Turf or Stone (5 page)

She coughed so wildly that she was forced to stop.

Phoebe regarded her with a most mournful and moved expression; it was remarkable that her face wore a piteous pleading smile. But she was quite silent while the servant cleared her throat and blew her nose. Again she laid her hands on the keys.

‘Miss Phoebe, he come this morning to the kitchen and he says, “Lily, this wedding business makes no difference, it was forced on me. Open the door just a little way for me to tell you something.” So I did, and he stuck his ugly yellow face in, laughing and showing all his teeth.

‘“I’m married,” he says. “What do you think of that?”

‘“I know it,” I says, “and I pity your wife.”

‘“Do you?” he says, and he comes right in and shuts the door after him, “you’ve no need. Last night while you was lying in your bed alone we were together with nothing between us… flesh against flesh, and with our arms round each other.” He says, “Have you ever had someone lying so close to you that their breath was like dew on your skin?” Then he begins to tell me about… her, and… all the time he was talking, he grinned and laughed, and held me fast against the wall. If he was to die I’d say it was a judgement and rejoice!’

She stopped, glaring and choking, and thrust one hand down the bosom of her dress, tearing it open as though she were longing for air. There was a ripping sound, the worn material hung in a jagged triangle over the bib of her apron. Her face and the skin which the opening exposed were suffused with red. The next moment she ran from the room. Phoebe followed, half expecting to see her fling herself headlong down the stairs; however, she was standing at the foot of them, biting her lips.

‘Lily,’ said Phoebe softly, behind her. She bent forward.

‘Are you sorry for me?’ Lily asked, in a hoarse, muffled voice.

‘Yes, I’m sorry for you.’

‘You needn’t be. There are better fish…’

She turned to look up at Phoebe whose poignant slight smile was at once so miserable and so compassionate.

‘Don’t think about it, miss, and for the Lord’s sake don’t tell anybody.’

‘Of course I shan’t tell.’

‘I’m going to leave…’

Phoebe did think about it. She could not help it. She feared Easter, and he occupied a place by himself in her mind, a troubled corner where his dark image stirred restlessly, threateningly. She perceived his cruelty, and she could not understand it. She had seen him drowning kittens in a bucket, laughing at their feeble clawing, poking them under the water with his fingers, pulling them out and re-immersing them.

When he came to work at The Gallustree, Phoebe had been twelve years old. One day she was standing in the yard, watching him unharness the pony. He was whistling and taking no notice of her. She asked for a ride. Easter nodded, smiling kindly. He put her up with the harness still on, holding the reins. The buckles hurt her, and after a quiet turn round the yard she wanted to get down; but to her alarm he led the pony into the paddock… a sudden slash with the reins and the pony broke into a gallop, tossing her up and down on the buckles. She never forgot Easter’s laughing face as he ran, holding the long reins. When they stopped she slid to the ground stupefied by his unkindness.

‘I wanted to see if you were afraid,’ he said, looking at the tears in her eyes. His expression changed and she fled, terrified. He could persecute her with a glance; she knew he was aware of it. When she thought about him she felt self-conscious, and a pang went through her as though he
had touched her. She saw him walking insolently, staring out of the corners of his eyes, smiling. ‘He’s spiteful, scornful, mocking. I am afraid of him.’

She went off into a long wandering meditation, which made her very unhappy: her shadowed face looked almost haggard.

At a quarter past eight Easter drove the trap round to the front gate. As no one was there waiting he climbed out and stood near the pony’s head. He wore shabby grey breeches and leggings, and his head was bare. He waited, the eyes scanning the windows, grinding his heel into the weedy road. The east wind blew violently, harder than the day before, roaring in the branches of the elms on the Danes’ Mount. Dead twigs fell to the ground. The desolate monkey tree, the long unpruned rambler shoots, the young firs, even the snowdrops so close to the earth, trembled and waved. Some lavender bushes growing by the wall looked like brittle grey skeletons.

Easter beat his hands on his shoulders. Mrs Pussy lay under the wall, rolling and scrabbling in the dead leaves. She rushed up a tree and lay along a branch; the high wind had infected her with temporary madness. Easter stooped and picked up a pebble which he intended to throw at her, but seeing Rosamund run down the steps he put the pebble in his pocket. Phoebe followed her, buckling the strap of her satchel, and they all got in.

