Cryers Hill (13 page)

W
ALTER WALKS AS
if he were alone. It is no civilised sort of walk as Sankey has acquired a large black hound, a lurcher by the name of Jack, that drags him about, requiring him to lean exaggeratedly backwards as if he were on water-skis. The dog belongs to a sickly girl whom Sankey visits. Her health has deteriorated and Sankey blames himself. He suspects his prayers are feeble. He worries that his Word is not good enough, that he will not save many souls, or heal many hurts. He knows his heart is in the right place, he says, but he worries his message is tangled and impure. He has offered to care for the dog.

'Can you not control the thing, Charles? Steer it.'

'He is beginning to respond, Walt.'

The dog's shaggy spine is curved like a hoop. It swings Sankey into the trees and they disappear, though Walter can hear Charles protesting, and every now and then commanding the creature in that high voice of his. Walter thinks he may as well sermonise to the poor beast for all the good it will do.

It is a fine day and the sky is filled with long clouds sailing in fleets. There is pennycress and foxglove in flower and bluebells in the woods, and Walter imagines there can be few better places in the world. Moreover, he is a young man ready and able to begin an interesting life, just as soon as one comes along; surely it will not be long now.

The dog is bouncing towards the sown field. Sankey jerks behind at the end of the leash. He is appealing to the creature in rising and falling cries, or perhaps he is singing, it is hard for Walter to tell. They are lost for a while as Walter skirts the trees, and then he hears another cry and catches sight of the dog streaking across the field, jagging left and right and then flying wide in an arc before disappearing over the rise. Walter waits. As
straight as an arrow, as crooked as a bow. As yellow as saffron, as black as a sloe.
Schoolboy rhymes; he could remember them all. He hears Sankey calling, 'Walter?' Walter has cause to wonder on occasions such as these what he is doing with a fellow like Charles Sankey. There were a hundred things he could occupy himself with, as many people with whom he could spend profitable time; it could give you the pip.

The fields are writhing with rabbits and the dog cannot resist. No sooner do they find it, shivering, frothing with excitement, than it is off all over again. Sankey holds him for a while, leaning on his heels, singing out his name. The moment the dog breaks away is almost a relief. It flows silently into the grass and from there moves like ribbon up the incline, like something elemental, dark and smooth as river eel. The rabbit will feel a rush of air it has never known before, a crack of bone, then nothing more.

They wait but the dog does not return. Sankey calls its name and then Walter tries, reluctantly at first, then loudly, indignantly. They call its name together; they try high voices, like choristers, until they are hot and browned off.

'A right balls-up,' Walter says finally. 'And no rabbits to show for it.'

Walter and Charles rest by the pond. The sun is high, insects are busy. The dog is gone, likely in the next county by now. It is a mystery, Sankey agrees with himself, why such a dog, when offered comfort and care and human company, would wish to run off like that, as though such benefits were to be found any old where from any old one.

'Cheer up, Charles. Never mind.'

Sankey hangs his head. 'I have no comfort for any souls, not even a poacher's hound.'

'Like I say, Sank, never mind about it.'

'Sorry to say, but I do mind, Walt.'

'Perhaps it had dementia. It looked unstable, to be frank.'

'Perhaps.'

'Right balls-up, but that's life.'

A lapping begins at the edge of the water.

'Supposed to be a creature in this water, that's the legend anyhow.'

'Nothing here but God, Walt.'

'No point in chancing it,' Walter laughs.

Sankey glances at Walter. 'Are you afraid?'

'Course not.'

'You certain, then?'

'Course.'

'Shall we swim in that case? Cool off?'

'I don't swim,' Walter replies.

'Dip your toes then, Walt. Cool off'

'Perhaps.'

'Come on!' Sankey is on his feet, peeling off his shirt to reveal pale ropy arms. He moves with heron steps to the water's edge and Walter is surprised to see how small his feet are, how narrow his waist and how childishly bowed are his legs. 'Come on. Cool off. Are you chicken?'

Walter watches Sankey, gawky in his underwear, as he shuffles along the bank for the best spot. Perhaps he
is
chicken. He had not thought of that. Perhaps it explains everything.

Sankey launches himself, without finesse, into the water.

'Good dive, Sank,' Walter calls.

Perhaps he is chicken. That's it. Perhaps there is nothing at all waiting for him around the corner of his life. Perhaps his life will be like the absconded lurcher, unremarkably present one minute and fled to the back of beyond the next.

Sankey's head bobs up like a buoy. 'Coming in? It's lovely.' He waves to Walter before setting off across the pond. Walter forces himself to wave back.

Walter lights his pipe. The smoke curls upwards towards the beech umbrella. Tut tut tut, calls a warbler. Sankey has given up trying to swim. He stands in the water, dazed, watching the light burn off the surface. It occurs to Walter that this moment has poetic potential, though it is unlikely he has brought his pencil, let alone his notebook, and he realises this is probably why he will never amount to anything poetry-wise. William H. Davies would not have forgotten his notebook or pencil. Indeed, he would be on the third verse by now. Balls-up as usual. Silence is how he would begin his poem, with that word.
Silence.

