It was as simple as that.
She tucked her handbag into the drawer in which it had always lived – just in case a passing tradesman took a fancy to it. Forget the food. If she got cracking this minute, she could boil, dry and iron the tea-towels and the rest of the laundry stuffed into the basket. By evening she could have a drawer full of white, ironed rectangles and – perhaps – her feet under her own table.
In the late afternoon, Andrew took a break from chopping up a branch that had come down in the north field, and rested on the shaft of the axe. To his surprise, Penny’s car was nosing its way around the potholes in the track leading up to the field. ‘Shoo!’ he shouted to the Devons, who had come up to investigate his activities and were clustering as thick as the field thistles they stepped around so daintily. In response, they pressed their hard, hot flanks up against him, almost, he reckoned, with affection. The younger ones were playing games. Mothers and offspring swapped places, butted, challenged, circling their aunts and cousins in the way of cattle who are at ease.
‘Go on, shoo,’ he repeated, and flicked at a pair who were jostling for the front row of his attention.
It was October weather. A wind was funnelling down from the bronze moor, its chill fingers ripping apart the last traces of warmth. Above it, rainclouds were waiting to release their load.
At Penny’s approach, the cattle fell back and away, leaving Andrew isolated. He watched her struggle out of the car and trudge towards him. Penny had always trudged, and always would.
It wasn’t fair that the light was so harsh and truthful with her sturdy figure, her acid green nylon jumper and inexpertly tinted hair. Familiar, good-hearted Penny. Of course he loved her, in a friendly, uncomplicated way and, now that he had Agnes, he could afford to be kinder and more honest.
But, as she drew closer, something about her manner gave him pause. ‘Thought you would have gone,’ he said, warily.
‘The postman came. I’ve brought this.’ She held out an envelope. ‘It’s from the inspector.’
‘It’s not due yet,’ he said, after all his preparation for this moment, feeling both foolish and unprepared.
Dear Mr Kelsey,
I am writing to inform you of my decision, made after due consultation and consideration and weighing all the factors involved. After assessing the needs of Exbury, and in recognition of the fact that part of the land under dispute is already used for an industrial purpose, to wit the tip that abuts the main road, it is my opinion that the housing estate, proposed by Arcadian Villages, should be permitted with the following modifications…
Andrew sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Shock made him thick-brained, slow, stupid.
It was a blow to the head. The whirl of the axe blade descending. The terrible thud as it came down on bone. That was it. The end.
Once upon a time, the land had been green and fertile, crammed with species, layered one upon the other, flowers, fruit, grasses, bisected by the routes of animals and insects intent on pursuing their small, interlocking existences. Once upon a time, men had moved through the crops with their oiled, sanded scythes, their women in sun-bonnets clustering at the edges.
Once upon a time… the corncockle had thrived, the marsh marigold blazed and the wind was scented with wild marjoram.
All good stories must end.
He had already made the obvious telephones calls. Jim, Gordon the Gladiator, the posse of indignant protestors and friends. They were massing in response, making banners, writing letters, urging him to keep fighting.
The Death of a Farm. It made good copy in the newspapers. It would make excellent television. He knew Agnes would see to that. Thousands would quiver with indignation – and put the kettle on.
But it was
What happens when a mind splits? When strain and despair crack it into a thousand pieces? Is there a glue to piece it together, patiently and with knowledge? Andrew’s fingers tightened on his scalp and he pressed as hard as he could until circles swarmed behind his closed lids.
Penny was talking to him. He looked up. She was pushing a cup of tea in his direction, but he could not take in what she was saying.
What did it matter? What did anything matter now?
Her face, wide-eyed, anxious, swam across his vision. Andrew pushed back his chair and left the kitchen, snatching up his axe from the yard. Penny stood in the doorway and yelled after him, ‘Come back!’ He ignored her.
The wind was rising, and the cattle had clumped at one end of the field, nervy now, with the weather, and restless as the wind plucked at their tails and ears. One or two watched Andrew as he ran past, the others paid no attention.
They would think him mad, as they had declared him mad for firing his field. He had heard the tattle in the pubs. Let them. Sometimes madness is sanity. He was panting, and his heart was thumping in strophes of grief and rage.
And as Andrew ran towards the innocent white hives, he raised his axe and brought it whirling down on the first in the line. It splintered and cracked. A moment of hush before the high-pitched response of the bewildered, angry bees.
The fascist guards sprang into action.
For a second time, Andrew raised his axe. High and poised. Then, it cut through the air towards the second hive.
And as the gods on the moor roared their anger, and let loose the wind and rain, the wounded, violated bees massed, re-formed and struck at the one who had nurtured them for so long.
This is what I want, he thought, as their poison was driven in a thousand places through his skin and he felt it sear through his veins. To go.
‘Andrew! Andrew! Where are you?’ Up in the north field, Penny cupped her hands and shrieked into the wind, and the rain mixed the ash remnants from the bonfires into paste. ‘
She had already rung Jim who, good friend as he was, had come right over. ‘Jim, I’m frightened Andrew might do something crazy. He looked so awful. We must find him.’
‘No,’ said Jim, reassuringly. ‘Andrew would never do anything silly.’
‘Yes, he would. Over this,’ insisted Penny. ‘I know him, Jim.’ They fanned out, Jim to the south and Penny towards the bee-hives.
When, eventually, Penny stumbled across the figure in the grass, she was terrified that it was too late. Andrew lay spreadeagled and motionless in front of the splintered hives, covered in a moving shroud of bees. Every visible inch of flesh was swollen beyond recognition. Even his eyes.
‘Oh, God, Andrew. Dear God.’ Penny took in the destruction and sank to her knees. ‘What have you done? Your bees. Your precious bees. Oh, Andrew.’
He managed an infinitesimal movement of his hand, and muttered, through the monstrous, puffed lips, ‘Go away’
‘Jim!’ Penny screamed, in her terror. ‘Over here. Quick. How do we get them off?’
Jim came running. He knew what to do with the bees and managed to coax them up into the tree. Together he and Penny managed to manhandle Andrew to the edge of the field, and Jim hared up the path to fetch the van. Before they left, Penny ran into the kitchen, snatched up a pile of the fresh, ironed tea-towels and threw them into a bowl of water. All the way to hospital, Andrew whimpering with pain, she applied them tenderly to his destroyed flesh, wrapping him as tightly as a mummy.
29
