Turf or Stone (6 page)

Without being aware of it he had fallen deep into thought again, and slackened his pace to a saunter.

‘Come on! We’ll miss that train,’ shouted Davis, sprinting on ahead. Matt roused himself. Now it was Easter who occupied his brain.

‘Why should you think I was going to sack him?’ he demanded, catching Davis up.

‘Heard it somewhere. Thought you must’ve turned moralist. Mind, he’s a queer chap.’

‘Yes… perhaps.’

‘No doubt of it. Saw him last night.’

‘Where?’

‘Walking with a woman.’

‘His wife?’

‘Shouldn’t be surprised. Red haired, and not
bad-looking
.’

‘Yes, she has red hair.’

‘Well, they didn’t know I was there. I watched them, and once I was on the point of jumping out at him and letting him have it. Depend upon it that bloke’s a brute. I don’t care for him,’ said Davis emphatically.

They concentrated all their energy on speed. They did not speak again until they were in the train. Then Matt asked why Davis thought Easter a brute. He had never seen any signs of it before. Davis grimaced, scratched his nose, and swung his feet, in their dirty, neglected boots, up on the seat. They had a carriage to themselves. He began to trim his dirty nails with a small instrument, which was fastened to his watch chain. Matt repeated the question.

‘When a man throws stones at his wife I call him a brute.’

‘I don’t understand… you saw Easter throwing stones at his wife?’

‘I saw him.’

‘Why, good God, she’s…’

‘That’s plain. Your groom’s a b— scoundrel, Kilminster.’

‘Was she hurt?’

‘Don’t know. She didn’t make a sound. I’d no sooner made up my mind to have a go at him than he ran up to her, and they seemed to be all right. I was some distance off, so I couldn’t see much.’

Matt seemed aghast, and said no more. He was struck by the number of questions he had asked. So was Davis.

At ten o’clock that night Dorothy sent for Easter. Being perfectly aware of what she wanted him to do he deliberately took his time before answering the summons. On these occasions it pleased him to feel the Kilminsters in his hands. Dorothy was lying on the hearthrug in the drawing room, collecting the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle which Philip had thrown at Rosamund. Over-tired and peevish they had gone to bed. Phoebe sat on a stool near the fire, a book upside down on her lap, murmuring poetry. At each disconnected audible mutter Dorothy twitched her brows with annoyance. The white light of the unshaded lamp made them look drawn and unhealthy. The room was chilly, the carpet littered with chocolate-box shavings, and children’s crumpled comic papers.

Phoebe stopped, and Dorothy jerked herself upright. Through the door they heard scolding and broken jeering laughter.

‘There he is, mother!’

Dorothy walked across the room and glanced along the passage, which was almost dark. With the light of the hall lamp behind him, Easter was coming towards her, and there was something dangerous in his aspect, something wild and out of control. His features still gleamed with fitful mirth, and his unholy eyes were shining excitedly. He stopped very near to her, bending so close to her bare shoulders that she took a quick pace backwards. She wore a long amber-coloured satin dress, which attracted him, but he disdained her. She had no character, no strength, nothing to give or to teach.

‘You have been a long time,’ she said.

‘I came as soon as I could, madam.’

Dorothy surveyed his slovenly clothes and ill-shaven face impatiently.

‘How many times have you been told not to loaf about the kitchen?’

‘I was killing a rat.’

He answered impudently; pulling the dead animal out of his pocket he swung it round jauntily by the tail.

‘Its neck’s broken,’ he added, with a secret glance under his arched eyelids, ‘I caught it a clip with the tongs as it run over the fender.’

He held it out for her to see. She was disgusted, and he returned it to his pocket with a contemptuous grin. A horrible odour indicated that the rat was in reality much staler than he made out; in fact, it was a dead one which he had picked up for a purpose of his own.

‘Bring me a cigarette,’ Dorothy suddenly demanded.

Easter could not see any.

‘On the table behind you, in that box.’

While he turned round she dwelt on him, the fierce, impertinent man whom she could not endure.

He found the box and passed it to her without opening it, and she shook it so that they could hear the cigarettes rolling about inside.

‘Don’t you think you should have opened it for me? Now, a match!’

