The Arrival of Missives (7 page)

And so.

So she stops speaking and we continue in silence.

So my thoughts do not matter at all.

After a few more trots along the road by Nellie, as steady as ever, my mother transfers the reins to her left hand and places her right hand upon my knee. 'Your father wanted to knock sense into you.'

'A husband,' I say.

But I want a husband anyway. Did they think I never wanted to marry? How can it be that everything I want and everything they want is incompatible? I can surely find places where our plans fit together. I believe in conversation, in resolution, in peace. There can be no line drawn that cannot be crossed, and no obstacle erected that cannot be overcome. This is no different from a bloodless war, and I will not take part in a war. That is the very thing I am determined to abolish.

'Why did you think we took you to the farmers' balls?' my mother is saying. 'But you would not talk to any boy there, and you were proud and haughty. I see I should have taken you aside and counselled you then, but I wanted you to have your time of happiness. Now look what has become of it. I know who you would have, too, Shirley, and I tell you now clearly that it cannot be. You must find someone fit and strong, for farming is hard work at all times. When your father returns home tonight be meek, and make it clear to him that you understand what I have said to you.' Her hand tightens on my knee. I flinch. I do not know her at all; she seems to delight in ripping down my dreams. I would love to simply get down and run away from her and the cart and plodding Nellie. I could throw myself off if only she would let go of my knee. How can I make peace with such a creature?

'But I have not been taught to be meek, have I?' I say, stiffly. 'That is your failing, and now it must be taken out on me. Kindly remove your hand.'

She snatches back from me, but I do not get down from the cart because I feel a surge of triumph. I see now how weak she has always been; she does only what she is told. She has failed me, and my father, by not teaching me my place; she is the reason I am not docile in acceptance of my place. And she is the reason my father is unhappy.

I will not behave for her. I will not rip up this letter.

I hold it in my hands, quite plainly to see, and we do not speak further on this journey. When we reach the farm I get down and walk away from the house, my back stiff, and she does not call after me.

*

My newfound joy in saying things that upset others surprises me. I suppose it is my only source of power. If I must obey, then I will do it with no good grace.

So I waited that Sunday, in the top field. I remained in view of the farm until I saw my father making his way home, and then I beat him back, running at speed, by only the merest of moments. I took great comfort in the panic on my mother's face, which gave way to relief as I dissembled all sweetness for him, and pretended I had been at home for hours.

I did nothing but sit in the top field, of course. I considered going straight to see Mr Tiller, but regardless of what my mother says I am not stupid. I know he would only have turned me away. He will not rescue me – see how well I know my love! He has no taste for the small concerns of the present world, but instead concentrates on saving the future.

Speaking of which, my next task has been meted out to me, but I must admit I do not care for it.

'Decorate the pole,' he said. 'Attach the ribbons. You can supervise.'

That is how I come to be standing here, in the rain, watching Azariah Barbery shin up the birch trunk that the men erected on the village green on Sunday.

Azariah has a white ribbon held between his teeth, and hammer and nails borrowed from the smithy in the leather belt around his waist. He is a monkey of a boy, and well suited to this task.

I do wish that, one year, the men would remember that the ribbons must be attached to the top of the pole before they erect it. But then this task has given the Barberys a purpose for many a year. Azariah has done it for the past four years, and his older brothers did it before him, all of them so light and flexible that they would really be best suited to life in a jungle.

Looking at him somehow manage to hold on with his legs while he hammers in the first nail, I remember his brothers quite clearly. Noah was the eldest, Hezekiah the next, and Obediah followed. I never spoke a word to any of them myself, being only a small, shy girl peeping at them from behind my mother's skirts if we passed in the street, or saw them in church. They always garnered a frown from Reverend Mountcastle, not because they misbehaved, but because they were integrally linked to the May Day celebrations, which is no good Christian festival. The fact that three brothers with such biblical names were cavorting with pagan spirits could hardly place them high in his affections. But now they are all dead, the brothers, and it is too sad to think on any longer.

So I tear my mind away, and look at Jeremiah Crowe instead, who is always inseparable from Azariah. He is staring up at the top of the pole with wet eyes, while Daniel Redmore stands beside him, his eyes only on me.

The hammering stops, and the end of the white ribbon flutters down to the ground. 'Throw me the next one, then,' shouts Azariah. Jeremiah, with his hands full of colourful ribbons bound into balls for the ease of throwing, obliges. He has a good arm, but Azariah misses the catch. They giggle, and Daniel stoops to retrieve it from where it has fallen on the grass.

It is pleasant to be out here on the green, in full view of The Three Crowns and the smithy, while the rest of the world works on. The other children are in school, and no doubt envious of our special task, but suspecting nothing as they learn about Polo's descriptions of the province of Karazan. The truth, now I consider it, is that this is another mission that asks nothing of me and that I would have willingly undertaken anyway. The horseshoes and the maypole – Mr Tiller wants this to be a magnificent May Day, and so do I. It is, after all, my favourite time of year in the village.

Daniel throws the yellow ribbon again and this time Azariah catches it in one hand, and begins to attach it.

'Leave it loose,' I call up to him. 'It needs to be able to move on the nail.'

'Hark at her,' says Azariah, to the other boys.

'She's practising to be May Queen,' says Jeremiah. 'As if that will ever happen.'

This is an insult, but I rise above it. The May Queen for Westerbridge is always the prettiest girl who has turned 16 years of age, and that is Phyllis Clemens this year, with golden hair and a pale speckled complexion, as if she is dusted in flour, befitting the baker's daughter. She left school a year ago, and now makes buns in the back of the shop and serves out front sometimes. We were, when we were very young, friends. But then I discovered I wanted to converse about more than proving dough, although she can talk on the subject very prettily and I have no jealousy on that score.