It was a governess car. Phoebe sat beside Easter, so that in driving his back was three-quarters presented to her.
She chose her position because she could not see his face. Rosamund sat opposite, her round knees in darned brown stockings, thrust indifferently between his.

She peered at him.

‘Aren’t you well?’ she demanded.

‘There’s nothing amiss with me,’ he replied. He was a horrible colour. He turned his head over his shoulder and gave Phoebe the long, knowing stare that made her feel so uncomfortable.

Rosamund sat crunching an apple and blowing on her fingers. On reaching the station a few minutes later she gave the core to the pony, and at her leisure followed Phoebe along the platform.

On her birthday, which was the seventeenth of March, Mary left The Gallustree for the first time since her marriage. She went to Salus, and having walked from the station, returned about six o’clock. As she entered the yard she heard a woman’s furious voice, and Easter growling in reply. The sounds proceeded from an empty loose box, which was used for storing wood. A wheelbarrow containing several logs was standing on the cobbles outside the open door. Following a particularly loud outburst when both voices, grumbling and screeching reached a climax, when they were indistinguishable, Lily emerged stumbling, her arms thrown out as if there were force behind her. Her face was distorted. She approached Mary and stared at her with the eyes of an angry cat.

‘I should think you’d be ashamed to come out!’

‘Say something pretty for a change,’ Easter jeered.
Mary caught sight of him as he stood leaning against the wall, a log balanced on each hand. He hurled them into the barrow. Lily left the yard at a run: she was leaving on the morrow and had been having a final scene with Easter.

‘You’ve got to take Lily to the station,’ the cook told him next morning when he walked into the kitchen with the milk. Her cheeks were smothered with a white grease, her soft fine hair was pinned in a slatternly knot on the top of her head. With one foot on the fender she shamelessly adjusted her garters. Mrs Pussy was sitting on the table; the cloth, stained and torn, lay in wrinkles. Easter came close to the young cook, and taking the poker jabbed it between the bars till the sparks fell in showers.

‘Warm your legs,’ he said, smiling sidelong. The cook jerked her skirt from his fingers.

‘Now then, behave yourself! You heard what I said, didn’t you?’

‘What time?’ he asked morosely.

‘Catch the ten-forty. You’d better clear; I hear Miss Phoebe. She’s in and out of the kitchen all day Saturdays.’

‘I’ll drop in tonight and make the acquaintance of the new girl.’

‘No, you won’t. You stay in the yard or get off to The Dog, but keep clear of the kitchen for a bit. Mrs Kilminster can’t bear the sight of you – you’ll have to be on the look out for a new job soon. She give me a real rowing about you being in here so much, and I’m not so anxious to see your face…’

She turned her back, planted her feet firmly on the floor, and reaching for a handkerchief began to wipe her face. As he went out she muttered it was all his fault and then,
hearing the postman, rushed away to see if there were a letter from her regular young man who was respectable.

Much later in the morning Matt and his wife were sitting at breakfast. A glass door led into the ugly conservatory, where she kept her birds. They kept up a continual piping, interrupted now and then by a shrill cry whirring like clockwork running down.

Dorothy did not, as a rule, interfere with her husband’s concerns; indeed, she took no interest in them. He was astonished when she suddenly asked him to dismiss Easter. He pushed his chair away from the table and let the newspaper fall on the floor.

‘I shan’t do anything so ridiculous. Why ever should I?’

‘Very well,’ said Dorothy disagreeably. Then she began to upbraid him with Easter’s morals. ‘And you,’ she shouted in her thin, high voice, ‘what sort of an example are you?’

‘I’m a chaste man, aren’t I?’

‘God knows, I don’t. You’re a drunkard.’

‘Easter’s not.’

Matt leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. Dorothy rejoined:

‘Oh, isn’t he? That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve watched him… I’ve seen him in the harness room drinking out of a flask. He keeps it hidden behind the stove.’

‘Good luck to him,’ Matt exclaimed, but his face was serious. He immediately got up, left the house and went to search in the harness room. He found nothing. Returning he said: ‘You see you’re wrong. Why do you want to make a scene?’

She had lighted a cigarette, and sprawled across the
table on her elbows, blowing out angry jets of smoke. Even at breakfast her cheeks were rouged, high up under the eyes. Anger flushed her deeper.

‘I tell you I’ve seen him when he could hardly stagger across the yard…’

‘Will you be quiet?’

