by Rachel Malik
Safe at last, reads the final intertitle.
That’s what the hero says – he’s had Lady Audley locked up in a madhouse. You could see her in the final shot, looking down from a barred window. Estella looked sad, Rene thought, but no one thought the hero had done anything wrong.
* * *
‘Rene?’
It was Elsie. She looked ghostly in the dusk. All that evening she’d been busy, up and down ladders, twining the pear carefully on to the new trellis she’d set the day before. Rene had tried to help at first, but she had known that Elsie wouldn’t want it – No thanks, I can manage. So she had retreated to the grass with the newspaper, drifting, reading. Now Elsie wanted her view.
Was it straight, was it even? How did it look?
It looked very well. Still a little awry, but Elsie explained that the training, as she called it, would take some time. Rene walked down to the gate and looked back. From here it looked even better, so neat and flat, like a child’s drawing of a tree on a blackboard.
‘Come and see it from here.’
Elsie came to join her. Now the two of them stood together, examining the shape of the tree. Oh yes. It might fruit again next year. The pears had never been sweet but they’d made chutney, very tasty, and wine – once or twice. There was a bird singing close by, a blue tit, maybe it was the one from the middle villa. Only one tonight, so bright and clear: I’m here, I’m here, it called, unwilling to give up the evening. Perhaps the other was close by or perhaps it was already sleeping.
5.
At the White Horse
A month passed. September, a busy month, the air was heavy with smoke and stubble and Elsie’s harvest was in. She had worried the oats would be past their best by the time the thresher got to Starlight (they seemed to be last on the list for harvest help, Rene noticed, but it did come in the end and all was well). The last week, Rene had been apple-picking at a big fruit farm on the other side of Lambourn. They had seen next to nothing of each other, spending their evenings tending to Starlight, digging up produce and filling up the old troughs for the cows in Fox Field, bucket by bucket – the piping had cracked long ago and the summer weather had left everything parched. But finally there came a lull and one evening they finished before nine and were settled together in the parlour before the news started. They listened in without comment, and presently the concert started. Rene started to play Patience in a rather desultory way; she didn’t really mind how the ‘clock’ turned out but she enjoyed the sound of the cards. She was tired – she’d ridden to Newbury that afternoon to the pictures. She went every Thursday, always Thursday, it was part of her routine. She hadn’t tried to tempt Elsie again, she sensed that Elsie didn’t quite approve, but she wouldn’t give it up and Elsie made no attempt to stop her. Rene yawned; it was nice having nothing to do for once. Elsie was a little distracted. There was a fly buzzing around the window seat; it crawled over the cushion before banging itself, tap-buzz, against the window. They had closed the window for the first time that evening.
‘Elsie?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a quiet day tomorrow, isn’t it?’ Rene knew she had no obligations at Pool Farm but she didn’t like to presume.
‘Um.’
‘I wondered …’ Rene paused, still careful, eager not to press ‘… if we could go and see the White Horse?’
‘Yes, oh yes, we must. Didn’t I say so? Psst, psst.’
Elsie was still distracted. Missy was maddened by the fly’s antics and was trying to claw her way up the curtains.
‘It’s my birthday tomorrow. Nearly today.’
‘Your birthday! But you didn’t say. Oh, I wish you had told me. I would have made a cake. I’ll make one tomorrow.’ She was excited all of a sudden.
‘Could we go and visit the White Horse?’
‘Isn’t it too late?’ Elsie paused for a moment, but the question was just her thinking. ‘Oh, why not, why shouldn’t we? We could go as far as Woodston on the bikes. It’s a bit of a climb from there, but it wouldn’t take long. We could be there for your birthday.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘And be back in time for the morning.’
And suddenly they were going to see the White Horse, that night.
Not exactly Rene’s suggestion or Elsie’s proposal, not quite, but they were going now; the decision had slipped out of their hands.
Elsie went to check the bikes and Rene made sandwiches and tea. To Rene’s surprise, Elsie also produced a half-bottle of brandy.
