The Arrival of Missives (6 page)

'What're you after?' he says. 'Daniel's not here. He's gone to Taunton.'

'Manners,' says Mr Redmore.

I wonder why everyone keeps telling me about Daniel. It's not as if I have done anything to encourage the belief that I have an interest in him, and I do not urge him to be interested in me. Besides, if I did want to see Daniel it would hardly do for a young lady to turn up at a gentleman's house in the hope of catching a glimpse of him.

'Here,' says Mr Redmore, and holds out the box. It has no lid and is about the size of the bible on the lectern in our church. The horseshoes are arranged within, in two rows. I put my hands out, so he places the box in my arms and relaxes his grip a little, just so I can feel the weight of it. He laughs as I stagger, and lifts the box up. 'Told you,' he says, quite kindly, then, 'come on, lead the way, Miss Fearn, and direct me to the place for these. I'll deliver myself just this once. It will take me back to my youth when I ran the length of this village and beyond carrying all manner of whatnots. Back to the farm, is it?'

'No,' I say. I know when I have lost a battle. 'To the schoolroom, please.'

'Very well.'

I start walking, aware of Mr Redmore's presence behind me; he keeps pace to stay in my wake. What a strange procession we must be to behold, and when we reach the main street and start to spy familiar faces I find myself blushing fiercely. Why do they all smile at the sight of us, as if they are complicit in some joke? I cannot bear it, so I stop walking and turn to Mr Redmore. He is smiling too.

'Everyone is very cheerful today,' I say, as he catches up with me, and then I dawdle so that he must walk alongside me whether he likes it or not. He carries the box so easily and there is no strain in his voice as he replies.

'It being a lovely Saturday is the cause of that, I dare say.'

'Indeed. It has made them all very jolly.'

'May is a lovely month,' he says, then nods in greeting to Mrs Norman and her children, the six of them hand in hand behind her crocodile-style.

'But we are not quite in May yet.'

'No. Not quite. But it will not be long. And then it is only a month or so until your schooling days are over, is it not? Yours and Daniel's.'

'Perhaps,' I say, coolly.

'O ho!' he says, but does not comment further.

How I hate this village sometimes, and the people in it.

We reach the schoolroom, but my destination is behind it – the hut that lurks in the long grass behind what was once a cricket pitch when Mr Fisk was in charge, and keen on the sport even though nobody showed any talent for bowling. It is a small, dilapidated wooden shed into which all manner of objects have been crammed, from stumps to wickets to long-forgotten texts and broken slates. 'I have been given the key especially,' I explain when Mr Redmore gives a puzzled glance to the hut, and I produce the key from my apron pocket. It takes an effort to turn it in the lock, but eventually it succumbs and clicks open.

The door swings back to reveal the cobwebbed interior and the lines of dusty shelves filled with a tangled mess of defunct possessions that look as if they belong in a museum. Mr Redmore must be thinking a similar thought, because he steps into the hut and puts down the box of horseshoes on top of a pile of leg pads, and sighs. He says, 'Who can believe we are at the end of your schooling? You and Daniel both. It seems only yesterday you were barely as tall as my knee.'

I step back and wait for him to emerge, but he does not. He stands inside the hut, unbothered by the dust and the corpses of flies dangling from the roof by the thin strands of spiderweb. He fills the space, and something in his quiet contemplation brings an unwelcome intimacy to the moment. I find I do not want to be there.

Then he turns to look hard at me.

'Pretty little thing, aren't you? Strange to think you'll have that big farm, to run all by yourself. Your father is no doubt showing you all you need to know, though. He's a man with one eye on the future.'

I sense a warning in these words. I realise that Mr Redmore has also heard of my letter to Taunton, and that is what he speaks of: the place where the plans of the old and young do not quite meet.

'He took you along to all those farmers' balls, didn't he? The Taunton ones. But they say in the village he's stopped that now. Did you not see a young man you liked?'

