Cryers Hill (12 page)

The training for Avon representatives was brief but intense. Cath had decided this was the answer to all her prayers. Door-to-door selling. It was popular, easy, glamorous, well paid. It would get her out of the house and into other people's houses. Doreen would teach her how. Doreen could turn hours into minutes with her smooth creamy Avon-lipped persuasion. She had a face made out of candy colours, pretty as a sweetshop, and she'd cooed and coaxed Cath out of four pounds six shillings, and stirred her tea for her in return. While Doreen counted out the money (including the coins) to check it was the correct amount, Cath noted that her hair had been piled on top of her head in an enviably laborious construction, like a giant honeycomb. Carefully selected strands had been teased out and curled to make helter-skelter rides for ants. She was beautiful, Cath thought. Everything would be lovely if she could become more like Doreen. Cath thought she would very much like to have a sweetshop face and Avon talk and helter-skelter hair.

Each night Cath opened her Avon boxes. She liked to touch the products, though she didn't intend using them. She couldn't imagine ringing the doorbells; she didn't trust people to let her in. Perhaps she would ring the bell and run away, she thought, like a child. How could she ask for money? She was too shy. She would give the stuff away for free. She'd go to prison. She wouldn't be able to sell it in prison either. She was quite unsuited to it. No one would buy anything. Ding-dong. The chimes rang in her head, sweet bells to the devoted. Ding-dong, the sound of freedom, the promise of escape, a siren call. She would practise and rehearse and prepare, as Doreen had shown her. She knew the products and the prices and the free gifts and the special offers. She knew to smile and cock her head and sit with her knees to the side, never crossed. She knew to hold the product up in the air as it was being discussed, like a third party, a VIP guest. She knew to place her other hand under the product, as though offering it a little chair, as a sale drew closer. And she knew to say:
You are the woman we have designed this season's range for.
If she practised then maybe one day the bells would ring for her.

W
ALTER DID NOT
dare to take his poems too seriously. That all changed one harvest festival when Ginny Hall read out a poem called 'Abundance'. Walter had been astonished to hear the vicar announce that she had written it herself. He hadn't realised any old nobody could write poetry and then read it out, just like that, in front of people, and at harvest festival, and in church. He had supposed there would be guidelines, strict controls, rules drawn up by the universities or societies or something. But here was Ginny delivering, in her best Sunday vowels, words she had dredged up herself, blowing them over the marrows and radishes, shrilling them up at the stained-glass figures with their staffs and shields, until their colours burst and lit the air above their heads. Everyone in their pew below felt her words on them, just as if they were from the Holy Book itself. Walter recalled only snatches of Ginny's dramatic composition now, but its disquieting sense of threat goosebumped him still. He had forgotten the start but remembered:

thy bounty grown to fulsome ripeness,
ballast gainst a fearful winter storm . . .

And

winter, aye, that cometh to tear asunder,
winter's wrath: our enemy forsworn . . .

And

that we with tender care, not flights of fancy,
may gather in the yield to stay our want.

He regarded Ginny quite differently after that. She had previously offered no clues to suggest her poetic leanings, though she was clearly, beneath cardigan and raincoat, a first-rate poet. Walter had to admit he had passed her over on almost every count. Now he was forced to reconsider. Now he dropped his glance when she approached and waited, in the hope he might become infected, if it were at all contagious, by her cunning way with words.

*

'In the crimson blush of morning, In the glitter of the noon,
In the midnight's gloomy darkness, Or the gleaming of the
moon,

In the stillness of the twilight, As it shimmers in the sky,
We are watching, we are waiting, For the end that draweth
nigh.'

Sankey enjoyed the sound of his singing voice. He thought it a curious thing the way music behaved beside water. Take that bit just now. Water, he suspected, was a transmitter of sorts, a mover of sound. His voice became the clanger and the dewpond the bell.

There was a magician who said he could do a trick where he appeared to walk on water. Sankey thought little of that sort of skylarking, but he wouldn't have minded a glimpse to see if the fellow could or not. There were tricks and there were miracles. This life was an extravagant trick, but coming along just in time was a genuine miracle. Sankey knew it, he could taste it behind his teeth.

Sankey was a Methodist. He knew God's love lived in a man's heart and sprang from his throat in worshipful song. He knew the road to salvation was a rocky one, and he knew that beyond the swelling flood the gates of Heaven glittered brightly, golden as the King's own ceremonial carriage.

Sankey had many favourite hymns; he found it impossible to choose between them. He reckoned that to write a hymn a man must be as clever as a politician, as pure as a bishop, and musical as sin. He marvelled at the words in the hymnal, how they arranged themselves in line beside a tune. How did they do that? Why didn't they drift apart from the musical notes? Or run on, or run out, or go bad? Who could answer? Sankey explained it to himself.
Sacred words will find their way around a venerable tune. A
chill blew under his skin at the sanctity of that remark. Where did it come from? Wise words. What were they doing inside his head? He must be patient. He must not excite himself. The still small voice of calm. J
am the light.
The still small voice.
I am the Door. A
voice.
Choose you this day whom ye will serve.
Pay attention. Attend.
Be still and know that I am God.
Sankey's hands reached to cover his mouth, one after the other, as if they did not trust it to speak. He shivered as he knelt. He tried to stop the sudden gasp of tears. He must compose himself. Simmer down. 'Help me, Father. My heart is pure. Lord God, Heavenly Father of all mankind. Creator of the universe. All things are ready – come.'

