1993 - In the Place of Fallen Leaves (2 page)

“Susanna would ride ‘er pony if ‘er could, all the way to Newton,” said Jane.

“So would I if I had one,” I agreed.

“See you later, any road,” we told each other at her gate.

§

The silence throbbed. Behind it could be discerned a distant hum that droned throughout that strange summer. Back inside our house the silence was deepened by the breathing of the cats, who sat curled up on the tops of things, and by grandmother’s snoring as she took her morning nap in the sitting-room. I tiptoed along the dim passage and paused by the kitchen. There was no one there. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked behind me, and the washing-up steamed on the draining-board. Then I saw that mother stood unbreathing by the window in chequered sunlight, cupping a mug of tea. All at once she leaned forward and carefully placed the mug on the floor before dropping to her knees, her hands spread out on the tiles.

“Why,” she sobbed to herself, “dear God, do it not get no easier?”

The Quarry Pool

B
ack home from another useless trip to the Valley road to wait for the phantom school bus, I’d find Daddy upstairs in the bath, gazing along the islands made by his stomach, penis and toes, or studying irregularities in the plaster on the ceiling. I felt the water: “It’s cold! Come on, let’s get dry.”

He proudly showed me his fingers, their skin corrugated by wet wrinkles. Mother would come in time to dry his hair, vigorously rubbing it with a towel as he sat on the side of the bath, though it would have dried within minutes anyway during that summer, when on Mondays the washing had dried by the time mother hung the next lot on the line. As the reservoirs emptied and the water authority banned the use of hose-pipes and watering-cans and urged entire families to bath together, so mother did a wash only every fortnight at first and then once a month, out of a sense of civic responsibility, but it didn’t matter since we wore fewer and fewer clothes anyway and all began to look as foreign as auntie Maria up in the poet’s shack.

We sweated so much we’d go whole days without needing to pee, and when we did we had to go outside to save flushing the toilet. With no school I’d head off to the quarry pool, not to wash off my sweat but to seek relief from the heat in the black water.

I’d walk through the village, past Rotten Row, where Granny Sims and her sisters and all their families lived, with the Post Office and General Store in the middle—a bare room with a few provisions stocked on wooden shelves—and Elsie’s sweetshop in the end cottage. Our family was rare for the way the men went out of the village to find a wife, but even so the natural inbreeding of the village was exaggerated in Rotten Row: mother said that Granny Sims forbade them to come out of the Row to marry, and it’s true that it was inhabited by a chaos of generations, of babies begotten by a bewildering variety of parents, all mixed up, so that even Granny Sims, who prided herself on her intricate knowledge of everyone’s affairs, was perplexed by the confusion of her own family, with an unaccounted child here or a mismatched aunt there. They seemed to sleep wherever they found themselves when they were tired and mothers fed whoever happened to be around their table at mealtimes: when I whistled to see if anyone wanted to come swimming I never knew what child would emerge from which door.

§

On the way to the quarry pool I paused at the lip in the hill where the stream, after struggling through the village, could drop down the steep incline to the Teign below.

I took the telescope from the sawn-off branch of the beech tree there and made sure that the widowman heron was still down by the pool, maintaining his vigil on the overhanging rock, staring through his lonely reflection on the water’s surface. Beyond him, beside the river, a skein of mist lay strung along the Valley, as if the steam train of grandmother’s memory had returned along the disused railway line during the night and left its vapour trail tangled among the treetops.

As the sun burned into the Valley, the big house over on the estate rose through the mist, its enormous windows all boarded up and holes gaping in its tiled roof. Tracking across the deserted lawns to the waterfall I could make out kids from Teign Village or Hennock cooling themselves beneath the long cascade, seeking a kind of refuge just as rich people had when Napoleon declared war, and wealthy Exeter families fled from the impending invasion along the narrow lanes and up the steep hills to this remote asylum. The 8
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Viscount Teignmouth had welcomed them all, each new arrival with ever greater warmth, not because of the rent he could charge them but because his family had acquired the politeness of aristocrats, and when the last of them departed after receiving news of the Battle of Trafalgar without giving him a farthing for his hospitality, they left the orchards bare, the granaries ransacked, the kitchens upside down, the terraced lawns rubbed out and everything in an even worse state than the Diggers had left it in a hundred and fifty years before, or the hippies would a hundred and fifty years later.

