The Visitors (16 page)

‘You look very beautiful today, Liza.’

‘Thank you. How is your new post?’

‘Fine. It is fine. Hard work. Hot work.’

He looks away and retrieves a rag from his pocket, wipes the sweat from his face and looks back at me, my neck, my hair, the flower.

I sign, ‘I am so happy you are here.’

‘Me too,’ he says and smiles.

I take courage from that smile. ‘If only it could last for ever. If only you could work on the farm all year. Then we could meet like this every day. And talk.’

‘Yes, we could. We could do many things together.’

‘Would that make you happy, Caleb?’

‘Well, you know me, Liza. I’m a restless soul. Who knows what could make me happy?’

He smiles still, and I believe he is teasing me somehow. But I am serious. I think, I can make you happy, I can. But I do not say it.

The drying lasts for several weeks and I visit Caleb whenever I am able. He has so little free time and I prefer to see him when Lottie is not around, so there are few opportunities. I try to entertain him with stories from my lessons, particularly geography, as I know he has a keen interest in the wider world. I tell him of far-flung places and their strange customs. One time I show him a picture of a painting,
The Boyhood of Raleigh
, which captivates him.

‘That is me,’ he says, pointing to the spellbound face of the boy hero, listening to seafaring tales from the experienced sailor. ‘I was like that.’

‘I know,’ I finger spell for him.

He answers in kind, in our old way in the palm, his fingertips rough from work. ‘Sometimes I think you know me best of anyone, Liza.’

He holds on to my hand and does not let go. He looks closely at me and as our faces are near, his image blurs. He stands abruptly and signs without looking, that he must get on, that he will see me tomorrow. There are only a few more days until the drying will be done, and I do not see him alone again. Yes, he is busy, and there are excuses. But I fear something has changed between us and I wait, I wait for him to come to me, to explain it all to me, for I am floundering in this new sea of ours.

Around this time, towards the end of the season, Father reveals to me that the Head Drier is considering retirement next year. I see Father’s mind working. Perhaps Caleb could be trained up to take over this crucial post. He could stay on the farm all year round and learn all the different stages of the business. The thought that Caleb would work here and live nearby is more than I could have wished from a rub of Aladdin’s lamp. But I do not speak with Caleb about it. I cannot find the time alone with him. And most of all I fear that it will not suit him, that he will feel trapped on the farm. But oh, how I want him to want it, to take this chance to stay where I am, to be with me always. I decide it must be Father who puts it to him, that perhaps Father can persuade him what an excellent opportunity it is, what a step up in the world. When the last load of hops is to be dried, Father calls for Caleb to come and see him. I plan to wait alone nearby but Lottie is there. The moment she heard that her brother had been invited up to the big house, she is curious, asking questions of me, and I cannot lie, not to Lottie. I have been economical with the truth this drying season, have kept from her how many times I have sought out Caleb’s company alone, when she was out of sight. But I have not yet told untruths to her face. I believe I could not. So, Lottie and I hide down the corridor from Father’s study. When their talk is done, we see Father march off downstairs, his face grim. Caleb appears from the door and we scuttle up to him.

‘What happened?’ Lottie asks. I watch their mouths closely.

‘Mr Golding asked me if I wanted to work on the farm permanent.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said no.’

I knew it, I knew it, but did not want to believe it. I look down at my feet, my head swimming. But Lottie is prodding my arm. They have been talking and I have missed something.

‘Caleb has enlisted!’ Lottie signs furiously.

I read her signs, but I do not comprehend them. I stare at him. He glances at Lottie, looks to me. His eyes are speaking to me, but I cannot read them adequately. At first I see pity there, but then I wonder, a kind of conflict in his soul? If only we were alone.

‘I’ve enlisted in the army,’ he signs to me.

‘Not the navy?’ I sign, and Lottie looks at me, incredulous.

Caleb signs and speaks simultaneously, for my benefit. ‘I go to camp tomorrow. We’ll sail out in a few weeks, I think.’

‘Sail where?’ Lottie says, signing too.

‘South Africa, for heaven’s sake. Where do you think?’

