Cryers Hill Read online

  He has tried hard not to favour one area of village life over another, or any particular inhabitant over their neighbours. For example, last evening he viewed some footage of the lay preacher, Harry Blagdon, and the fellow not of this parish, him from the Dorset coast in the bowler hat who found God while out poaching and makes Samaritan visits to the sick. Harry watched while the fellow tipped back his bowler and chattered as if the camera could hear him. Off came the spectacles next, while the chap grinned like a fool. A bit of a clown. Somewhere there is some film of his friend, the young man who lives with his mother, Brown. Some say the son did not earn his position at the Water Company in Wycombe. Walter Brown, that's it. Some say he loves Farmer Hatt's youngest daughter, Mary. Some say he composes poetry; inferior quality, Mrs Williams said of it. He is a sensitive-looking young man, bashful. Harry watched young Brown straighten his cap, take out his pipe, and wait – as if he were a man of note: an explorer you might be led to believe, or a writer.

  Meanwhile, Harry has allowed himself to develop a penchant for girls on bicycles. His favourite of these is the Stevens girl, Edna, and her friend, the young Mary Hatt, riding their bicycles past the lush verges around the corner at Four Ashes. He had been obliged, on that occasion, to rush out and stop them and ask whether they would mind riding around again for the camera and they had laughingly agreed to reappear at the sound of Harry's signal, which as it happened was a duck whistle. On the film you see a butter-haired Edna Stevens first, cycling prettily past the stocks and foxgloves, her strong, freckled calves going round, followed by Mary Hatt, racked with laughter, losing her cloche to the breeze so that her hair streaks her face as she goes; and as she passes her face turns to the lens so that you see her rakish laugh and slanting eyes and silent words that she calls out to the camera before she is gone in a blur.

  Harry Styles habitually threw up a sheet at home to view his footage. He had used to arrange chairs in two neat rows, but the number of family members attending viewings dwindled, and eventually the formal dining room became a lonely cinema for one. No other member of the family could understand what Harry saw in the repeated viewings of the black-and-white places and faces they saw every day – in colour. But Harry saw something. And what he saw kept him gazing up at the illuminated sheet most evenings, while other family members continued to wonder why he bothered. What he saw, it's fair to say, was time. Tick-tock. What he gazed at were the legs and ticking arms of a moving clock.

  Thirty-four

  'DON'T TELL ME you're still sweet on poor Mary. Poor girl. They run in families, you know, these afflictions.'

  Walter did his best to ignore his mother. He busied himself with the apples, slicing his irritation into long coils of peel that ran and ran and eventually dropped into the kitchen bucket.

  'Your great-uncle Herbert knew a lunatic once, in Oxfordshire I believe. Quite good pals they were for a time.'

  Walter thought the apple peels were beautiful in their way. Coiling like that, spiralling on and on as they went.

  'It all ended in misery of course, these things always do. The lunatic was removed to an asylum and Herbert got all upset about it. Your great-grandmother, God rest her soul, was very relieved. Well, anything could have happened after all. They say these things get passed on.'

  Inside the bucket the peel was turning brown and sour.

  'Your father was a strange man. Don't get me wrong, he was decent and good – I was no fool when it came to boys – but he had peculiar sides, Walter. Which I will not go into. Very peculiar indeed.'

  Walter found himself concentrating on the crex crex of a corncrake in the field. She did this sometimes, delivered a sample, a titbit of something that promised to be surprising, revelatory, and then made a show of silencing herself.

  'There's no easy path through marriage, son, take my word for it. It's all sacrifice and I should know. You don't know the first thing about it, not the first thing. Ha!'

  'Right, that should do,' Walter said briskly. He stood up. He bent briefly to lift the basket of apples on to the table. He had intended to do them all; there was a good third left, but if he continued she would go on and he wanted her to stop.

  'What about those, then? Aren't you doing those? Too sour for the table, they are.'

  He had grown used to thinking on his feet; second nature these hurried lies were now. 'I promised the Denholms some, Ma, promised them yesterday.'

  'Did you?' She picked her tooth with her fingernail and eyed him carefully.

