Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction, page 354
The insolent eyes laughed back at him. “A’ trade,” said Col breezily. “A’ take what comes; a li’l there.…Times are hard, we must all live how we can. Drink up, ol’Jesse, the next one’s mine…”
They chewed over old times while Margaret served up pints and took the money, raising her eyebrows at Col. The night de la Haye, pot-valiant, had sworn to strip his professor’s cherished walnut tree…“A’ remember that like it was yes’day,” said Col happily. “Lovely ol’ moon there was, bright as day…” Jesse had held the ladder while Col climbed; but before he reached the branches the tree was shaken as if by a hurricane. “Nuts comin’ down like bloody hailstones,” chortled Col. “Y’remember, Jesse, y’must remember…An’ there was that…that bloody ol’ rogue of a peeler Toby Warrilow sittin’ up there with his big ol’ boots stuck out, shakin’ the hell out of that bloody tree…” For weeks after that, even de la Haye had been able to do nothing wrong in the eyes of the law; and a whole dormitory had gorged themselves on walnuts for nearly a month.
There’d been the business of the two nuns stolen from Sherborne Convent; they’d tried to pin that on de la Haye and hadn’t quite managed it, but it had been an open secret who was responsible. Girls in Holy Orders had been removed odd times before, but only Col would have taken two at once. And the affair of the Poet and Peasant. The landlord of that inn, thanks to some personal quirk, kept a large ape chained in the stables; Col, evicted after a singularly rowdy night, had managed to slit the creature’s collar. The Godforsaken animal caused troubles and panics for a month; men went armed, women stayed indoors. The thing had finally been shot by a militiaman who caught it in his room drinking a bowl of soup.
“So what you goin’ to do now?” asked de la Haye, swigging back his sixth or seventh beer. “Is your firm now, no?”
“Aye.” Jesse brooded, hands clasped, chin touching his knuckles. “Goin’ to run it, I guess…”
Col draped an arm round his shoulders. “You be OK,” he said. “You be O K pal, why so sad? Hey, tell you what. You get a li’l girl now, you be all right then. Tha’s what you need, ol’ Jesse; a’ know the signs.” He punched his friend in the ribs and roared with laughter. “Keep you warm nights better’n a stack of extra blankets. An’ stop you getting fat, no?”
Jesse looked faintly startled. “Dunno ’bout that…”
“Ah, hell,” said de la Haye. “Tha’s the thing though. Ah, there’s nothin’ like it. Mmmmyowwhh…” He wagged his hips, shut his eyes, drew shapes with his hands, contrived to look rapturous and lascivious at the same time. “Is no trouble now, ol’ Jesse,” he said, “You loaded now, you know that? Hell, man, you’re eligible…They come runnin’ when they hear, you have to fight ’em off with a…a pushpole couplin’, no?” He dissolved again in merriment.
Eleven of the clock came round far too quickly. Jesse struggled into his coat, followed Col up the alley beside the pub. It was only when the cold air hit him he realised how stoned he was. He stumbled against de la Haye, then ran into the wall. They reeled along the street laughing, parted company finally at the George. Col, roaring out promises, vanished into the night.
Jesse leaned against the Margaret’s rear wheel, head laid back on its struts, and felt the beer fume in his brain. When he closed his eyes a slow movement began; the ground seemed to tilt forward and back under his feet. Man, but that last hour had been good. It had been college all over again; he chuckled helplessly, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. De la Haye was a no-good bastard all right but a nice guy, nice guy…Jesse opened his eyes blearily, looked up at the road train. Then he moved carefully, hand over hand along the engine, to test her boiler temperature with his palm. He hauled himself to the footplate, opened the firebox doors, spread coal, checked the dampers and water gauge. Everything secure. He tacked across the yard, feeling the odd snow crystals sting his face.
He fiddled with his key in the lock, swung the door open. His room was black and icily cold. He lit the single lantern, left its glass ajar. The candle flame shivered in a draught. He dropped across the bed heavily, lay watching the one point of yellow light sway forward and back. Best get some sleep, make an early start tomorrow…His haversack lay where he’d slung it on the chair but he lacked the strength of will to unpack it now. He shut his eyes.
