learnt that my gut feeling’s generally right. God knows why.’
‘Aha. Well, I don’t know what it could be.’
He is busy now lighting his long-stemmed pipe. ‘Perhaps something happened that wasn’t really about the war. Something just as bad or worse.’
Tall, thin pines. Heather. A hilltop. Distant shouts of command and the thunder of cannon. I am crawling among the heather, dragging the musket alongside me. Then I suddenly notice on the ridge the movement of a dark-green frock coat, almost imperceptible. ‘It was all bad. And you don’t want to think back on it.’
‘I imagine not. Don’t mind me, I’m just babbling away. When a man gets old, he starts spouting nonsense.’
I do not reply. I am trying to return from crawling, from that slope. I am trying to come back and stay back. I hear snow crunching outside. Someone is walking towards the cattle sheds. The wind is howling in the field. Light, powdery snow sticks to the window. If a real snowstorm blows up, the labourers are bound to return from the woods. A puff of smoke billows from the fireplace into the room. The Farmhand twists round to the fire, discontented.
‘You’ve had a lot of business in town with Erik,’ he says.
‘Erik has. I’ve been the driver.’
He lets smoke dribble down his lips. ‘People get suspicious. Anna especially.’
I do not understand at first. Then I see. ‘It’s not that. Erik’s not seeing other women.’
‘I didn’t think he was. But something must be going on.’
‘No point asking me. There’s this one house he goes to, but I don’t even get to go inside. Or only as far as the porch.’
‘So he’s kept you right out of it.’
‘Yes. And I haven’t stuck my nose in.’
He keeps nodding his head slowly. ‘But you must have found out who lives in the house.’
‘A gentleman. I don’t remember the name. And there are other men, too. You hear the voices.’
‘I hope they’re not hatching any evil plots.’
As often, I find it hard to follow his thinking. ‘Erik? What could he be plotting?’
‘These are strange times. I’ve heard village talk. Not everyone wants to stop fighting. They’re still set on God knows what – don’t like the Russians.’
I nearly sigh with relief. ‘I don’t think Erik would get into all that. He’s not that much of an idiot.’
‘Maybe not. But you can get into trouble if you’re curious enough to listen to idiots talk.’
‘Should we say something to him?’
‘Might be better to wait and see. He may yet come to his senses.’
Matters tend to diminish when the Farmhand talks about them. He is that kind of man. Even if he were on the scaffold with the noose round his neck, he would remark on the mildness of the weather. He has seen much in his time. He was even in the Pomeranian War, fighting against hussars. If you ask him about it, he says he has forgotten almost everything. I bet he could still use a gun, though, and not just for shooting rabbits.
‘I’d better get going,’ I say, standing up. ‘Don’t know whether to try and look after them or make sure I don’t get under their feet.’
‘Do both. Look after them from a distance,’ the Farmhand advises. After I have opened the door, he adds, ‘But don’t learn their lesson. Rancour is a bad teacher.’
The wind blows heavy snowflakes into my face. The forest is veiled, merely its outline visible. You can only sense the iron-grey sky. Erik is standing, sheltered, on the front steps of the house. He is immobile, just blowing his hands, staring ahead. He does not seem to notice me as I walk along the edge of the yard to reach the back door. I leave my boots by the door and make my way quietly to my tiny back chamber. A bed, a chair and a small table. They were good enough to give me blinds and a miserable oil lamp. The room is cool, the stove cold. I do not know what it is like in houses of correction but probably not much better. Still, I am not complaining. Soon, if I wish, I may brick up the doorway of my room.
I turn, ready to climb the steps leading up from the cellar, when I collide with his brooding gaze. I do not see his eyes, he is a black statue against the snow-grey light, but I sense them. I feel his fingers on my skin, on my shoulder blades. He leans against the doorpost, tall and alert. I stare at him. I step backwards and the basket falls from my hand. A turnip rolls to his feet but he does not kick it.
‘Caught you,’ he says.
‘Don’t touch me.’
He lets out a laugh: the snort of a tortured animal. ‘I mean I caught you in the act.’
‘What act?’
‘Playing the mistress.’
I decide to push past him. The doorway is too small for the two of us and he makes way for me reluctantly. Then suddenly he grabs me, presses me against himself with one hand, pushing the other inside the neckline of my dress. His hard fingers grope my neck, my shoulders, my back. My nose is filled with his smell, the sweet scent of eau de cologne and the salty scent of sweat. I slap his face and free myself from his grip. I leap up the stone steps to yard level. Down in the depths of the cellar, he laughs his hoarse laugh.
I turn and snap down at him, ‘Why did you come here? Nobody wants you.’
‘Just an impulse. I thought you at least would be pleased.’
‘Delighted.’
‘Oh, come on. Wait a minute,’ he says, his voice empty of laughter. He bends and disappears into the cellar. I breathe deeply, stare at the forest, hear the sighing trees. He reappears through the dark opening and hands the basket up to me. ‘You’ve got a lot here, for the winter.’
‘Should cover us. Can’t afford any more mouths to feed.’
He climbs the stairs and then stops, a couple of steps away from me. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning to stay the whole winter. Just came to visit. It can’t be that bad.’
‘I suppose not. If you behave.’
‘Don’t I always? By the way, how’s your father?’
I examine his eyes: grey, steady, mute. ‘My father’s well, although of course he’s getting on.’
‘And your siblings?’
‘They’ve all gone their different ways. Except…’
He nods once, twice. ‘Except now your eldest brother is of course the young master of the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the usual way, isn’t it? The eldest son staying on as master.’ You can hardly detect the irony in his voice; it is like a butterfly’s wings, or a barely perceptible movement of the skin. ‘At least in respectable houses.’
‘Nobody told you to leave.’
‘But I wasn’t asked to stay, either. Since I’m here now, perhaps I should start acting the master.’
A heavy lump begins moving in my chest, back and forth, back and forth. ‘Don’t even think about it. Your mother and Erik arranged everything long ago.’
‘No doubt. Still, things can always be changed.’
‘This thing won’t change. You knew it when you left all that time ago.’
‘You haven’t given any thought to why I left.’
My breast is being crushed, it is crumbling from inside. ‘Don’t blame it on me.’
‘I’m not blaming anybody. It was all pure chance.’ His voice becomes lower and crawls, slithering, into my ears. ‘That’s what makes life so interesting, chance. You never know what’ll happen tomorrow. Just as well.’
I twist round. My feet are ahead of me, my thoughts are left behind. Snow clings to my eyes. Mauri is turning the corner to the back of the house, Erik is standing on the veranda steps. I manage to cross the yard without running. I pass Erik. He says something, but I can only hear an indistinct grunt. His twisted, restless face moves out of my sight and I pull the front door shut behind me with calm restraint.
Then I rush to the stairs and stumble up them. In our room, I throw myself onto the bed. The walls pant, the
