‘Nothing there,’ I said in an undertone.
‘Seems not,’ said Rob. ‘It looks as if some of them signed it after the wedding breakfast instead of before, doesn’t it? But then maybe their hands were shaking as much as mine was. Weddings,’ said my husband, his left arm sliding round my shoulders, ‘are strictly for the birds.’ He added, softly: ‘So far.’
‘You took a lot of care that this bird should have a pretty wedding, all the same. The flowers are lovely.’
‘Well,’ said the Vicar cheerfully, appearing at Rob’s other side, ‘we must be very thankful that all has ended so well. I confess I was worried about our little mystery. But now all is clear, and no blame attaches to anyone. I am quite certain now that the fault was mine, and mine alone. I am sure that Jon must have told me he wanted to look at the old registers, and I have simply forgotten. Dear me. I shall lock it away now, with the others. Were you looking for something in particular, Rob?’
‘Not really, Vicar. But look, here’s something. A funny sort of coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’
His finger pointed to an entry, the third from the top on page seventeen. It was dated May 12th, 1835. The signatories were Robert Granger, Labourer, of Ashley Parish, and Ellen Makepeace, Spinster, of One Ash. ‘Signatories’ is not quite the correct word, for whereas Ellen had signed her name in a writing that was tremulous but correct, against the name of Robert Granger, Labourer, of Ashley Parish, was his mark, a large X.
‘See?’ said Rob to me. ‘It’s happened before. I’d better put the kiss in, too.’ He did so, while the Vicar, beaming, and tut-tutting over the coincidence, carried the register over to the safe to lock it away. Mrs Henderson bustled forward to follow up Rob’s kiss and take one for herself, and Mr Henderson, seizing my hand, pumped it up and down silently, as if conceding that this wedding, at least, was a matter for congratulation.
‘And now,’ said Mr Bryanston, ‘you’ll all come over to the Vicarage for a glass of sherry, I hope? Rob didn’t give us very much notice, so I’m not at all sure what we can manage in the way of a wedding breakfast, but I imagine—?’ This with a justifiably nervous glance at Mrs Henderson, but that lady remained miraculously unperturbed, while Rob shook his head.
‘No, thanks very much, Vicar. We’d like to come over for the sherry, but don’t trouble yourself further than that. We’ve got an errand to do in Worcester, and then we’ll find some lunch for ourselves.’
‘Ah, yes, excellent.’ The Vicar straightened from shutting the safe. ‘Well, that’s that. Now I still have one duty to do, and it’s one I never forget; to kiss the bride. Bryony, my dear . . .’
And then, the formalities completed, the wedding party trooped across the churchyard between the sombre beautiful yews, to sherry at the Vicarage.
Since there was now no question of my going to London for Cathy’s party, we had decided to take the copy of Romeus and Juliet straight to Leslie Oker for a first opinion. Leslie himself was not there when we called, so we left the package with his assistant, and then made our courtesy visit to the offices of Meyer, Meyer and Hardy to tell Mr Emerson what had happened. The interview with a surprised and – though he hid it well – slightly shocked Emerson was brief and to the point. Rob left the first part of it to me. Once the lawyer had got over his surprise he seemed to assess the marriage and find it good. At any rate it was a solution to my future, which had worried him. He said so, diplomatically, and added his wishes for our happiness. He knew Rob well, of course, and obviously liked him; but there were adjustments to make in considering him now as my husband. Mr Emerson did it well, and with great tact. I saw the tiny smile at the corners of Rob’s mouth again, and thought suddenly, ‘My God, I’ve married him. Rob Granger, the garden-boy.’ The mixture of strangeness, tenderness, and sheer sexual excitement took away the power of coherent thought and struck me silent. I saw from the flicker of his lashes that Rob had taken it in, then he, as smoothly as any practised politician, took over the interview. He told Mr Emerson about his plans for emigration, discussed some of the details, touched on the trust and the future of the Court, arranged another appointment in a few days’ time, and got himself and me out of the office and back into the sunny street with a minimum of fuss.