  'Can't let them down.'

  'Not too much pride in that family, is there? Never too proud for charity.'

  'I offered the apples, Ma. I can't let them down.'

  'Funny woman she is. I reckon she's got a jealous streak. Always wanted a son, that's what they say anyway, I wouldn't know. She asks after you, always did. Never a good word about her daughters, mind. Begrudged me you, I think. I do think that.'

  'I'll take these now before they sit down to their tea. I said I would.'

  'Well, let her try and raise a son and see how she manages. Promised, did you? It's no picnic raising a lad, you know! I told her that once. People always think they could be better off. When did you promise her then?'

  'What?'

  'When did you promise her the apples?'

  'I didn't promise. I just said I would take some round, you know, offer some because we had a surplus, that's all.'

  'Well, she wouldn't know what surplus means, Walter.'

  'Well, she knows what apples means, doesn't she? So I'm taking some round, Ma, and that's an end to it.'

  'Oh, well, it's nothing to do with me. These are your private arrangements with Mrs Denholm, and I'm sure it's none of my business. Be sure to let me know if you sell the house or join the Foreign Legion.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about. I'll get these round.'

  'Your funny ways are all from your father's side. And your temper. You men have the life of Riley compared to us women, not that you have to worry.'

  Sankey is on the lookout for signs. The Good Lord sends His messages whither which way, and it is important not to be looking in the wrong direction when He sends a sacred signal.

  Mr Palmer, Sankey notices, is standing at the front window looking out. This is the corner cottage on Grange Road, so there is no gate or garden at the front and consequently the window is almost on the road. There is a postbox in the wall beside the window. Mr Palmer stands there, sentry-like, at all hours. He has a full white moustache, hinting at possible past heroism. He is a cripple, so he leans on a stick. Anybody wishing to post a letter must face Mr Palmer through the window glass. There are those who would rather not, and they post their letters after dark. It is as if the village letters are posted directly into Mr Palmer's sitting room. His disposition – aged, frail, exhausted – is suggestive of him having read them all.

  Sankey touches his hat and Mr Palmer nods. Something about the way Mr Palmer stands there alone causes Sankey to recall that a man had walked off a cliff at Pevensey Bay. Yes, he'd seen the headline. Pevensey Man's Fatal Clifftop Tumble, it said. Quite a tongue-twister, quite a mouthful for the wireless newscaster. He supposes the chap hadn't thought about that when he threw himself off. Perhaps, thinks Sankey, he could have helped the fellow, guided him back to the fold. Bit of a hike to Pevensey, mind you. The chap will know comfort in the arms of Jesus by now. I will give you rest. Come thou, for there is peace.

  If he is to commit himself one day to the job of village preacher, Sankey muses, then he will require a bicycle. There is a shop nearby in Hazlemere, J. W. Money: Cycle and motor repairs: Phono and record stores: Cycles built of BSA Fittings. Mr J. W. Money knew a thing or two about enterprise. Sankey stands at his shop window almost every day in order to enjoy the items displayed there. Mr Money had the agency for Sunbeam cycles. He could build any manner of cycle, including motorised ones, in his shed on Brimmers Hill. He had successfully constructed a motorised contraption like a backwards tricycle, with the
pair of wheels at the front and single behind. Behind the saddle perched a smart leather bag for small items and at the front, between the mudguards, was a comfortable-looking armchair complete with footrest. If approaching head-on with a passenger, the impression given was of two people in a single easy chair, one growing out of the top of the other. Sankey pictured Mary in it. He would ride behind her, steering, amusing her with stories. A Bible and a hymnal would fit nicely inside the leather bag, and they would not struggle up a single hill but, due to the engine, only laugh and sing 'Do Believe!' into the wind. Together they would guide and save and enlighten across the Chilterns and beyond. Together they would enter the golden gates of Heaven and be ecstatically deafened by the flutes, lutes and lullabies of angels.

  Mary likes muffins, Sankey remembers. She likes them toasted on a coal fire. The muffin man always came down Grove Road on a Saturday with his tray on his head, swinging his bell. Sankey decides he will buy her a muffin; where's the harm in that?