‘Get rid of Easter and that woman. With my own eyes…’

‘Oh, damn your eyes, and hold your tongue!’ But she would not. She railed at Matt until he too began to show signs of temper. A rumour of foot-and-mouth had put a stop to hunting; after all, it was something to do. The altercation waxed into a bitter dispute, and waned into a final sulky silence, which might take days to break.

The inner door opened and through the narrowest possible aperture a little boy, with a white subtle face and black eyes, set very close together, slipped into the room. He was absolutely naked except for a pair of plaid bedroom shoes, and he carried some clothes in each hand.

Dorothy gave him a long tender smile, holding out her arms. She took him up on her knee and he buried his face in her neck. After he had slightly relaxed a throttling embrace, she leant forward to the fire, still clasping the child with one arm, and held his garments to warm. Meanwhile he was helping himself to sugar and lighting another cigarette for his mother.

‘What have you been doing, my darling?’

‘In bed,’ he drawled.

‘Lazy little boy!’

‘Phib told me something funny about Cal-pur-nia.’

‘Well, who was Calpurnia?’ demanded Matt, inwardly contemptuous of Phoebe’s choice. Philip answered: ‘A
frog. She has a house in the hedge with Mr Caesar.
This
is how they talk: “Good morning Miss Cleo-pat-ra, is it going to be a fine day?”’

He drew in his breath, talking in a grating backwards voice. His eyes goggled: ‘Cleo-pat-ra is a snail.’

‘Oh,’ said Matt. He looked at the mother and child – a pretty, self-indulgent couple. Dorothy was thin, slender, and very small. Her face interested him no longer. The smoothness and lack of shadows or lines, the little nose and mouth, the dull pink flush beneath the light changeless eyes, might have held great appeal for a younger man. She wore her fair hair in profuse curls on her neck, and when she bent her head it fell over her cheeks and forehead, so that sometimes she singed the ends while she was smoking. Wherever she went she carried with her an odd, rather pleasant, smell of cigarette smoke, expensive perfume, and slightly burnt hair. She loved bright, unconventional colours, and rich fabrics. Her clothes were usually heavy, clinging, and gaudy, even in the mornings. She was wearing a sea-green silk robe, with huge fanlike sleeves, a pearl necklace, and high-heeled brocade shoes. She was a costly person.

She dressed the child slowly. He jumped off her knee and squatted in front of the fire, sipping cold coffee. She rose, smoothed his straight, black hair with a caress, and holding her own curls back from her high forehead, stared at herself with bent head, in the low-hanging mirror. She had two inseparable companions: her son, and her own mirrored face. She could not rest long away from either.

Presently she turned away, taking a few lumps of sugar for her canaries. Matt went after her. She broke into a
whistle. There were several cages hanging from bars, and to reach them she had to stand on her toes. She poked the sugar between the bars; the cages swayed lightly, her sleeves fell back from her bare arms. Philip was plunging his hands in the goldfishes’ tank, which was overgrown with ferns and moss. The sun shone through the green glass roof, obscured by a plumbago.

Matt had felt a feeble impulse to speak to her. It passed before any definite words came to his mind, for he was drugged with inertia. He went through the outer door, shutting it behind him, and leant against the frame. He closed his eyes, but the brilliant spring sunshine penetrated the lids like a red film.

A large man, somewhat delicately made, he seemed to lack energy of any sort. His face was stiff and expressionless, his features long and fine. The eyes, set obliquely, reflected no more light than a pair of grey pebbles; yet two sharp grooves, running from the wide nostrils to the upper lip lifting it in a keen, fierce curve, indicated a temperament which was by no means phlegmatic. Matt had been passionate, and he could still be violent.

He opened his eyes and looked up into the clear sky. During the past two weeks he had been madly drunk three times. He would be madly drunk again tonight, but he would approach the climax slowly.

He made his way to the stables. Sparrows were hopping about the clean-swept yard. Easter’s red-headed wife was descending the loft steps. She wore a long apron and carried a pail. With slow steps she walked to the pump.

The water gushed into the bucket. He went up to her.
He was nervous with women whom he did not know. She paused.

‘Where’s Easter?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

Matt regarded her; she was exceedingly pale. He turned away his eyes, took the bucket, and without finding a word, carried it across the yard and up the steps. He caught a glimpse of a spotless room. She thanked him, surprised. Then she closed her door softly.

Matt saddled his own horse and rode away thinking about her. It was the first time he had spoken to her.

A week ago he came upon her at dusk in the disused brewing house, beneath the loft, and her wan face framed in the gloom startled him.