He slid a hand under my arm. ‘And now we eat?’
‘We certainly do. I’m starving.’
‘It takes me that way, too. Would you have liked to go to the Star, or the Olde Talbot or some place like that?’
‘Not unless you’ve thought better of that picnic basket I saw on the back seat of the car.’ I laughed. ‘So that’s why Mrs Henderson didn’t fuss when the Vicar asked about lunch. Did she get it ready for us?’
‘She did. Do you mind?’
‘I do not. Lovely. I don’t want other people yet, just you and me. Where are you taking me?’
‘Mystery tour,’ said Rob, opening the car door. Then he got in beside me, and the car threaded its way out into the traffic, through the crowded sunny streets, then turned over the river bridge and headed for the open country.
He took me to a place I had never visited before. A narrow lane crept downhill between high hedges, and there at the foot, where a humped bridge crossed the river, was a patch of grass verge just wide enough to park a car. ‘And not a square foot for anyone else,’ said Rob with satisfaction, as he set the brake and killed the engine, and the sound of running water took over the peaceful afternoon.
Beyond the bridge was a steep wooded bank, through which the lane curled up again and out of sight. On the nearer side, cut in a wide green hollow, was a flat pasture as smooth as a lake, through which the river wound, deep and slow, between clay banks alive with nesting martins. Behind us the pasture rose in a steep green bank seamed with flowering hawthorn, and honeycombed by rabbit warrens. A few sheep moved slowly along the hillside. Rooks cawed by their nests in the trees along the river, and a woodpecker worked somewhere out of sight. In the distance the sound of a tractor emphasised, rather than disturbed, the peace.
Rob spread a rug in the sun on the river’s bank. The big trees shifted and rustled overhead, casting towards us a light-leaved net of shadows. The breezes shifted and ran, cuckoo flower and marsh orchis and cowslip faintly moving, with the grasses shining and darkening between them. The sheep watched us incuriously, and their lambs watched us not at all, being more than busy over some intricate game halfway up the rabbit-pitted hillside. No other creature was in sight except the birds that went past on the May breezes.
‘The Garden of Eden,’ I said, surveying it with pleasure.
Rob dumped the basket beside the rug. ‘And not an apple tree in sight. Now, which comes first, love or food?’
‘Rob, you’ve got to be joking! If anyone came down the lane—’
‘I was joking. If you knew how hungry I was . . . I was up all night, remember? I think I got some breakfast, but it doesn’t seem to have had much effect. What’s she given us? Cold duck, is it? That’ll do for starters, anyway. Come on, love, let’s get this lot unpacked before I fall apart.’
I started on the basket, while he unearthed the beer and put it in the edge of the river to cool, then we both got going enthusiastically on the food Mrs Henderson had provided.
I suppose it was a very strange wedding breakfast. I can’t remember now all that we talked about. It may even be that we didn’t talk to begin with, but that our thoughts moved out and mingled as they had done before. We knew each other so well already that all the important things had been said. If we talked at all it was about the food, the day, the reactions of people to what Rob persisted in calling, with amusement, our ‘mixed marriage’.
‘It’s plain old fashioned you are, Rob Granger,’ I told him.
‘Maybe. But it’s only your sort that keep saying that class doesn’t exist or doesn’t matter. Let them go down on the wrong side of the blanket like me, and see how much it doesn’t matter.’
‘You mean Ellen Makepeace’s slip-up with Nick Ashley? That’s a
long time ago.’
‘No, I didn’t. I meant the cottage and castle thing.’
‘Oh, is that all? Well, my cottage is a good bit smaller than yours now.’
‘So it is.’
‘And we’re sharing the same blanket.’