It occurred to Walter that if Miss Hall could manage original verse fit for public consumption, then so could he. Why not? Walter thought if he were to be inspired then he had better get out and let nature rouse him. All the best poets dealt with nature, it couldn't be avoided.

He found himself torn between woodland and water and so opted for a bit of both, taking the path by Millfield Wood, which led to the pond. The day was bright, occasionally darkened by fast-moving cloud, which he thought good for mood. He crept diligently along North Road, where the hay carts had left scatterings of straw, hands clasped at his back, head high, alert for any sudden displays of nature or other notable manifestations besides the twitterings of birds and water-gurgles of ditches. He paused at the drinking trough; he and Cecil Harvey used to walk under the plough horses' bellies without ducking their heads. He came upon the Tisdale woman, bucket in hand, at the corner house before she knew he was there. Her shriek startled them both, launching all the songbirds out of the trees. 'I beg your pardon, Mrs Tisdale.' But she was already gone and the door slapped shut. The birds wheeled round and resettled on their perches. A solitary bark sounded. Some guard dog, that.

As he walked poetry words rolled about in his head. The lazy guard dog suggested something. By the time he reached Four Ashes Road, Walter had it.

I fear your dog is fearful lacking
When it comes to security.

We may find that hound cat-napping
'Neath some tree in surety.

Some guard dog, that, Mrs Tisdale!
Some guard dog, that.

Walter was pleased with it. Not bad. At the bend by the lower field gate he tried it again, and decided it lacked scope, ambition, finesse. It was terrible. He discarded it. Nothing would come of the second-rate guard dog. He was not a dog born for art, or guarding.

When he got home he would put the kettle on and read through his scribblings. Mostly it was poor. Cobblers, Perfect might say. For
she was ne'er the girl, Oh no, Unlike the pansy and dandelion dear.
Wretched. Like a rhyme for a skipping game. Now he would feel cheesed off. He would erase all the pencillings. He would sink into a drift of misery, punctuated by traipsings towards the kettle and the WC. His mother would appear at five o'clock and put their dinner on, meat and gravy twice a week. Then they would sit and watch the windows darkening while they occupied themselves; he with reading volumes of verse (how these poets of note would laugh at his efforts) and she with mending and needlepoint until they each appeared reflected in their chairs, gazing back at themselves.

Mary says she wishes Walter were a painter rather than a poet because then he could paint her beauty and the world would see it and there it would stay for ever and ever, amen. A poet, she continues, is good for nothing but a few old words that nobody wants. Who wants words? People have got plenty of words of their own, haven't they? Spray, she says, that's what words are, a squirt of dirty business to be precise: poop. Poets, she scoffs; spraying their words where they're not welcome. And who would want to hang poop on their wall? Nobody, that's who.

Walter says nothing. There are no words anyhow. Only jets of shit.

Mary lies under a hornbeam with marigolds in her hair, her bare shoulder exposed. She stares boldly at him; there is a warning in her eye. Walter is angry; he paints incautiously, truthfully. He has no talent, but he puts it down, what he sees. It is difficult. The very devil to do, he thinks, to make a mark on the canvas that rings true. As he becomes absorbed the expression on Mary's face begins to sour, and her eye narrows with suspicion. She covers herself up, yawns, and rolls on to her belly. He shall not paint her this way. Bugga him and all who sail. Daftie. Men for you. P'raps she'll get someone else to do it anyhow. She mentions this to him through the quick pull of a second yawn, but Walter pays it no attention. She is going to the city, she informs him matter-of-factly. She will get out of this place if it is the last thing she does – what a poop-hole! She will go and work in a Lyons Corner House, yes, that's right. She will be a Nippy and wear a smart uniform and have proposals of marriage from proper types, toffs and all. She will eat mixed grill every day with cups of sugared tea. She will not remain here in this poop-hole. He paints on. He is still painting long after she has fallen asleep.

It is for you
The nightingale sings her song
It is for you
the celandines, anemones and woodland orchids throng

It is your face
that each day pulls the sun around
It is your voice
in quiet prayer that I have found

It is for you
the night-black throws her stars
for you
time ticks away her hours

For you
the oak and sycamore against the wind do stand
For you
the world turns
and I upon it
bowed to your command.

Walter has signed his small curly signature at the corner of the page. Indeed, it is for her, but she shall not have it now. She does not deserve it. It is a few old words nobody wants, a squirt of poop, after all.

S
EAN LOOKS AT
the clock and wonders if Ann is dead yet. He tries to recall what time it was when he last saw her and add up the hours in between. He remembers he cannot tell time. He sits in the bathroom with the lights off. He reckons if she is a ghost by now, she might appear to him in the dark, try to frighten him, remind him from the other side that he is spaz. He realises she will make an excellent ghost. 'Ann?' He speaks her name quietly to show respect for the departed. 'Ann?' She does not appear. 'Ann!' You cannot rush the dead.