'We thank you, Lord,' moans Sankey from the water.

Walter closes his eyes. It was hard not to be cheesed off.

'For the gift of water to sustain, refresh and cleanse all life.'

Charles has his arms outspread, like a pigeon-chested Errol Flynn.

'Over water the Holy Spirit moved at the beginning of Creation. Through water you led the children of Israel from slavery in Egypt to freedom in the Promised Land.'

It is in this one distinct area, Walter thinks, that Sankey has come unstuck. A pity in many ways, as he has good points and makes for cheerful company at times, but on this particular theme he has conceivably, arguably, gone too far.

There would be no more silence now and it was too late to write his poem. He should have written it ten minutes ago. In this way, he thinks, all manner of poems, paintings, novellas and assorted artworks are lost to their creators, as they are interrupted by women with brooms, crying babies, freak weather, ill health and Methodists. All these faceless would-be geniuses sunk into pitiless oblivion. And he too joining them shortly, with the flockless Charles Sankey by his side. It was all he deserved, particularly if it were to prove correct that he was chicken, which of course it probably damn well would.

'In water Your son, Jesus, received the baptism of John and was anointed by the Holy Spirit as the Messiah, the Christ, to lead us from the death of sin to newness of life,' chimes Sankey, enjoying his acoustically pond-enhanced voice.

Walter remembered there was a poem by W. H. Davies called 'On Hearing Mrs Woodhouse Play the Harpsichord', which began:
We poets pride ourselves on what we feel, and not what we achieve.
Walter thought that was rather good. He had hoped to use it in conversation at some point, but so far the opportunity had not presented itself. He admired the pomposity of it, the certainty, the way it excluded all non-poets.

'Are you still chicken then, Walt?' Bright water droplets fall from Sankey's elbows, chin and ears. 'Cluck-cluck-cluck,' he says. 'Cluckety-cluck. Love-a-duck. Cluckety-cluckie-cluck.'

Sankey's clucking is intolerable. In comparison, drowning seems the lesser evil. The water is not as cold as Walter expected it to be, and his dive is no worse than his friend's. It is possible to stand up on the muddy bottom as long as you don't move towards the centre, where it is deepest and darkest. Still, Walter feels afraid. He tries to smile, to appear as though he is enjoying himself, when all he feels is fear and irritation and a sort of pity for himself. Charles splashes Walter. The splashing is worse than the clucking.

'That's enough then, Sank. That's enough now. Bugger off bugger off bugger off bugger – !'

Underwater Walter is surprised how loud air bubbles sound, how bright the sunlight is through the gloom, how strong Sankey's arm is as he holds his head under. He has feared water all his life and now here it is filling his ears and nose and eyes, squeezing his heart. He should like to swim. Mary would swim, she would go deeper and circle back and surprise Sankey, beat him at his own game. He cannot swim. Nor for that matter can he ride a horse or drive a motor car, and he's not much good with his hands either – not even with his own fruit and veg – not to mention his singing, which is off, and his piano-playing, which is terrible. He is at least a poet, remaining (as yet) undiscovered. If he drowns now will someone root out his poems and find a publisher to publish them? He would like to hope that people will remark upon the fact that this talented young poet died before he had the chance to produce his finest work, drowned tragically, needlessly, suspiciously, while out swimming with an apprentice lay-preaching Methodist. Perhaps Sankey will be hanged for it. The water rushes inside Walter's ears as he comes up, and as he gasps for air he sees that Sankey is speaking mouthfuls of words, his voice a whine of piety, and the words, urgent, imploring, are rising from the water into the trees.

'. . . confess the faith of Christ crucified. Manfully fight under his banner against sin, the world, the devil. Continue as Christ's faithful soldier and servant unto your life's end.'

'Charles!' Walter cannot speak for coughing.

Sankey closes his eyes. He cradles Walter's head in one hand as if he were a baptised child, the flat palm of the other is pressed against his brow. He lowers his voice. 'He will come to judge the living and the dead, Walt. Accept him, accept him.'

'Christ's sake, Sank!'

'Christ claims you for his own! Receive the sign of his cross!'

Walter wonders if, in the event he is not hanged, Sankey may, at least, be institutionalised. Walter struggles. He is surprised to discover he cannot get free. He kicks and pulls at his friend, but Sankey proves considerably stronger than Walter could have estimated. Finally, Walter swings at him, catching him sharply across the cheek.

'Inherit the kingdom of God.' Sankey cries, in response.

Walter swings again, landing one on his ear.

'O father!' calls Sankey, as Walter continues to thrash. 'O father!' he cries. 'Here is a light delivered. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!'

T
HE LOCAL CHILDREN
had been told they must not walk anywhere alone. Especially not the woods. They were not allowed in the woods, it was banned. Nobody took any notice. Now the estate kids visited the woodland in twos and threes or in morbidly curious groups.

