Lost in the Flames (4 page)

Winter turned to spring and Vera and Jacob visited Elm Tree Farm regularly, and William just on Sundays when he knew Mrs Brailes would be baking cakes for the week. Jacob found himself alone with Norman in the barn one day.

‘Are you going to marry my sister, Mister Norman?’ he suddenly asked.

‘That’s for her to decide,’ said Norman.

‘Don’t you think you should ask her, then? I’ll ask her for you if you like.’

‘Perhaps I should ask your father.’

‘He won’t mind. I know he likes you.’

The next time Jacob came down to the farm to follow Norman around the stables and in and out of the barns and across the fields to where the sheep stood strewn about like stones, Norman took him up to the top wood and showed him the trees where the woodpeckers were.

‘Can you hear them?’ asked Norman, and Jacob nodded at the ra-ta-tat smacking of beak against bark. ‘There it is, up there,’ said Norman, and the boy saw the flash of green and red.

‘Come on,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll show you where the pheasants roost. If your father will let you down at night, I’ll take you and we’ll bag a few. It’s not the season, but nobody need know. And they go down just the same any time of the year.’

His eyes twinkled at the thought of the roasting birds.

‘What do you mean he’s gone shooting?’ said Elizabeth, when Alfred told her later. ‘He might get shot, we don’t know if it’s safe.’

‘Of course it’s safe,’ said Alfred. ‘He’s with Norman, isn’t he?’

Across the valley, Norman and Jacob were in the trees in the dusk and Norman knocked a pheasant down with his first shot and the dogs
ran to fetch it and he passed it to the boy and then took it back and stuffed it into one of the deep pockets that lined his coat. They walked on into the wood and out into the glade on the far side of the hill. The moon had risen now and Norman stretched out an arm and stopped the boy.

‘Ssh now,’ he said quietly. ‘Can you see it? There …’

Jacob followed Norman’s pointing hand and saw the hovering thing, an inverse silhouette, a pale silent flutter against the dark.

‘What is it, Mister Norman?’

‘A barn owl,’ he whispered.

‘Gosh,’ said Jacob. ‘I never thought I’d see one of those. Shall we kill it?’

‘No, lad. You don’t shoot one of those.’

The bird glided silently away and the glade was empty again.

‘Thank you, mister. For showing me the owl.’

‘You’re welcome, lad.’

On the way back down the hill to the farm, Norman took an envelope from the deep pocket where the pheasants were.

‘Here you are, Jacob, son. Give this to your sister, will you?’ Norman winked. ‘Don’t go losing it, mind. You’re to deliver it straight into her hands as soon as you get home.’

Jacob nodded.

‘And give this bird to your father. Tell him it’s from me.’

‘I think I’d better be going home right now, Mister Norman,’ said Jacob, clutching the letter and the pheasant to his chest. ‘I told mother I’d be home in good time for bed.’

‘Good lad, run along now. And remember,’ he called after the fleeing figure, ‘straight into her hands, mind, straight into her hands!’

Vera tore the letter open, Jacob at her elbow, craning his neck to read Norman’s flowing scrawl.

Dearest Vera, you must know by now my feelings for you, and I have foolishly allowed myself to believe that they are perhaps matched by your own. I hope you do not consider it rash of me, but I should like to ask if you will consider me as your companion, for a life together, I mean. You know I am a humble man of little culture, but I can assure you I am honest and true and I will build a good life for you and will stand by you for as long as you will have me. But if you should turn me down, I will understand, for you could surely find a man more worthy
of your hand than I. I await your reply with an impatient heart. Norman

‘What is it, Vera? Tell me …’

‘Jacob, did you read this letter?’

He shook his head.

‘Oh Jacob, you’re not made for lying, are you? Listen, not a word of this to anyone! I have to go and see Rose.’

Vera dashed down the stairs and out of the house and down the path by the orchard, then across the lane to Rose’s house, Jacob running after her.

‘So what do you think?’ she asked her best friend breathlessly. ‘Should I? Would you?’

She took a large bite out of the apple that Rose had given her. Rose considered the letter for a moment.

‘Vera, my dear, your second question is irrelevant, you know I’m simply not the marrying kind. As to your first, only you can know the answer. You do know the answer, don’t you? You must follow your heart, Vera. Your heart must tell you what to do.’