‘And when on earth were you going to share this with us?’

‘I just did, didn’t I?’

I touch his arm and I sign, ‘But there isn’t a war there, not yet.’

He looks at me kindly. ‘There will be, Liza,’ he says. ‘And soon.’

Lottie smacks her hands together in sign. ‘And what the hell’s that got to do with you?’

‘It’s my country, isn’t it? Every Englishman must do his duty for the empire. We can’t let the bloody Dutch push us around.’

‘Don’t give me that rubbish about Queen and country. You’re lying! You just want to escape, that’s all.’

‘Look, I’ve enlisted and that’s that. Leave me be, woman!’

And I can see from his face, his chest and his throat that he is shouting. He stalks away towards the oast house. This night is his last on the farm. Whatever else transpires in these hours, I must seek him out and speak with him alone.

Lottie is too angry to converse with me or anyone. We maunder from the house, each of us waist-deep in our own thoughts. Both of us are sick with it. I cannot explain to her why I am, though I know her reason. There is something between them, a twin consciousness that would be torn if he were to sail away. She fears for his life. I feel ill with it too, but must comfort Lottie, as if my sorrow is but a reflection of her grief. When we reach the hop garden the pole-pullers are taking down the last few bines, wielding their long hooks and using the sharp blade at the top to slice through the bines and bring them to the ground. The hoppers then lay the plants across their knees and pluck the flowers off at great speed with thumb and forefinger, dropping them in the canvas bins. We find the Crowes finishing their last bine, the boys stopping to salute each other, Mrs Crowe laughing, shouting across to other hoppers and nodding. They have heard Caleb’s news. I assumed Mrs Crowe would be worried for her son. But no, they are all so proud their eldest is going to fight for his country. The boys shoot at imaginary Boers all down the hop alleys.

The measurer comes and I see him shout, ‘Pull no more bines!’, as he does every day at this time.

Mrs Crowe nudges me and nods towards him. ‘There aren’t no more bines to pull, you giddy goat,’ and I can see many others laughing.

Our measurer Hodge is a pompous man, proud of his new waistcoat and unpopular. The hoppers are paid by the number of bushels picked and they say Hodge is mean with the weighing out. He comes to the Crowe bin and measures out the last hops into his bushel basket.

‘Scoop them up loosely, won’t you?’ says Mrs Crowe.

He ignores her and sifts through the load. I cannot see his mouth to divine what he says, but he pulls out a bunch of hops with leaves and twigs still attached, holding them aloft as proof that Mrs Crowe has tried to cheat him on the weight.

I tap Hodge on the arm and sign, Lottie translating, ‘It was my fault. I picked that one. Sorry.’

Hodge glances at Mrs Crowe who folds her arms over her bosom and smiles smugly. He touches his cap to me and continues to fill his bushels, forcing down the cones as he goes.

‘Eh, don’t press them down, Mr Hodge. Times are hard, you know.’

‘They are indeed, Mrs Crowe. For all of us.’

She turns to us and shakes her head, signs for me and speaks for the family. ‘The sooner our Caleb is in Africa, the better for him. Out of this silly business, all of it, on our feet picking the blasted hops ten hours a day, six days a week, and my husband tending those oysters every hour he can and never enough pay for all our hard work. This war will be the making of Caleb.’

This evening, the last night of the hopping, there is the annual hoppers’ feast. They throw off their aprons, hats and caps. They eat huffkin cake and drink beer. They dance and sing old hopper songs, about the work and the washing and the lice:

