Mr Mac and Me (30 page)

‘The man’s been seen, more than once, sending out signals with his lamp. He’s a foreigner, for Christ’s sake. Who knows where he is really from?’

‘Wandering about all times of the day and night.’ Danky is gruff. ‘I come across him just last week, past midnight, roaming about over the common.’

‘And aren’t those spyglasses of his banned? Now what are they useful for if not . . .’

‘For spying?’ Jimmy’s voice has risen.

Carefully I step away. My face where it’s been pressed against the wood is numb. I’m quiet as I unlatch the door, but once outside, I streak across the common, not stopping till I reach the bridge, not even checking on the hour before I thrust my body forward on to the rails. I’m halfway across before I think of the danger, and by then my foot is singing loud enough to drum the blood out of my ears, and I’m deaf to any other noise. Come on, I tell myself, and as I stop for breath I twist around to gauge the position of the sun. But it’s a hazy day, the sunlight filtered behind white, and I’ve no time to waste in guessing how many minutes there are before the hour.

I’m half dead when I reach the other side, but it was quicker, I am right, and I run, my back uncurling, my foot sharp. I stumble on to the river path, and hop and drag myself along, until the huts come into view and I pause to get my breath.

Mac is sitting on his stool. He has his board before him and he’s working from four bells of blossom. They are delicate, deep purple, with a small lattice of squares across each petal.

‘
Fritillaria
,’ he tells me as I sink down on to my crate.

‘Snake’s-head,’ I nod. Although I’ve known them too as chess flower, guinea hen and leper lily, for the bells the lepers used to jangle as they walked. A gloomy plant, Mother calls them. She won’t have them on the grave. But flowering now under Mac’s fine brush, even she would see the beauty in them.

‘Snake’s-head.’ Mac smiles at their shimmery skin. ‘I like that.’ And he taps in a white spot of light.

‘Mr Mackintosh,’ I try. And he stops for a moment. ‘Could I . . . would it be possible, just for a short time, to borrow your binoculars?’

‘The binoculars?’ He’s mixing up a yolky yellow. And he turns his eyes on me, as if I am the one that is suspicious. ‘If you really need them. My wife is at home. She’ll hand them to you.’ And he begins painting in the golden centre of an open flower.

I’d like to sit there longer. But there’s no time to waste. ‘I’d better get them then,’ I tell him, and I hurry away along the path.

Chapter 52

Ann and Jimmy are to marry in the village church, and not, as Mother feared they might, in the larger, grander church at Southwold. Mrs Kerridge is there. It seems she’s the only family Jimmy’s got and we sit with her in the first pew, Father, Mother, Mary and I, all staring ahead at the happy couple, so thin and pale they look like goose down. Mrs Horrod is there, weeping from the first word. And her husband, who nods off as soon as he sits down. Danky sits behind me, his leg sticking stiffly out into the aisle, and from the smell of him he’s taken something strong to see him through. Mrs Lusher brings her mother, and sits her bundled in her blanket at the back, although we still hear her mumbling and wheezing through the service. George Allard is near the back too, squeezed in beside the Tilson brothers and Frank Tibbles, and even Mr Gory from Lowestoft. So glad are they to have good news, no one can stay away. And when Ann lifts her eyes and says I do, and they lean towards each other in a kiss, there is a ripple of happiness that runs through the church, as if after almost a full year of war, a small clear victory has been won.

There is a party at the inn. A barrel of beer is rolled up from the cellar, and the tables and chairs that Father and I dragged outside that morning have been covered with white cloths. Ribbons hang from the branches of the trees, and the hollyhocks by the back door wave welcoming as men. The whole village is here now. I walk between them. One eye out for Father who I’ve not seen since the church, and the other for the speck of a Zeppelin coming in across the sea. But it is a clear blue day and no cloud for cover, and there is nothing in the sky but seagulls drifting and a scattering of starlings, swooping down across the field.

Fred Tilson has brought his fiddle. He strikes up a tune. And his brother starts in on a song.

