is the usual practice. The men talk business, even though it is a Sunday and Reverend Mountcastle will frown at them. But his severe expressions will do no good; they will only move their talk over to the village green, opposite the smithy, rather than cease entirely. The ladies follow their procession down the main street, and it is a warm, dry day so my mother and I sit on the grass with Mrs Braddick and her girls. They chat about the surprising turn of events that could lead to a best hat ending up under the sink without so much as a by-your-leave.
I watch my father talk business. He once told me that he does more trade on a Sunday than on any other day of the week, and if God hadn't wanted it that way he should not have congregated working men together on that day. I was only little, and remember my mother saying, 'Don't put such thoughts into her head, Fred!'
Well, too late. The thought has stuck there, to be recalled forever more. Rather like Mr Tiller's rock, some thoughts land upon you with a crash and then sink in, and no power on Earth will dislodge them.
It is a good long time before my father comes over to where we sit and tells us he is going to help with finding a good tree for the maypole this year, and we are to take Nellie home ourselves. 'I'll walk back later,' he says. He seems in better spirits than I have seen for a while. He even gives me a smile.
My mother nods, looking not so happy with this turn of events, and we leave the green and return to our horse and cart outside the churchyard. Nellie has waited patiently for us without a peep, as she has been trained to do. But she is also an older horse now, and seems happy to take any instruction as long as it involves not moving very far.
My mother takes up the reins and snaps them. Nellie sighs, and commences a slow plod through the village. We pass all the familiar sights, shops, houses and faces in silence. It is not until we are halfway home, alone on the road with the hedges up high around us, that my mother reaches into her sewn pocket bag kept around her neck, and pulls out a letter, dropping it in my lap.
For one awful moment I think she has found Mr Tiller's confessional letter, but no – no, it is still safe against my chest, held in place by my dress, and the paper now lying in my lap is too thin. I feel such relief, but too soon; as I open it and scan it, I discover why my mother is so vexed.
Further to your letter – Invite you to attend a meeting on Tuesday 27th April – Possible enrolment for the coming September.
’Has Father seen it?' I ask.
'Of course,' she says. 'Did you think I would keep it from him?'
Perhaps I had hoped that, at least until she had talked to me first. But now I see that was a ridiculous fancy. 'So he disapproves?'
'He does. As you knew he would, or else why would you have kept this plot to yourself? Shirley, you break our hearts.' But I do not see a broken heart in her expression, nor in her voice. There is only a flat tone, familiar to me as one that issues orders when work must be done, raised to carry over the noise of Nellie's hooves. It is very familiar to me, this voice, but it scares me to realise that it is a disguise – one that she has worn since I was a little girl. Who knows what she really feels about me? Or about the entire world?
Maybe that is why she has always worn it.
'It was not a deliberate attempt to…' The words fail me. Hurt them? Escape from them, and from the farm? I love the farm, and I mean to take care of it. I wish I could explain this, but suddenly, in the glare of daylight with the letter in my lap, all my plans seem quite strange and miniature to me. It is as if they are pictures that I painted in a small back room, without much light, and now I have carried them into the full glare of the sunshine I must admit my pictures are washed-out and weak against the full palette of reality. Such as that tone in my mother's voice.
'You mean to look after the farm,' she
I watch my father talk business. He once told me that he does more trade on a Sunday than on any other day of the week, and if God hadn't wanted it that way he should not have congregated working men together on that day. I was only little, and remember my mother saying, 'Don't put such thoughts into her head, Fred!'
Well, too late. The thought has stuck there, to be recalled forever more. Rather like Mr Tiller's rock, some thoughts land upon you with a crash and then sink in, and no power on Earth will dislodge them.
It is a good long time before my father comes over to where we sit and tells us he is going to help with finding a good tree for the maypole this year, and we are to take Nellie home ourselves. 'I'll walk back later,' he says. He seems in better spirits than I have seen for a while. He even gives me a smile.
My mother nods, looking not so happy with this turn of events, and we leave the green and return to our horse and cart outside the churchyard. Nellie has waited patiently for us without a peep, as she has been trained to do. But she is also an older horse now, and seems happy to take any instruction as long as it involves not moving very far.
My mother takes up the reins and snaps them. Nellie sighs, and commences a slow plod through the village. We pass all the familiar sights, shops, houses and faces in silence. It is not until we are halfway home, alone on the road with the hedges up high around us, that my mother reaches into her sewn pocket bag kept around her neck, and pulls out a letter, dropping it in my lap.
For one awful moment I think she has found Mr Tiller's confessional letter, but no – no, it is still safe against my chest, held in place by my dress, and the paper now lying in my lap is too thin. I feel such relief, but too soon; as I open it and scan it, I discover why my mother is so vexed.
Further to your letter – Invite you to attend a meeting on Tuesday 27th April – Possible enrolment for the coming September.
’Has Father seen it?' I ask.
'Of course,' she says. 'Did you think I would keep it from him?'
Perhaps I had hoped that, at least until she had talked to me first. But now I see that was a ridiculous fancy. 'So he disapproves?'
'He does. As you knew he would, or else why would you have kept this plot to yourself? Shirley, you break our hearts.' But I do not see a broken heart in her expression, nor in her voice. There is only a flat tone, familiar to me as one that issues orders when work must be done, raised to carry over the noise of Nellie's hooves. It is very familiar to me, this voice, but it scares me to realise that it is a disguise – one that she has worn since I was a little girl. Who knows what she really feels about me? Or about the entire world?
Maybe that is why she has always worn it.
'It was not a deliberate attempt to…' The words fail me. Hurt them? Escape from them, and from the farm? I love the farm, and I mean to take care of it. I wish I could explain this, but suddenly, in the glare of daylight with the letter in my lap, all my plans seem quite strange and miniature to me. It is as if they are pictures that I painted in a small back room, without much light, and now I have carried them into the full glare of the sunshine I must admit my pictures are washed-out and weak against the full palette of reality. Such as that tone in my mother's voice.
'You mean to look after the farm,' she
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