A Country Marriage (46 page)

‘What?’

‘Lower yourself onto me,’ he urged. ‘It’ll feel like nothing you ever knew before, I promise you.’ Unable to meet his look, she pressed her eyes tightly shut against the stark feeling of exposure, and self-consciously did as he said, aware that they were groaning together. ‘You ain’t the least notion, have you Mary Strong?’

With his voice drawing her thoughts back, she opened her eyes to lean towards him and study his expression.

‘What?’

‘The spell you cast. The power you have.’

‘
Me
?’

‘Yes. You. Especially there, like that.’

‘I don’t feel like none of them things. In truth I feel…
naked
.’

‘You
look
… well…’ he blew out a long stream of air, ‘I don’t rightly know that there’s a word for it, but feel how you rouse me.’ In response, she blushed hotly, her feelings of vulnerability rushing back. The idea of a woman having power had never occurred to her before; to her mind, the power in life rested with men, for them to wield or abuse as they saw fit, but now she looked back at him, mindful of his observation. ‘Perhaps ’tis a good job you don’t realise it, though,’ he was saying, laughing, ‘since I’d be in serious trouble if you ever learned how to use it proper.’

But she wondered right then whether she
was
in fact learning, because although she was certain he was teasing her, he was right; a woman
could
have power,
did
in fact possess it, but with it being so much more subtle than a man’s, and stemming as it did from her sexuality rather than from any form of physical strength, it wasn’t surprising that as far as she had seen, few women knew how to make use of it. For the first time, so many things were beginning to make sense and without any real thought, she started moving her hips, feeling instantly the effect it had on him. Yes, that was power. But, at the same time, he was reaching towards her, and at the instant of his touch, her eyes snapped shut and her breath caught in her chest, anticipation overwhelming her ability to think as the confident movement of his fingers shifted the balance of power back in his favour.

Wholly at his mercy now, she started to sense the edge of something high and precarious drawing near, his practised touch drawing her on until holding her breath, she was, for a split second, weightless, teetering hazardously and peering over. This was it; the unbearable pleasure so brief and intense that it escaped description, and if she could make time stand still forever, then it would be right now, right at this very moment. And then, inevitably, she started to fall, swooping rapidly, joyously, down over the precipice, shuddering, flying unfettered, her mind blank of all concerns and her body formless and free. And in that same moment, from somewhere close by, she heard how he groaned and then felt him convulse inside her.

*

‘I can’t believe I gave in to you,’ George hissed, as he held back a wand of hazel and she ducked past. ‘How ever did I think bringing a woman was a sensible idea?’

‘Well, you did and I’m here,’ Annie whispered fiercely, and stood back to allow him to go on ahead of her. ‘And anyway,’ she continued, her feet scrunching in the deep leaf-litter as she tried to keep pace, ‘surely there was a better way in than this.’

‘What, up the track and through the gate you mean? Like a Sunday visit?’

‘Oh, such wit. No, I just meant…’ She stopped talking and ducked to avoid a branch, the sharp crack of a brittle twig beneath her shoe bringing them both to a halt.

‘Shh! For heaven’s sake, Annie, we’re real close now. If the dogs hear us they’ll start up a terrible din, then we mightn’t be able to see it through. An’ I’ve waited weeks to be entrusted with this chance.’

‘You didn’t say nothin’ about no dogs,’ she replied as they started walking again, picking their way carefully between the hazel poles.

‘No— an’ with luck there won’t be any. But it would be a peculiar farm that didn’t have even a single dog in the yard.’

‘Well just don’t get too far ahead of me, then. I can scarce see my hand in front of my face.’ More cautiously now, she followed him onwards, bending this way and that to avoid the whippy hazel-branches that only appeared from the gloom when they were directly in front of their faces. ‘Why ain’t there never a moon when you want one?’ he heard her curse.