§

After seeing reminders of grandmother’s history I’d put the telescope back in its place and follow the stream down. The water in the quarry pool was so deep that beneath the surface it stayed cold all summer and gave you cramp when you least expected it. No one was supposed to swim out into the middle, and when now and then one of the older boys forced himself to, his fear was there for anyone to see in the disturbed muscles of his face as he struggled back.

The little kids went skinny-dipping, but we didn’t. Between swims we poked around in the scrubby copse that’d grown over the mineworkings around the pool, and into which the widowman heron retreated when we disturbed his vigil on the projecting rock that we dived off. We’d see how long we could lie in the sun without moving, until our backs sizzled, and then we’d leap into the water with a hiss.

The older girls didn’t want to dive, they just hung around whispering to each other and waiting for the boys to come over. But the boys were busy showing off their ever more complicated somersault twists and ducking each other. At the beginning of the summer, after I’d left Middle School for ever, I copied the older girls. Jane was happy to join them, but it was a tedious way to spend time, and soon I became the only girl that summer who learned to do a double backward dive. The boys resented that, and the girls looked the other way.

No one bothered with towels: the beads of moisture that came out of the pool with us vanished from our skin, but by the time we’d climbed to the beech tree our clothes would already be damp again.

§

Grandmother’s very first Christmas in the village was the wettest in living memory: it even rained on Christmas Day itself, an unheard-of phenomenon.

The church was full for the communion service, and afterwards, while the women were preparing dinner, the men in squeaking boots and uncomfortable hats strolled around the village, despite the drizzle, smoking and conversing over each other’s gates. Two of them, Joseph Howard and grandfather, ambled along the lane beside the village stream, discussing the barter of a new set of window-frames for a rocky slope of land behind the church, and before they knew where they were they found themselves at the end of the lane, beside the beech tree above the granite quarry where grandfather had briefly worked, looking down upon a sight so baffling they could only stare at it in silence. Yet even so others were drawn inexplicably in their direction and joined them, equally awestruck by the spectacle. When their daughters and sisters were sent out to call the men in to dinner they found the village deserted, and even though they searched separately for various fathers and brothers they all found themselves propelled in the same direction.

The women of the village sweating around the stoves, after calling from their kitchens, finally stepped outside and proceeded to follow each other without consultation, pulled not by their will but rather by impulses so far out on the edges of their senses that they were unaware of them at the time. It was only afterwards that they were able to infer from traces in the sediment of their memories that they must have been drawn by the inaudible screeching and the blurred tilting of wings of seagulls, and by the intangible taste of salt in the air, because that was the only explanation for them joining the rest of their families around the beech tree beside the lip in the hill where the village stream dropped to the Valley below. And then they too were dumbfounded by the sight of the great quarry transformed into a black, bottomless pool of water.

No one moved.

They barely breathed.

There was no conflict raging in their hearts, wondering whether to develop murderous intentions towards their employer, the 14
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Viscount, for having them work in so dangerous a place, or on the other hand to thank Christ for delivering this natural catastrophe on the one day of the year when not a single person was working there. They were simply overcome by the spectacle. But then someone dropped forward, no one knows whether they stumbled or even fainted, whereupon everyone else too fell to their knees in relief and praise for the Saviour who’d been born on Christmas Day, the one day of the year everyone, even the night-watchman, had a holiday, and who had saved forty-seven villagers from what grandmother assured me was the worst form of death, that of drowning, because it’s the most lonely.

§

When I got back mother was cutting Daddy’s hair in the kitchen. He picked up a cluster that had fallen in his lap, and considered the mixture of black and white hairs with a frown on his face.

