“You never help me!” Emma sobbed. “I try and try, and you always—”
“For goodness’ sake—”
“You’ve got to go,” Emma said, the lucid appeal coming between her sobs.
“Hold on,” said Munday. Now, he smiled. “Didn’t you tell me today was early-closing? All the shops will be shut. It’s gone four.”
“It’s not a shop,” said Emma. “It’s that place we went before Christmas—that farm on the back road.”
“Hosmer’s?”
“Yes. There was a sign on one of those cottages. Someone sells them.”
Munday tried to remember. “I didn’t see any apples when we were there.”
“I tell you I saw the sign,” said Emma.
Munday said, “You’re making this up.”
Emma came forward and howled, “I’m not! I’m not! Help me, Alfred—you must go now.”
“Send Branch,” he said.
“No—you!” She set her face at him.
Munday got up and held her; she was shaking. He said, “Do calm yourself, my darling. If you want me to go, of course—’’
“You can walk,” she said. The hysteria had wrung her and left her breathless. “It’s not far—down the road, past The Yew Tree, that valley road, where it dips. But if you don’t hurry”—her voice went small, like a child’s disappointed protest—“I won’t have my apples.”
He thought she might be mad, and he recalled what
she had said at lunchtime, everything’s out of reach. He had to reply to her unexpected demand by humoring her. He took the money she offered, a pound note folded into a neat square, and he kissed her and said, “I won’t be long.”
It was dusk, a sea-mist was building in the fields, veiling the hedgerows, and he walked into the falling dark on Emma’s errand. The Yew Tree was shut; one upper window was lighted, the rest held oblong frames of clouds and the last of the sun, breaking through in dim cones at the sea. Munday turned down the lane and walked briskly, putting a bird to flight—it beat its way out of a hedge noisily without showing itself to him—and then to the row of thatched cottages. He hadn’t seen the bam before, but it was there, a rough building of flint and white coarsely-shaped stone beyond the mucky rutted barnyard. And a large sign was nailed to the gatepost on the cottage next to Hosmer’s, apples. Several chickens pecked close to the house; their feathers were muddied on their undersides, but their presence and their color emphasized that some daylight still lingered.
Munday rapped on the door and heard his sounds echo in the house. He peeked through the window. He saw the kitchen table in the center of the room, cruets, a newspaper, a jam jar. He rapped again, then gave up and crossed to the bam, stopping midway to catch a glimpse of the platform where he had seen those dead dogs under the canvas. He remembered them only when he was descending the stone stairs. But they were behind Hosmer’s cottage, those flayed things.
His shoes sucked in the mud as he wrenched the barn door open. At once he smelled the sour decay of apples and saw in warped racks huge cider barrels, rags wound on their wooden bungs, and a cider press, like an early printing, machine, the thick iron screw and the woodframe black with dampness. The paraphernalia leaned at him: a wheelless wagon resting on greasy axles, and hose-pipes and glass jugs and a pruning hook, and on posts supporting the hayloft, harnesses, snaffles, and coils of rope. The apple smell was strong and stung his nose, but there was in its richness something of the earth, a live hum that engaged all his senses. In the wagon were bushel baskets of apples. Munday carefully stepped over the jugs and reached for a basket.
His shadow sank in a wider shadow as the interior of the barn grew dark. It was as if the door had been shut on him without a sound.
“Is this what you’ve come for?”
Munday turned and saw Caroline at the door, blocking what daylight remained; behind her legs a white chicken moved, pecking at mud, bustling in jerks.
“You,” he said. She had given him a fright. He left the wagon and clattered past the jugs, upsetting one. He saw she held a full paper bag against her chest.
“I had to see you,” she said. “I’Ve missed you.” Munday said, “Oh, my love, my love,” and embraced her, kissed her and split the bag of apples. Caroline dropped her arms and released it. The apples tumbled to their shins, fell between them, plopping at their feet, making bumps as they hit and their skin punctured and bruised on the bam floor. Munday stepped on one, skidding on its flesh, ancj hugged Caroline for balance. The apples rolled in all directions, gulping as they bounced.
15
It was a custom among the Bwamba to let their hair grow after a member of the family had died. During this time of mourning their hair sprouted stiffly in a round bushy shape, like a thick wool helmet pulled over their ears. This hair, with their sparse beards, made their faces look especially gaunt, like the pinched ones of defeated men driven into hiding in deep jungle. After a suitable period, and when the affairs of the deceased were settled—all the debts apportioned—the hair was cut with a certain amount of ceremony.
Silvano’s hair was uncut, and Munday was sorry his self-consciousness had prevented him from welcoming the African on the platform. A mourner deserved better than to arrive at a country railway station and to find his own way to the exit. Munday had driven to the station and parked, and he stayed in the car until the other arriving passengers had been met and driven away—visiting friends with expensive luggage; weekending couples; the tall son rather formally introducing the smartly-dressed girl to his parents, pipe-clutching father, beaming mother; the yawning wife meeting her husband in her station wagon, two children in the back seat, kisses all around and the wife sliding over and letting the husband take the wheel. Then Silvano. And Munday was ashamed of himself when he saw the African, smaller than he remembered, and not black but gray—the gloss was gone from his face. He emerged awkwardly from the station exit after the other people, with a large suitcase and the long hair, looking worried and overwhelmed in the English setting.
Seeing Munday get out of the car, Silvano brightened and called out a Bwamba greeting, “M’okolel” Munday replied softly, “Bulunji,” and was glad there was no one around to hear him. He took the suitcase —it was surprisingly light—and offered his condolences.
“No one is dead,” said Silvano. “Everyone very fit —I got a letter just the other day.”
“But your hair—”
“Oh, that,” said Silvano, and he pushed at it with his hand. “Only the new style. London style, so to Cn,, »
“Of course,” said Munday. “Very fashionable.” He noticed that Silvano was wearing a new pin-striped blue suit, a maroon velvet tie and pink shirt, pointed shoes; Munday had never seen him in anything but gray drill shorts and molded plastic sandals.
In the car, passing through Mosterton, Silvano said, “So—grass on the roofs!” and Munday explained the thatch. Silvano said, further on, “Very narrow road,” and Munday replied, “It’s perfectly adequate. By the way, have you had your lunch?”
“Yes, on the train,” Silvano said. “Chicken-something.”
Munday saw him looking out the car window. They were driving along a stretch of road that ran for about half a mile between some hills and then opened on a prospect of the southeast, an uncluttered sweep of landscape, plowed fields and pastures. It was early afternoon and still sunny; the clouds were beginning to gather, rising against the sun, giving height to the sky and dramatizing the mottled fields. The visibility was good, and for miles Munday could see hills like overturned bowls, and forested hollows and severe hedges dividing the farmland. Past a man plowing, surrounded by flights of wheeling seagulls, layered shadings of green and tweedy winter brown marked the distances.