The game was always the same. The boys all wanted to be the beast. Some roared and spat, some crawled with bared teeth, some dropped from branches and some staggered with rolling eyes. As one re-enactment finished so another candidate would declare himself and off it would go again. The boys were always the murderer and, one after the other, the girls were always the victim, walking along in the woods without a care in the world, a bag on her arm, sunlight flecking her shoes. Often more than one girl at a time declared herself about to die. Chorusing screams filled the woodland so that nearby herds would lift their heads from grazing. Some of these girls would alter the proper course of events, escaping or fighting their attacker to the ground, thereby creating a different ending, leaving the beast not the beauty in a bed of leaves. Most of the girls were faithful to the facts, however. Most of them fell to their knees and cried out to their mothers and died with their eyes open.

All except Sean. Sean was the only dead girl who was a live boy, the only one who wanted to. Something about this fact roused the other boys and they chased him with a new resolve. Gone was the pantomime growling and eye-rolling and in its place was feral intent. They chased him as a pack, at least seven of them. They chased him with cunning, working as a team, happy as wolves. The forgotten girls hurried after, hooting, laughing at the thought of Sean pretending to be a girl in the woods, pretending to be hunted, pretending he was important. Sean, dashing on his soft streaky legs, hoping to die with dignity.

They piled on top of him and stuffed his mouth with leaves and dirt and Sean was happy. They pulled off all his clothes and covered him with twigs and soil and he didn't mind. The boys saw that he didn't mind and so they hit him with sticks and pushed earth in his eyes. Sean had pictured himself dying well. He'd imagined himself producing an awful scream and dropping face down (the girls never did that). He suspected he could die the best. Now the boys were shouting in his ears and whipping his legs with switches. His punishment for wanting to be her, for wanting to be the hunted thing, for upsetting the natural order. Who did he think he was? Sticks and stones can break my bones, he told himself. He covered his head with his arms and drew his knees up. He considered how this sort of thing would be impossible in space. How the sticks and stones would merely float or twirl through the air, no matter how hard they were flung. He realised it would be hard to hurt someone on the moon, to break their bones or even shoot them. He imagined that if you managed it somehow their blood might hang about in globules like Christmas berries.

It wasn't bad in the woods. Once the others were gone it was peaceful. He found his socks, his other shoe. He listened for the murderer. The silence began to make him afraid. Do
not go to the woods alone. Do not talk to strangers. Do not take your eye off the ball. Do you think I am made of money?
Sean ran. As he ran he thought to himself: I can run, I can run. Sometimes when you are looking for a murderer it may turn out they are standing right behind you.

*

18th September 1942, M.E.F.

Dear Mary,

I hope you received my airgraph. This time I am trying an airmail letter-card.

Well, what a sky. Not an English sky I should hasten to add. It is a blue of the lapis lazuli variety (if you know lapis).

Newsflash! George Williams has just got engaged by letter. It seems to be quite the fashion to do it by letter or cable these days. How are your parents? And Joseph and Clem? What is the local news? Have you seen or heard from Sankey? I shall drop another line to Mother, though it would be so kind of you if you could pay her a visit sometime. She did, in fact, mention that Isabel is expecting. What jolly news.

There are many types of lizard here, Mary. For instance there are two chameleons who sit on the ration wagon's backboard chains and catch flies on their tongues – I think you would like them. Fletch has called them Monty and Rommel, what a wag. Sandstorms blow up here without any warning, real whirlwinds they are. Of course this is the reason why camels have the ability to close their nostrils.

We are allowed out on evening leave, so Bob Henderson and I went on a walk. After 3 miles we found an Egyptian canteen. It cost us a small fortune! Whatever money you put down, you hardly ever receive change. A small tin of pineapples is 5/- and a pen is
2/-.
Well, when you consider our salary of 30/- (less one and a quarter piastres lost on rate of exchange) someone is doing well, but it is not us! Moreover, Bob and I got ourselves lost on our return and arrived back rather pooped.

Well, darling, everyone thinks we now have Jerry on the run. (The Italians don't count any more – they are poor fish.) You'd be amazed to see all the stuff left behind by Jerry and the Italians – vehicle parts, chairs, tables, pans, stoves, ammunition, old planes, tanks, tins, helmets, clothing, boxes of cigarettes (rain-soaked, unsmokeable!) – all left lying on the desert sands. And the harbour nearby is full of half-sunken ships. By the way, the Greeks are nice – polite and kindly disposed. Odd how they all seem to have fillings in their teeth.

I could eat some allotment peas now, and perhaps one of your potato pies. We have stewed bully and biscuits at night and sometimes cold bully during the day – a bit monotonous, I'm sure you'll agree. These letter-cards are rather short on space, aren't they? So I'll close now. I am thinking of you. Cheerio. God bless you. Please write, Mary!

Yours, Walter xx

PS. You are beautiful.

soll cloes now. chee ri. o.god be less yoo. ples witer maryi. yous water.

This was a good letter. This letter he liked,
dear mary, dear mary. yurs waltr. yurs waltr xx.
This was Sean's favourite letter. He carefully replaced the bricks.