The Wilding Read online

  He winked. ‘Back already? Fallen out with them, have you?’

  ‘I thought Father might need my help.’

  ‘You’ve heard, then?’

  ‘Heard?’

  ‘There’s news in your place.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, meaning that I did not wish him to tell me any more. ‘Will you be fetching Bully back tonight?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Only I’ll want him again soon, for Parfitt’s.’

  ‘Let me keep him tomorrow. I can spare him after.’ He touched his hat and I did the same. As we moved off the horse tried to turn into his familiar field and I had a job to pull him back.

  It was not far to our house. I drove Bully into the little yard at the side, watered him and let him go free in the orchard.

  When I entered Mother and Father were sitting together by the hearth. Though the house was cold at this time of year, as a rule they kept warm by keeping busy; they only sat like this in the evening, after their labour was done. Yet here they were, even though the fire was unlit, side by side in broad daylight and staring into the ashes.

  ‘Jonathan!’ When Mother rose to kiss me, I perceived she was dressed in black. My father, whom I now saw was also in black, started as if he had just realised I was in the room. I gestured towards Mother’s clothing. ‘Uncle Robin?’

  Father said, ‘Yes indeed,’ but remained sitting. His br="0em">

  ‘Dear Father, he had you to comfort him.’

  My father’s face worked but no sound came out.

  ‘He was already gone when your father arrived,’ my mother said softly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, thinking: If only he had taken the horse!

  Father nodded. It seemed he did not trust himself to speak.

  ‘Mathew,’ Mother said. ‘Pray go and lie down.’ She was giving him the chance to get away from me, as in another minute he would have sobbed outright. As he left the room she whispered, ‘Don’t ask about it. He’s tormenting himself.’

  ‘Why? He went as soon as he could.’

  ‘So I keep telling him, but all he says is “I could’ve ridden.” He’ll come right in time. For now, you must do your best to comfort him – amuse him. You’ll do that, won’t you, Jon?’ I nodded and she hugged me to her. Amusing Father seemed a hopeless task, but I was in no doubt that she meant me to try.

  ‘Harriet sends gloves and a ring for you,’ she went on, releasing me.

  ‘No blacks? You have blacks.’

  ‘Of the worst quality. Look here!’ Mother held up her skirt, spreading out the coarse stuff for me to see. It was shameful; we would have provided better for our maid Alice.

  ‘I can’t go to the funeral without blacks,’ I said.

  ‘You shan’t go at all. He was buried yesterday.’

  I blinked. ‘What? So soon!’

  She lowered her voice. ‘He wouldn’t keep; he was stinking.’

  ‘In this weather?’

  My mother shrugged. ‘So Harriet said. She prayed the parson to get him in the ground. The sexton stayed up late on purpose.’

  ‘Disgraceful,’ I said. ‘He can’t have been as bad as that.’

  ‘Unless it started before he died. That can happen, you know; but if he was going so fast, why didn’t she send to us earlier?’

  I was about to reply when someone knocked at the door.

  ‘That’s Dunne.’ I went with him to fetch Bully, who stepped out smartly on seeing his master. When I came back, my mother had also left the room and so put a stop, for the time being, to my questioning.

  * * *

  ‘Hewas a handsome boy,’ my father said.

  We were in the orchard, picking up windfalls. Obedient to my mother, I had not mentioned Uncle Robin, but my father could not stop speaking of him, though never mentioning the stench of corruption that had so offended Aunt Harriet.

  ‘A dead man looks young again, have you heard that, Jonathan?’

  He had already said this twice, so I knew what was coming next.

  ‘They shaved him and with his face all smooth you wouldn’t have known how old he was. Only the hair – it was the hair gave it away.’