'I'm no Phyllis Clemens,' I tell them both, 'and that suits me, thank you very much.'

'I heard my father say to your father that Mr Tiller had been talking to Reverend Mountcastle about who would be May Queen this year,' says Daniel.

Jeremiah throws the red ribbon, and Azariah catches it. 'It's not up to him,' Azariah says.

'Do the blue one next,' I say.

'He thinks he's local now,' says Jeremiah. The boys all laugh at this.

'Weren't you stepping out with Phyllis?' Azariah says to Daniel, as he ties on the red. This is news to me. 'I heard you went under the bridge with her.'

Daniel's face reddens. 'Course not.'

'Your father wouldn't like it, I'm thinking.'

'I'm not beholden to my father,' he says. 'I'll step out with whoever I like. And I'll not be staying in this place forever either. Not for anybody's charms or on anybody's orders.' He casts an angry look my way, but what on Earth did I do? I have never heard of any of this, and am amazed to find that he dreams of a different life. I thought myself alone with such ideas in this village. I like him more at this moment than ever before.

'Well that tells you, Shirley,' says Azariah, smirking down from the top of the pole, and at that moment he loses his grip. I see in his face the realisation that he is falling, he knows it – Jeremiah calls out, time is so slow as we watch him fall, fall—

No. He hangs upside down from the pole, his arms and his brown hair dangling down, his knee bent backward and his foot caught in the red ribbon that has formed a loop, holding his weight.

We are all frozen in the moment.

Then Daniel laughs, and Jeremiah laughs, and I laugh. It is quite the funniest thing I have ever seen: Azariah Barbery, hanging off the maypole.

Our laughter dries, and I realise it sprang from relief. Everything could have been different. No more Barberys. The last son, gone, because of one moment of inattention. How different the village would have been without him, without Barberys at all. He has been saved by no more than chance. A ribbon that looped where it might have stayed straight.

'I feel sick,' calls Azariah, and Daniel runs to fetch a ladder from the smithy, positioning it against the pole so that he can climb up and help Azariah to right himself. Daniel waits until Azariah is steady, then extricates his leg from the ribbon, and they climb down. They both lie on the grass, face up, limbs spread. Nobody speaks for a moment.

Then Azariah says, 'Can I ask a question?'

'What?' says Daniel.

'Why don't we use the ladder to tie the ribbons in the first place?'

We all start to laugh again.

'Tradition,' I say. 'A pointless tradition.'

'Still,' says Jeremiah. 'It's a fun one. Your face, Azzy, was a picture.' He bends over, puts his head between his knees, and makes a pretence of terror that strikes a nerve.

'Let's use the ladder to finish up,' says Azariah. 'Do I have to do it? Does it always have to be a Barbery?'

Daniel and I exchange glances. 'Enough tradition for one day,' says Daniel, and takes the remaining ribbons from Jeremiah's hands. He climbs the ladder, and I hold my breath as he finishes a task that never seemed so dangerous before.

When he comes down I find myself smiling at him, and he smiles back.

'Hello hello,' says Azariah, then he and Jeremiah run off laughing. They are not travelling in the direction of the school, needless to say. Ah well; perhaps they deserve a little time to themselves, and besides, I want to hear Daniel speak to me, and me alone. He looks as if he has a question to ask me, and I suspect I know what it will be.

*

Later, after class has finished for the day, I report back to Mr Tiller. He seems all ears for what was said at the maypole, but less interested in what was done. I would have revelled in a description of Azariah's fall, which is a rare piece of excitement and will spread through the village in no time at all, but Mr Tiller waves his hand at it. 'And after that?' he says.

I stand beside his desk, like a good pupil delivering facts for checking. 'Nothing else,' I say.

'The boys didn't speak further to you?'

'Azariah asked if it had to be a Barbery that climbed the pole—'

'Forget Azariah,' he says; he has had a short temper all day, and now he is venting at me. I don't deserve such treatment.

'If you have an interest in one particular person's utterings, then please enlighten me so I can oblige, sir,' I retort. I know his secret, and he must be civil to me. I am no longer his pupil alone, and I will not have him pretend otherwise.

He looks at me as if he has not really seen me for a time, then says, 'I forget how bright you are; forgive me, my dear. I must be honest with you and say that I had hoped the conversation had turned in a more personal direction, such as who will be your companion for the May Day celebrations? I've not a doubt that what I'm about to say will seem very strange to you, but on such small matters rests the fate of the world.'

He cannot really believe that. I know for certain I cannot believe it.

But I look into his eyes and I see Mr Tiller does believe it, utterly, and he is intent on having his satisfaction. It consumes him to know, and so I tell him the thing I had wanted to keep all to myself, for a while at least. 'Daniel Redmore has asked me, but I have yet to give him my answer.'

He nods, and stands, moving around his desk to stand close to me. His waistcoat buttons are done up tight, as ever, but I know about what lurks underneath the material. 'That is good news,' he says, in a hoarse voice. 'Very good news.'

I do not speak. I feel some strange emotion that I cannot place. It is a tender spot deep inside me, like a forming bruise. 'What should I do?' I whisper. His eyelids flicker. I can hear his shallow breaths, close to my ear. Yet he is not looking directly at me, but at a point above my head. If I were foolish, I think, I could mistake this for romance.

'Tell him yes, would you, Shirley?'

'Yes?'

'That you will go to the May Day celebrations with him. With Daniel Redmore.' He places a hand on my shoulder.

The bruise within me forms into an emotion I recognise. Disappointment.

He pats my shoulder, then drops his hand and steps back. As far as he is concerned our business for today has been resolved.

But I do not want to be dismissed so easily.