“I can’t ‘ave ‘ad a bath since us all painted the pig-sty,” he decided with a rare note of conviction, although he was wrong. In reality the Howards had been the first and only ones to make the mistake of whitewashing a farm building that summer: the whole family got snow-blindness and had to stay inside wearing dark glasses for a week, nursing their eyes with hot flannels boiled in rosemary-scented water. Mike said it even hurt to watch television. I helped Tom take care of their animals, scattering hay from the trailer like we did in winter.

§

Before she’d let Daddy out to play, mother made him lie down on the settee in the front room and listen to one of the records that Pamela brought home from the library in Exeter. Mother said it stopped him getting wrinkles. He lay still as a boulder in a stream and let the torrent of notes of a harpsichord sonata pour over him. He couldn’t hold them and didn’t try, but simply let them slide over the smooth surface of his mind.

I got itchy waiting: in common with my elder brothers and sister I had no talent for music. Mother had installed a piano when she first became pregnant, with Ian, and after that she knew when she’d conceived because she’d awake one morning with an illogical tune nagging at her mind which she’d have to root out on the piano. It was the only time she ever played, she said it was good for the baby in her womb and that we’d be born with a lifelong love of music, but the tactic failed with each of us in turn. After I was born she never played again, but she kept the piano tuned none the less in the hope that some inspiration might yet awaken in one of us a sleeping talent.

The piano tuner wore a black suit and tie, and he had the solemn bearing of an undertaker. Grandmother and mother and Pamela would argue over his age in the kitchen while he adjusted wires and tightened screws until he was satisfied with our cheap piano’s tone and pitch, and then he’d reduce them to enchanted silence with his rendering of one of Liszt’s
Consolations
. At one time he’d almost had to give up his practice because half the husbands barred him from coming into their houses while they were out at work, with his sad bearing like a droopy flower and his suspicious hair lotion whose aroma hung around the piano for the rest of the day, because they could sense that women felt a need to comfort him.

“Of all times to be in this line of work,” he said in his high-pitched voice when he joined us for coffee in the kitchen, “I find myself in the twentieth century. The Dismal Age of the Decline of Music. It’s up to you women to keep it going, you know, you’ll have to carry the responsibility now: men have lost their sensitivity. I don’t know what I’d have done without the newcomers.”

The piano tuner had made his biannual visit from Chagford one Tuesday morning in July, plagued, as he was all through that mournful summer, by a small swarm of midges that gathered around the tuning fork, attracted by its hum, under the illusion that it was made by the wings of a female mosquito.

Laying Hedges

I
an, my eldest brother, was the one who ran the farm now, but he never chose to. He didn’t seem to mind, he always brushed everything off.

“I never ‘spected to do what I want with my life,” he assured me, “there’s few people gets that lucky.” But you could see that underneath his calm manner he was in a constant state of fretting and fidgeting: the uncertainties of a farmer’s life tied his insides up in knots. He could never work out, despite hours spent at his desk making calculations, how we would ever make any money given the incalculables of the weather, health and disease, cattle-market prices and foreign competition, vehicle maintenance and capital investment, but, most of all, time. It was always working against him. He started his day, after a few hours of fitful sleep, swinging out of bed and punching the alarm clock in a single movement. In the bathroom he wiped himself with one hand and brushed his teeth with the other, he combed his hair as he shaved, he pulled his shirt on at the same time as he tied his shoelaces, at breakfast he gulped his tea while his mouth was full of food, and he carried on through the day in the same way, except that he somehow managed to do it with an air of calm efficiency, as if he were acting in this way purely as a controlled experiment, which saved him from looking like a madman.

Despite Ian’s efforts, though, time always seemed to catch up and overtake him and when, exhausted, he collapsed on his bed in the early hours of the morning, all the things he still had to do seemed to pile up on an imaginary conveyor-belt and glide contemptuously past, a succession of tasks undone, floating by him as sleep dragged him under, into tomorrow. I thought it was a unique and absurd affliction that possessed my brother, until I got to know the Rector and discovered that he suffered exactly the same.