Long Lankin: Stories (4 page)

They came to the road that led to the village. Stephen was shaking and he said between his teeth:

—Madman. Jesus.

Alice said nothing, and he turned and looked at her sharply. He asked:

—Who was he?

She shrugged her shoulders.

—But you knew him, he said.

—What makes you think that?

—You recognized him, he insisted. You stopped on the path when you saw him coming.

—Does that mean I knew him? she asked, regarding him calmly.

Stephen was confused. He looked out at the road and muttered:

—He knew us. He knew our names. Who the hell was he? This is a small place, I grew up here. I should know him.

For a time there was silence, and then he muttered:

—These bloody lunatics should all be locked up.

—He was sad.

—Sad? Sad? He was a lunatic.

—But he was still sad. Why are you so cruel?

—Cruel, you say? Did you hear the things he said to me? Don’t talk rot.

—I’m not talking rot.

—He was a complete head-case and it was obvious to everyone but you. Did you see how no one would come near us when they saw him there? Did you see that? Yes. They bloody well knew, but of course Alice with her gentility and kindness would say nothing but just stand there and let me walk right into it like a fool. Jesus.

—O stop it, for god’s sake. I told you I didn’t know him.

She covered her ears and began to rock back and forth in her seat. He said:

—I’m sorry.

—That’s all you can ever say.

He cast agonized eyes at the roof.

—Jesus, Alice, don’t start. It’s been a rough day and I’ve had all I can take. Please don’t start.

She sat upright and rubbed her eyes. Lighting a cigarette she said:

—We started long ago.

—Alice …

—Leave me alone.

Beside him the evening fields flowed silently, swiftly past. The day was fading now, and the trees were full of darkness.

—Do you want to go home tonight? he asked, and tried to make it sound like an apology.

—I don’t mind.

Her voice was cold, and held a world of weariness. He made a noise with his teeth and said:

—I was going to write a book one time. Did you know that?

She looked at him in surprise.

—No, I didn’t.

He laughed.

—O yes, I was going to write a book. A love story. The story of Stephen and Alice who thought that love would last forever. And when they found that it wouldn’t or at least that it changed so much that they couldn’t recognize it anymore, the blow was too heavy. They retreated into themselves like rabbits into a burrow.

He stopped, and she sighed.

—You’re too cruel, she murmured. Too cruel.

When they came into the kitchen Lilian was by the table, bent over a cup of tea. She did not look at them. Stephen watched her, his only sister, as he took off his scarf and gloves. She was growing old, there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and grey in her hair. The old man’s death had wounded her deeply. Now she would have no one to care for and bully in her ineffectual way.

—Is there any tea? Alice asked, struggling out of her coat. She blew her nose.

—In the pot, Lilian answered, lifting a listless hand.

Stephen left the room and the two women together in their silence. He was washing his hands in the bathroom when Alice tapped on the door.

—Steve, I’m going to lie down for a while. I’m tired.

—Yes. A rest will do you good. You’ll have to take it easy now until the baby comes.

She leaned against the door, pale and drab, running a damp knotted handkerchief through her fingers.

—I think we’ll go back tonight, she said.

—Are you sure you’re up to it?

—Maybe you’re right. It’s been a long day.

—We’ll wait until morning, then.

—Yes.

When she had gone he went down again to the kitchen. Lilian was standing by the sink. She looked at him and opened her mouth to speak, but instead she looked away.

—Alice looks pale, she said after a moment.

—Yes. She’s tired. This has all been a strain on her.

—On all of us.

—Yes.

She stored the cups and saucers in the cupboard, then dried her hands and said:

—I have to feed the hens.

—Lilian, he began, and stopped. She stood with her head bent, waiting. He went on awkwardly:

—You’ll be lonely now.

She shrugged her shoulders, and blushed. He said:

—I was thinking, Lily, that maybe — maybe you’d like to come up and stay with us for a few days. It would take you out of yourself. This place — this is no place for a woman to live on her own.

