The Matchmaker (55 page)

… Afterwards, no one could remember who first brought Mr. Hoadley’s rook-rifle into the discussion. Mrs. Hoadley always vowed that Emilio had been trying to get his hands on it ever since he first clapped eyes on it, and that he took advantage of the general anxiety about Fabrio to suggest that he should go forth armed upon his search. Mary said that everyone got so moody and upset as evening came on that no one could remember exactly what they did say, and Mr. Hoadley (soon to be the father of a perfectly enormous son with lungs like a bullock and a will of iron whom his mother worshipped) blamed everyone impartially. Whoever was to blame, one fact is clear. When Emilio went out at half-past eight to look for Fabrio, he was carrying Mr. Hoadley’s rifle. He left the women sitting in the kitchen over a final cup of tea as he stepped reluctantly into the twilight.

The rain had ceased, but it had been so persistent throughout
the
warm, still day that a mist had arisen from woods and meadows as evening advanced, and now lingered among the motionless trees, thick and bluish between their heavy green leaves. Now and again one drop of water fell from the soaked boughs, and the brimming ditches ran fast, with a light covering of petals and dried stems and seeds swirling along their surfaces.

Emilio was so pleased to hold a weapon again that he even made some attempt to carry out a promise to Mrs. Hoadley, and search those deserted huts up in the copse. This rite consisted in approaching to within fifty yards of the huts, pointing the rifle at the one which was so ruined as to be practically open to the elements, and shouting in Italian and English: “Is anyone inside there? Answer or I fire!”

No one did answer, but he thought he had better not fire Mr. Hoadley’s rifle because of Mr. Hoadley, so he went back, almost noiselessly, through the wet, quiet woods; down the hill and across a meadow enclosed by coppices where ran a tiny stream. It was a miniature river gliding between banks a few feet high, which was marked upon a map dated 1530, in the possession of this land’s owner. Meadow, coppices and stream covered not more than five acres of land and were only two miles from the main road: but they proved, as they lay there under the grey evening sky in deep solitude, how small England is, and how secret still: in spite of holiday camps, and motor coaches and the horrifying increase in our numbers, how secret still!

Emilio leapt the stream with the rifle gaily pointing at all angles and went through the trees, keeping a look-out for something to shoot. He was enjoying the outing; he had no intention of reporting his friend’s whereabouts even if he found him, and now he was on his way to the scene of last night’s festivities to try that little barrel for a last drink.

Across the home meadows he went. There were no lights in Mr. Waite’s cottage, for Mr. Waite had not yet returned from
London,
where he had spent the day with his fiancée (in case anyone should ask, the care of his chickens had been entrusted to Miss Dodder).

Emilio entered the precincts of the farm, and at once began opening doors, with the rifle ready, and demanding in a low tone: “Art thou there, my comrade?” Soon (having received no reply from the bull’s shed or the stable where the little goats were kept) he naturally found himself at the door of the shed he was making for. He opened it, he aimed the rifle; he put his question, but again there was no answer. He shrugged his shoulders and went in, carefully drawing the door to after him. The little barrel was still there, and he went over to it. He turned the tap. Alas, after a few delicious drops which he sucked up with eagerness, there were no more. The barrel was dry. The
padrone
, that monster of injustice, that hard man, had drained it before he left home that morning. Emilio swore, and decided that he had searched enough for one evening. Now he would return, and see if there were anything left to eat.

On the way he passed the granary. He remembered that it had always been a favourite haunt of his friend’s, and, almost without thinking, he pushed open the door (which stood slightly ajar), poked the rifle round it, and bawled, “Art thou there, my brother?”

The rifle barrel was struck violently down. Then it was pulled forward. It was jerked out of his hand. It vanished. The inside of the granary was almost dark. Fabrio’s voice said gruffly out of the darkness:

“What art thou doing, threatening with rifles? thou, who couldst not hit a tank at five yards. Do not be a fool, and come inside. I would speak with thee.”

Emilio, who had run some distance, returned slowly. His heart was beating as if to burst his chest. He had always been a little afraid of
Il Signor
even while despising him, and who knew what maggot might not have got into his head since that accursed girl had turned upon him? He might be mad. But he
was
more afraid to stay outside while Fabrio remained inside with the rifle, and so he walked slowly forward and into the shed.

He could smell cigarette smoke, and a spark glowed in the dusk. He heard a rustle as if Fabrio was making room for him in the straw, and he moved cautiously towards the sound.

“Sit down, sit down,” said Fabrio impatiently, with a heavy sigh, and then Emilio felt himself gripped by an unpleasantly strong hand and pulled down upon the straw. He was next aware of something white extended under his nose.

“Cigarettes,” said his friend, again uttering that labouring sigh. “Half are for thee—though thou dost not deserve them. Coming after thy comrade with rifles!”

“Didst thou steal them?” inquired Emilio, getting out his lighter. The flame sprang up and illuminated the grey rafters with dusty webs in their corners, the discarded household and farm implements crowded along the walls, the sacks of grain, and the deep pile of straw upon which Fabrio lay. He looked sullen and his hair was very untidy. Otherwise Emilio’s avid eyes could detect no such ghastly change as he had expected. He blew out the flame and again they sat almost in darkness save for what light was afforded by the grey summer dusk.

“No. The
padrona
at that place—Amberlei—gave them to me.”

“Thou hast been there? This day? Twelve miles!”

“I waited until the
padrone
had gone away in the car and then I rode in the bus.”