‘I haven’t a match,’ Easter exclaimed loudly. All at once he felt furiously angry as though he must strike her or spit into her face. The mood blazed in every feature, and made itself clear in his voice. Phoebe heard. She sprang to her
feet, and coming to her mother’s side leant forward and lit the cigarette. She cast a wavering nebulous glance on Easter; it seemed as if she were aware of his impulse and would take the insult herself. She looked both courageous and imploring. He averted his eyes, and his expression changed from a scowl to a sullen moroseness.

Dorothy smoked and stared him up and down. She gave her orders: he was to drive over to Davis’ farm and find out if Mr Kilminster were there. If he were, Easter was to bring him back. On no account to let him ride…

‘Oh, you are impossible!’ she broke out, ‘you haven’t shaved, and your clothes are awful – disgraceful. You look like a sweep.’

‘They’re good enough for my work.’

‘That’s enough. You can go.’

‘Of course.’

‘How
dare
you!’

Phoebe’s heart was beating terribly fast.

Easter roared with laughter. Standing in an absurd attitude on the tips of his toes he took the ends of his coat and held them out between finger and thumb, opening his arms, which were remarkably long, as far as they would go. The dead rat fell to the floor. He picked it up, made a ridiculous bow to Dorothy, and went away leaving her petrified with astonishment, until her rage burst. Almost beside herself, she took Phoebe by the shoulders and shouted, ‘Who can I appeal to, answer me that? Eh… fancy that creature having the face… oh, your father…’

The night was frosty. Above his bare head the sharp stars flashed. He held the reins in his cold taut hands. Who’d think things were growing? Who’d think there were animals as warm as lambs in the hard fields?

The old woman at the toll house had gone to bed ill, her daughter told him as she opened the gate, a lantern hanging from her wrist, a shawl over her head. Was he coming back? Yes. Well may as well leave the gate open now, must be close on eleven. He heard the old woman coughing up there in her bedroom. There were nice warm lights in Brelshope. Easter passed. Down one hill holding up the pony, up another, down another. He got out, went up to the rickety gate and shook it roughly till the pony turned its head. The gate was fastened with string. Easter took out a knife, cut through the many strands and led the pony into the yard. He knew exactly what to do. Having taken it out of the shafts and led it into an empty stable he pulled one lamp from the bracket, and carrying it, made his way towards the house. As he approached he heard a confused muffled tumult and the random straying notes of a tinny piano. He nodded, and screwed his mouth to one side.

Descending a couple of shallow steps behind the wagon-house he followed the path under a high stone wall, then turning sharp to the left came upon the house, a solid old sandstone building, as heavy and irregular as a red crag. It was divided by a paved passage with doors at either end, which were never locked or bolted. He marched up this passage, his lamp swinging, his long stride echoing, until he reached a window, then pushing his face forward, he peered through the uncurtained glass into the room.

It was full of men, most of whom he knew well by sight, intimately by tale. They were dishevelled, squalling, vehement, their hands and faces red, and their throats bursting with wet laughter. Only one woman was present – Mrs Davis, sitting at the table pinching the wick of a candle, while her eyes, bright with joyful life, flitted from one hot face to another. Matt himself sat on the table so close to her that his knees pushed into her shoulder: a green velveteen curtain draped his head and arms, and he continually twitched at it, fingering the tasselled fringe which fell ludicrously over his forehead and nose. His eyes were swimming, his skin damp and very pale. He was silent.

Davis himself in his shirt sleeves, a cap on the back of his head, sat at the piano, his open arms extended the whole length of the keyboard, lolling in a very easy attitude. The others leant against the walls or straddled across chairs. What would have astonished almost any observer was the sight of Marge in her cotton nightgown fast asleep on the knees of one of them, her little arm and relaxed fist thrown backwards against his cuff. Easter saw a great many bottles, not only on the tables and the floor, but sticking out of the empty parrot cage. Everyone was drinking, bawling, and gesticulating, excepting Matt and Mrs Davis, who, having smothered her fingers in candle grease, now folded her hands beneath her chin and observed the party with a pleasant expression.

