Marlford (11 page)

Twelve

P
enned in the stable yard, the shadows moved slowly. The day hardly seemed to progress at all, the morning trapped between the high walls and fallen roofs, the clock tolling out a unique interpretation of time.

Oscar examined the van undisturbed, tracing connections and wires, inspecting plugs, caps and cables, beginning to understand. He found the oil reserve, identified the radiator, the battery and the spark plugs; he became absorbed by deposits of grease around the carburettor, spending a long time wiping them away, layer by layer, with a clean rag. As he worked, the rain poured down his face, soaking his collar and shoulders, chilling his back.

‘What on earth is this thing?'

Oscar yelped, pulling up sharply and cutting the back of his hand against a rough edge in the engine. He rubbed angrily at the scrape. ‘I didn't see you, Mr Barton.'

Ernest was staring at the van. ‘What
are
you doing, Quersley?' It dawned on him that the vehicle must be connected in some way with the squatters. ‘Are you in league with them?'

Oscar pressed the cloth against the seep of blood from his hand. ‘With whom do you suggest I might be in league, Mr Barton?'

‘The bloody kids rampaging all over the house.' Ernest was fully dressed, a maroon tie knotted neatly at his collar, his dark suit more or less clean, a brushed overcoat slung across his shoulders. He carried a huge black umbrella, like bats' wings, held so high above him that the rain continued to splash in beneath. ‘I've been looking for you, Quersley – don't know where the dickens you've been hiding. I need your help with them. Though, of course, if you've already defected to their side—'

‘Mr Barton, I have not defected to anyone's side. I am not in league with anyone.' Oscar dabbed with care at the cut on his hand. ‘I presume you refer to the squatters. The men came to the farm and informed me of the situation. They suggested you might be requiring my help.'

‘Squatters! That's what they call themselves, but they're just kids, trespassing. Getting in the way. I want them out, Quersley.' Ernest slapped his hand against the side of the van, making it ring, almost musically. ‘I want them out of Marlford.'

Oscar considered Ernest's palm, flat against the rainbow paintwork. ‘One of the young men – a Marxist, I understand – came to the library. We discussed one or two matters of some interest, actually.'

‘There're two of them, that's all.' Ernest was not listening. ‘A bolshie one with specs and another long-haired one, solid though, built like a proper man. Better have a shot at them before they start multiplying, that's what I say.'

He stood straight. In his suit, with his hair combed, he looked younger, stronger, the athletic bearing of his past rekindled.

Oscar slowly peeled the cloth from his hand and inspected the wound, bending to suck at the broken skin, tasting the worn-coin dustiness of his blood.

Ernest stepped forwards. ‘Come on, man – what are you waiting for?'

Oscar did not reply.

‘Quersley!' For a moment it looked as though Ernest might hit him; he lashed out, as if to gouge at Oscar's face, but in the same movement let his arm drop.

‘Well, I suppose we should evict them,' Oscar said at last.

‘Evict them?' Ernest snarled. ‘We're not bloody tiptoeing around – we're going to mobilize. I've already spoken to the men. We're going to mobilize, Quersley, that's what we're going to do. That's why I need you.'

Oscar wiped his hand slowly across his face, leaving a smear of engine grease.

Now Ernest lunged for him, pulling him into the open yard by the baggy rim of his overall pocket. ‘Stand up straight. Get your wits about you.' He brandished the umbrella towards the rainbow paintwork as though it might be a campaign map, bold lines of attack in bright colours. ‘I've given it a lot of thought. Tactically, they're naïve, that's clear. But they're younger than we are, stronger too, probably, at that age. So we've got to be nifty – you know, a bit…' He did a quick-footed jig, shuffling his shoes on the rounded cobbles of the yard, pumping his arms. The umbrella lurched. ‘We need something daring. I did a quick recce last night, and I've got it all in my head.
There was an incident at Suez in '15 – a great rollicking risk of a thing. I had four men with me, hand-picked, the best. We'd had information that the Germans were linking up with the Turks —'

He looked past Oscar to the lines of men, the tents and horses, the knot of officers, the sand blowing across from an unknowable desert, the small troop of daredevils waiting for him. The glint of light on his face was from a distant sun.