At dawn the next morning Jacob was flying back down the lane to Elm Tree Farm, another envelope clasped in his hand. He tripped halfway down the hill on a rock in his haste and went sprawling in the damp earth and skinned his elbow and grazed his chin on the rough stones, but he leapt up again and wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, laughing with joy as he ran. He hurtled into the farmyard and up the low rise of steps and into the Brailes’ kitchen.

‘Hello, my dear,’ said Mrs Brailes. ‘What’s all the excitement about? And what have you done to your chin? It’s bleeding.’

‘Mrs Brailes, Mrs Brailes, where’s Norman?’

‘In with the cattle. Would you …’

But Jacob was already out of the door and half-way across towards the cow-sheds. He thrust the envelope into Norman’s hands.

‘That was quick, Jacob. We’ll make a career for you in the post office yet.’

‘Sorry I’ve dirtied it with blood, Mister Norman.’

Norman passed him a handkerchief, took a deep breath and opened the letter. He looked at Jacob, the boy looked back for a moment, and then he flung himself at the man and hugged him tight.

That evening Norman and Vera went together to speak to Alfred and Elizabeth. They sat side by side on the sofa in the front room as
Jacob and William hung silently out of sight on the stairs.

‘Mr Arbuckle, I must inform you of a development,’ said Norman.

‘A development?’

‘Yes, Mr Arbuckle. An important development at that.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, well, it’s like this. You see, we …’

‘Go on, Norman, tell him,’ Vera said.

‘Well, Vera and I, we …’ said Norman.

‘Father,’ Vera interrupted. ‘We have developed an affection for each other and we shall be getting married. There now, I’ve told you.’

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and smiled at Vera.

‘Yes, Mr Arbuckle,’ said Norman. ‘With your permission, and Mrs Arbuckle’s of course, I should like to marry your daughter.’

Alfred looked at Norman sternly, then at Vera. She nodded.

‘Are you in trouble, girl?’ he said.

‘Of course not, father! How could you think such a thing?’

‘Look here, Norman,’ said Alfred. ‘Vera is only nineteen. Come back and ask me again in six months.’

Six months later to the day, Alfred came out at first light to feed the pigs and Norman was waiting by the wall of the orchard.

‘Mr Arbuckle, I haven’t changed my mind.’

‘Very well, Norman, you have my blessing. But you’ll have to promise me one thing first.’

Norman nodded.

‘You may marry my daughter, but she’s only young and must live a little still. She must on no account have a child until she’s twenty-one. Do you agree to those terms?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ He shook Norman by the hand. ‘Welcome to the family. Now help me feed these pigs.’

Norman and Webster sat at the kitchen table as Mrs Brailes poured out their cups of tea from the pot and dropped a plate of toast in front of each of them, a wedge of butter melting into each slice, and went back to the range where she spiked the sausages with a fork and the fat sizzled out. She cracked a pair of eggs and dropped them into the
spitting fat, then refilled their cups with tea.

Webster had arrived the previous day, in preparation for the wedding, on the solid-tyre Daimler bus that ran up from Oxford, his face gaunt and his coat hanging around him in loose folds as Norman met him at the set-down point outside the Temperance Hotel. Norman led him across the market square and into the Fox Hotel for a pint.

‘Here you go, Webster, lad,’ get that down you, said Norman, thrusting the brew into his hand. ‘It’s bloody great to see you. We’ve missed you round the farm, you know. Mrs B talks about you all the time, can you believe it? Keeps saying she’ll need to feed you up good and proper while you’re here.’

Norman gripped Webster round the bicep and squeezed. ‘Bloody hell, Webster, haven’t your folks been feeding you down there in Suffolk?’

‘I know, not what they were, are they?’ said Webster, feeling his muscles. ‘I haven’t been working on the land much. Been down the garage instead, learning to be a mechanic.’

‘Well you won’t have a chance to work this weekend – you’ve got best-man duties to attend to.’

Norman slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small square box and flipped open the lid.

‘What do you think, Webster? Beautiful, isn’t she? I’ve been saving up six months to buy this.’

He touched the ring with the tip of his finger.

Webster looked at the simple gold band. ‘Do I really have to look after it? I don’t want to lose the thing.’

