Heart of War (11 page)

Probyn scratched his ginger-dyed hair with a dirty nail – ‘Can't use the long net … need another man for that. Running a noose for a hare won't show her nothing … Might sneak into the Park and get a brace or two of pheasants out of the trees, with the flashlight and the gun.'

‘That's poaching,' Fletcher said. ‘Mr Cate don't want us
to teach her how to poach … I know what! I'll take her to Winsford Pool and tickle a couple of trout!'

‘If you can find 'em, should be all right,' Probyn said grudgingly. ‘The water's low enough, but they lie tight at this time of year. Don't let anyone see you though, or they'll have you shut up in the Hedlington Asylum, tickling for trout on a night like this's going to be, in February. And take the toasting fork, in case you can't get one out of the water tickling.'

‘Right,' Fletcher said. He cocked an ear. Probyn had heard it too – the sound of a large, expensive motor car engine, coming to a halt in the road outside the cottage … now light footfalls along the path through the nettles to the door. The door opened and a glorious apparition stood in the entrance, arms outspread – a full-breasted young woman with flaming auburn hair piled high on top of her head, held in place under a little hat with two emerald-headed pins. Her dress was of dark green silk, down to an inch above the ankles. She wore two diamond and emerald necklaces, and a diamond brooch. A black sable fur was tossed lightly over one shoulder. Her shoes were green patent leather, the buckles embellished with emeralds, the heels three inches high.

She flung out a hand, encrusted with rings, notably a huge ruby on the third finger of her left hand, outside a plain, heavy gold band.

‘Stand up, my good people,' she cried in a theatrical contralto. ‘You are in the presence of the Most Noble the Marchioness of Jarrow.'

Fletcher jumped up and hugged her, ‘So the old bugger did it, after all? When?'

‘This morning, at Caxton Hall. Two of his friends held him up and another guided his hand for the signature. Then they took him home and put him to bed … and I came down to see you. What's for lunch?'

‘Mutton stew.'

‘Why not roast partridge, Granddad?'

‘Those birds have got to hang a while. What about the chauffeur, or did you drive yourself down?'

‘I drove some of the way, I've learned how … but the chauffeur came, too.'

‘Send him to the Beaulieu Arms. We've enough for you,
but not for him,' the Woman said.

The Marchioness of Jarrow, née Florinda Gorse, went to the door, opened it and shouted out, ‘Woodward! Go into the village and have your lunch at the Beaulieu Arms. Be back in an hour and a half.'

Fletcher, watching through the door, saw the chauffeur, an oldish man in livery and peaked cap, standing beside the coronetted door of a huge shiny car, take off his cap, bow slightly, and answer, ‘Very good, m'lady.'

Florinda closed the door, flung herself on the other hard chair and spread out her hands so that they could admire the glittering rings. ‘Beautiful, aren't they?' she said. ‘And wait till you see what Cantley gave me, before he passed me on to Jarrow … it's a painting of women with funny faces, and Cantley said it would one day be worth more than anything Jarrow might give me. It's by a Spaniard called Picasso, and it's the first version of something called “Les Demoiselles d'Avignon,” whatever that means.' She spoke with the upper class accent quite naturally now. Fletcher listened, and knew she would never go back to the way she used to speak, for she would never go back to the way she used to live.

She said, ‘Wait till you see the family tree they invented for me, in tomorrow's paper.'

‘Who's they?'

‘Oh, an old pouf … another drunk, friend of Templeton's – my husband, Alexander William Templeton Eastman Foudray, 4th Marquess of Jarrow … I like him – Gerald, the pouf. He told the papers that I am from an extinct line of Gorses who were barons in the peerage of Ireland till the male line died out …'

‘So, what are you going to
do?'
Fletcher asked. ‘Spend money? Sit about sipping sherry, like Miss Stella?'

