The Arrival of Missives (10 page)

I am taking this too seriously, I know. I do not care. I have so many tasks to perform today. It all starts with a knock on my bedroom door, and my mother's excited face (all our disagreements forgotten) as she says, 'The assistants are already here, come along, come along!'

I perform my ablutions, and then the white dress is brought in by the three girls who will assist me today. They are all younger than me, and sit on the other side of the classroom, but I know Gladys, Esme and Jill well enough to giggle with them as they help me into the dress, pinning it in places where it does not fit. Then my mother arranges my hair, loose over my shoulders, ready for the crown to be affixed.

But where is the crown? It is at the village green, waiting for me. I am placed upon Nellie, bedecked with flowers on her saddle and reins, and walked down the road with the assistants tripping along after. It is a fine day, bright and clear, and I smile as we pass the smithy, and The Three Crowns, waving at all I see. We arrive at the green, the maypole standing high in the centre, the open tents arranged around, and there is already a crowd of familiar faces even though it is still morning. This promises to be a wonderful day.

My mother helps me down from Nellie, and leads me across the green, to the side nearest the church, where my throne awaits. It is a wooden chair covered in a white sheet and strewn about with flowers, and a blanket has been placed on the ground around it for my assistants. But we cannot sit and oversee the festivities yet. First I must be crowned.

And here is Reverend Mountcastle to crown me, insistent on doing the job even though he disapproves. He steps forward as fiddle music starts up, and he is flanked by my father and Mr Redmore. The three of them observe me and nod, as if I have passed a test. But then the Reverend puts the crown – white flowers and green leaves intertwined – upon my head, and it does not matter what they think of me any more. I have been raised above them.

I step up to my throne and take my seat with all the dignity I can muster, and the crowd cheers.

The rest of the day is a series of moments like lanterns, strung together by the endless, spinning music, fiddle and drum, and the food and drink that is constantly brought to me by so many people I know; but they present their gifts with aplomb as if currying favour. I nibble, and watch, and sway upon my throne.

The children make a good effort at the dancing, although the little ones often forget when they should be weaving out instead of in, and the patterns are more often a tangle. Still, I salute their efforts and they laugh, and bow and curtsey.

The horseshoe competition is won by my brave Daniel, and I bestow upon his forehead a kiss as his reward, to which the crowd roars. There is no time to be with him today, but there is an awareness between us, and between everyone here, that we are together. Still, I have too much to do to dote upon him. I wave him away, and he runs off with the other boys to take up the ribbons of the maypole for themselves; they grin at each other while the women sing and they dance, and the colours tangle so there is no way of knowing where one strand ends and another begins.

The evening is falling. I can see everything with a clarity that must be born of the cider I have been given. Verity Braddick has eaten five iced buns, one after the other, and the icing has stuck to her best dress. She is trying to clean it away before her mother notices. The Reverend Mountcastle is preaching at the widow Colson, his eyes casting up to heaven and then down to the front of her dress as if his faith is caught somewhere between the two. Azariah Barbery and Jeremiah Crowe are holding hands under the trestle table that holds the jam and scones. Only I can see, from my position on this throne, the way their fingers touch, pull apart, touch. Their faces look away, in different directions, watchful, while all the time their fingers touch.

I am suffused with heat. It is such a warm evening, and here is more cider, presented to me in a beautiful silver goblet with a flourish. I look up from it and look into Mr Tiller's eyes.

'For the May Queen,' he says.

I incline my head in a regal fashion, and take the goblet, while my assistants giggle. It seems that is all they are good for, and it is beginning to annoy me.

'Drink it up, then,' he says, with the schoolteacher in his voice, and I do as I am told, feeling the sharpness of the apples on my lips like a sting.

'Very good.'

He looks satisfied with me.