‘ʼTis better cover without,’ he whispered, and paused for her to catch up, offering his hand to guide her forward. ‘Look, we’re nigh on there now. I can see the edge of the copse and after that it’s just pasture.’ He kept hold of her hand, feeling the cold clamminess of her palm and the way that she gripped at his fingers whenever she was unsure of her footing. It had seemed a crazed idea to bring her even while she had been proposing it, but at the same time something about it had appealed to his pride, seeming like a rare chance for him to take responsibility for her and show her what he was made of; a demonstration of his intent. But now, here, in this ancient coppice, with his nostrils filled by the rich, damp smell of autumn and his whole body alert to the danger of being discovered, it felt little more than foolhardy, a plan worthy only of a young lad with a burning need to impress a village maid. ‘There; we’re here,’ he said, as they reached the ditch at the edge of the field and he helped her across.

‘So now what?’ she asked, standing close as he surveyed the dark and wide-open expanse ahead of them. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

‘No,’ he agreed, anxiety gripping at his insides, so that for a brief moment he wondered as to the wisdom of seeing it through. ‘But it’s over there,’ he said, gesturing ahead with his arm and then turning to look back at her, able to pick out only shadows of her features in the gloom. ‘But listen to me real good. Once we step out from these trees, we got to make it across to the other side without stopping, all right?’ She nodded, and sensing her uncertainty, he wished yet again that he hadn’t caved to her pleas to be allowed to come. ‘Look, why don’t you wait here for me?’ he said, voicing the suggestion that had been forming in his mind for a while now.

‘What, after coming all this way? No, I ain’t ducking out now.’

At the firmness of her answer, he felt his shoulders sag.

‘Well then, when I run, keep up as best you can. It’ll most likely be uneven underfoot but if you stumble, don’t shriek or make a noise. And I shan’t be able to stop to help you. So, if you fall, make your way back here and wait for me, understand?’ He saw her give a single nod and did his best to contain a sigh of defeat. ‘Ready then? Right. Come on. Follow me.’

Racing across the ankle-deep grass, damp with dew, his uneven footsteps jarred upwards through his body, forcing his breathing into irregular gulps. Focusing his mind solely upon reaching the shelter of the wall, he willed himself not to check on her progress; if she managed to keep up with him that was fine. If she couldn’t, well, that was down to her but even above the thudding noise of his tread he could hear the swishing of her skirts and knew that she was no more than a pace behind him. Then, from out of the blackness, the solid mass of the farmyard wall loomed up and before he knew it, she was beside him, panting, flattened against the crumbling clay bricks. With each gasp for breath, he could smell the crisp, clean aroma of the new straw and then, feeling her hand on his shoulder, he turned to look at her and sense that despite her breathlessness, she was grinning broadly. He raised his finger to his lips and, still gasping, she nodded her understanding. Carefully, he took a couple of steps back into the field and peered upwards, his eyes picking out the domed mounds beyond the top of the wall. Three ricks. Their scout had been right.

With a fresh sense of purpose, he squatted down and started to pull things from his pockets.

‘What’s in there?’ she whispered, as she crouched beside him at the base of the wall and watched him spreading out the items on the ground in front of him. She was pointing to a shallow rectangular tin.

‘Lucifers,’ he whispered back, prying off the lid and opening out a flat sheath of what looked in the darkness to be thick paper.

‘Matches?’

‘Aye. Look, you can help me here. Find me three small pebbles.’ Without further ado, he saw her start to feel about in the damp grass, finding first one, two, then three, jagged pieces of flint.

‘These any good?’

‘Aye, fine. Now, knot one in the middle of each of these,’ he instructed, seeing her hold them out to him. ‘I’ll do this one.’ Working in silence, they secured the flints into the pieces of cloth and, with the task complete, he caught hold of her wrist and noticed the unwavering look she gave in return. ‘Now, listen to me real careful. These Lucifers throw sparks all over the place, crazed-like, and once I get these rags lit, I got to get them over the top of the wall real quick.’ He saw her nod. ‘Then, no matter what happens next, we got to run. We can’t wait about. We got to be back in them trees afore the flames get a hold enough to fetch folk from their beds. Understand me?’ With her lips pressed tight, she nodded her head rapidly. ‘So the minute I throw the first one, start running. I’ll do the next two directly and then I’ll be right behind you. Don’t wait for me. Don’t look back, and whatever happens, don’t make a sound, nothing at all. Understand me?’