‘Does she, already?' Florinda said. ‘That's sad. Marriage can be boring, for some women … Yes, I'll spend money. I won't be able to help it. You don't know what money is, or rather isn't, until you've seen someone like Jarrow. He gets half a million a year from his mines and lands … that's about thirteen hundred quid a day, I worked out. I used to think the Swanwicks were rich, but they aren't.'

‘Will you still be living in London?'

‘Yes. In the town house – 27 Berkeley Square. Or sometimes at Blaydon House, about two hundred rooms, up
north, near Newcastle. He spends more time there than in London … But what I'm going to
do
is go on the stage!'

The Woman said, ‘Dancing or singing?'

‘Both,' Florinda said. ‘I'm going to start singing lessons next Monday, and dancing lessons a week later. The manager of the Gaiety says he'll take me on as soon as I've had some teaching.'

‘But you may sound like a corncrake,' Fletcher said.

‘I won't. And I can dance. I've always been a good dancer.'

‘That you were,' Fletcher said. ‘And now you'll show them your legs up to … here.' He touched the inside of his thighs, an inch or two below the crotch – ‘And you'll have all the old battle axes looking down their noses, or sniffing at their smelling salts, even more than you have already.'

‘Going on the stage will make it better for them, easier to understand,' Florinda said. ‘Actresses can do things labourer's daughters can't.'

Probyn said, ‘It's the title the Gaiety man wants. He knows he'll get all the skivvies in to see the Marchioness of Jarrow, even if she just stood there.'

Florinda felt inside the handbag that had been hanging from one wrist, and took out a tight bundle of notes. She held it out to her grandfather – ‘Here, Granddad, this is for you, to buy something to celebrate my wedding.'

Probyn looked at the bundle and shook his head, with a curt, ‘We're all right … Is the food ready, Woman?'

‘Just near,' she said. ‘Florinda, wash those bowls and spoons and set them down. And put some more wood on the fire.'

Fletcher walked down Scarrow bank, on the edge of Cate's land, Betty Merritt at his heels. She was wearing the same tweed suit she had worn this morning, but her hair was encased in a bright red knitted woollen cap – American, Fletcher supposed; he had never seen anything like it before.

‘Hope it's not too cold for you,' he threw over his shoulder.

‘Cold?' she answered. ‘It's only 36. We have it 20 below zero sometimes, where we live, but it's a dry cold, compared to this … Mr Cate told us you are a poet, Mr Gorse. What kind of poetry do you write?'

‘What I can,' he said shortly.

‘I'd love to hear some, some time.'

Fletcher grunted non-committally. The village girls never wanted him to read his poems to them – only that he should stroke their hair. They walked on under the leaden sky. The sun was invisible, and the bare trees cast no shadows. The ground was tussocky and hard underfoot, dead leaves making a thin carpet over the coarse grass. Lights gleamed in the windows of the houses across the field, and behind them the clock in the flint tower of Walstone church struck four in damp, muffled tones.

Fletcher stopped. ‘Here's the Pool, miss. This half belongs to Mr Cate, the other half to Lord Swanwick.'

‘The fish are protected, like the birds?'

‘'Course,' Fletcher said, ‘they belong to the landlord … unless someone else gets 'em first.' He grinned at her and she smiled back. ‘An' you heard Mr Cate – we'd best not be seen, 'cos though they're his fish, no one's allowed to take them out of season. Season don't begin for another month, six weeks … but he wants you to see the tickling.'

‘I didn't believe it, when you told me. Are you sure you're not pulling my leg, because I'm American? You really mean to tell me that the trout lets you tickle it, then it goes silly?'

‘Yes, like some girls do,' Fletcher said. ‘The trout doesn't know what your hand is, I reckon.'

‘I'll believe it when I see it.'

‘You will,' Fletcher said. ‘We'll stop here, behind the hazel and blackthorn … but if a motor car passes, on the road out there, it'll throw light through the bushes, so when one comes, lie down and don't move, see?'

‘I see … It sounds as though you've been here before, in the twilight.'

