disappointed and depressed by it, without being able to explain, even to understand why.
From the gate her eyes roamed over
the field where the children were. Their four little figures wandered tirelessly among the grass, searching diligently. Behind them, and on all sides, extended cornfields, sloping upon the single dark square of pasture like the sides of a golden frame, enclosing it securely there as a painting worth much to her.
On these slopes she could see figures too. Now and then reached her the sound of a reaper working very late and the low rumble of wagons up and down the hill. The sounds came through the air heavily, as if of another world. Sometimes, as with the dark, still trees above her, it seemed that the wagons and the reaper laboured under a great burden, too heavy for them, which made them groan.
About her it began to grow twilight. Across the field one of the children came running to her.
‘The basket, Mother – please – quickly! We’ve found something!’
He ran off again, hugging it to his breast. It was too big for him.
‘Don’t be long – come back soon, remember – soon!’ she called after him.
He did not answer. It seemed to her most likely he had not even heard her. It was foolish – but she had not the heart to call him again.
She slipped back into a mood of reflection when he had gone. Now, as the twilight took a stronger possession of the trees, of the distant slopes and of the sky, where there would soon be stars, she began to think more and more of the reason why now she never played with her children. She hugged herself for a long time silently, with closed eyes. This reason hurt her even to think about – it seemed so cruel, so unfair, imposing upon her so much.
For a moment she had a fleeting illusion that it did not exist. She opened her eyes and looked up. This illusion became suddenly replaced by a second: it seemed to her that there was another child in the field with the rest. She counted them feverishly: in her haste she counted five, then only four, then five again.
Suddenly it was immaterial to her whether there were four or five. The presence of this fifth one, a presence that had been for so long like a shadow, a burden, and a blessing by turns, was no longer part of an illusion. In a week or two she knew that the other children would be saying among themselves, with simple, incredulous delight: ‘We have a little baby!’ She saw them being led into her bedroom to peer at it against her breast.
