Cryers Hill (31 page)

M
ARY HATT TOOK
her news to Gomms Wood. She hid within a crowd of shabby trees until the news felt less surprising, more paltry. She thought it through again. A waiter. A person who waits on tables. He had become a waiter, most likely due to her. Didn't she tell him of her ambition to become a Nippy in a Lyons Corner House? Yes, she did. So, he has copied her. Copycat. Sitting on the doormat. Walter Brown has stolen her dream and run away with it to London and turned it into his life, when he knows it is really
her
life.

He is a waiter at the Savoy Hotel, according to Evie Winter. 'Gossip,' Mavis Johns called it, but there is facts about it, Mary knows. Because even though Mrs Hilda Brown will not speak with Mary directly, she speaks to certain others, and the news filters through, and these are the filterings.

Mary allows herself to picture him hurrying gracefully around immaculate tables in a smart black jacket and elegant white apron. In certain magazines there are photographs of swank London places such as this. Whole menus are reproduced for the delectation of readers. She suspects there will be roasted meats served with golden potatoes, and fresh fish, steaming and fragrant with sprinklings of lemon, not to mention dainty cakes, fancies, fondants and glace fruits. She tries to imagine the diners, particularly the women with their appreciative smiles and powdered chins and perky hats still damp from the rain. She supposes Walter would not light their cigarettes, their luncheon companion would do that. Though he might well snap open their napkins and drape them on to their laps. All that swank, wasted on Walter. He will not enjoy it. Instead he will write his dreadful poems, line after dreary line about how it all is now that he is a waiter at the Savoy Hotel in London. Bugga you and all who sail. She wonders what he gets in tips. And now Mary's tears arrive and though they choke and sting, she is glad of them. Perhaps she will marry Eric Hobbs. He is nineteen, two years younger than her, and he is unattractive and simple in the head but, on the good side, he has a job at the chair factory. If there is a war he will more than likely be considered too daft to join up, but you never know. And buggas can't be choosers, so.

Mary Hatt wipes her tears. Wally Walter Brown. Daft simpleton twerp poop-poet, bugga you. As a matter of fact, Mary thinks, that ought to do for his headstone.

There is more gossip. Filterings that have filtered through. The house is busy; nothing is quite the same these days. The farm is filled with girls for a start, land girls they call them, and it is true they are landed on you without so much as a by-your-leave. The least bit of weather and they come chattering into the house.

The rain is still coming down outside after three days, so Mary Hatt squeezes underneath her bed for some peace and quiet and in order to think the latest news through. It is only a small filtering, but very definite. Confirmed, according to Evie Winter, by Mrs Brown herself. He is in Oxfordshire. He is at a training camp. He is to be with the Royal Artillery, Mrs Brown says. Royal! She says he will go abroad, certainly. She doesn't know where. Even he doesn't know where. Royal Artillery. Walter Brown. Daft daft daft. The army must have urgent need of a poop-poet. Perhaps he will come across her brother, Clem, in his tank. Poor Clem. Or Joseph, tall proud Joe, who says it is an honour to fight for his country and a greater one to die for it. Brave Joe, where will we find you? Mary closes her eyes.

The girls are laughing in the kitchen downstairs. A poor show, Mary reckons. She likes to frighten them with her behaviours, not necessarily fits. There have been no fits for a while. She put one on for them in the first week because she could see them looking, waiting. They must have been told. By Evie Winter more than likely. Royal Artillery. Royal! Wally Wally Wallflower, growing up so high.

19th April 1944, C.M.F.

Well now, my dear Mary,

I am sitting in a bivouac on a damp grassy hillside, looking at the water glinting in the churned-up fields in the valley. What else? I can see a fast-flowing river, brown with silt, a village of burned-out and bombed houses, the big Red Cross flag of a military hospital. Then there are more bivouacs and clothes hung to dry on the hedges, and a ceaseless stream of vehicles up and down along the road.

It may come as a surprise for you to hear from me this way. Daft, is likely the way you would view it, particularly when you have had a chance to take in my news and whereabouts. Daft is right, my dear girl, Mary. But in fairness there is much in the world that is gone daft these days.

I am with the Royal Sussex. We are up in the hills, about 2 or 3,000 feet, and everywhere is mist and rain. The mules do a remarkable job in these conditions and can carry more than you would imagine. How willing and biddable they are, not really stubborn at all!