'We must all make our own plans,' I say. 'Who knows what the future holds?'

He smiles, and shrugs, crossing his broad, scarred arms over his chest. So many burns have been sustained from the forge that the skin is puckered and shiny. 'I know that all businesses needs a strong pair of hands to guide the way. I have Dennis. And your father has you. Who will you have, miss?'

'Thank you for your concern, Mr Redmore, and I appreciate your kind offer, but I think I'll be looking for someone more my own age when I cast around for marriage material.'

Did I really say that? Yes, I really said that. I can't believe my own rudeness. He moves towards me, and I half-expect a clip around the ear, but Mr Redmore just laughs, and walks out of the hut to stand in the long grass once more.

'Whoever makes up your marriage material will have his work cut out for him, and no mistake,' he observes as I lock the door once more. When I turn around he is already halfway across the yard, returning to the smithy, where he belongs.

It is as if, I think as I walk slowly home, a light has been switched on inside of me. It is a light that only men can see, and it attracts them, draws them close. It makes them think that I will be receptive to their glances and comments. I'm not ridiculous enough to think that their interest is all about my beauty or other talents. It is simply that I am now, in their eyes, the right age for such treatment.

I did go to one or two of the farmers' balls, at my father's insistence, and found nobody there to hold a candle to Mr Tiller. I thought this had gone unnoticed, but it seems I am transparent; everyone has a great interest in me, and the farm I will inherit.

In Mr Redmore's case, he wants Daniel to benefit. I have no doubt Daniel would do a grand job of running the farm. I'm beginning to get the feeling, when I remember the look on everyone's faces as I walked along with Mr Redmore in tow, that the entire village is already in agreement with that sentiment.

But my father is in rude health, and such decisions are years ahead. When I do inherit I will simply pay somebody (maybe even Daniel, if that is whom everyone wants in the position) to manage my affairs. I wish I could explain my thinking, which is most sensible, to everyone who smirks at me, but nobody seems to really listen. Nobody but Mr Tiller.

*

The Sunday morning service is a regular opportunity for quiet contemplation on my part, and today is no exception. Reverend Mountcastle has a soothing voice, too soft and low to really enthuse a congregation, but with a mesmeric quality that steals my thoughts away to examination of a topic that has lodged itself in my mind.

Rocks.

The rock that has merged with Mr Tiller. I remember the way the skin peeled back from the jagged stone, and the unnatural pulsing of silver through it, casting its glow through the kitchen.

I shudder.

My father, next to me in the back pew, nudges me with his elbow. He has hardly spoken to me since I was out late the other night. It is easy to tell that he is allowing the unspoken words to build up inside him, until they will erupt at some moment. I can guess what he will spout forth then; what I cannot know is what I will say in return. I must try to keep my newfound temper to myself. It is only a matter of time before my mouth gets me into trouble. I feel quite certain of it.

'A wise son maketh a glad father: but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother. Treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but righteousness delivereth from death. The Lord will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish: but he casteth away the substance of the wicked. He becometh poor that dealeth with a slack hand: but the hand of the diligent maketh rich. He that gathereth in summer is a wise son: but he that sleepeth in harvest is a son that causeth shame,' Reverend Mountcastle says, sedately.

I cast my eyes around the church. We were late today as my mother couldn't find her best hat (it was under the sink, of all places, and nobody has any clue of how it got there) and the horse, Nellie, would not hurry for anyone. So I am afforded a rare opportunity from my view at the back to look around the families of Westerbridge. It takes my mind from the parts of my anatomy that are turning numb from continuous contact with the hard wooden pew.

The Redmores are not here, of course. I wasn't expecting to see them. The Barberys take up the pew directly in front of us, with all of the children neatened and behaving, which is a surprise. The Clarkes, the Colsons, the Braddicks, the Brownlees. Mr Tiller, on the end of the Brownlees' row.