‘Mr Barton…'

Ernest seemed surprised to see Quersley so close. He huffed.

‘Look, Quersley, the men point out – and they're quite right – well, we don't want a fuss here, Quersley, with outsiders. No police. No interference. No surprises. That's the way with these old places – you have to be prepared to stand up for them, at all costs. You're born to it, I was born to it – I'm master here at Marlford, and I know what's best. Quersley, the men will back me up on this.'

‘I'm sure they will, Mr Barton, but I don't see—'

‘The kids have got some claptrap about their rights. They want to make a thing of it.' He grimaced. ‘To cut a long story short, we'll need guns.'

Oscar was unmoved. ‘Which is why you require my assistance.'

‘I've got the rifle, and you've got two shotguns at the farm, haven't you?'

‘Yes. Two shotguns in good order.'

‘Exactly. That's what I thought. And if I marshal the men, even at their age…'

‘But I'm not prepared to hand them over, Mr Barton.'

Ernest blinked, taking a moment to understand what Oscar had said.

‘Oh, don't be bloody wet, Quersley. Besides, it might not even come down to shooting them.'

‘Nonetheless, I won't let you have the shotguns.'

‘Rubbish! Of course you will. And muster a good supply of cartridges, will you?'

Oscar bent down and began to collect his tools, replacing each one carefully in the toolbox. Then he reached up to unhook the release for the bonnet.

‘Quersley? Quersley, what are you doing?'

‘I'm going back to the farm, Mr Barton. To give some thought to the situation in which we find ourselves, and to milk the cows.'

‘Don't be such a fool. We need to get on quickly with this, before they hunker in. I told you, I've been thinking about it – I've worked it all out. Just fetch the damned guns.'

Oscar let go of the bonnet; it slammed shut. At the same time, as though prompted or woken, the stable clock struck the hour. ‘I have discussed this with the men, Mr Barton, and we are perfectly agreed: I'm not your servant. You don't pay me any wages; you have no hold over me. I simply live near you – we're neighbours, if you like.' He shifted. ‘There was, once, I grant you, a more formal arrangement between our families. But any agreement, written or verbal, has long since expired; you know that. Now I simply help you when I can.'

‘Rubbish, you have Home Farm—'

‘Yes, my farm. I work it and I take what little profit comes from it. It's nothing to do with you.'

‘It's on my land.'

‘I've never paid you any rent.'

Ernst glared. ‘An oversight. My generosity, that's all – taking pity on you. You're downright splitting hairs, Quersley.'

‘Mr Barton—'

‘And what about the frogs, eh? What about that?' Ernest jigged again, pleased with the sharpness of his interrogation. ‘Why do you go on with that if you're not on the Marlford staff?'

Oscar hoisted the toolbox into his uninjured hand. ‘Over time, by custom, my family has helped yours,' he replied, calmly. ‘There is history between us – I recognize that, Mr Barton. I can't fail to recognize it. My father, in particular, was diligent in his duties.' His face was pale and fixed, weariness sinking his features; his grip on the toolbox was so tight that his arm shook. But his voice came surely enough. ‘Those days have passed. Our obligation was settled, more than settled. You should not now count on me or my loyalty.'

He crossed the puddled yard, shrinking into the gloom of the arched entrance, a workman weighted with tools.

‘Oh, poppycock. What are you doing? You're not going?' Ernest flapped the umbrella, making the rain dance around him, unbalancing himself. ‘What on earth…? Quersley, be fair.'

Oscar halted. He let the heavy box fall from his grasp and it thudded onto the cobbles. But he did not turn for a long while, holding Ernest at bay with the stiff set of his shoulders. When he finally spun on his heel, he came quickly back, his eyes narrowed.

‘Would you make a deal?'

Ernest wrinkled his nose. ‘What kind of a deal?'

‘The men suggested you might make a deal. In this situation.'

Ernest shook his head sharply. ‘It goes against the grain to bargain with you, Quersley. You know that. I should just let you go; should have had rid of you years ago. There's plenty more odd-job men to chase frogs and milk a few cows.'

‘Very well.' Oscar glanced purposefully towards the arch. ‘Then there's nothing more to say.'