He rode slackly at a walking pace, occasionally greeting people on the road. One round-shouldered youth with a rough skin, huge red ears, and a squint, sidled towards his horse and snatched at the rein. The animal shied, threw up its head, and sprang forward. The idiot crouched under the hedge, frightened at the flurry.

A mile from The Gallustree the river was spanned by an iron toll bridge. Matt rode across it and paid the due to the leery old woman who opened the gate.

He was lost, not exactly in thought, but in the effort of inward contemplation. There are moments when it is necessary to use all pictorial imagination to assemble the features of one face; the entire mind is given up to materialisation. It is an effort. Matt dwelt on Mary’s eyes, her long neck, her hollow cheeks, her mouth, tempting, yet severe. Gradually he called up the last glance she had given him as she shut her door, a look obstinately calm
and haughty, as though it would take many such insignificant kindnesses to win her good will.

For some reason the vision embarrassed him. He felt a premonition of difficulty and temptation. He pulled
himself
up, broke into a rapid trot, which quickly brought him to his destination and resolutely put her away from him.

A marked trait in his otherwise elusive character was a strong leaning towards democracy. He associated with anyone whom he liked. A year ago he had rubbed shoulders in some pub with an unsuccessful dissipated farmer, and this man had since become his chief companion. It was towards his farm he was now riding.

Arriving at a huddle of wretched outhouses, which looked more like shacks than farm buildings, he
dismounted
and tied his horse to a gate. The assembly was crowned by a new Dutch barn on a slight rise, whose corrugated iron roof was painted a dull red. The house lay beyond the yard, behind a round wooden shed, where the shafts of a wagon protruded from the dark interior into the sunlight. A little girl with a solid round face was sitting on the shaft nursing a rabbit. When she saw Matt she jumped up and ran towards him, dangling the rabbit by its ears.

‘Father’s in the yard,’ she squealed before she was asked. Matt nodded quickly. He walked into the yard, which was festering with muck, calling out, ‘Davis!’

The farmer appeared, his hands black and greasy, dressed in an old army service coat, and a very dirty pair of flannel trousers. Beside him Matt appeared to advantage in breeches and a tweed coat. Davis too had a rather ridiculous figure, short and rotund, while Matt’s legs were so long that people, seeing them and his sharp
features, were surprised that he should possess such wide shoulders.

Davis was smiling cheerfully.

‘More trouble,’ he announced, indicating a chaff cutter, which he had pulled to pieces just inside the barn. His wife was sitting on a ladder, a thin sharp-faced woman, whose black hair grew horribly low on her neck. She waved her hand casually.

‘Did yer leave yer ’orse outside, Matt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Margie’ll stable it for yer. Bill’s just off to Chepsford. Yer’ll go along?’

‘Why, yes, I will.’

‘That’s right,’ she said heartily, as she got up and shook the bits of straw from her dress. She was a queer woman who liked her husband to carouse and bring others home to share the fun. Davis was proud of her. He had told Matt as much. Matt studied her. He came to the conclusion that she was kind-hearted, but rather repulsive. Dorothy was better, though more stupid. He had never regretted his marriage, but to think of it was like blowing on dead embers: only dust arose.

‘I was wondering when you’d be round agen,’ Mrs Davis said, leaving the barn without any farther farewell.

Davis looked at his watch. He wiped his hands and face on some rags, took a coat off the chaff-cutter wheel and put it on, instead of the khaki garment he was wearing. He was then ready to go to Chepsford.

They walked the mile to Brelshope station, fully aware of their common intention to get drunk. Neither mentioned it. Davis walked, turning his head from side to
side, his inquisitive gaze taking in everything. Matt’s eyes were downcast, and he seemed disposed to silence. As they drew near the station Davis began on a subject curiously near Matt’s thoughts.

‘’Ave you found a new man, yet?’ he inquired, as he scrambled along with quick steps which took him over the ground wonderfully fast.

‘Eh… what do you mean?’

‘You’re getting rid of Easter Probert, aren’t you?’

‘B—!’ ejaculated Matt in sudden hot exasperation at his groom’s intrusive name. Davis opened his eyes.

‘I tell you I’ve had enough of that fellow,’ Matt continued sulkily.

‘Shouldn’t ’ave thought you’d mind him.’

‘Mind? I don’t think about him; why should I?’

‘Well, if you’ve given him the sack…’

‘I haven’t. I’m not going to.’