‘So we are.’ He handed me his plate, then stretched his length contentedly along the rug, leaning up on one elbow. He reached for a stalk of grass and began absently to chew it. A lock of dark hair had fallen forward, half hiding his face; the sun, splashing light through the moving leaves, sent sparks of colour through the black. His shirt was open, and I could see the glint of a gold chain against the hairs of his chest, and the pulse beating strongly in the hollow of his throat. There was a faint moist shine on his skin, from the heat, or from the beer. I shut my mind to him before he read me, and stolidly began to pack the debris back into the basket. Once again, irresistibly, I was remembering the patterns of his love that had come to me in the past, the love mixed with doubt, and with something that at times had been hopeless longing. That lover was gone for ever. I could forget the starlight, where love had been easy because it was in the mind, like poetry. This was the real, the daylight man. This was the man I would lie with tonight, and live with for the rest of my life.
‘If you chew grass you get liver flukes,’ I said.
‘Then I’ll be crawling with ’em by this time,’ he said equably, but he threw the chewed stalk away. He pushed the hair back from his face. ‘Anyway, what you were saying about class, that wasn’t the point.’
‘I know. And I don’t say it doesn’t exist, but I think it’s nothing to do with money or family, or the old fashioned things that went to make it up. I think it’s habits of mind and ways of thinking.’
‘Well, yes, but that takes you right back to family, doesn’t it? You’re always more comfortable with people who were brought up the same way as yourself.’
‘Till something else overrides it.’
He smiled. ‘Like now? Aye, but if ways of thinking count, then you and I aren’t far apart.’
‘That’s what I keep trying to tell you. Anyway, as long as neither of us minds, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Why should I mind? I’m getting the best end of the bargain. And you’re useful around the garden, which will be something when we’re trying to scrape a living for ourselves out of the bush.’
‘And you’re pretty good about the house, which ditto.’
‘So,’ he said, picking another grass stalk and beginning to chew that, ‘if we both make out in bed—’
‘Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t you know how you make out in bed? I thought country boys spent all their time smooching in haystacks.’
‘Haystacks are overrated,’ said Rob. His voice had an odd expression, and looking up I saw the faintest of tinges under the brown in his cheeks. I thought at first, not really believing it, that he was embarrassed; then, with a stab of surprise that was curiously poignant and even nervous: Great heavens, I do believe he doesn’t know any more than I do . . .
His eyes came up to mine, and I knew he had read me. I went scarlet in my turn, and then suddenly we were both laughing, and in each other’s arms.
‘Oh, Rob, I just thought you were conventional.’
‘What’s conventional mean except right? I didn’t want it last night because if it was worth waiting for, it was worth waiting till now; and I don’t want it now because I don’t want it out here in a field with thistles. I want it at home, in bed, and for keeps, on a dark night with no one interrupting. And now you know why.’
‘Oh, Rob. Darling Rob . . . I suppose we’ll manage somehow. People have.’
‘Well, there’s evidence. At least between you and me there’ll be no questions to ask.’
‘At any rate you can’t pretend you’ve never kissed a girl before.’
‘I didn’t tell you that, did I?’
‘No. No . . . In fact, I’d say at a guess that you’ve had rather a lot of practice.’
‘Practice was what it was, then. Come to think of it, why should I go into haystacks – old fashioned you are, aren’t you, it’s the back seat of a car these days – with girls, when I’ve had my own girl lined up since I was knee high to a grasshopper? I don’t deny I’ve let a bit of steam off now and again, but I reckoned the real thing’d keep for you.’
‘Rob, love, you’re out of the Ark.’
‘And a proper old sex ship that was, come to think of it. Well, all right, you tell me; would you have gone with anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Because you were waiting for me.’
It was a statement, not a question, but I answered it. ‘Of course. Rob, if you had been with another girl, do you suppose I’d have known?’
‘Probably not, if I’d taken care to keep you out. But you’d have found out afterwards, I guess.’ He gave me a look that was only half amused. ‘I knew when you were kissing James the other night. I was about ready to strangle the pair of you, except that I knew the muddle you were in.’
‘So you were. And there was I thinking I’d found him – you – at last, and wondering why I didn’t even like it.’