Only when they were just about ready to leave, only then, did Rene dare to say, ‘Is it too dark?’ For it was pitchy outside.
It was certainly late, so late there was no one to see them. They’d both had a shot of the brandy and it went straight to their heads. Once they’d dragged the bikes out of the yard, they fairly streaked up the road, and the speed and the dark released them. They could barely see each other, just the half-dimmed bikes. Rene rode ahead at first, though she didn’t know the way. Just by the Townsends’, she swerved to avoid an animal fleeing across the road – a fox, a weasel? Elsie, who was as good as teetotal, shrilled with laughter from some way behind.
‘Better luck next time.’
‘One weasel down, sir. Might have been a fox.’
‘KNOW YOUR ENEMY.’
‘I think I can safely report that there are no enemy planes flying over England tonight.’
‘Famous last words.’
‘But BE VIGILANT.’
‘Famous last words.’
They sped on, laughing, gasping, into the night.
Rene was wearing an old jacket of Moira’s, dark grey with faint lines of red and blue, and it suited her. Perhaps Elsie would have liked it on anyone but Moira, but it gave her an odd pleasure to see Rene wear her sister’s things.
A little out of Woodston, they left the bikes by a stile and began the climb. The exhilaration of the ride and the effects of the brandy were temporarily suspended. To Rene it felt like a long climb, not steep – Elsie had assured her – but the combination of the deep dark and the uneven ground made her fear for her balance; the little torch only seemed to make it darker. Elsie didn’t seem to need the torch, she pushed ahead – it was the first time they had walked for any length together – and Rene sensed her sure-footedness in the steady pace she kept. Not for the first time, she was thankful for the boots; broad and flat, they made her feel fractionally more stable, more secure. Elsie hummed quietly as she walked, sweet and soft in the night, but distant too. Rene, left alone with her own thoughts, half wished they’d waited till tomorrow. Perhaps it was Elsie, who seemed to be striding ahead, oblivious, caught up in her own adventure. It was a foolish scheme coming up here in the middle of the night. It was so dark, there’d be nothing to see, and the horse was covered up anyway – that’s what Elsie had said – because of the war. She was cold too, blowing on her hands, rubbing her arms and face. Buttoning the jacket, she felt something in one of the pockets: cigarettes and matches, old ones probably, forgotten by the errant Moira. Well, they could always try and light a fire; she smiled to herself. And then Elsie stopped humming and turned back to her and asked if she was all right. ‘Not far now.’
Like many national landmarks clearly visible from the air, the White Horse had been covered so it wouldn’t become a signpost for enemy aircraft – Jerry had his Ordnance Survey too. If Reading was going to be bombed, it wouldn’t be the horse’s fault.
Abruptly Elsie came to a halt.
‘We’re here.’
Rene was underwhelmed, but any disappointment she felt soon dissolved because they could sit down quite comfortably in a flat protected niche – the horse’s ear, Elsie said. They ate some of the sandwiches and drank more of the brandy. And Elsie babbled – very unusual. She told Rene about the horse, how he had four legs, two ears but only one eye – he might have lost the other in a battle long ago, he was a very old horse after all. Colonel Pinkie had said that a man from the university had paid a pilot to fly him hi
gh over the hill and that he’d seen the outline of a far bigger horse from above. Well, she didn’t know about that. People used to come and clean him from time to time, she said, so he shone his chalk-white best, ‘but not for ages’. She’d never been to one of these scourings, as they were called. She didn’t tell Rene about the women who used to come here because they wanted babies.
It was Elsie’s idea to unpick the turf, so they could see him properly.
‘We can’t come all this way for nothing,’ she said. ‘Who knows when you’ll get another chance to see him.’
Rene wondered whether this was a comment on the likely length of the war, or her stay at Starlight. How could she possibly hope for the first? But she did.
Elsie was different tonight, no quiet thank you, I can manage.
‘We haven’t got all night!’ she yelled, already some way down the hill. ‘Come on.’