Speaking of animals. Well now, did you know that almost every vehicle here has a dog or perhaps a cat, but more likely a chicken or two on board? Several now have sheep and lambs of course. Usually these creatures are acquired as we go through the deserted farms, together with the odd chair, table, alarm clock or cutlery items, though I personally have taken nothing that did not belong to me. The animals do lift our spirits and, excepting the grazers, would have starved.

So, Mary, I must tell you of our first spring snow. Two days ago it fell and on the higher hillsides it still lies, like writing on the wall, warning us of the contrariness here of weather and environment. Well, at the moment the weather is rather cold, with a touch of frost in the mornings. This morning, going down to the stream for a wash, the ice on the little pools crackled under our feet. Still, I am very lucky as, for a while, I was in charge of a house with a few chaps, waiting for the Coy to be relieved. We were well organised and the fire blazed high all day.

Well, Mary, do you have any details on Walter? I have it on fairly good authority that he is hereabouts. How I would dearly love to see him! I hope to manage it soon.

Interestingly, last night I woke up around 4 o'clock and about 30 yards away a nightingale was pouring out a beautiful song. It made me think of Walter, and of you. The moon was up and it really sounded lovely. True, there was a background of artillery, but that only made a setting of a deeper note.

Some sad news. Our signaller received a letter saying that his brother in the R.N.F. had just been killed. Our chap is only 19 and his brother just 18 months older. He seems so young and was rather badly cast down.

I have been praying at his side and he seems to find it comforting. I know you will pray for him too.

Well, Mary, I told him the story (well, I should tell it here to you too) of the day some weeks ago when we came to a village church that had been built some 300 years ago, 1621 to be exact. More than that we found the history of it from our friend the local priest (who is one year older than myself). Well, apparently in 1621 one of the village inhabitants swore that, wherever he saw snow on the 8th day of August, he would build a church in honour of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Possibly he thought he was on a good thing, for August being a very hot month it was hardly likely that there could possibly be snow. However, he must have been severely shaken when, on the morning of the 8th, snow an inch thick was
actually seen on the hill.
Yes! So, now there is a church, and the 8th of August is the fiesta day. The most beautiful true and lovely story I have ever heard. I thought you would like that story. I hope you do. I did.

Mary, how lovely it would be to see you and return home again! By the grace of God, I shall.

May God bless and protect you, Mary.

God bless you, dearest, Now and Always.

Yours,

Charles Sankey

A very small square of paper is pressed inside the larger one. Sean opens it and the tiny handwriting, curling like sewing, is revealed in neat rows.

Always remember: We shall never more suffer the lonely night when we sit together by the stream, nor hasten more to the demands of the clock. But only rest beneath a leafy canopy wherein shines the light of His eternal Love. We shall return to Him, each one of us, when it is our time. We shall go Home, Mary. We shall go Home.

Sean thinks he will draw the paint-line home and show this one to Ann. This one is different. He will go by the short cut.

S
EAN SEES HIM
in the woods. The man is walking quickly, as though he has a train to catch. Sean watches. It is him, the one with the dead rabbit. It is the man in Mrs Roys' photograph. It is the man who writes the blue moth-wing letters. mista waltr. There are no trains here, however, as this is Gomms Wood. Sean thinks it is lucky that today of all days he is hidden behind this giant fern to witness these goings-on. The strange walkings and talkings of Mr Walter. Because, after all, the smoke-blurred detectives in their short raincoats are not here to slam any car doors or take photographs of leaves.

Mr Walter is snapping twigs and creepers as he goes. Things scrape his face but he does not put his hands out. It is unusual for a person to walk this urgently in dense woodland; ordinarily a person would pick their way, or run. Sean wonders whether there is any possibility at all that Mr Walter might be Martian. He wonders why he has not thought of it before. The man is already almost out of sight among the trees. Sean will have to move after him with jungle alertness. He must not let him out of his sight, he must not lose him now; he must not leave any stone unturned. Gomms Wood is one of the few places around where the weather cannot interfere. It simply can't get inside this wood. It tries; you see the sun straining itself through tattered leaves and poking through canopies, you see rainwater trickling and dripping. But the weather cannot invade and take over. Not like it does on the hills where there used to be fields and orchards and now there are nearly-houses – where once upon a time it would make or break a farmer and his workers and now it merely floods people's garages.

Sean has to run to keep up. He is used to running in these woods, except this time he is the hunter not the hunted. It is difficult because he is keeping his eye on the ball. The ball is Mr Walter. He moves almost as fast as a ball that someone throws at you along with the instruction, Catch!