Suddenly, however, a thunderous frown blackened her brow; she sprang across the room and grasped the arm of a man who was about to pour the dregs of his drink into the open piano, too late as it happened. Easter heard her
yell, saw her lifted off her feet, twisting and kicking out her legs, and then pandemonium broke loose. Easter observed that Matt made no attempt to throw himself into the row; his head had fallen forward, and his hand relinquished the glass, which lay on the floor in pieces. The groom reflected: he was in no hurry and the thought of Dorothy waiting up in her drawing room for her drunken husband was pleasant. He retreated from the window, walked back to the stable and, mounting a wooden ladder flat against the wall, which led up to the loft through a hole in the boards, threw himself down on a pile of hay from whence nothing was visible but the
star-speared
square of sky through the unglassed window. He extinguished the lamp and quickly fell asleep. He had a strange dream.

He seemed to have gone very far back into childhood, as far back as he could remember, when he lived with his mother in a sort of encampment with other half-bred gypsies. He thought he was lying in their own shelter made of bent withies and tarpaulins; he thought it was raining outside and he was alone in the hot dark, and if he put up his hand he could thrust the roof away from his face. He felt he could not draw his breath, and a burning, dusty smell crowded his throat. He was choking.

‘Mammy,’ he cried in his sleep. He fancied he heard her coming, but when the sack across the opening was pushed aside, it was not his mother’s brown hand that he saw. The sweat broke out.

‘Who’s there?’ he cried aloud.

‘Phoebe,’ her voice replied as distinctly as if she had really spoken in his ear.

He awoke terrified, and found that he was lying face downwards and might easily have been smothered in the hay. For a moment his senses gibbered, then he swore, spat out the bits and ends that were in his mouth and sat up. During his sleep, which had been much longer than he knew, his body had sunk deep into the hay. Now he was hot, his throat was parched with grassy particles, he was soaked with sweat. He coughed and coughed until his forehead swelled, felt for the light, and climbed down the ladder feeling ill and sensitive to the dark. The dead rat smelled like a dirty drain. It was one in the morning: a light now showed from an upper window of the house, a window which must have been ajar, for Easter distinctly heard two voices. His own was dry and harsh as though it had been scorched as he shouted down below, ‘Who’s there?’ like an echo of his dream.

Mrs Davis put her head out. The groom yelled in reply: ‘Easter Probert. Where’s Mr Kilminster?’

‘We’re putting ’un to bed.’

‘Then you’re doing my job, and I hope you like it.’

‘Fine, thanks,’ Mrs Davis replied, peacefully and without irony.

‘What’m I to tell the missus?’

Hereupon she sloped her head towards someone behind her, and murmured a question. After a moment her full face was turned once more towards Easter, but a yawn so far distended her jaws as to render her incoherent. The groom waited, his heart singing curses. Mrs Davis repeated: ‘Say, we couldn’t send ’im back tonight. ’E went stupid. Tell ’er that. Goodnight.’

The window shut and the light withdrew from her head,
travelled across the ceiling, and went out. Easter went across the yard to the pump, splashing in the muck. He drank deeply, drenched his head, and yawned to the stars. The sweat dried on him, his terror began to abate. He had felt, for one spasm, when Mrs Davis had shut the window, that he should scream. His hair had risen on the back of his neck.

He harnessed the pony and drove him rather slowly. He was very late, for on reaching The Gallustree, he found no lights showing. Mrs Kilminster had evidently given him up. That didn’t trouble him.

Mary was not asleep. She lay in bed, waiting for Easter. Curtains were drawn across the window; the bedroom was a box of black darkness. Mary lay on her back, turning over her bitter, resentful thoughts and counting her grudges. She would not speak, and when he sat down by the bed and put his head on the pillow, she did not move.

‘Haven’t you been to sleep yet?’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘But I’ve a surprise for you,’ he whispered, and stretched an arm across her throat. She was still, absolutely still. He hated her hardy self-command.

He struck a match: in the light her face appeared white and dragged. It was the fifth month of her pregnancy. By the brief flickering of the little yellow flame burning like a searchlight on her face, he looked at her and wanted her to be kind. But she had lost all her kindness, which at the best had been dictatorial. She closed her eyes, the match burnt out, and Easter cast away the glowing end. Throwing up both arms, he brought them down crashing with clenched fists on either side her body. The bed sprang.