‘
In the merry month of June, when all the flowers were in bloom . . .
’

People clap their hands. Ann and Jimmy dance. And then Mother, through her tears, protesting, is swept into the arms of the landlord of the Bell and swished across the grass. It’s then that I see Father, his eyes shiny, his mouth grinning, as he leans into a crowd of men. ‘Pa.’ I go to him. There may still be time to help him save his promise. But as I near he puts out his hand and, gripping me by the shirtfront, he holds me off.

‘So has it not been done?’ It’s Danky. Red in the face. Redder than Father.

‘Truth is,’ Father slurs, ‘there’s no reward.’

‘No reward!’ Danky spits. ‘No reward but honour, and the safety of our land!’

A new song starts. Louder than before. Tibbles squeezes an accordion and the dancing starts again. ‘If Jimmy said he’d do it . . .’ Father swerves round. ‘Well, I’ll do it myself if no one else will. Although I’m fond of the old fellow.’

‘Report him?’ Gory asks.

‘Give him a fright.’

Mary is dancing now. With a soldier billeted at the rectory. And there’s Kett, the widower, leaning against the well shaft, talking to Mrs Lusher who has a dazed look on her face.

‘Leave it with me.’ Father lets go of my jacket. And as he reels away I see he has an empty glass looking to be filled.

‘Dance with me, won’t you, Tommy.’ It is Ellen from the blacksmith’s, grown taller than me, her lips painted a cheery pink. I need to look for Mac. But she takes hold of my arm and slides me inside the music, twisting and turning till her hair is falling in loose strands from under her hat, and I’m laughing with the speed and heat of her, as I hop from foot to foot. After, we sit together and she asks if I still play coppen ball up in the churchyard, and I blush and say I don’t. I’m sure I never did. ‘Ermentruda,’ she whispers and I laugh, but all I can see is the short grey grave at the far end by the gate.

‘Make way.’ It is Father again, his voice behind me. Louder. ‘I’ve important business to attend to.’ And grandly flinging out his arm, he smacks Mr Horrod in the face.

‘Ahh,’ Mr Horrod shouts. It may be the first sound I’ve ever heard him utter. ‘I’ll saw your bleeding ear off.’

Father rounds on him, he’s so surprised. ‘I see no fear, nor care for no man.’ His eyes are wild, his fists up.

‘We should take a walk one of these evenings,’ Ellen is saying, ‘with the weather so fine.’ But I’ve turned away. I must find Mac.

Mac was invited, I’m sure of it. I can see him nodding over the bell of his snake’s-head, saying he’d be glad to come. And even though I’d know if he was here, I spring up and rush around the garden, hoping to catch sight of the red flame of his wife’s hair.

‘Let’s have another dance.’ Ellen has caught me. And the music starts and I’m swallowed up in it. Lost in the heat of her arms.

Betty Maclellan, I think to myself as we stagger into the woods. And I see the upturned smile of Betty’s Highland mouth, even as Ellen hovers for a kiss. But once I’ve kissed her, all else is forgotten. A spark shoots through me and I’m clutching at her, pulling her against me, so desperate am I to feel the softness of her body against mine.

‘Tommy, Tom!’ Ellen is wriggling out from under me. I don’t even remember how we came to be on the ground. ‘Calm yourself, there’s not such a hurry.’

I lie still and stare up through the trees. The blue has gone out of the sky, the light behind it low. The music is still playing. And below the fiddle I think I hear the sound of Mother sobbing, for tonight Ann will be sleeping under another woman’s roof. ‘Come on,’ I say to Ellen who is picking leaves out of her hair. And I take her hand and I lead her back to the party.

The crowd has thinned. But Mrs Horrod is still there, standing with Mother, their arms entwined. Mr Horrod is asleep on the chair by the back door. And Ann and Jimmy are dancing, their feet slow, their faces close.

‘Where’s Father?’ I look about me. But Mother takes my hand and tells me to put out the fire. There must be no sign of it by the time it is dark.

I push the cover from the well and peer down. No one knows how deep our well is. It was dug when the Blue Anchor was first built. Two hundred years ago. Or more. I look round for George Allard, he will know. Maybe give me the exact date. But George Allard has gone too.