It occurs to me that since I am Queen, I could command him to stay, to bow, to kneel throughout the night. I wonder if he would do it. But he is too quick for me. He takes the goblet back, and holds my hand. He leans over it, and kisses my knuckles. As he straightens, I feel the cool air upon the patch where his lips touched my skin.

'My homage done, I depart,' he says. He limps away. I have missed my chance to command him.

He takes a circuitous path around the edge of the green, skirting the tables, the tents and the horseshoes. He brushes close to the lads who are playing once more, and to a couple who stand nearby. The couple seem familiar to me; the man has his arms crossed over his chest, and his back is curved a little as he stoops to listen to what the woman is saying. She is very pretty, with golden hair, but as Mr Tiller limps past she stops speaking and raises her head to look at me. The man follows her gaze, and when he frowns at me I recognise him. Daniel. He was deep in conversation with Phyllis Clemens. How handsome they looked, together.

I beckon to him.

He comes to me, moving quickly, and I see rage shining from his face, cutting through the crowd and the music, burning as strong as the stars. How he hates me, and I am afraid of him, but I hold myself tall and straight upon my throne as he approaches.

'Why do you watch Mr Tiller go like that?' Daniel demands.

'I was not watching him. I was watching you and Phyllis Clemens.'

'So what of it?' But I see his pleasure at the fact that I noticed.

This game we are playing overwhelms me. Why should he tease me so? I am in command, and by rights he should obey, and be mine, if I want it so.

'You are not a loyal subject to forget your Queen so easily,' I tell him. 'You must make amends or be punished.' These words come from some ancient place inside of me. All I must do is let go and allow this magic to cast its spell. I can see in his eyes he recognises the magic too. He leans to me, over the heads of the assistants, who are slumped, yawning. The night is growing late.

'Will you do penance?' I ask.

'What would your Majesty have?'

I shift forward in my throne and put my mouth to his ear. I whisper what I would have of him.

He straightens up. Nobody could guess from his expression what I have said. 'Very well, mistress,' he replies, and steps back. He starts across the green, and is soon out of sight.

I sit.

The music plays on.

Will I go to him? Will I go? Is everyone looking at me? Or do they dance on, forgetting all but the rhythm and the clear night sky?

I won't go. I have no need to go, except that Mr Tiller has asked it of me, and I do not need to do the bidding of a madman.

But I could go for myself. Because it is what I want. It is within my power to command love. To want it, and to take it.

I stand up, and the world does not stop and stare. I need give no excuse. My parents are not even nearby, but lost in the crowd somewhere, and I do not look for them as I step over my sleeping assistants and start to walk, finding an invisible line towards my destination.

Past the school, past the bakery, past the churchyard, the music fading into the distance, the night increasing cold upon my face, arms and shoulders. Past the row of cottages, taking the small turn down towards the river. Past Mr Tiller's house, where a lit lamp stands in the kitchen window like a signal, but my thoughts are not with him, not any more.

Down the pebbled lane, where the trees press close, and then there is the glorious, singing shock of the river, tumbling and breaking into shining slivers that bear the glow of the moon in every piece.

I reach the bridge, but do not step upon it. I slide down the river slope, my white slippers slick in the mud. Under the arch there is the hidden place, where the children sometimes go to escape watchful eyes; it is warm and dry, and feels very far away from the village.

It is very dark, but I can make out how Daniel stands tall, his arms lifted above his head, his hands on the stone curving underside of the bridge. It makes it look as if he supports the structure. I cannot make out his face. Only his outline, and the way his body is strong.

'Your Majesty,' he says. 'This is what you commanded.'

Yes, this is what I whispered to him. To meet me here, so I can listen to the frogs sing in the moonlight. But they have all fallen silent. We must have frightened them away.

'Come here, then,' Daniel says. His voice is young, filled with fear and wonder at the moment in which we find ourselves.

I shake my head.

'No?' he says. I think maybe he is smiling. I want something deeper from him, something real, but I cannot find the words to tell him so.

'You come here,' I say. My voice is just the same as his.