  Thirty-five

  THERE IS A photograph of a man in Mrs Roys' house. It stands on the table in a metal frame among a small crowd of other faces in similar frames. This man does not appear offended, as some of the faces do, at the sight of an untidy boy in their midst, but seems instead to be amused and enquiring and youthfully alert. Sean sees the man is staring directly at him, unlike some of the subjects, who present their profiles to the camera as they gaze contemplatively away. The man is wearing uniform. A soldier? My darling Mary. I shall have to close. Sean touches the edge of the metal frame; it is smooth and cold. He has been listening to Mrs Roys in the kitchen, pouring the lime-fizzed drink that probably isn't poisoned. Now she is here, unsure momentarily where to set down the tray, each banana slipper pointing in a different direction, while she smiles apologetically.

  'Oh yes,' she says, on seeing the frame repositioned, Sean's fingers at its corner. 'Do you like soldiers?'

  'No,' Sean replies.

  'Oh.'

  'I like astronauts.'

  'I see. Yes, of course. Shall we have our drinks?'

  Sean and Mrs Roys sit in companionable silence while the shrubs wobble in the breeze outside. Sean tries not to slurp. Ann will believe him eventually: Her name is Mrs Roys, she has banana feet, she gives me tingly drinks, she has photographs, I have to do important jobs.

  'What do you think of the moon landings?'

  Mrs Roys' question surprises all the objects in the room. Sean's ice cube crashes inside his glass. He sees the fireplace gawping in disbelief. No one has asked him this question before. This is his starter for ten, his heart's desire. Sentences line up in his mouth: about Neil, about Buzz, about Eagle and the lunar module and the Sea of Tranquillity.

  ''S'all right.'

  Sean wonders why she is so interested. If he was a detective he would know. What could an old woman want with the moon? Godnose. He slurps his ice cube. It was hard to think straight in someone else's house. Think, you spaz.

  'I was born in 1913. If you'd talked about men on the moon in those days you would be assumed to be pretty queer.'

  Sean says nothing. He is not in a position to agree or disagree. She has said numbers. It is a date when you say numbers, like 1942. A flaming flipping date.

  'Turns out we had rather poor imaginations, don't you think? I mean, you have only got to look at television now, haven't you? Petroleum changed everything. And of course the war. And industry, not forgetting that.'

  Sean wonders what the bludyell she's saying. He recognises some of it. Television. War. Is he supposed to talk now? Sean glances at her.

  'Of course you're far too young to understand. Silly me. What do you know of it all?'

  There, she agrees that you are a spaz. She knows you know nothing. Daft bat. He knows plenty. He has the number to ring. He knows stuff she doesn't know. Stuff that would blow her out of her bananas. Well, must be off. Why won't he say it? Just say it. He speaks, finally.

  'Nineteen forty-two.'

  'What's that?'

  Sean gets up to leave. Mustbeoff mustbeoff. He turns to look at the photograph and the face of the soldier gazes genially back. He wishes he could have that picture in its cool metal frame. At home they don't have photographs in frames. He can hear Mrs Roys speaking.

  'That man's name is Walter Brown.'

  I know I know I know I know.

  'He was born here too. They lived on Valley Road, he and his mother. What was her name? Nice man. He loved the woods. He used to catch rabbits, he and his bowler-hatted chum. And he loved the dewponds.'

  Sean feels his mouth filling up with things to say.

  'Poor man,' Mrs Roys sighs.

  None of the things in Sean's mouth have made it out yet. He looks at her.

  'Poor Walter,' she says.

  Sean nods as though he knows what she means. mista waltr. The man who has written the blue letters which Sean is nearly-reading. mista waltr. If the soldier man is mista waltr then Mrs Roys must be mary hat. There, he has left no stone unturned. For your information, this is what Ann says. Well, for your information he is a detective, almost. Wur.

  'Poor Walter.'

  She has drifted away in her face, gone off. Sean glances at the limp bananas on the end of her legs. He feels ashamed of himself, embarrassed for her. He shouldn't be here. You are not allowed to talk to strangers. You are not supposed to water their pots or sit on their settees or make them sad or steal their things. He will be in big trouble.