  Uncle Robin’s hair was one of those legends that are passed on down the generations. As grown men the brothers seldom visited each other – only now, seeing Father’s unfeigned grief, did I wonder why – and on the rare occasions when I had seen him, my uncle had been middle-aged and his florid features framed by a wiry, grizzled mop. To my father, however, this Uncle Robin was merely an illusion created by time. Robin’s true form was the one he remembered from his youth: a boy whose hair hung in ringlets of spun gold and drew glances wherever he went. In a family made up entirely of blonds, Robin had somehow contrived to stand out.

  My father said wistfully, ‘The village girls called him Absalom.’

  ‘We’ve all got that hair,’ I said. ‘The Dymond hair.’

  ‘Not to be compared with him.’

  It was natural, I thought, that Uncle Robin should have attracted the richer wife. And yet I could scarcely believe that they were as happy as my parents, especially since Aunt Harriet had a sharp tongue and a temper to match. That, and her pride, went some way to explain why visits had been few and far between: my aunt was not a woman to throw wide her arms, let alone the doors of her house, to her humbler relations.

  Father paused as we dragged the basket of windfalls over the grass.

  ‘It’s getting heavy,’ he said. ‘That’ll do.’

  We hoisted it between us, my father grunting a little, and carried it into the shed. As we put it down he tutted in annoyance.

  ‘Will you fetch my coat, Jonathan? I’ve left it in the orchard.’

  *

  The coat was thrown over a low bough. As I shook it, in case of ants, a crumpled scrap fell out of the pocket. I knew at once what it was, and what I should do, and was not going to do. Checking that nobody could see me from the house, I unfolded it and read:

  … a vicious wretch and with your help must make reparation. Say nothing of this to my wife, she is (here some words had been torn away) in you as the best of men, you will not fail (again some words missing) her rightful …

  That was all. Whatever my uncle had to confess, it seemed he was in fear of being found out by Aunt Harriet. Perhaps this was why he had waited for so long, only to go before his Maker with his reparation unmade and his secret weighing down his soul.

  You will not fail. Poor Father, I thought. How those words must cut him now! I felt in the rest of the coat but found nothing; it seemed he had torn and perhaps burnt the letter but missed this one piece. I put it in my own pocket and made my way back to the house.

  2

  An Interlude

  The lane up to Broad Leigh was steep and Bully strained in his harness, clouds of steam huffing from his nostrils. I got down from the cart to ease him and as I did so saw Poll Parfitt in the act of clapping the house window shut.

  Within a minute she was in the lane with me.

  ‘Where you been, Jon? We thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘My uncle died. I had to stay home a day or two.’

  ‘Ah. I’m sorry to hear that, truly I am.’

  ‘Are you?’

  What a lovely little hypocrite she was. Looking at her, I could almost believe that she cared more about Uncle Robin than I did myself.

  ‘I’m not sorry,’ I told her.

  Poll’s face brightened. ‘No more am I, then.’

  ‘But I hate to see my father grieving.’

  She was again serious.

  ‘Come, Poll, you don’t care! Why should you?’

  ‘Ah – you know why,’ she pouted.

  ‘You took a vow to cut off your hair when my uncle died, is that it? I won’t like you with no hair, Poll.’ We trudged up the lane together, Poll walking very straight and dignified now that I was making fun of her.

  ‘We’ve no Redstreaks this year,’ she said. ‘All blighted.’

  �
��Shall I go away, then?’

  ‘We’ve got Stubbards. And a good few Barn Door, this year.’

  ‘Barn Door’ was the name they had given their wilding – a bastard tree, sprung up without planting. It stood outside the barn, hence its name, and bore a dark red apple, a bit like Sops-in-Wine.

  ‘Never mind, you’ll have your drink all the sooner,’ I said, though I didn’t care for Stubbards; ssh; ugly, bunchy things and not half as good drinking as the Redstreak. Somehow being with Poll made me talk nonsense. I could not help looking at her deep red lips – ‘like a scarlet thread’, as the Bible says. Add to this a pair of little bright eyes like cornflowers and you have an idea of Poll Parfitt, who at that time was in the habit of dallying with me. During the last cider-making I had kissed and joked along with her, though without giving her any serious thought, and I was glad of her company as I led the horse into her father’s yard.