‘Aye,’ she said and he noticed how her voice sounded far less confident now.

‘Move a good bit away then or the sparks could catch your skirts.’

Giving her time to back away, and bracing his body against the wall, he drew the flat splint sharply through the fold of glass-paper, creating a sound like the frantic scratching of a mouse. Then, with an urgent hiss, a shower of sparks turned into a bright flare that threw out a pool of pallid light and engulfed them in the stomach-churning smell of rotten eggs. As the ghostly glow subsided, he saw her shrink back further, her hand over her mouth, and as he stood up with the first rag now aflame in his hand, she shot to her feet.

Launching the burning rag towards the top of the wall, he held his breath, watching as it described a fiery arc before coming to rest atop the rick. A short distance away, he glimpsed her skirts melting into the darkness as he squatted back down to do the same again, and when he stood up to take aim a second time, he could hear the crackle of the fire already taking hold. Praying that she was now well on her way across the field, he launched the second rag over the wall and heard the sound of licking flames on the otherwise still night air. With his heart racing, he ducked down again and reached for another match, but this time when he tugged it through the glass-paper, nothing happened. Cursing his ill luck, he tried again, the action producing its familiar rasp but not a flicker of a flame. With his fingers trembling and his throat knotting, he reached into the wrapper for another, while all the time above him, the sound of the spitting flames was growing more distinct. Any minute now, someone would hear, and if the master had posted a watch, he might not make it back across the field to the cover of the wood. Recognising that such conjecture was only adding to his panic, he drew a deep breath, only to have the smell of burning straw prickle the inside of his nostrils. And then, with unsteady fingers, he grasped another spill, and as he drew it sharply through the coarse paper, it sent out a flurry of sparks and he thrust the phosphorescent glow against the edge of the cloth. In his mounting anxiety it seemed slow to catch, and while he was willing it to flame, he could hear the excited barking of a dog echoing around the enclosed yard.

Knowing that he was running out of time and with the cloth barely alight, he scrabbled to his feet and tossed it in the general direction of the last mound before turning to run, remembering just in time the wrapper of matches still on the ground. In one swoop of his hand, he snatched it up, and still doubled over, lurched away from the wall, the sound of voices now competing with the frantic howling of the dog to raise the alarm.

*

It was the best part of a mile to the far side of the hazel coppice and the cart track that led back to Verneybrook, and in the pitch dark their progress was erratic, but throughout the entire time neither of them spoke, the only sounds being the crunch of crisp leaf-litter and their puffing and panting as they drew breath. Keeping a firm grasp of her hand, he did his best to steer her around and between the low and barely visible stools, placing his feet more by instinct than sight, but despite his best efforts she stumbled frequently, dragging at his hand for support.

Eventually, he was able to discern the dark shape of the hurdle-maker’s hut, and felt the tautness of his body slackening in the knowledge that only a few yards beyond that lay the track. He turned briefly to look at her and she nodded, signalling that she understood the need for caution. The tiny wattle hut stood alone in a small circular clearing, surrounded on all sides by bundles of withies in great stacks, and needing to cross it without making a noise, they slowed their pace and raised themselves onto their toes.

‘Thank the Lord
he
ain’t got a dog,’ she whispered as they arrived in the relative safety of the lane; but paying no heed to her observation, he grabbed her hand and ran, fast, pulling her along behind him until, in a series of breathless hisses, she pleaded with him to stop.

‘Well?’ he asked, pulling her against his body with a smack, and closing his arms tightly about her, feeling how the moist warmth of her breath against his neck was stirring something inside him. From within his clasp she managed a breathless shake of her head, and as he lifted aside a tress of hair that had escaped from under her shawl, he could see that she was grinning. ‘Your first rick-firing,’ he whispered breathlessly back, all of his exhaustion wiped away in a surge of euphoria.