‘Never in winter,' Fletcher said. ‘In summer there's leaves on the bushes, and the trees. And it's warm. And the water bailiffs are about … Here, look, see the bank over there?' He pointed across the river, where the grass verge overhung six inches, making a hollow below, like a shallow-backed cave – ‘That's the sort of place trout like to stay … or under the roots, there.' He pointed again, at where the roots of an oak made a tangled knot above the water. ‘Or there –' She saw a rock, pressed up to the bank, water lipping over it. ‘There's an eddy behind that rock, where the fish don't have
to swim, 'cos the back eddy'll keep him in the same place. Now, there's places just like those on this bank … here … there … there.'

He knelt on the grass, then lay down. Betty knelt beside him, eager to see what would happen next, still unwilling to believe what Fletcher had told her, even though Mr Cate had confirmed it. Fletcher eased himself forward, his right sleeve pulled up as far as it would go, baring his arm to above the elbow. He slid the hand into the water, and moved it gently, firmly, back, a few inches away from the hidden bank, under water. Almost at once the edge of his hand touched something that moved … but moved so sluggishly that for a moment he thought he had hit a twig or small bough, which was pressing back against him; then he knew it was a trout, and whispered, ‘There's one here.' The trout moved an inch or two back. He moved his hand after it, slightly cupped … back, back … slowly he raised it, and at once felt the barrel of the trout's body inside the cup. The fish moved forward, torpid from the winter cold, but beginning to be nervous … Fletcher moved his hand after it, found the barrel again, tickled gently along its belly, moving forward … when the front edge of his hand was under the gills he raised it, tickling the trout's flanks now, until he felt the edge of the gills, fluttering with the trout's breathing. Just as he made ready to jam his hand into the gills and jerk the fish out of the water, it moved forward. Slowly, carefully, he found it again … again soothed it, again made ready … again the trout slid away.

At length he muttered, ‘Can't get him out … Better use the toasting fork.'

‘Oh no, let me try!'

He muttered, ‘Lie down beside me, then.'

Betty slipped out of her tweed jacket and rolled up the sleeve of the white flannel blouse she was wearing under it. Then she lay down beside Fletcher, and cautiously lowered her arm into the water.

‘Forward,' Fletcher said, ‘that way … there, can you feel him?'

‘No … nothing … oh, oh, I do!' She was breathless with excitement – ‘Where do I grab?'

‘Not grab – firm, careful, in the gills.'

‘Oh! … Oh! He keeps moving.'

The river was becoming flecked with white spots, that disappeared at once; more on the ground, that did not disappear. ‘'Tis snowing hard,' Fletcher whispered. ‘Is he still there?'

‘No,' she muttered, ‘he must have gone farther out.'

She hitched her body forward to reach farther out into the river, and with a sudden panic realized she was going. ‘Ahhh!' she cried, ‘I'm …' but never finished the sentence, as she slid head first into the Scarrow, there three feet deep. The current caught her and swirled her round. As she struggled to right herself she felt strong hands seize her arms, hold them, pull her upright. She stood at last, gasping and coughing in Fletcher Gorse's arms, locked, body to body, he holding her against the force of the current, their faces close. At length he spoke softly, ‘Can you stand now?'

‘Yes,' she muttered. He stood clear, but still held her hand in one of his, and slowly led her to the bank. He climbed out first and then, reaching down, pulled her out and up in one motion. The snow and the darkness almost hid him from her, though he was less than two feet away. Her heart was pounding, and now the cold began to penetrate through her soaked clothes to her skin, and deeper, to her heart and the marrow of her bones.

Fletcher said, ‘You'll get a trout, another day … We'd best take you home now, miss. Running. 'Twill help keep off a cold.'

They walked through the wood to the road and there broke into a run, running easily side by side, and ten minutes later came to the front door of Walstone Manor, breathing deeply, glowing with exercise and inner excitement, snow half an inch deep on all their skin and garments. Betty knew already that she was in love; Fletcher thought he might be.