  *

  Joshua Parfitt shook my hand, saying, ‘We’ve been looking out for you.’ The air was thick with the scent of concocting apples. Despite my dislike of Stubbards I drew a breath at the sight of so many of them spilt in heaps. When I picked one up and squeezed the pips were black; the fruit was more than ready.

  ‘We thought you’d be here a week back,’ Parfitt said. ‘The murc off these can go straight to the press, I reckon, no need to stand in the mill.’

  ‘No, indeed.’ In fact, as I knew, there was no mill on the premises. The family and their servants beat the apples by hand and called it ‘milling’.

  Poll was hovering behind us, hoping for a chance to catch my eye.

  Her father whirled round on her. ‘Go away, will you, girl!’ he cried. ‘Do something useful, tell Martin and the rest of them to get out here.’

  As Poll trotted off I noticed that she was holding up her skirts in an affected manner to keep them from trailing in the mud. Her father turned to me half laughing, half in exasperation.

  ‘Her and that gown! Did you ever see the like?’

  ‘It’s too long for her,’ I said.

  ‘She won’t turn it up. Missy has to wear it long, like the rector’s wife.’

  ‘The hem’ll get filthy,’ I said. ‘She’ll trim it then.’

  He grunted. ‘What she needs is to be wed. She’s not bad, just a bit giddy; if she gets a steady man, she’ll grow to him.’

  Here he gave me a gauging sort of look.

  ‘Well,’ I said. I unhitched Bully and led him away before unloading the cart.

  As I was setting up the press all the Parfitts, even the toothless old grand-dam, turned out to pulp the apples. They threw basketfuls of fruit into troughs and slogged at it with staves, mallets, anything that came to hand. Martin, the hired man, helped me fit the parts into place and draw back the screw.

  A layer of murc went on, bound by straw, then another. Already the first of the must was trickling through. I felt sorry that their Redstreaks had been blighted, but even Stubbards were better than nothing.

  Parfitt could not have chosherworse time to drop his hint about Poll. My head was full of Uncle Robin’s letter, which came back to me at all hours of the day. Every so often I would pull it out of my pocket for another look, trying to patch together its meaning. Something about her rightful. Aunt Harriet’s rightful what?

  Poll, whose job it was to bring out the bread and cheese, was not long in noticing. ‘What’s that, a love letter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is! Let me see.’

  Martin winked as she plumped down next to me in the straw. I was pretty sure neither of them could read, so I passed her the scrap of paper and let her pore over it.

  ‘It’s from a girl,’ she pronounced, watching me like a cat.

  I swiped it back out of her hand. ‘It’s from my uncle that died. Not much of a scholar, are you, Poll?’

  Martin laughed and Poll flushed scarlet, not because she could not read but because I had mocked her in front of the hired man. After that she stayed away, and we got on faster. When everything was done and I was ready to leave, she did not come to wave me goodbye.

  * * *

  My next stop was at Little Leigh, where I made not much more than a few costrels of cider, and then I pressed for some cottagers in the village of Brimming. None of these households could find bed-space for me so I put up at the inn, a frowzy, mouldy place where I was obliged to go into the stables to make sure Bully was looked after. The ostler did not like me, but I cared more for Simon’s good opinion than for his. Then on to West Selsden, where I pressed for another three or four cottages and slept in the rector’s barn.

  During the time I passed there, I crawled each night to my sleep, tired as I was with labour and softened with the cottagers’ drink, yet no sooner did I drop off from the world than I began to dream, and always the same. It seemed I was setting out again, the horse jolting away in front of me. Through the morning mist I saw a man standing by the roadside, and as the cart came up he pulled off his hat and began to gesture towards me. Seeing the bright hair, I was seized with that childish dread that comes only in dreams. The dead man was holding out a paper, seemingly intending that I should take it. I knew that if I once touched it I should never be free of him, so I whipped up the horse and drove past without looking into his face. When at last I dared glance back I saw him crumpled in the road as if I had driven over him, and at this point I always woke, oppressed with guilt and shame. I would lie awake a while, making myself think of the apples pressed and the money I had pocketed, but as soon as I went back to sleep there would be the horse’s head again and in the distance a grey figure in the mist.