‘Don’t you worry, I’ll slip it to you just before the ceremony.’

Norman drained his glass.

‘Come on, let’s get over to the farm. Mrs B’s been baking you cakes all morning.’

Wedding fever had spread like a contagion around the farm, Mrs Brailes – particularly afflicted by this temporary madness – hurling herself into a frenzy of preparation for the possible arrival of unexpected guests, Mr Brailes stocking up on the beer that he kept in crates under the stairs – reasoning that if no one else drank it, he would – and various members of the Arbuckle family wandering down to the farm to wish Norman luck and to avail themselves of the hospitality, returning back up the hill with their bellies full of cake and beer. Jacob
arrived first, trailing the kite that Norman had bought him for his birthday that summer.

‘Hello Mister Norman, hello Webster. Come on, it’s a great day for flying, let’s take the kite up the hill.’

‘We’ll do just that, son, as soon as the others get here.’

Then William barrelled into the yard with his fishing rod.

‘What are you looking at?’ he said to Jacob.

‘Nothing.’

‘I’m going to catch a pike from the pond.’

‘Bet you don’t,’ said Jacob. ‘There aren’t any in there.’

Then Vera came down with Rose and Mrs Brailes ushered them all into the large room at the back overlooking the fields and pushed plates of food into their hands and they talked excitedly as they gulped at their tea, Jacob and William bickering about fish as Vera and Rose discussed the intricacies of the wedding dress and the lace that bordered its sleeves. Then they went outside into the pale sunshine, up the hill behind the farmhouse, and Rose helped Jacob set his kite into the wind and the two of them held onto it together, their hands gripping each other’s as the red and blue streamers danced and weaved above them. They laughed and threw back their heads in the sunshine and when Jacob turned to look at the girl she was looking at him already and he saw something in her eyes that he had never seen before and that he did not understand, and then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared. The kite fell to the ground with a thump and Jacob and Rose gathered up the string together, tying themselves in knots as the wind blew the string about, and then they went to sit by the pond with Webster while Norman showed William where to fish.

Rose hoisted herself up onto the top of the fence that dipped down into the water where the cattle came to drink, and she tucked her dress up beneath the bend of her knees. She was a strange willowy girl, about to blossom abruptly from her teens into the full bloom of womanhood. Her father, a London-based notary, had run off with an exotic dancer from Budapest and her mother had swiftly killed herself with gin as a consequence, so Rose had lived most of her life with her grandmother and developed a youthful fondness for quoting aphorisms plucked from the pages of books on her grandmother’s shelves, trying them out on unsuspecting companions to test their effect. Her current favourite was Chesterton’s ‘The way to love anything is to realise that it might be
lost’ – and she was, she had to admit, uncommonly afraid of losing things now. She looked at Webster for a moment and then at Jacob for slightly longer. Webster looked away at the pond, then quickly back again.

‘It’s all right Webster, you can look if you want,’ said Rose breezily. ‘I don’t mind. There is a road from the eye to the heart that does not go through the intellect.’

‘You what?’ said Webster, and he looked away.

‘Who was that one by?’ asked Jacob. He was accustomed to Rose dusting her speech with quotation and could spot a cuckoo among the natural nesting of her words as surely as an ornithologist detects the inhabitants of a wood from their voices alone.

‘Chesterton,’ she said.

‘Chesterton again?’ said Jacob. ‘But you’re always doing him.’

Rose reflected for a moment on the urgent need to find a new source of wisdom, then decided to change the subject.

‘Have you got a girlfriend, Webster?’ she asked.

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Would you like one?’

He looked away and gulped.

‘Have you
ever
had one?’

‘Course I have,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure I believe you. What was her name, then?’

‘Er, Harriet.’

‘Nice name. Unusual, though. If you ask me, it sounds like you might have imagined her.’

‘Good job I’m not asking you, then,’ said Webster. ‘And you? Got a boyfriend, have you?’

‘That depends what you mean by a boyfriend, dear Webster.’

‘Course she has,’ said Jacob, laughing. ‘She’s got loads.’

‘Who told you that, you naughty little bugger?’

‘Vera did.’

‘Cow,’ she laughed.

Webster took a cigarette from his top pocket and slipped it between his lips.