“But why? All day we have been searching for thee. The women—thou canst imagine!” and Emilio drew the smoke down, down, down into his lungs and grinned.

“I wanted a holiday. I hate this place, as thou knowest. And at that place, Amberlei, the
padrona
was glad to see me. She gave me eggs and meat to eat and drink from a little black bottle. It was very good. As for the women, all the women in this place, all the women in this accursed, wet, cold, miserable country, may they all burn in Hell for ever and ever.” And Fabrio spat.

Emilio said nothing for a minute. The smoke burned his throat with its familiar comfort and the scent of grain and damp sacks floating in the dimness was comforting too. Water dripped musically from a nearby gutter. He stretched out luxuriously on the straw. He did not want to move. He wanted to stay here all night and smoke all those cigarettes. But if
he
went off, too, there would be the father and mother of a row, so what was the use of doing what he wanted? He yawned.

“Thou knowest?” said Fabrio suddenly.

“What?”

“What I have done with
La Scimmia
.”

And then and there did Fabrio, in five minutes’ talk with Emilio, defile the memory of his love. It seemed to him the only way to heal the wound to his pride. What did it matter if he lied about that creature with brazen hair who had terribly insulted him? He would return her insult with his lies. So long as no one but himself ever knew of that day at Amberlei when she had seemed so different; so long as the memory of their secret smile remained his secret alone, what did he care what he said of her, what she thought of him, what anybody said or thought? He spoke as foully as he knew how.

When he had finished, Emilio laughed and congratulated him. He did not believe this yarn, of course; anyone with their eyes put straight in their head could have seen what had happened last night, when his friend’s perfectly natural suggestion had been refused by that female monkey. But he felt pity for Fabrio, and also there were times when men must stand together against women. This seemed to Emilio to be one of them. Besides,
La Scimmia
had never shown the slightest kindness towards himself. Let her get the reputation of a loose girl. She deserved it.

So he tapped the side of his long nose in the darkness, and laughed and admired, and presently Fabrio’s sore pride began to feel soothed. When Emilio casually suggested a little later that they should return to the farm, he turned sullen again, but made
no
objection, and later still, having smoked another cigarette, they leisurely set out. Fabrio had no dread of meeting
La Scimmia
, for he would retire again into that reserve with which he had first treated her, never addressing her except when it was unavoidable in the course of the day’s work, and soon, very soon, he would ask if he might be transferred to another farm.

Already, as he trudged back beside Emilio through yards dimly lit by the hidden moon, he felt less tender towards the memory of Sylvia. No man could continue to love a woman who had so cruelly insulted him.

Meanwhile, Mr. Hoadley’s rifle lay forgotten on the damp sacks near the open door where Fabrio had placed it, immediately beneath that musically dripping gutter. It had been raining smartly for quite twenty minutes when Emilio, cursing and swearing, came stumbling into the shed to retrieve it, and during those twenty minutes the rising wind had blown a great deal of water from the gutter over the rifle. On the way back Emilio did shroud it in a sack against the rain, but this did not prevent it from being very rusty indeed the next time Mr. Hoadley came to use it. To those readers who were hoping that Fabrio or Emilio would murder someone with it, we tender our unrepentant apologies.

SOME EIGHTEEN MONTHS
later, a children’s party was in progress at the Lucie-Brownes’ house on the outskirts of Ironborough on the occasion of Jenny’s thirteenth birthday, and Alda had sent out the invitations marked
Please come as a Nursery Rhyme
.

It was a pretty scene. The grey walls in the one room, and the satin-striped white ones in the other, set off the children’s
brilliantly
coloured costumes, ingeniously devised with the help of Eastern scarves and shawls sent home by fathers and brothers still on active service. Alda had economised with coal, in order that with the help of her store of logs she might provide a royal fire, in itself enough to beautify the plainest apartment, in each room. The youngest unmarried aunt was seated at the piano thumping out “Here we go gathering nuts in May,” and down the long room, through the folding doors flung wide, pranced a row of tall creatures (Jenny’s generation is a collection of young maypoles) hand in hand; with plaits flying, skirts whisking, mop caps and turbans flapping, feet thundering on the gleaming floor as they chanted more or less tunefully:

Not all were pretty, but all had the charm of health and youth; their cheeks were like petals, and their brilliant eyes brimmed with laughter.

Meg, who was now nearly six years old but not considered old enough to join in this game, was sitting on a chair by her mother, surveying the dancers. These were the Big Ones at Miss Cowdray’s school which she now attended; the Big Ones, who dragged you along in the morning when they were late, and made you run so fast that your legs almost flew out behind you and you gasped for breath; who were sarcastically patient if you should happen to cry; who never stopped talking to one another about four feet above your head, and squeezed your hand dreadfully hard as they hauled you across the terrible High Street; the Big Ones whom, in spite of all this, you greatly admired, for whose notice and kindness you longed. But you did not often get it.

And when you turned to humbler circles for comfort, what did you find? People of nine and ten who only wanted each other and were always sharply telling you to buzz off and not
be
a nuisance, and hiding away from you. And somehow other people of six were not interesting. Jenny said that six was an awful age, the worst age of all. She said this poem about it:

But now I am six I’m as clever as clever,

So I think I’ll be six for ever and ever.

Jenny said that that just showed what people of six were like; always boasting. It was dreadful to boast: it was the worst thing you could do, Jenny said. Things might be better, Meg hoped, when she was seven. Some people of seven were quite kind, only they always seemed so busy.