“Well, you be a teacher and you’ll have all the time you need. Three months a year! That’s good enough for me,” said Robert.
Matthew scratched his head. The fellow was an idiot, but he meant well, and Matthew was in the mood tonight for a bit of harmless fooling. God alone knew what Liz could be up to.
They sat around the table talking for half-an-hour or so, and then Mrs. Parrish cleared the dishes away and went out with her husband to do the washing-up. It was about half-past eight, and Matthew was wondering whether or not to go soon and go out for a long walk. It looked like a fine night; he leant back in his chair and gazed out of the window. He could go up on the moors, or simply prowl around the village… He realized that Robert was talking to him.
“D’you fancy a drink, Matthew? Come on, wake up! Come over to the Red Lion for a pint.”
“Yes, okay. I’ll have to run across the way to get some money, though.”
“Don’t bother about trivial things like that. Uncle Robert got paid yesterday. Coming, brother?”
“No, I won’t, thanks. I’m whacked tonight; reckon I’ll go to bed soon.”
“Ah, the life of the soil… tell ‘em we won’t be long. Cheerio.”
“Goodnight, Peter,” said Matthew.
“See you, Matthew.”
They went out of the kitchen door and made their way through the farmyard into the road. The air was warm, and the sky was full of stars. Matthew felt expectant, and somehow tense; maybe it was just that he wasn’t quite at ease with Robert. No, it couldn’t be that; he was confused, that was all.
“Peter’s still upset about that murder business, isn’t he,” he said as they went up the hill into the village.
“Yes, poor lad. Nasty, that was. First I knew about it was in the papers – murder, South End Farm – Christ, I thought, what’s going on?”
“Mmm. Did you notice anything changed in the village? I mean the atmosphere. I get the feeling that everyone’s looking at everyone else, waiting for someone to confess or be arrested or something?
“I dunno. It looked the same to me. You’re too nervous, Matthew, that’s your trouble. You always were. I bet you’re frightened in case they arrest
you
.”
“Well, I am, since you mention it. No, no, I’m not; I don’t mean that.”
“What
are
you doing now, though? You haven’t got a job at the moment, have you?”
“No, I’m just hanging around. Waiting, I suppose.”
“Waiting for the revolution, eh? You’ll have to wait a while for that.”
“The revolution, or the last judgement, I’m not particular. But what are you doing apart from teaching? I mean, what do you do in your spare time? What do you believe in?”
“Believe in? Blimey, nothing, I suppose; I don’t know. I go out; I read quite a bit. I’ve got a girl there; I spend a lot of time with her. That’s what I believe in, I reckon. I don’t think about it much.”
“So no religion? You don’t believe in God?”
“Well, I’m an agnostic. I’m not an atheist. A humanist, really. That’s all there is, isn’t there?”
“Human beings, you mean?”
“Yes… I dunno. It doesn’t worry me, I’m happy; I know that’s not everything, but… I know I ought to try, I mean everyone ought to really, to make other people happy, if they can. I suppose I’ve learned that.”
They walked on a little way in silence. They made no sound at all apart from the noise Robert’s shoes made on the pavement. Matthew was wearing plimsolls, and he revelled in the feeling of lightness they gave him, and in the energy that welled up in him as he felt it. He wanted to run, jump, climb trees, make love; there was something explosive in him that matched the splendid sky, and longed to join it.
“I am a werewolf,” he muttered under his breath.
“What’s that?” said Robert.
“I said I want to be a werewolf. I want to stop being human. No, no; I’m quite willing to be human tonight, as long – as long –”
He stopped, and listened to the hoot of an owl in the darkness to the left of the road.
“– As long as there’s plenty of action, you see! Wine, women, and song!” he went on.
“I don’t know about the women,” said Robert, “but hush now – over towards the recreation ground – can you hear it?”
Sure enough, if he listened carefully Matthew could hear the heavy drumming and the whining guitars of a pop group. “Where’s it coming from?” he said.
“It’s probably the Youth Club. It’s all changed now from what it was when I used to go. They have dances on Saturdays, sometimes. That must be it.”
“Well, that’s it! That’s it! Yes, that’s fine. Let’s go along there, eh? A bit later on when it’s warmed up. How much cash have you got?”
“Oh, I’m loaded – I’ve got about ten pounds on me –”
“Lend me a quid, then, could you? I don’t want to go back and get it. I’m in the mood for being human tonight. Can you lend me a quid? Give us it now, and I’ll buy your drinks in the pub.”