I watch them laugh and shout around the campfires, the light leaching from the sky and the flames throwing black twisting shadows across the bare hop poles. I wait and wait for Caleb, hoping he will be permitted to take a break from the last night of the drying. He comes late, past eight, and at his arrival the hoppers cheer him and break out in patriotic songs: ‘Boys of the Bulldog Breed’, ‘Tommy Atkins’
and ‘God Save the Queen’. Caleb plays his violin with other musicians, the same woman who plays her drum every year, another fiddler and a guitarist. Caleb takes a rest from playing and dances with some of the ladies. I watch him move and smile. I know it is my bedtime soon and Father will send a maid to fetch me for my bath, but I want to stay here at the party till dawn. There is a heat and a quickening in the air and I want to breathe it in. I watch Caleb dance and suddenly he turns and walks towards me. He smiles and holds out his hand. I know I must smile and seem the good girl. But when he moves my body around the ground strewn with hop leaves and cigarette stubs, I think grown-up thoughts about him which make me colour hotly. And I believe I feel his body bend towards mine as we dance, his fingers curl into mine as we turn, as if they wish to speak to me in the old way and tell me secrets. I cannot make sense of it. As the dance ends and I must leave him, I catch an ardent glance from him; there is knowledge there and desperate sadness. I am decided what course I will take to make him stay.

I am in bed, and the house is sleeping. My clock reads one. I go to my window and open it. It is a balmy September night with a high, bright moon and the heat from the oast house ovens drifts on the breeze and warms my face. I dress quickly, just a shift and a robe, my hair loose. I open my door and creep downstairs. I pad through the kitchen, the tiles cool under my soles. I take the key from above the scullery door, unlock it and slip out. The grass is damp and soft with dew, the air dusty, spicy, ambrosial. I cross the herb garden and run my fingers across the fragrant plants as I pass. As I approach the oast house, the heat and the smoky, bitter-sweet yeast scent of the drying hops is overpowering. Feeling faint, I stop, touch my forehead and steady myself.

The door to the kilns is open. I peer inside and see the Head Drier asleep on his bed in the corner, blanket thrown aside, head tipped back, red tammy-shanter slipped over his eyes. I tiptoe inside. Caleb’s bed is the other side, and I have to come into the room to see him. There is a dim lamp alight in the corner. He is sitting upright on his bed, smoking and staring into space. He wears a white shirt, a few buttons open to the heat, grey trousers held up with braces and grubby boots. His head turns sharply and he sees me. We stare at each other. He does not speak. I stand still. Finally, he drops his cigarette and crushes it underfoot. Stares at it for a moment, then looks up at me. He reaches down, pulls at the laces of his boots and slips them off so that he is barefoot too. He walks to me and takes my hand, but he says nothing and I do not sign to him either. He leads me up the wooden stairs. We pause at a creak on the stair, and he looks round at the Head Drier, who does not stir. We walk up and step into the cooling loft. The heat from the drying rooms is terrific. There is no lamp here, so the only light comes from the moon, casting a white cloak across the hop sacks, the press, the scuppets, the hop fork, the horsehair lifter cloth and the pokes stored on the green stages. There are no Visitors here. They know they are not wanted. We are alone in the world.

There is a pile of sacking in the corner and he bids me sit there. He kneels beside me, and we look at each other. I tilt my head so that his face is clear to me. Everything is his eyes and my eyes. I thank the stars that I can see, that I can look into the eyes of my love this night and he into mine. When he kisses me, I taste tobacco and tea and feel my future, which had stretched before me until this moment, shrink to the size of a pebble and slip into his pocket. I am his now.

Afterwards, we lie together for a long, long time. The moon still shines and the heat still wafts over us in waves. Our bodies are wet with movement and love and the moisture loosed from drying hops. My hair is long and sticks to his chest, his neck, his face. I know I am a woman now. I wonder if his child will grow in me. I bury my face in his hair and kiss him again. He lays me down and regards me.

‘I am a young man again,’ he says, smiling.

‘I will keep you young,’ I finger spell for him.

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Where will we go? What will we do?’

He frowns. ‘Now? I have to check the furnace in a minute.’

‘No, tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow, I must go.’

I sit upright. I look at him very seriously. I brush my hair from my face and sign to him.

‘You must not go. Africa is too far away. And war is perilous.’

‘I have to go. I’ve enlisted.’

‘But a promise has been made, here, between us.’

He sits up, rubs his eyes, clasps his hands before him and looks up at me. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to promise you that.’

‘But … I love you.’

He smiles and reaches out a hand, his fingertips brushing my cheek. ‘You are lovely.’

‘Do you love me?’

‘Yes, my pet. Of course I do. But I am enlisted and must go tomorrow. Today, this morning.’