  'Walter couldn't swim a stroke,' Mrs Roys pipes suddenly. 'Although he loved a girl who could.' And now her sadness is gone, just like that. Mrs Roys is too quick for him, Sean decides. She looks at him brightly and winks.

  'Are you mary hat?'

  Mrs Roys doesn't move or blink or speak, even after the question has completely dissolved in the air and there is nothing left to fill the space between them. Sean wonders whether he will have to wait here until he grows taller before he gets an answer. Or whether Mrs Roys is bewitched or has turned to stone.

  His mother told him once that if something really awful happened and he needed help, he should call 999. He can't recall seeing a telephone here at Mrs Roys' house.

  He wonders if he should ask the mary hat question again, or just go home, or call 999. He wonders if he should say, Get back in the wagon, woman. Or what.

  'No,' she says at last. 'I'm Isabel.'

  The world is mad, Sean can see that now. He is not prepared for a person called 'is a bell'. He has no plan now, or sensible reply.

  'I am Isabel Hatt. My sister's name is Mary Hatt.'

  Sean would like to kill himself, or at least run away. What is he supposed to do? Nobody mentioned a sister. What is he doing in Mary Hatt's sister's house? He is a thief and a spaz and a weirdo.

  'How do you know my sister's name?'

  Wur.

  'Do you know something about my sister? Did your parents, your grandparents know her? Have your family lived here a long time?'

  Wur. Wur. Wur.

  'You're a funny one, aren't you?'

  'I've got to go home now.' Spaz spaz spaz. Say it properly, I must be off.

  'Yes. Off you go. Good boy. Do you like puzzles?'

  'No.'

  The sunlight is there on the front step again, waiting. It hurls itself over them as the door swings open and they are dazzled momentarily by the brightness.

  'Ta-ta, then.'

  Sean is not altogether used to being hugged. He doesn't much like it. Mrs Roys hugs him now. She seems to like it. Being hugged by an elderly person is not as nice as you're supposed to pretend it is. You are closer to death in those arms. When they squeeze tight you suspect they may take you with them, off to the place the dead people go. You must resist and you do. And then you are petitioned for a kiss.

  'Your leaflets!' she remembers. And the bananas march her out. He had completely forgotten about the leaflets. Fete. That's what the leaflets said. That was why he was here.

  Sean runs. Here he is again in the place wher
e he lives, running. Not running, sprinting. He pumps his arms. Executive strides; rhythmical: Weirdo. Murderer. Madman. Spaz. Weirdo. Murderer. Madman. Spaz.

  9th February 1943, M.E.F.

  Dearest Mary,

  It's been a while since your last letter. I hope you are well and not working too hard. I hope John and Ida are in good spirits, and Isabel too over there in Kingshill. Any news of Clem? Or Joseph?

  Well, Mary, in Tripoli I saw Monty take the salute at the march past – a moving experience. The cathedral and promenade there are lovely. The shops were mostly closed, but I enjoyed the change. Arthur's ear is troubling him again. At night the sky is vivid red, shading to the palest salmon pink. I saw a film in Castle Benito, though the light came through the shrapnel holes and faded the picture somewhat. Jerry still raids constantly, lighting up the night sky until it is bright as day. Churchill is in Tripoli tomorrow. This means we now have to salute when we are there and we cannot go into the town if there are stains on our suits. Am entirely fed up with army biscuits. What we would give for some bread!

  Later.

  Arthur has been touching the top of the tent with his head and now rain is coming in. However, we found a tin of Australian peaches and one of corned beef – we ate the lot. I bought you a book of views in Tripoli as Arthur and I went around the Arab and Turkish quarters. And I now have two school exercise books that I obtained in town, which I am using for letter-writing as I can now fill several sides! I bought a fountain pen too. I hope I am allowed to send them to you.

  Later:

  Arthur has to go into hospital in Tripoli. He is worried about it of course. One hundred per cent bullshit here, if you will pardon the expression, though now we're allowed to wear shorts without woollen hose. I have eaten a tin of sardines. On the move again.