Robert shrugged, and in the lights of the garage across the road Matthew saw him smile. He still looked worried, nevertheless; but he put his hand into his pocket and took out his wallet. He gave a pound to Matthew and put it back.
“Thanks! That’s it! I’ll give it you back in the morning. I’ve got plenty in the house. I saved it up. Will there be plenty of girls at the dance, d’you reckon?”
“Could be. I dunno. They’ll come from Ditton as well, and Eastley, round that way too, I shouldn’t wonder. The group comes from Eastley. There ain’t many girls in the village, not that many, anyway. Well, you know. Here, you know there’s a new vicar. Well, have you seen his daughter?”
“Eh?” Matthew gasped, startled, as if his foot had slipped. But his dare-devil mask stayed firm. “No, no. What’s she like, then?”
“I’ve only seen her once or twice,” said Robert. “She’s all right, you know, she’s good-looking.
And
she goes…”
“What? What d’you say?” Matthew stumbled along, his mind reeling.
“That’s what I heard, anyway. Well, I dunno, you hear things. Arnold Fox, he’s been with her.”
The image of a coarsely handsome youth with sleek wavy hair came into Matthew’s mind; and, like Canon Cole, he twisted his face as grotesquely as he could in the darkness, grimacing like a madman.
“Good!” he said. “Perhaps we’ll find her tonight. Does she charge much?”
“Oh, come on, I didn’t mean that. He was only boasting, I expect. She wouldn’t do that, I don’t suppose.”
“You’re too willing to think good of people, Bob. I’m going to corrupt you; I’m going to play the devil tonight. God, yes, I am. My head’s starting to go. You didn’t know I was an epileptic, did you? I’m going to have a fit. I’ll have one now in the road if you’re not careful. Shall I do that? Shall I have a fit?”
“Ah, get away, you wouldn’t.”
They came up to the Red Lion and went inside. Robert had spoken lightly, but Matthew noticed with glee that he was looking more anxious than usual. And immediately he felt sorry. Robert was good; he wouldn’t make fun of him. But his head
was
starting to go, as he put it. Around his temple he felt the warning tension beginning to throb. “I’ll let it come tonight,” he whispered to himself. “And if I keel over, that’s tough.”
There was only one bar in the pub. The saloon was a dingy little room with only a hatch opening through to the bar; but the public bar was large and crowded and noisy. The pub was situated at the corner of the village triangle nearest South End Farm. The recreation ground, and the building that served as a youth club, were down the road to Ditton, on the right.
Matthew stood still for a moment just inside the door of the public bar, getting his bearings; and then he shoved unceremoniously through the press of people and bought two pints of bitter, and took them to where Robert was sitting in the corner.
“Ta,” said Robert. He drank some of the beer. “Anyway, if you
were
epileptic, you couldn’t just have a fit when you wanted to. It takes them by surprise, doesn’t it?”
“I could fake it,” said Matthew. “No, I wouldn’t really. Where’s that Arnold Fox? Is he here tonight?”
Robert looked around. He looked shy; Matthew guessed that he’d only suggested coming here out of bravado, and not because he went out habitually. “No, I can’t see him,” he said.
Matthew knew three or four of the men there, but only by sight. There were few women, and no girls. He heard a harsh, giggling laugh that he recognised, and searched for the face to fit it. He saw him at the bar with a group of young labourers, jerking up and down from the knees, his hands beating his thighs. His face was completely empty; it was huge, and seemed out of all proportion to his head. Thin sandy hair was greased down flat, away from his forehead, which sloped markedly backwards. His nose was broad and shapeless, his eyes tiny, his mouth loose and wet. But for the freckles all over it there would have been no colour in his face at all, and the features were so lacking in outline as to give the impression that he wore a silk stocking over his head.
“That’s Archer, isn’t it? Isn’t that his name?” he said in an undertone to Robert.
Robert nodded. Archer was nearly a half-wit. He earned his living as a scrap-dealer’s mate; he rode around on the back of the lorry, loading and unloading it with a frantic speed. He was a favourite with the younger men who frequented the pub because he could be relied on to outdo them all in idiocy; and he would do anything at all for a dare or a bet. Matthew strained to hear what they were saying. Archer’s uncontrolled shrieking giggle rose and fell, and he lifted his glass to his mouth, spilling some beer in his excitement. He didn’t notice. One of the others was saying: “Yes, I did, I seen him at it.”