—I might, she said doubtfully. I suppose I could manage it.

She glanced at him from under her eyebrows and smiled, a nervous, girlish smile. Then in confusion she fled out into the yard.

He wandered restlessly about the room. The strange clarity of vision and thought which follows exhaustion now came over him. The things around him as he looked at them began to seem unreal in their extreme reality. Everything he touched gave to his fingers the very essence of itself. The table seemed to vibrate in the grains of its wood, the steel of the sink was cold and sharp as ice. It was as if he were looking down from a great height through some mysterious spiral. In the corner behind the stove a blackthorn stick leaned against the wall. When he saw it he stepped forward and put out his fingers to touch it, but halted, frowning. He stared at the knots, and they seemed to be whirling in the dark wood, each one a small, closed world. He moved back uncertainly, and dropped his hand. Then he turned and quickly left the room.

He went upstairs to the small bedroom that looked out over the yard to the fields beyond the house. Alice lay on the bed among the shadows, fitfully dozing. Her hands were clasped over her swollen stomach. From the window he looked down into the yard. Lilian stood among the chickens, throwing food to them from her apron. The clucking of the birds came faintly to his ears. The last light was dying, soon it would be night. He stood with his forehead against the glass and gazed out over the darkening fields to the dark hills in the distance.

—Stephen? came Alice’s drowsy, querulous voice. He turned to her, saying:

—Did I wake you? I’m sorry.

—It doesn’t matter.

He sat beside her on the bed. She lifted her arm and touched his cheek with a damp palm. He sighed.

—What is it? she asked.

—I don’t know. I was thinking about father. I don’t seem to … I don’t …

He stopped, and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.

—All I can remember is his knuckles. They were white, you know, and they used to curl around his stick — like that. Imagine your father being dead two days and all you can remember is a little thing like that. Today at the grave I couldn’t cry. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I looked at the coffin and it didn’t seem to have anything to do with me.

—It’s the shock, she said.

He stood up with his hands in his pockets and paced the room. Frowning at the floor he said:

—I loved him. I know I did.

—Of course.

—Then what happened to that love is what I want to know? How did it die so easily? I loved him more than anything in the world.

He stopped and looked down at her, asking:

—How does love just die like that, Alice?

She said:

—Things kill it.

He stared at her. She bit her lip, as though she knew she had said too much and was afraid of saying more.

—What things? he asked, apprehension rising through his words.

—I don’t know.

—Look at me, Alice. What things?

But her eyes skittered away from his like frightened animals. She touched her face with agitated fingers.

—I don’t know anything about it, she cried. Why do you ask me? Why? Things just do — terrible things.

He sat beside her again, and stared at his hands clasped before him.

—You’re lying, he said, frowning. You’re talking nonsense. That is all … this … I know this is all wrong.

He stared down at her, but she had shut her eyes.

—It’s all wrong, he said again, shaking his head.

For a time all was still. Faint sounds came to him, the clucking of the chickens in the yard, the small winds singing in the slates. He laid his hand gently on the rise of her stomach. She gave a little moan, and turned her face to the wall, and as she did he felt the strange child move beneath his hand.

The Visit

—It’s going to rain, the old woman said. Pull up your hood.

She took the girl’s hand. Before them, at the top of the crooked field, the roof of the house shone in the light and three trees stood against the sky. It was the first day of spring and the wind from the mountains blew cold and clear, and shadows raced across the fields. They came to the lane behind the house and the old woman stopped to rest. The girl looked out at the distant sea, and the wind lifted her long yellow hair. A damp gust rattled the trees, and drops of rain flashed in the sunlight. Close by there was the sound of water falling over stones, and a thrush suddenly whistled.

—Tantey, said the girl. Why are there seasons?

The old woman looked at her startled.

—What sort of question is that?