Sean slips into the dark shadows that live inside their garage. The whine of the aluminium door doesn't give him away. The paper bundles lie waiting beneath their burial mound of bricks. Sean will start with the top one, the first beneath the ribbon bow. The paper is blue, light and sheer as moth wings. The words are made in blue ink, with small curly sweeps. They could be letters. Sean has never received a letter, so he would not like to say. He stares down at it. He wonders if it is in English. He thinks probably it is. The shapes C and S are very nice, swirly. Also the G shape and the F. The Os are disappointing, not very big. He recognises words: Donkeys. Jam. On. The. Pig. Drum. Not. Lads.

If he goes slowly he can tell many parts of it. If he goes slowly he finds he can sort of read the spaz thing.

8th September 1942, M.E.F.

Dear Mary,

Well, here is a turn-up for the books. Me writing a letter to you!

The appearance of this airgraph will give the game away, as you only have to see the Censor's mark and the field post-office stamp to know I am presently on active service. I hope you won't mind my writing, only all the lads write to their girls and wives back home, so I thought I'd give it a try! Why not eh?

How are you, Mary? I heard from Mother and she mentioned things had not been easy for you and Joseph and Clem at the farm, but that it has all picked up now. I am glad to hear this. I take it Isabel is happy in Kingshill. I hope your parents are improving health-wise. What a lot of trouble this war is giving people.

Well, we are under canvas (all we need is a bucket and spade) and so far life here in Egypt is not too bad, though it is fearfully hot during the day and the flies are a curse. As I write the wretched insects traipse over my words. When the bugle blows for the midday meal, it is the flies that invariably beat us to it! The fellows with false teeth have some trouble incidentally with the hard biscuit (they have to soak theirs in their tea).

The streets in the town near here are choked in dust, though interesting. There are wealthy-looking men on donkeys holding big white umbrellas over themselves and then to contrast there are the beggars on their haunches in the shade. The only women to be seen on the streets are the fortune tellers – and no, I have not yet had my fortune told – nor do I intend to! The shoeblacks and watch sellers are a binding nuisance.

Have you made any jam? Or cherry pie? I find myself thinking of home-cooked food. You know, a 2d bar of chocolate here is 5d. Fletcher has an upset stomach so cannot eat anything at all – probably these flies. (He gets low-spirited but he is a fine mate.) At night it is very cold and we wear our battledress and coats, though the moon is lovely, like a bright, pigskin drum.

Now space is getting rather short, so I will close. Cheerio for now then. All the best, Mary.

Yours, Walter

P.S. All the lads long for mail – Please write, Mary! I should be so grateful if you did.

Sean watches the final words as they rise up from the page.

chee ri for no. al the bets, yous water, p sal the lads lon for mae. ples witer marey. water.

A miracle has happened. He can read. Sort of. Some words anyhow. The ability to read real words has come to him while he was doing other things. Easy peasy pudding pie. Does this mean there are now two alphabets in his brain? Wur.
the moon is lov lyk a big pigs kind run.
Spaz, it was peasy! Bludyell. At the beginning of the letter, by the edge of the paper, Sean sees there are numbers. He knows numbers, so he reads them out.

Gor liked to read the paper and sing a Tony Bennett song and chew peanuts all at the same time. It was how he relaxed. Sometimes he added a coloured drink or smoked a No. 3 filter-tipped as well. And so when he was relaxing he was busy with some or all of these things.

'What's one nine four two?'

Sean's father looks at him without any expression for a moment, before a crease of irritation folds above his eye. 'What?'

'One nine four two?'

'What about it?'

'One nine four two.'

'What are you on about?'

'Just tell me then.'

'What? They're numbers.'

'One nine four two.'

'Some bird's phone number.'

'A bird's phone number?'

'Holy cow.'

'Can I phone it on the phone?'

'No.'

Inside a drawer in the cabinet that stands beside the smoked-glass cats, the Matthews family keep their small brown correspondence envelopes. Sean chooses a pencil from the pot and writes down the numbers just as he had seen them on the blue letter. He places the envelope in front of his father and Gor reads it out immediately like a code.

'Nineteen forty-two.'

'Nineteen. Forty. Two,' Sean repeats. It is a series of numbers which seems to exasperate his father.

'Nineteen! Forty! Two! It is a date. A date, Sean. A flaming flipping date! Nineteen forty-two. We were at war with Germany. At. War. Hitler. Goebbels. Rommel. Ruddy Nora. Cath? What's the matter with him? What do they teach him at that bloody school? The lad's a cretin. My eight-year-old son is a cretin.'

Nineteen. Forty. Two. It is a flaming flipping date, Sean knew that now. His mother and father were at war with Germany. Why? They had certainly never mentioned it before. He also knew cretin was proper English for spaz. This date: it could be a long-time date like the date of Jesus, or it could be sooner, like last Tuesday. Miss Day will know. She knows dates like falling off a log.