I let the bucket fall and listen to its drop. And when it’s full and tugging at the well shaft, I heave it back up and drag it over to the fire. The fire hisses like a nest of snakes. Thick grey smoke streams into the air, but when I throw another bucket over it, it stutters, and turns to coils of white.

‘I’ll be seeing you then,’ Ellen’s hair is tucked neat inside her hat again, and with a quick kiss against my cheek, she runs out into the lane.

A pony waits in harness in the street, its tail plaited with ribbon, its mane decorated with flowers. Jimmy goes to hand Ann up, but Mother catches hold of her. ‘Promise you’ll call in on me before too long,’ and only when Ann swears to it will she let her go.

‘Where’s Father?’ I try again. But Mother is too busy with her tears to do anything more than wave at the departing trap.

The music has stopped. Fred Tilson is wrapping up his fiddle. And Tibbles has squeezed shut his accordion and fastened it with a latch. I hear Mrs Horrod from inside the kitchen clattering over the washing up while her husband sleeps by the back door.

I pick the bucket up and tip the last of the water over my face. And then because I like the drop and splash of it, I throw it down the well again, so there will be water for tomorrow.

The Lea House is dark as I come down the lane. Since the party ended I’ve been restless to do my rounds, but till now Mother wouldn’t let me go. Not even with Mrs Horrod there. But the bar’s closed up now. And Mother is asleep. Dreaming, I hope, of the flowers in the horse’s mane, and not of Father who is still not home.

I stop by the gate. But no lantern flickers at the open door, no figure looms along the path, so I walk down towards the beach, trudge up through the dunes, and as I come over the top I’m stopped by light pouring off the sea. I duck down. Fearful. A submarine is the first thought I have, after an army, swarming in with torches, but as I crawl forward I see the light is coming from itself, moving, darting, skipping across the tops of the waves. I creep closer. It’s as if a shoal of jellyfish have broken into pearls. And the pearls themselves have turned to oil. Phosphorescence. That’s what it is. And eager to catch hold of it I step into the sea. Ice water cuts into my legs, trickles through the laces of my boots. But not just water, silvery-blue caterpillars of light. I laugh and wade out further. It’s on my arms now, clinging to my fingers. My heart is high, I’m so fearful it will go. ‘No,’ I whisper as the light scatters, and I dip my head under so that the sparks can dance across my face. The waves are gentle, the sand is soft below my knees, and I flip on to my back and for a moment I am floating. But then my body buckles and I swallow water and there’s nothing below, nothing on either side, but black. A wave lifts me, tips me forward, and just as it is about to drag me back, there’s sand again and I am safe. I scramble out on to the beach and breathe. Already the dancing lights are fading, moving off along the coast. I’d like to wade in, grasp one last flicker, but I stand, and with my clothes still dripping and my feet squelching in my boots, I make my usual inspection of the beach.

I’m on the shingle by the ferry when I hear their voices. Shouting and hollering ahead of me in the dark. My first thought is there may be another battle, like the one that took place all those years before on the green. But as I hurry up the street towards the Bell, I see there is no fight. Instead the men from both inns are standing, swaying, their arms around each other, their voices loud with nothing more than drink.

‘You’re a good man, Maggs,’ it is Danky, ‘for all that you’re a drunk.’

A roar of laughter rises, and Father interjects. ‘A drunken man will get sober. But a fool will never get wise.’ And he keels forward, laughing so hard I fear he may never straighten up.

‘Happy as a dog with two tails.’ George Allard of all people! And I stick to the shadow of the hedge and watch them straggle down the hill.

‘It was a cold and stormy night

The snow lay on the ground.’

Danky’s voice floats on the night air.

‘A sailor boy stood on the quay

His ship was outward bound.

His sweetheart standing by his side,

Shed many a silent tear

And as he pressed her to his breast

He whispered in her ear.

Farewell, farewell.’

The others all join in, and under cover of the chorus I trot after them.

‘Farewell, my own true love,

This parting gives me pain