In the kitchen the stove roared and the wind in the chimney blew the smoke back into the room. The old woman grumbled to herself as she struggled out of her cape. She gave it to the girl to hang behind the door and hobbled across and sat in the chair. The girl went to the window and looked out over the fields. The sound of the wind made her feel restless and vaguely excited, and she wanted to go out again and run madly through the grass. Behind her the old woman said:

—What are you at there?

—Nothing. Just looking out.

She went and sat on the arm of the chair beside her aunt.

—When will papa be here, Tantey?

The old woman did not answer. She fumbled in the pocket of her black dress.

—Where are my sweets? she muttered. Now I put them here, I’m sure of it.

The girl went to the dresser and brought back the grimy bag of peppermints.

—Ah you’re a good girl, the old woman said.

She sucked her sweet, nodding and staring blankly at her hands. After a while she looked up at the girl and smiled and gently pulled her hair.

—Your papa is a fine man, she said.

—But when is he coming?

—Maybe after tea, she snapped. Have patience.

The girl stood up and walked to the window, twisting her fingers. With her mouth set in a sulky line she muttered:

—I’m fed up waiting. I don’t think he’s coming at all. I think he’s forgot all about me.

The old woman smacked her hands together.

—Stop that talk. Forgot you indeed, and how could your own father forget you? You should be ashamed, carrying on like a baby.

The girl ran back and sat on the floor beside the chair. She licked her finger and rubbed the dried blood from a scratch on her knee. She said:

—Tell me about him again, Tantey.

—Well. He’s very tall and straight and — O he carries himself like that.

She pushed back her shoulders and held up her head at a proud and arrogant tilt. Then suddenly she gave a cackle of laughter and began to rock back and forth in her chair. She leaned down and ruffled the girl’s hair.

—O he’s like a prince out of a story book, she cried, and her eyes closed up completely she laughed so hard. Like a prince he is.

—Is he, Tantey? said the girl, smiling uncertainly and watching the old woman’s face. And will he like me when he comes? What will he say to me? Will he take me away?

The old woman threw up her hands.

—So many questions. You’ll just have to wait and see. Now go and comb your hair and tidy yourself up a bit in case he comes and finds you looking like a little tinker.

Sighing, the girl stood up and went into the dim passage that led to the front of the house. The dining-room was full of moist yellow sunlight that fell on the table and against the walls. She knelt on the couch and put her elbows on the window sill. The wind beat on the glass with a dull sound. Outside, the sun threw up a dazzling reflection from the road. For a long time she stayed there, while shadows came across the fields and leaped against the window. Her eyelids began to droop, but suddenly she lifted her head and pressed her face to the glass. Someone was cycling down the road, a vague dark shape moved on the glistening tar. She went out to the hall, and into the garden, where the wind beat fiercely on her face and shook out her long curls. She stopped outside the gate and shaded her eyes with her hand. The traveller, back-pedalling, came across the road in a graceful arc and stopped.

—Well well, he said. What have we here then?

He looked at her, his head to one side, and with his lips pursed he stepped down from the bicycle and brushed at the wrinkles in his trousers. He was a very tiny man, smaller even than the girl, with a great square head and thick hands. His hair was oiled and carefully parted, and his eyebrows were as black and shiny as his hair. There were four buttons in his jacket, all fastened. At his neck he wore a gay red silk scarf. He said:

—My name is Rainbird.

With her mouth open she stared at him. He watched her and waited for a reply, and when none came he shrugged his shoulders and began to turn away. She said quickly:

—Is that your last name?

He looked around at her, and with his eyebrows arched he said:

—That is my only name.

—O.

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket with his thumbs outside and took a few swaggering turns before the gate.

—Do you live in there? he asked casually, nodding towards the house.

—Yes, she said. That’s my house.

He looked up at the ivy-covered walls, at the windows where the lowering sun shone on the glass.

—I lived in a house like that before I went on the road, he said. Much bigger than that it was, of course. That was a long time ago.

—Was it around here?

—Eh?

—Was it around here you lived?