him?’
‘Because he is young and nothing else matters in this crooked, lousy, beautiful world.’
He kicked a few things out of the way and went down the ladder stairs and she followed, a bit crestfallen.
Parting
Madge is hanging out a double sheet, mustard coloured. There is something amiss about her wave to Eily, something tentative, embarrassed. In that moment Eily thinks she should reverse up the lane, but then she thinks that would be hasty, unfriendly.
Madge and Eily have been friends since they met that warm day the previous spring when Eily had gone into the craft shop where Madge worked, to see if she might display some of the postcard drawings she had done. They were all of nudes and many were pregnant with proud voluptuous bellies.
‘How about putting some clothes on them,’ Madge said and they laughed, both knowing how the local people viewed them, with their long skirts and their wellingtons, their sloppy knitwear and their ethnic jewellery. ‘Blow ins’ they were called, a name that had originated from the flotsam of wrecked vessels that had blown in from the sea. Blow ins.
They went outside and sat on the window ledge watching the dilatory life of the street - a dog chewing a flat ball, young girls teetering in absurdly high platform shoes walking up and down, expecting a group of boys to appear.
‘I hate men,’ Madge said but without conviction. She had separated from her third partner, had two kids, no money, lived in a leaky caravan and had just set her cap at another heartthrob. They discovered that they both had a penchant for the Jesus types, men with long, straggly, unwashed hair, woodsmen appearing at dusk like shadow men. Madge had noticed her latest on the upper road delivering oil, and many a morning since, was to be seen wandering up there, drooling.
‘What hooked you?’ Eily had asked.
‘A silent bugger ... I have this dappy notion that if they’re silent they’re deep. What about you? Are you solo?’
‘I am now. I lived in England ... I worked in an arts centre, fell for someone, got pregnant . . . the old story. But I have a bonny boy.’
‘The old story,’ Madge said wistfully.
It transpired that they lived within a couple of miles of each other, Madge in her buckled caravan and Eily in a rented apartment surrounded by rolling hills and the landlord’s thoroughbred horses.
When Madge visited for the first time she marvelled at this harem, this Aladdin’s cave, bright walls, oriental rugs, shawls and throws, flung around like props on a stage.
‘I can see men enslaved here . . . Homer with the sirens,’ she had said walking around, scrutinising the various treasures, little perfume bottles, tortoiseshell combs, donning a feather boa and green with envy, as she put it.
In the month of the bluebells Madge asked if she could do a portrait of Eily and sat her on a kitchen chair in the middle of Allendara Wood. The bluebells everywhere, along the ground and between the rocks and up the tree trunks and even wreathed around the skulls of two dead horses that lay there perfectly preserved in a greenish mould. There was a harmony to it, the rich myriad life of the wood all about, the deft strokes of the brush along the canvas, little shadows that danced skew-wise across her face, under the brim of a lilac straw hat. It was Madge’s hat and it was made of a silken straw. They jumped when a pack of lurchers ran through chasing their leader who had a hunk of raw dripping meat hanging from his mouth.
‘You’re to keep the hat,’ Madge said as they walked back in that filtered sunlight, stopping and starting, picking the odd flower, and concocting big dreams about buying land and selling it for a packet. That was the day they pledged to be always there for one another, but then Sven came and came between them somewhat. Farmers referred to him as the Scholar because he was so knowledgeable, knew so much about different types of land, diversified farming, lecturing them
‘Because he is young and nothing else matters in this crooked, lousy, beautiful world.’
He kicked a few things out of the way and went down the ladder stairs and she followed, a bit crestfallen.
Parting
Madge is hanging out a double sheet, mustard coloured. There is something amiss about her wave to Eily, something tentative, embarrassed. In that moment Eily thinks she should reverse up the lane, but then she thinks that would be hasty, unfriendly.
Madge and Eily have been friends since they met that warm day the previous spring when Eily had gone into the craft shop where Madge worked, to see if she might display some of the postcard drawings she had done. They were all of nudes and many were pregnant with proud voluptuous bellies.
‘How about putting some clothes on them,’ Madge said and they laughed, both knowing how the local people viewed them, with their long skirts and their wellingtons, their sloppy knitwear and their ethnic jewellery. ‘Blow ins’ they were called, a name that had originated from the flotsam of wrecked vessels that had blown in from the sea. Blow ins.
They went outside and sat on the window ledge watching the dilatory life of the street - a dog chewing a flat ball, young girls teetering in absurdly high platform shoes walking up and down, expecting a group of boys to appear.
‘I hate men,’ Madge said but without conviction. She had separated from her third partner, had two kids, no money, lived in a leaky caravan and had just set her cap at another heartthrob. They discovered that they both had a penchant for the Jesus types, men with long, straggly, unwashed hair, woodsmen appearing at dusk like shadow men. Madge had noticed her latest on the upper road delivering oil, and many a morning since, was to be seen wandering up there, drooling.
‘What hooked you?’ Eily had asked.
‘A silent bugger ... I have this dappy notion that if they’re silent they’re deep. What about you? Are you solo?’
‘I am now. I lived in England ... I worked in an arts centre, fell for someone, got pregnant . . . the old story. But I have a bonny boy.’
‘The old story,’ Madge said wistfully.
It transpired that they lived within a couple of miles of each other, Madge in her buckled caravan and Eily in a rented apartment surrounded by rolling hills and the landlord’s thoroughbred horses.
When Madge visited for the first time she marvelled at this harem, this Aladdin’s cave, bright walls, oriental rugs, shawls and throws, flung around like props on a stage.
‘I can see men enslaved here . . . Homer with the sirens,’ she had said walking around, scrutinising the various treasures, little perfume bottles, tortoiseshell combs, donning a feather boa and green with envy, as she put it.
In the month of the bluebells Madge asked if she could do a portrait of Eily and sat her on a kitchen chair in the middle of Allendara Wood. The bluebells everywhere, along the ground and between the rocks and up the tree trunks and even wreathed around the skulls of two dead horses that lay there perfectly preserved in a greenish mould. There was a harmony to it, the rich myriad life of the wood all about, the deft strokes of the brush along the canvas, little shadows that danced skew-wise across her face, under the brim of a lilac straw hat. It was Madge’s hat and it was made of a silken straw. They jumped when a pack of lurchers ran through chasing their leader who had a hunk of raw dripping meat hanging from his mouth.
‘You’re to keep the hat,’ Madge said as they walked back in that filtered sunlight, stopping and starting, picking the odd flower, and concocting big dreams about buying land and selling it for a packet. That was the day they pledged to be always there for one another, but then Sven came and came between them somewhat. Farmers referred to him as the Scholar because he was so knowledgeable, knew so much about different types of land, diversified farming, lecturing them
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