Rene was shocked to find Elsie so lawless, like an outlaw from the westerns. With a few headline exceptions, Rene had always thought the law was what most people did. She was pretty sure that what she and Elsie were doing now was not what most people did.
Soon the two of them were clambering all over the hillside. It wasn’t difficult, there was no puzzle in the pieces or the placing: just dry, rough squares of turf, scratchy to the touch. They hadn’t been put down with much care; many were curled at the edges and the turf bumped awkwardly above the ground. Rene tripped more than once. They piled the turf up neatly, like cushions brought inside when there was a prospect of rain.
It wasn’t stealing. What would they have done with the turf anyway? It wasn’t an act of sabotage: Elsie had every intention of putting back everything exactly as found. She perfectly accepted the logic of the horse’s concealment. It was certainly not an act of treachery in dangerous times, opening a way for an enemy incursion. It was not trespass, or not of the usual kind. This wasn’t Mr McGregor’s garden after all. It was common land, if not common ground.
‘Keep clear of his feet,’ Elsie shouted, ‘he might kick!’ Rene didn’t know where his feet were. Something had got hold of them both. They panted and giggled, and at one point Rene nearly cried off she was so tired. But Elsie simply ignored her, so they carried on; another bit and another, till they thought they’d uncovered it all and collapsed back into their niche. Around them everything smelt like summer-mown grass.
It was still stubbornly dark, so there was little to see. The torch picked up indifferent patches of white – nothing more. They were flagging now but warm, still excited. They drank more brandy and their heads got lighter and Rene remembered Moira’s cigarettes.
‘I’ve never smoked,’ said Elsie, looking at the packet.
‘I’ve never smoked either,’ said Rene, not quite truthfully. ‘Shall we try one each just to see? I will if you will.’
They wasted four matches, even though it was so still. Rene inhaled too deep and coughed; recovering herself quickly, she posed like one of her dark movie stars and the torchlight turned her into a crazy shadow. Elsie laughed and inhaled carefully, managing not to cough. As soon as they’d finished one, they each lit a second, feeling dizzy and faintly sick. Rene’s eyes watered so she closed them tight. She opened them briefly to see the smoke coiling around them. Elsie coughed and smiled. Their lips were burning.
They awoke within moments of each other; it must have been about six. The sun was already up, the grass already warm, buzzing and itching. Elsie sat up immediately, stretched, tried to smooth her springy hair, but Rene lay still, remembering last night’s climb, and wary. The cuts of turf about them looked surprisingly neat, but forlorn. How breathless they had been last night, quite light-headed, running, skittering over the hillside, not sure what they were doing. Rolling carefully on to her stomach, she saw above them the chalky-white line of the horse’s cheek. The light came quickly, rolling out around them, spreading everything out. They were safe, thought Rene, just as Elsie had said – they could never have fallen. Echoing the thought, Elsie turned back to look at Rene, smiled. They said nothing. It was good perhaps that they had the horse to distract them, but from where they were, there wasn’t much to see.
Rene reached for the cigarette packet, dewy, slightly damp; one last cigarette. Elsie was rubbing her palms together, smoothing away the ridges and dents left by the grass and stones. So they looked out across the hazy flat beneath them – stretched out like a faded map – and for a few moments everything seemed to lie within their ken.
They followed one of the bright, dusty paths down the hill, so they could see the horse properly – it was what they had come for, wasn’t it? They needed to get much further away to see him stretched and smooth, to see his great leap, as Elsie put it. If they could have summoned last night’s confidence they might have run down the hill, or at least stridden down, but that moment had passed, the morning-side contours uncertain.
But they hadn’t come all this way for nothing, and they carried on, walking further down the hill. Rene kept turning back, but Elsie, walking in front, tall and loose, never faltered till they reached the bottom.