He drops his hands from the span of the bridge, and takes a step to me. Just one step. Then he waits.

So I take a step. Just one step. I am close enough to touch him now, so I do. I put my hands on his chest, and feel his skin through his best shirt, smooth skin, warmer than the night air around us. He breathes in, and his chest moves under my touch. He breathes out, and I feel the warmth of his exhalation upon my neck.

I move my hands to his stomach, and he holds still for me, as still as he can. Flesh. He is flesh here. A real man.

'My turn,' he whispers, and places his hands, so slowly, on either side of my waist. His hands are large and hard; he squeezes me, and I feel the strength of him through the layers of material into which I have been laced and shaped. Then he moves his hands upwards, and I feel, I feel such sensations, such possibilities that I have only imagined. It is the joy of the body, bodies together. He touches me upon the curves of my chest and then kneels to lift up my dress and stroke a path across my calves, the backs of my knees, and up, and up. He explores me, and breathes heavily, until I must pull him back to his feet and put my lips upon his face.

The rasp of the shaven hair upon his chin tickles me; it is a rough delight upon my mouth, leaving my lips swollen, and then his mouth is upon my neck, my ear. He sucks at the lobe, then takes my wrist and slips his tongue along the path of the veins, and I reach out and pull at his clothes, beyond any words. All softness is gone from us in a moment when I dare to put my hands upon his thighs. Intent replaces it, pure intent to a happening that is so close, a happening that I want, I want, but I do not know how to—

But there is instinct overriding all confusions, all coyness. His face takes on a blank intensity as he wrestles harder with the laces of my white dress; I do not want to wait while he struggles and so I still his hands with my own, and lift up my skirts.

He snorts a deep breath out, and then he is pressing himself against me, and I stumble but he bears my weight backwards to the span of the bridge, and I feel the cold stones against my back as he fumbles with his trousers, and I pull at my drawers for him until we can feel skin against skin; he is so hard, so strange, and my body will not stretch for him, but it does not matter for he rubs against my thigh, his stubble burning at my neck, and it is a battle we share, locked as opponents, urging each other onwards, linked and driving forward, grim with purpose. In this sensation I could live forever – to make him respond this way to me, and me alone. For if this is a battle I am winning; to make him move this way upon me is a victory that I feel deep inside.

There is a spurt of warmth upon my thigh, and Daniel stills. The warmth trickles down my leg, and begins to cool. Daniel moves away, and pulls down my skirts over my legs, arranging them with great care. He takes my hands in his, and holds them against his chest.

'Are you…?'

'I—' I do not know what to say.

'It's my fault,' he says, 'but I am not sorry for it. Are you?'

'It's nobody's fault,' I tell him, and am surprised to find I am still the same old Shirley, snippy with Daniel Redmore over every little thing because he once spilled ink down my back.

'I just mean that I will take the blame.'

Does there need to be blame? I suppose there must be. An inkling of what comes next seeps through me. It will soon be past midnight, and I will no longer be anyone's Queen. But still, it cannot be regretted, not yet. No matter what comes next. And I do not need a rock in my chest to tell me what that might be.

'I'll walk you home, and explain to your father,' he says. He sounds older. Yes, the outline of him has changed, just a little. His shoulders are broader, as if they carry an extra burden.

'I'd like to know what words you'll use to manage that,' I say, and the thought of him trying to explain the state of my dress, our disappearance from the green, and the lateness of the hour, is suddenly quite the funniest idea of which I have ever heard. I cannot help but laugh. The sound rolls out of me, and I cannot stop. Daniel does not join in. He shakes his head, and says, 'Sometimes I think you're mad, Shirley.' He does not say it with malice, but with some emotion that might even be admiration, and I remember all the things I like about him. Including his body. His body, and the way it feels upon mine. I stop laughing, and I touch his stomach once more. Yes, there it is again, that feeling that springs up between us. I wonder if it could ever be sated.