Everyone is standing; it is my mother who elbows me this time, in my other side, and holds out her hymnbook so I can see what we are about to sing. It is 'Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer', which has three verses. Long enough to alleviate the numbness in my lower region, anyway.

After the service we mill in the churchyard, as is the usual practice. The men talk business, even though it is a Sunday and Reverend Mountcastle will frown at them. But his severe expressions will do no good; they will only move their talk over to the village green, opposite the smithy, rather than cease entirely. The ladies follow their procession down the main street, and it is a warm, dry day so my mother and I sit on the grass with Mrs Braddick and her girls. They chat about the surprising turn of events that could lead to a best hat ending up under the sink without so much as a by-your-leave.

I watch my father talk business. He once told me that he does more trade on a Sunday than on any other day of the week, and if God hadn't wanted it that way he should not have congregated working men together on that day. I was only little, and remember my mother saying, 'Don't put such thoughts into her head, Fred!'

Well, too late. The thought has stuck there, to be recalled forever more. Rather like Mr Tiller's rock, some thoughts land upon you with a crash and then sink in, and no power on Earth will dislodge them.

It is a good long time before my father comes over to where we sit and tells us he is going to help with finding a good tree for the maypole this year, and we are to take Nellie home ourselves. 'I'll walk back later,' he says. He seems in better spirits than I have seen for a while. He even gives me a smile.

My mother nods, looking not so happy with this turn of events, and we leave the green and return to our horse and cart outside the churchyard. Nellie has waited patiently for us without a peep, as she has been trained to do. But she is also an older horse now, and seems happy to take any instruction as long as it involves not moving very far.

My mother takes up the reins and snaps them. Nellie sighs, and commences a slow plod through the village. We pass all the familiar sights, shops, houses and faces in silence. It is not until we are halfway home, alone on the road with the hedges up high around us, that my mother reaches into her sewn pocket bag kept around her neck, and pulls out a letter, dropping it in my lap.

For one awful moment I think she has found Mr Tiller's confessional letter, but no – no, it is still safe against my chest, held in place by my dress, and the paper now lying in my lap is too thin. I feel such relief, but too soon; as I open it and scan it, I discover why my mother is so vexed.

Further to your letter – Invite you to attend a meeting on Tuesday 27th April – Possible enrolment for the coming September.

’Has Father seen it?' I ask.

'Of course,' she says. 'Did you think I would keep it from him?'

Perhaps I had hoped that, at least until she had talked to me first. But now I see that was a ridiculous fancy. 'So he disapproves?'

'He does. As you knew he would, or else why would you have kept this plot to yourself? Shirley, you break our hearts.' But I do not see a broken heart in her expression, nor in her voice. There is only a flat tone, familiar to me as one that issues orders when work must be done, raised to carry over the noise of Nellie's hooves. It is very familiar to me, this voice, but it scares me to realise that it is a disguise – one that she has worn since I was a little girl. Who knows what she really feels about me? Or about the entire world?

Maybe that is why she has always worn it.

'It was not a deliberate attempt to…' The words fail me. Hurt them? Escape from them, and from the farm? I love the farm, and I mean to take care of it. I wish I could explain this, but suddenly, in the glare of daylight with the letter in my lap, all my plans seem quite strange and miniature to me. It is as if they are pictures that I painted in a small back room, without much light, and now I have carried them into the full glare of the sunshine I must admit my pictures are washed-out and weak against the full palette of reality. Such as that tone in my mother's voice.

'You mean to look after the farm,' she repeats.

'I could train as a teacher while Father still runs the farm and I am not needed, and then – later on, after I have qualified – I could do both. Run the farm, and teach.'

'I thought you clever,' says my mother. 'I thought you understood. I should have made it clear. I saw where your heart was leading you, but I thought you would not give way to it. The farm will not be yours to look after, Shirley. That is not why you have been given an education beyond what I could have dreamed of. You have been given the skills to make yourself bright and interesting to the kind of young man who can run a place like this. To help him, and to keep him.'