Almost instantly the images began to swirl. Somewhere in his head the Burrell was pounding; he flexed his hands, feeling the wheel rim thrill between them. That was how the locos got you, after a while; throbbing and throbbing hour on hour till the noise became a part of you, got in the blood and brain so you couldn’t live without it. Up at dawn, out on the road, driving till you couldn’t stop; Londinium, Aquae Sulis, Isca; stone from the Purbeck quarries, coal from Kimmeridge, wool and grain and worsted, flour and wine, candlesticks, Madonnas, shovels, butter scoops, powder and shot, gold, lead, tin; out on contract to the Army, the Church…Cylinder cocks, dampers, regulator, reversing lever; the high iron shaking of the footplate…
He moved restlessly, muttering. The colours in his brain grew sharper. Maroon and gold of livery, red saliva on his father’s chin, flowers bright against fresh earth; steam and lamplight, flames, the hard sky clamped against the hills.
His mind toyed with memories of Col, hearing sentences, hearing him laugh; the little intake of breath, squeaky and distinctive, then the sharp machine gun barking while he screwed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders, pounded with his fist on the counter. Col had promised to look him up in Durnovaria, reeled away shouting he wouldn’t forget. But he would forget; he’d lose himself, get involved with some woman, forget the whole business, forget the meeting. Because Col wasn’t like Jesse. No planning and waiting for de la Haye, no careful working out of odds; he lived for the moment, vividly. He would never change.
The locos thundered, cranks whirling, crossheads dipping, brass gleaming and tinkling in the wind.
Jesse half sat up, shaking his head. The lamp burned steady now, its flame thin and tall, just vibrating slightly at the tip. The wind boomed, carrying with it the striking of a church clock. He listened, counting. Twelve strokes. He frowned. He’d slept, and dreamed; he’d thought it was nearly dawn. But the long, hard night had barely begun. He lay back with a grunt, feeling drunk but queerly wide awake. He couldn’t take his beer any more; he’d had the horrors. Maybe there were more to come.
He started revolving idly the things de la Haye had said. The crack about getting a woman. That was crazy, typical of Col. No trouble maybe for him, but for Jesse there had only ever been one little girl. And she was out of reach.
His mind, spinning, seemed to check and stop quite still. Now, he told himself irritably, forget it. You’ve got troubles enough, let it go…but a part of him stubbornly refused to obey. It turned the pages of mental ledgers, added, subtracted, thrust the totals insistently into his consciousness. He swore, damning de la Haye. The idea, once implanted, wouldn’t leave him. It would haunt him now for weeks, maybe years.
He gave himself up, luxuriously, to dreaming. She knew all about him, that was certain; women knew such things unfailingly. He’d given himself away a hundred times, a thousand; little things, a look, a gesture, a word, were all it needed. He’d kissed her once, years back. Only the one time; that was maybe why it had stayed so sharp and bright in his mind, why he could still relive it. It had been a nearly accidental thing; a New Year’s Eve, the pub bright and noisy, a score or more of locals seeing the new season in. The church clock striking, the same clock that marked the hours now, doors in the village street popping undone, folk eating mince pies and drinking wine, shouting to each other across the dark, kissing; and she’d put down the tray she was holding, watching him. “Let’s not be left out, Jesse,” she said. “Us too…”
He remembered the sudden thumping of his heart, like the fussing of a loco when her driver gives her steam. She’d turned her face up to him, he’d seen the lips parting; then she was pushing hard, using her tongue, making a little noise deep in her throat. He wondered if she made the sound every time automatically, like a cat purring when you rubbed its fur. And somehow too she’d guided his hand to her breast; it lay cupped there, hot under her dress, burning his palm. He’d tightened his arm across her back then, pulling her onto her toes till she wriggled away gasping. “Whoosh,” she said. “Well done, Jesse. Ouch…well done…” Laughing at him again, patting her hair; and all past dreams and future visions had met in one melting point of Time.