  *

  The pressing at West Selsden brought me to the extreme end of my journey in one direction; in order to reach the others who needed my services I must now double back. I finished up the work, loaded the cart and bedded down for the last time among the rector’s sweet hay, where I suffered my worst night so far; in addition to the dream, I had to edure the ghostly calls of owls above, and once a bird swooped down near me so that I woke in a great fright – there was a beggar at Spadboro who had been blinded by an owl. I laid my hat over my face for protection and lay thinking about Uncle Robin, picturing the handsome youth who had courted and won Aunt Harriet. Did he bring his secret, whatever it was, to the marriage altar with him? Or did all that come later?

  When I woke the following morning the hat was fallen away but the owls had left me my eyes. The light streaming from the barn windows was shot through with dazzling flecks – ‘angels’, we called them at home – and as I lay admiring them I was aware that at some point during the night I had come to a decision. My father was gentle and trusting; he had returned home too soon, given up the chase too easily. It was understandable in a man oppressed by a brother’s death, but another man, loving Robin less, might serve him better.

  I came out from the barn into a fine autumn day and harnessed Bully to the cart. He seemed, like me, eager to be off: I had only to lay the reins on his back and he sprang forward.

  ‘Bully,’ I said to him, ‘that’s the spirit! We’re not going home, yet, my lad. There’s been a change of plan; we’re off to Tetton Green.’

  3

  Of Mrs Harriet and her Household

  ‘I see no call for this,’ my aunt said. ‘Does Mathew think I’ve lost my wits along with my husband?’

  We were in the small room at End House, the home she had shared with Uncle Robin. It was a dim, north-facing apartment; creepers at the window filtered the day to a chill green as if the light were struggling through a sheet of river ice.

  ‘My father thinks no such thing,’ I said. ‘His only wish is that I should call in upon you, pay my respects and –’

  ‘Take over,’ she finished. Widowhood had not softened a single line in Aunt Harriet’s face: her eyes were as bold and her lips as clamped as ever. She looked as if she could see right through my skin.

  ‘No, indeed,’ I said soothingly. ‘Father said I was to be bound by your wishe
s. To be of service to you.’

  My aunt hummed and tutted and straightened the folds of her mourning dress, which was of a much richer stuff than the one she had given my mother. Her cap, of a harsh, unbecoming style, pressed her hair tightly to her scalp and thus threw into relief her sharp, beak-like nose. I remembered the owls. ‘I thought you’d be pleased at the courtesy,’ I hinted.

  She was silent, thinking.

  ‘I could press your apples, Aunt – I’m skilled at it.’

  My aunt stared at me. ‘What for? Binnie is to press them.’

  ‘Then I can spare you his fee.’

  Both Uncle Robin and Aunt Harriet were known to be tightfisted. For the first time, she looked at me with something like approval.

  ‘How long will you take?’

  I just managed to bite back the reply that with my new press it would take no time at all and said instead, ‘It’s of no consequence. I’ll stay until the job is done.’

  ‘You can have a bed,’ said Aunt Harriet, adding, ‘We’ve a fine crop this year.’

  My heart flooded with secret joy. I had cut Binnie, whoever he was, out of a job, but I could perhaps square that with him. Nothing mattered except that I was where I wanted to be.

  *

  As a child, I never thought about the name of End House. Now, visiting the place as a man, I saw it was the last in a line of dwellings backing onto Tetton Wood. These houses facing the Guild Hall, as the locals called it, were considered the best in the village and in my opinion Aunt Harriet’s, with its broad front of yellow stone and its delicate mullions, was the most handsome of all.

  The bedchamber into which she showed me was large, bare and dusty. She frowned as I slid my bag from my shoulder.