Turf or Stone by Margiad Evans Page B

the cages swayed lightly, her sleeves fell back from her bare arms. Philip was plunging his hands in the goldfishes’ tank, which was overgrown with ferns and moss. The sun shone through the green glass roof, obscured by a plumbago.
    Matt had felt a feeble impulse to speak to her. It passed before any definite words came to his mind, for he was drugged with inertia. He went through the outer door, shutting it behind him, and leant against the frame. He closed his eyes, but the brilliant spring sunshine penetrated the lids like a red film.
    A large man, somewhat delicately made, he seemed to lack energy of any sort. His face was stiff and expressionless, his features long and fine. The eyes, set obliquely, reflected no more light than a pair of grey pebbles; yet two sharp grooves, running from the wide nostrils to the upper lip lifting it in a keen, fierce curve, indicated a temperament which was by no means phlegmatic. Matt had been passionate, and he could still be violent.
    He opened his eyes and looked up into the clear sky. During the past two weeks he had been madly drunk three times. He would be madly drunk again tonight, but he would approach the climax slowly.
    He made his way to the stables. Sparrows were hopping about the clean-swept yard. Easter’s red-headed wife was descending the loft steps. She wore a long apron and carried a pail. With slow steps she walked to the pump.
    The water gushed into the bucket. He went up to her.He was nervous with women whom he did not know. She paused.
    ‘Where’s Easter?’
    ‘I don’t know, sir.’
    Matt regarded her; she was exceedingly pale. He turned away his eyes, took the bucket, and without finding a word, carried it across the yard and up the steps. He caught a glimpse of a spotless room. She thanked him, surprised. Then she closed her door softly.
    Matt saddled his own horse and rode away thinking about her. It was the first time he had spoken to her.
    A week ago he came upon her at dusk in the disused brewing house, beneath the loft, and her wan face framed in the gloom startled him.
    He rode slackly at a walking pace, occasionally greeting people on the road. One round-shouldered youth with a rough skin, huge red ears, and a squint, sidled towards his horse and snatched at the rein. The animal shied, threw up its head, and sprang forward. The idiot crouched under the hedge, frightened at the flurry.
    A mile from The Gallustree the river was spanned by an iron toll bridge. Matt rode across it and paid the due to the leery old woman who opened the gate.
    He was lost, not exactly in thought, but in the effort of inward contemplation. There are moments when it is necessary to use all pictorial imagination to assemble the features of one face; the entire mind is given up to materialisation. It is an effort. Matt dwelt on Mary’s eyes, her long neck, her hollow cheeks, her mouth, tempting, yet severe. Gradually he called up the last glance she had given him as she shut her door, a look obstinately calmand haughty, as though it would take many such insignificant kindnesses to win her good will.
    For some reason the vision embarrassed him. He felt a premonition of difficulty and temptation. He pulled himself up, broke into a rapid trot, which quickly brought him to his destination and resolutely put her away from him.
    A marked trait in his otherwise elusive character was a strong leaning towards democracy. He associated with anyone whom he liked. A year ago he had rubbed shoulders in some pub with an unsuccessful dissipated farmer, and this man had since become his chief companion. It was towards his farm he was now riding.
    Arriving at a huddle of wretched outhouses, which looked more like shacks than farm buildings, he dismounted and tied his horse to a gate. The assembly was crowned by a new Dutch barn on a slight rise, whose corrugated iron roof was painted a dull red. The house lay beyond the yard, behind a round wooden shed, where the shafts of a wagon protruded