He remembered how he’d stoked the loco all the long haul back, tireless, while the wind sang and her wheels crashed through a glowing landscape of jewels. The images were back now; he saw Margaret at a thousand sweet moments, patting, touching, undressing, laughing. And he remembered, suddenly, a hauliers’ wedding; the ill-fated marriage of his brother Micah to a girl from Sturminster Newton. The engines burnished to their canopies, be-ribboned and flag draped, each separate plank of their flatbed trailers gleaming white and scoured; drifts of confetti like bright-coloured snow, the priest standing laughing with his glass of wine, old Eli, hair plastered miraculously flat, incongruous white collar clamped round his neck, beaming and red-faced, waving from the Margaret’s footplate a quart of beer. Then, equally abruptly, the scene was gone; and Eli, in his Sunday suit, with his pewter mug and his polished hair, was whirled away into a dark space of wind.
“Father…!”
Jesse sat up, panting. The little room showed dim, shadows flicking as the candle flame guttered. Outside, the clock chimed for twelve-thirty. He stayed still, squatting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. No weddings for him, no gayness. Tomorrow he must go back to a dark and still mourning house; to his father’s unsolved worries and the family business and the same ancient, dreary round…
In the darkness, the image of Margaret danced like a solitary spark.
He was horrified at what his body was doing. His feet found the flight of wooden stairs, stumbled down them. He felt the cold air in the yard bite at his face. He tried to reason with himself but it seemed his legs would no longer obey him. He felt a sudden gladness, a lightening. You didn’t stand the pain of an aching tooth forever; you took yourself to the barber, changed the nagging for a worse quick agony and then for blessed peace. He’d stood this long enough; now it too was to be finished. Instantly, with no more waiting. He told himself ten years of hoping and dreaming, of wanting dumbly like an animal, that has to count. He asked himself, what had he expected her to do? She wouldn’t come running to him pleading, throw herself across his feet, women weren’t made like that, she had her dignity too…He tried to remember when the gulf between him and Margaret had been fixed. He told himself, never; by no token, no word…He’d never given her a chance, what if she’d been waiting too all these years? Just waiting to be asked…It had to be true. He knew, glowingly, it was true. As he tacked along the street, he started to sing.
The watchman loomed from a doorway, a darker shadow, gripping a halberd short.
“You all right, sir?”
The voice, penetrating as if from a distance, brought Jesse up short. He gulped, nodded, grinned. “Yeah. Yeah, sure…” He jerked a thumb behind him. “Brought a…train down. Strange, Durnovaria.
The man stood back. His attitude said plainly enough “One o’ they beggars…” He said gruffly, “Best get along then, sir, don’t want to have to run ’ee in. ‘Tis well past twelve o’ the clock, y’know…”
“On m’way, officer,” said Jesse. “On m’way…” A dozen steps along the street he turned back. “Officer…you m-married?”
The voice was uncompromising. “Get along now, sir…” Its owner vanished in blackness.
The little town, asleep. Frost glinting on the rooftops, puddles in the road ruts frozen to iron, houses shuttered blind. Somewhere an owl called; or was it the noise of a far-off engine, out there somewhere on the road…The Mermaid was silent, no lights showing. Jesse hammered at the door. Nothing. He knocked louder. A light flickered on across the street. He started to sob for breath. He’d done it all wrong, she wouldn’t open. They’d call the watch instead.. But she’d know, she’d know who was knocking, women always knew. He beat at the wood, terrified. “Margaret…”
A shifting glint of yellow; then the door opened with a suddenness that sent him sprawling. He straightened up still breathing hard, trying to focus his eyes. She was standing holding a wrap across her throat, hair tousled. She held a lamp high; then, “You…!” She shut the door with a thump, snatched the bolt across and turned to face him. She said in a low, furious voice, “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
He backed up. “I…,” he said, “I…” He saw her face change. “Jesse,” she said, “what’s wrong? Are you hurt, what happened?”
“I…sorry,” he said. “Had to see you, Margaret. Couldn’t leave it no more…”
“Hush,” she said. Hissed. “You’ll wake my father, if you haven’t done it already. What are you talking about?”
He leaned on the wall, trying to stop the spinning in his head. “Five thousand,” he said thickly. “It’s…nothing, Margaret. Not any more. Margaret, I’m…rich, God help me. It don’t matter no more…”
“What?”