‘I didn’t get it all that clearly.’ He lay back on the rug, thinking. ‘Somehow, this one thing, sex, I mean – it’s the only thing you and I don’t seem to know about each other, right down to the last thought.’ He rolled over on his back, put his hands behind his head, and narrowed his eyes against the sky. ‘Maybe because it’s something we’ve got to share physically. The one seems to switch the other off, somehow. I don’t know . . . Anyway, somehow, I don’t think it’ll be all that difficult.’ He was silent for a little, relaxing in the sun. ‘What would you like to do now?’
‘Do?’
‘What I mean is, how are we going to put the rest of the day in till it’s decent time to go to bed?’
‘Oh. Well, there’s always television.’
‘Aye.’ The syllable sounded sleepy, and it occurred to me suddenly that the ‘man of all work’ who had watched outside my cottage most of the night had probably been up again at five o’clock, going about his jobs.
I touched his hair. ‘Why don’t we just stay here till we feel like going home, and get a cup of tea somewhere on the way?’
‘Fine, if that’s what you’d like. I think this day’ll hold up till then. But we’ll get storm before night.’
‘Oh, no! Are you sure?’
‘Pretty sure. There’s been rain in the hills, and I think it’s coming this way. But not yet, don’t worry . . .’ The dark lashes shut. Time passed. He lay so quietly that I thought he slept, but then he said, without stirring: ‘Day’s beginning to drag a bit, wouldn’t you say?’
‘“Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds”.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Something Juliet said when she was waiting for Romeo.’
‘Them again.’
‘Yes.’ I did not say what I was thinking, that it had occurred to me, reading the story afresh yesterday, that in some ways our secret love was much like theirs, a starlit descant to the family feuding and matchmaking of daylight. As long as the lovers could hold their private world inviolate, all was well, but when the warring factions crowded in . . .
‘Forget it,’ said my lover. His eyes were open, and he was watching my face. ‘Whatever it is, we’ll work it out together. And right this moment, today’s our own, and after we’ve got your cousins’ affair sorted out, so’s the rest of our lives. Forget it. This is us.’
He stretched an arm across and I slid on to it, with my head in the curve of his shoulder. The sun was hot. Overhead, the lacing of boughs slid a light and moving shadow over us, tempering the sun. A heron flapped ponderously up river. The lambs slept on the warm hillside. Even the rooks were quiet.
I think we talked a while longer. Our thoughts moved and mingled, but without the same clarity and force as before. No need now, I thought sleepily, with our bodies touching; with his hand cupped warm and
gentle under my breast, and my hair under his cheek. No need. Here is my rest. We slept.
Ashley, 1835.
At the door he paused, and looked back at the room. The faint light showed it clearly enough to his sharpened senses, but he could have shut his eyes and traced, accurately, every flower on the carpet, every line of the plaster maze on the wall, every fern on the frame that held the ceiling-glass.
Fletcher would come later and straighten the bed, and put all to rights.
Never again, he thought. It would never be the same again. They had had their time outside the world, at the still centre, in the Wondrous Isles. Now they must submit to the drag of the polar world outside. That they might change one happiness for another did not occur to him. Happiness was not the air he breathed.
He shut the door gently behind him, and trod down the slippery steps into the maze.
18
How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
Romeo and Juliet, II, ii
We had arranged to go back to my cottage rather than to Rob’s, because the latter, so near to the Henderson’s, gave less privacy. When we got there we found that Mrs Henderson, though respecting our desire to be alone, had nevertheless contrived that we should be welcomed. On the sitting-room table was a note which wished us well in the most substantial way possible. ‘Supper in oven,’ it said, and we found an excellent casserole gently bubbling there, with jacket potatoes hot and soft beside it on the shelf. The table was laid, and held, besides, an apple pie, a bowl of cream, and a generous wedge of cheese. We had brought a bottle of champagne in with us, and we drank this with supper, then washed the dishes together, while the dusk drew slowly over the shining lake outside, and the thrush sang its heart out in the pear tree.