‘Wait – wait, man.' Ernest put up a hand. ‘For God's sake—'

‘I really have to see to the animals, Mr Barton.'

‘But I need your help with this. I can't have these people at Marlford.'

‘Then you'll need to bargain.'

Ernest sighed, letting the umbrella drop and the rain fall unhindered. ‘Quersley, I've given up everything for this place, everything. And I've never quite got it right. I've never worked it out. It's been too much for me – you must have seen that. But now… this is my last chance. I have to save it.'

‘I'm not sure such anxiety is entirely justified, Mr Barton. You said yourself – they are just kids. It doesn't sound like much of a threat to Marlford – nor, indeed, much of an opportunity for you to redeem yourself.'

‘I need the guns.'

‘If so, then you should listen to my offer.'

‘An offer? Something you've concocted with the men? I doubt there's much for me in it.' Ernest closed his eyes. ‘Well, then, spit it out, man.'

Oscar worked his lips as though rehearsing the words.
His voice would not come at first; then it was squeaky, less impressive than he had intended.

‘If I help you with this, will you give me Ellie?'

The question seemed to stop time, leaving the two men suspended there.

‘Ellie?' Ernest's voice was small, almost lost in the noise of the rain.

Oscar nodded, slowly. ‘In return for my assistance.'

Ernest stabbed at the cobbles with his toe. ‘What do you mean, will I give you Ellie? Quersley, it's balderdash. What do you mean? For goodness' sake, I just need the guns and someone who knows how to use them.' He took a long time to fold his umbrella, fidgeting even then with the fastening. ‘Explain yourself, Quersley.'

‘I think you understand perfectly what I propose, Mr Barton. I'm asking you to consent to a marriage.'

‘Against the girl's wishes?'

‘Not necessarily. I'm sure you could persuade her.'

Ernest poked the umbrella towards him. ‘She has more sense than to fall for you – I'll give her that, at least.'

Oscar caught the tip neatly, thrusting it back towards Ernest with new force, the handle driving into Ernest's stomach. Ernest gave a winded grunt, stumbling backwards.

‘You're not helping your case, Mr Barton,' Oscar said, calmly. ‘It's a simple transaction. My assistance – my final act of duty – in return for Ellie's hand.'

Ernest steadied himself. ‘You won't sneak any advantage by wedding her, you know – she has nothing now and she'll have nothing in the future. She has no prospects, you know that?'

‘It would be in the order of things, though, wouldn't it? You would save Marlford. You say you want to save it, and this way you would. I suppose I would be the son you never had.'

‘Never.' Ernest was trembling.

‘After all these years you can resolve it, Mr Barton. You can be sure of the future.'

‘No, Quersley. You ask too much.'

‘But think about it. Everything would go on as it should.'

Ernest looked at the man in front of him, wet about the head and shoulders, his threadbare overalls soaked through, his eyes too hard and bright. He saw Quersley's lithe, fretful strength.

‘And what if she's not in agreement? What if she doesn't go along with it?'

Oscar did not reply. He seemed to hear Barton's words from a distance, spoken elsewhere, his fatigue, his longing, making everything ethereal. He stood stock still, as though the slightest of movements might split the moment, spilling the flaccid guts of his dreams.

‘I think she'll accept it,' he answered, finally. ‘She has no birth certificate, she's never been to school, she's hardly ever left Marlford except for the work at the library – she's never existed. Why would she refuse? And there's not a soul on God's earth who would bother to intervene.' The placid light in the yard seemed suddenly dazzling. ‘It will be the right thing. She'll see that. She'll do as she's told.'

Ernest frowned. ‘I want to get on, Quersley,' he said, weakly. ‘I need to get shot of these damned squatters. Otherwise we'll all be stymied, Ellie as much as the rest of us.'

Oscar smiled slowly and offered Ernest his hand.

Ernest hesitated. ‘And you say the men have discussed this proposal? It makes sense to them?'

Oscar took a moment to reply. ‘Imagine Ellie outside here. If something were to happen to Marlford, if she were pushed out – by circumstances, by the squatters, perhaps. Imagine how she'd be, Mr Barton, how poor and how lonely. She'd crumble like a handful of dry clay.'