“On the roads,” he said desperately. “The…hauliers’ talk. They said you wanted five thousand. Margaret, I can do ten…”
A dawning comprehension. And for God’s sake, she was starting to laugh. “Jesse Strange,” she said, shaking her head. “What are you trying to say?”
And it was out, at last. “I love you, Margaret,” he said simply. “Reckon I always have. And I…want you to be my wife.”
She stopped smiling then, stood quite still and let her eyes close as if suddenly she was very tired. Then she reached forward quietly and took his hand. “Come on,” she said. “Just for a little while. Come and sit down.”
In the back bar the firelight was dying. She sat by the hearth curled like a cat, watching him, her eyes big in the dimness; and Jesse talked. He told her everything he’d never imagined himself speaking. How he’d wanted her, and hoped, and known it was no use: how he’d waited so many years he’d nearly forgotten a time when she hadn’t filled his mind. She stayed still, holding his fingers, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, thinking and brooding. He told her how she’d be mistress of the house and have the gardens, the orchards of cherry plums, the rose terraces, the servants, her drawing account in the bank; how she’d have nothing to do any more ever but be Margaret Strange, his wife.
The silence lengthened when he’d finished, till the ticking of the big bar clock sounded loud. She stirred her foot in the warmth of the ashes, wriggling her toes; he gripped her instep softly, spanning it with finger and thumb. “I do love you, Margaret,” he said. “I truly do…”
She still stayed quiet, staring at nothing visible, eyes opaque. She’d let the shawl fall off her shoulders; he could see her breasts, the nipples pushing against the flimsiness of the nightdress. She frowned, pursed her mouth, looked back at him. “Jesse,” she said, “when I’ve finished talking, will you do something for me? Will you promise?”
Quite suddenly, he was no longer drunk. The whirling and the warmth faded, leaving him shivering. Somewhere he was sure the loco hooted again. “Yes, Margaret,” he said “If that’s what you want.”
She came and sat by him. “Move up,” she whispered. “You’re taking all the room.” She saw the shivering; she put her hand inside his jacket, rubbed softly. “Stop it,” she said. “Don’t do that, Jesse. Please…”
The spasm passed; she pulled her arm back, flicked at the shawl, gathered her dress round her knees. “When I’ve said what I’m going to, will you promise to go away? Very quietly, and not…make trouble for me? Please, Jesse. I did let you in…”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t worry, Margaret, that’s all right.” His voice, talking, sounded like the voice of a stranger. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say; but listening to it meant he could stay close just a little longer. He felt suddenly he knew what it would be like to be given a cigarette just before you were hanged; how every puff would mean another second’s life.
She twined her fingers together, looked down at the carpet. “I…want to get this just right,” she said. “I want to…say it properly, Jesse, because I don’t want to hurt you. I…like you too much for that.
“I…knew about it of course, I’ve known all the time. That was why I let you in. Because I…like you very much, Jesse, and didn’t want to hurt. And now you see I’ve…trusted you, so you mustn’t let me down. I can’t marry you, Jesse, because I don’t love you. I never will. Can you understand that? It’s terribly hard knowing…well, how you feel and all that and still having to say it to you but I’ve got to because it just wouldn’t work. I…knew this was going to happen sometime, I used to lie awake at night thinking about it, thinking all about you, honestly I did, but it wasn’t any good. It just…wouldn’t work, that’s all. So…no. I’m terribly sorry but…no.”
How can a man balance his life on a dream, how can he be such a fool? How can he live, when the dream gets knocked apart…?
She saw his face alter and reached for his hand again. “Jesse. please…I…think you’ve been terribly sweet waiting all this time and I…know about the money, I know why you said that, I know you just wanted to give me a…good life. It was terribly sweet of you to think like that about me and I…know you’d do it. But it just wouldn’t work…Oh God, isn’t this awful…”
You try to wake from what you know is a dream, and you can’t. Because you’re awake already, this is the dream they call life. You move in the dream and talk, even when something inside you wants to twist and die.
He rubbed her knee, feeling the firm smoothness. “Margaret,” he said. “I don’t want you to rush into anything. Look, in a couple of months I shall be comin’ back through…”