Mr Walter is out of the wood and striding through the long lush meadow where insects balance on the tops of grass blades. Butterflies rise up in front of him and bounce out of his way. If he had a briefcase and a newspaper under his arm and he was on a railway platform and the whistle was blowing, he would not look at all out of place. Not like he does here, empty-handed, stone-faced, tearing through clouds of summer aphids.

He reaches the rushes and reeds where Ann usually sits and times Sean's weightless dives, where she once knitted indecipherable items in unwearable colours. Somewhere in those water grasses Sean's blue breathing tube still lies in the place it was flung.

Mr Walter has walked straight into the pond as though it were not there. He does not behave like a bather at all. He splashes in without pausing or considering or checking for fish or insects that may sting. He does not break his stride or turn his head or raise his arms. He walks until the water is up to his waist. And then up to his shoulders. And then he is just a head. Watch the ball. Why doesn't he swim? And then he is under. God.

Mr Walter is in the pond. Don't panic. It is just that Mr Walter is in the pond. Sean runs towards the water. He scatters mayflies and grasshoppers. He crashes into the reeds. He stands and looks in horror at the still brown surface, at the reflections of the trees, as they too peer curiously into the depths.

'Mr Walter!'

He is gone.

Bludyell. Sean runs around the edge of the pond. Rudyell. Mr Walter is in the pond without a breathing tube. Bludyell. This is the stone that will be unturned. Sean, you are a pie-faced spaz and I've always thought so. Rudyell. Mr Walter does not come up. Mr Walter is drowning. No one but Sean knows. He can run. Run! No one will ever know. Crine out loud. He wishes he had never even met Mr Walter. You're
a good lad. A fine lad you are.
He cannot run. He ran once before in Gomms Wood and it brought the police in their smoky cars. He will not run. He will be brave. He will leave no stone unturned. Ann will blink when she hears.

Sean jumps. The water is colder than he remembers. He swims towards the centre where a leaf boat bobs. An astronaut must train for four years. He must prepare to go where it is silent and dark and cold and he will weigh less than a leaf when he gets there. Sean plunges down. He can hold his breath for almost a minute now. He opens his eyes and discovers he is no stranger to the brown murk this time. It has become his friend, and he stretches out his hands and he kicks himself down.

A mad woman lies at the bottom of the pond. It is said she was mad. It remains an unsolved mystery, another one. The villagers are used to living with mysteries; they are not afraid. But neither do they swim in the pond. Nobody has swum there since the drowning. The people on the estate do not know about this. Their coffee mornings and cheese-and-wine evenings are attended only by other estate residents. The village children whose family names are in the churchyard know not to swim there or play on the tip.

When a strong swimmer drowns everyone asks why. Why did Mad Mary drown? It was odd. Mary Hatt had swum in the woodland pool since she was a little girl. She swam like a fish.

A farmer knows; he knows nature makes the odd miscalculation from time to time, and he accepts it. He witnesses her miscalculations every spring as his livestock give birth.

John Hatt waded up to his knees and he let his youngest daughter go. He watched while the infant Mary crawled forward beneath the surface of the water. Then he closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed to God for mercy, for forgiveness, for quick resolution in this most dreadful of tasks.

Mary Hatt suffered seizures from birth. John and Ida Hatt had watched their child contort and stiffen and struggle. They waited. Dr Summer paid a visit. One day, he said, she would simply asphyxiate, and that would be that. He did not know when. They spoke prayers to keep her, to protect her. Each time they thought she had gone, she returned. She would breathe herself pink again, pull herself back, though her heart swung too slow to hear. She died many small deaths in a day, and John Hatt thought it was kinder this way, to give her back quietly. In the water she would not struggle, she would not know. She would simply be returning to her element, to the buoyant memory of fluid. The water would neither frighten her nor carry her cries. It was, he thought, the kindest thing to do, natural, understood by God. The same God who, in His mercy, would forgive them, if not now then later.

John Hatt saw right away that she swam. He covered his face with his hands and asked for guidance. He cried. And then he walked away.

Mary Hatt was discovered by a cowman, watering his herd on their way to Wycombe. She was in the reeds, like Moses, laughing at dragon-flies. Holding her breath was second nature to young Mary Hatt.

Mary's mother waited at the door with her news, and when John came in she slapped his face. He let her do it. He never knew whether it was because he had failed to drown Mary or because he had agreed to drown her in the first place. Mary Hatt swam like a fish, always had. Poor mad Mary. No one ever swam in the pond again.