“He wouldn’ do that, course ‘e wouldn’,” said another. “I swear I seen ‘im. In the fuckin’ ditch ‘e were, down on his knees. Over to Eastley it were. He were eatin’ it, eatin’ the fuckin’ frog spawn.”
Archer laughed again and put his glass on the bar, and leant forward to say something; but the sentence trailed off into a neighing, moaning sound and ended in another frenzied bout of laughter.
“What’d it taste like, eh, Arch? What’d it taste like?” said one of the others.
“How’d ‘e know what it fuckin’ tasted like? ‘E weren’t there at all, it were Jim ‘isself doing it,” said an older man.
“You don’t bloody know,” said Jim. “I swear I seen ‘im. You ask ‘im.”
“Go on, Arch, what’d it taste like?”
“Like spunk!” said Archer loudly, and laughed even harder.
Matthew listened intently, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head. He took a deep swig of the beer. He ought to say something to Robert: otherwise he’d lose his balance.
“Good, in Berkshire, is it?” he mumbled inanely.
“What? Where?”
“Where you are – where is it – Bedford.”
“Oh, it’s all right, you know. I like it – are you all right? What’s the matter?”
“I’m turning into a wolf. I want to go and eat frog spawn.”
He shook his head violently, trying to clear it. Robert shook his head too, but in a different way. There was another burst of laughter from the bar.
“ ‘E know that, dun’e, I seen ‘im doin’ that right enough.”
“He ain’t got no pockets in ‘is trousers, just a hole to put his ‘and in. Up on that wagon – I seen it! I seen it! He ‘ad it in ‘is hand, all covered in rust it were, rust and coal-dirt and cobwebs.”
“Is it a big ‘un, Arch?”
“Tell you what ‘e wouldn’ do,” said the older man. “Suck a dog off. That old dog o’ Charlie’s; ‘e wouldn’ suck ‘im off.”
“Oh, no,” said Archer seriously; “no, I wouldn’ do that, no.”
“The dog wouldn’ let ‘im, anyway,” said another man. “ ‘E be used to Charlie doin’ it.”
“I wouldn’ suck my dog off, not for a pound. I know where ‘is prick’s been, see, it’s been up your old woman. I wouldn’ touch it.”
Matthew turned to Robert and grinned broadly. He could hardly focus his eyes. Robert said something that Matthew didn’t catch.
“Eh? What’s that?”
“I said I wish they’d leave him alone. They’re always making fun of him. He can’t help it.”
“Why does he keep going back – oh God, my head’s really bursting open; look at my eyes: are they bloodshot? Can you see them? … Tell me, why does he keep going back, then? He enjoys it, that’s why.” He was mumbling; he spilt some of his beer on his leg.
“Are you all right? Golly, you don’t look well, Matthew. Do you feel really ill? Do you want to go?”
Matthew stood up clumsily and began to make his way to the door. Robert followed him nervously, trying to hear what he was saying. Another peal of laughter from Archer drowned it. As they got outside Matthew muttered:
“God-damn thing. What shall we do, eh? It’s driving me to my knees. Shall we let it? Let’s go a bit further, shall we? Come on, you bastard, I can go further than you can. Let’s go and shake that dance up.”
Just as Robert and Matthew left the pub, Elizabeth was busy elsewhere in the village. She and her mother were in the village hall. The Women’s Institute was rehearsing a play, and Mrs. Cole had a minor part; Elizabeth was prompting, because someone had been taken ill. It was a silly play and she was bored stiff. She was cold, what was more. It was draughty in the wings; she envied Mrs. Ryder the producer her smart sheepskin coat and the electric fire she’d commandeered. They were having a break for coffee, and Elizabeth sat down listlessly with the others, smoking and thinking about Matthew and Alan.
What did they mean, each of them? No, that was Matthew’s disease, not hers. Nor was it Alan’s. He’d hardly said a word when she caught up with him on Thursday. And when she’d told him about Matthew he’d only nodded, as if he’d expected it. There had been nothing else to say, and she’d left him after a few minutes, and tried to find Matthew again. But she couldn’t, and nor could she escape from Alan, from his aura; and again she found herself asking, like her new brother: what did it mean? What did it mean?
The dance was held in ·a building at the far end of the recreation ground. This was a large grassy field along the road out of the village towards Ditton. It had a definite slope, but it was used in the winter for football matches and in the summer for cricket, when the youth club building did duty as a pavilion. At the other end of the field, nearest the village, there was a group of swings and a long slide, together with a wooden roundabout.