The Land Agent by J. David Simons

said. ‘Guard them?’
    ‘That would be a good idea.’
    ‘They’re not my responsibility.’
    ‘Someone could take them.’
    ‘Who?’ he said, stretching his arms out to the empty landscape. ‘Who is there to take them?’
    She ignored his protest. ‘Was there post? Letters? Packages?’
    ‘I didn’t see any.’
    ‘There must be post.’
    ‘I told you. I didn’t see any.’
    ‘There is always post.’
    She spoke so harshly that he held his hands away from his body, as if she should search him. ‘Look, no post. Now, can you take me to Kfar Ha’Emek?’
    ‘First, I must collect the crates. Then I will take you.’
    She slid to the side of her bench, indicated with a tilt of her head for him to get on board. He climbed up beside her, his suitcase and map tube by his feet, his hands grasping the plank. She yanked at the reins and they were off.
    She didn’t say a word for the few minutes it took to get back to the station that was no more than a signpost. She didn’t look at him either, just stared straight ahead, her eyes squinting against the light and the dust, her lips sucked in tight in concentration. But he watched her from the edge of his vision. For although beneath the film of dust, the tired eyes and prickly demeanour she might not have been Sarah, she was still very beautiful.
    As soon as they reached the station sign, she pulled up the wagon quick, jumped off, ran to the pile of crates. She checked the ends of each of them, until she found what she was looking for. Slid into one of the binding tapes was a pile of letters he hadn’t noticed before. She flicked through them, extracted a couple, tucked them into the waistband of her skirt. She waved the rest at him.
    ‘See?’ she said.
    He dropped off the wagon, walked over to where she stood, tapped his foot against the side of a crate. ‘What’s inside?’
    ‘Necessities.’
    ‘What exactly?’
    ‘So many questions. Tools. Pick handles. Ropes. Perhaps some books.’ She pronounced the words slowly as if they were vocabulary newly learned. ‘Mosquito nets. And most important – quinine.’ She bent down, picked up one end of a crate. ‘Well?’
    He helped her load up the crates onto the back of the wagon. With the letters received and the work done, she seemed more relaxed. They returned to their seats on the wagon bench. She offered him some water from her canteen, shook hard at the reins and they were off again.
    He asked her name. She turned to look at him, scrutinized his face as if to assess whether he was worthy of such information.
    ‘Celia,’ she said.
    He thought she wasn’t going to ask him his but eventually, as if she were doing him a great favour, she said: ‘And you?’
    ‘Lev.’
    ‘Lev what?’
    ‘Lev Sela.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes.’
    She glanced at him. ‘Lev Sela.’ And then in English: ‘Heart of stone.’
    ‘So you speak English?’
    ‘Of course.’
    He noted her tone had softened slightly. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.
    ‘Scotland.’
    ‘I know about Scotland.’
    ‘Oh yes? What do you know?’
    ‘It is near Manchester.’
    ‘Two hundred miles is not so near.’
    ‘Perhaps. But it always rains in Manchester.’
    She gave a slight laugh. Which surprised him as he hadn’t meant the remark to be funny. He felt a desperate need to make her laugh again but as he tried to remember some more of Mickey’s English sayings, he noticed some tents up ahead, a few outbuildings, a livestock enclosure, smoke from a fire. ‘What is this place?’ he asked.
    ‘Kfar Ha’Emek.’
    ‘You told me it was far away.’
    She smiled at him for the first time. ‘I needed help with the crates.’

Seven
    C ELIA DROPPED L EV OFF by a low, partly plastered, brick building. ‘Give these to Rafi,’ she said, handing him the bundle of letters. ‘I must take the medicine to the sick tent.’
    Lev let the dust settle from her departure, looked around. The brick building was surrounded by tents, ten of them,