* * *
Close up, his white dusty shapes are abstract, aleatory, but that’s because you’re too near, crawling among his dusty bones. Halfway down the hill is where he starts to emerge, short-backed, more dog than horse, his ear exaggerated by the angle; he is compressed, caught in a half-clenched fan. It is only when you get to the bottom of the field that the ground’s canvas flattens, and you see him stretched and smooth, ‘making his great leap’: long-backed, certainly no dog or dragon (the dragon sleeps just below, you can see his glacial claws). You could walk all the way along the bottom of the hill and watch him slipping in and out of sight, growing bigger-smaller, stretching and contracting. If you were quick enough, he would gallop unsteadily on the spot like an old film.
* * *
They replaced the turf piece by piece; it was grinding work after the walk back up the hill. No sandwiches left and neither of them could face the last of the brandy. The day was pulling them now but they were trying hard not to feel it. The huge, grassy oval mound below was the strangest thing Rene had ever seen. A great flock of rooks emerged from the valley beneath. At the bottom of the hill they stopped and looked back again. They’d made a pretty good job, but you could still see him through it, or so it seemed.
‘Make a wish,’ said Elsie. ‘I forgot to say that last night. You’re supposed to make a wish.’
‘I hope Reading wasn’t bombed last night,’ said Rene.
They both laughed and it was all suddenly vivid again – it was safe to go home.
6.
Battle of the Atlantic (Starlight Front), 1941
Rene moved quietly about the kitchen, taking her light with her – sometimes she still forgot. She had boiled two eggs last night for the sandwiches (this much she had to let on to Elsie). Now she mashed them with damp-cotton cress and salt. In the queasy light, she spread too much butter on the bread but she didn’t care. Maybe it was childish but she wanted this picnic, this half-surprise, to include as many different things as she could muster. Two thick slices of the cheese, two pink apples, a clutch of crumbling cream crackers, the little bar of chocolate. She didn’t care too much for chocolate and nor did Elsie, but the stamps told her it was special.
Elsie would be over in the feeding shed by now. As soon as she went outside, the yard came suddenly and briefly to life: the shudder and throb of the tap in the yard, the single bark, then Elsie’s voice – soft and secret – an instant charm on Smoke, who would then lie down again quietly in his box. Oil lamp in hand, Rene rummaged in the larder, as she had done at least a dozen times over the past few days, and found something she hadn’t noticed before: a big jar of what looked like raspberries. Nervous and inspired, she prised open the jar – she could smell them now – and spread the soft fruit on to more slices of bread, squished it together and wrapped it all up in the thin paper. She hoped it wouldn’t leak. Elsie would be back soon.
> Everything was ready. She washed her hands, dark-stained from the fruit, and peered out of the window, just a glimmer of light in the sky. She fancied she could hear footsteps, the click of a coop opening, muffled clucking. She put the kettle on for tea and moved the lamp over to the table; she sank into what had become her chair with a calm satisfaction, Elsie’s was opposite. Her hand ran over the picnic bag, remoulding the shapes under the canvas. Marooned in the surrounding dark of the kitchen, the flickering in the stove was the only other beacon, a friendly outpost. Through half-closed eyes, a tiny suitcase swam into view. I’m running away, Mum. Back in her childhood bedroom, on the high bed that seemed to float in the dark, were all the things she was going to take with her: a map and a torch, a pair of gloves left by a guest, her own copy of Treasure Island and, inside it, an envelope, with Vicky’s letter, the two cards. The book was tied with brown ribbon.
‘I’m going tomorrow, really I am.’
Her mum was sitting on the chair by the fire, feet up, hugging her knees. No sign of baby Leo – Bertha had taken him out in the pram.
‘Couldn’t you wait a while, perhaps till next week?’
There was a trace of a smile in her voice, surely.
‘We’re so busy over the next few days, I do so need your help.’
‘All right, but I will need to go soon.’
‘Of course. I understand, but don’t go yet.’
Her mum had leant forward and squeezed her hand.
Physically settled at her island table, her mind ran here and there in the diminishing dark. She had been worrying at this memory recently, it kept coming back. Elsie’s step – she would hear her soon – and the coming of the dawn seemed to set a limit on its promise; already it spread and thinned in the lightening.
