Long Lankin: Stories

The Visit

— It’s going to rain, the old woman said. Pull up your hood.

She took the girl’s hand. Before them, at the top of the crooked field, the roof of the house shone in the light and three trees stood against the sky. It was the first day of spring and the wind from the mountains blew cold and clear, and shadows raced across the fields. They came to the lane behind the house and the old woman stopped to rest. The girl looked out at the distant sea, and the wind lifted her long yellow hair. A damp gust rattled the trees, and drops of rain flashed in the sunlight. Close by there was the sound of water falling over stones, and a thrush suddenly whistled.

— Tantey, said the girl. Why are there seasons?

The old woman looked at her startled.

— What sort of question is that?

In the kitchen the stove roared and the wind in the chimney blew the smoke back into the room. The old woman grumbled to herself as she struggled out of her cape. She gave it to the girl to hang behind the door and hobbled across and sat in the chair. The girl went to the window and looked out over the fields. The sound of the wind made her feel restless and vaguely excited, and she wanted to go out again and run madly through the grass. Behind her the old woman said:

— What are you at there?

— Nothing. Just looking out.

She went and sat on the arm of the chair beside her aunt.

— When will papa be here, Tantey?

The old woman did not answer. She fumbled in the pocket of her black dress.

— Where are my sweets? she muttered. Now I put them here, I’m sure of it.

The girl went to the dresser and brought back the grimy bag of peppermints.

— Ah you’re a good girl, the old woman said.

She sucked her sweet, nodding and staring blankly at her hands. After a while she looked up at the girl and smiled and gently pulled her hair.

— Your papa is a fine man, she said.

— But when is he coming?

— Maybe after tea, she snapped. Have patience.

The girl stood up and walked to the window, twisting her fingers. With her mouth set in a sulky line she muttered:

— I’m fed up waiting. I don’t think he’s coming at all. I think he’s forgot all about me.

The old woman smacked her hands together.

— Stop that talk. Forgot you indeed, and how could your own father forget you? You should be ashamed, carrying on like a baby.

The girl ran back and sat on the floor beside the chair. She licked her finger and rubbed the dried blood from a scratch on her knee. She said:

— Tell me about him again, Tantey.

— Well. He’s very tall and straight and — O he carries himself like that.

She pushed back her shoulders and held up her head at a proud and arrogant tilt. Then suddenly she gave a cackle of laughter and began to rock back and forth in her chair. She leaned down and ruffled the girl’s hair.

— O he’s like a prince out of a story book, she cried, and her eyes closed up completely she laughed so hard. Like a prince he is.

— Is he, Tantey? said the girl, smiling uncertainly and watching the old woman’s face. And will he like me when he comes? What will he say to me? Will he take me away?

The old woman threw up her hands.

— So many questions. You’ll just have to wait and see. Now go and comb your hair and tidy yourself up a bit in case he comes and finds you looking like a little tinker.

Sighing, the girl stood up and went into the dim passage that led to the front of the house. The dining-room was full of moist yellow sunlight that fell on the table and against the walls. She knelt on the couch and put her elbows on the window sill. The wind beat on the glass with a dull sound. Outside, the sun threw up a dazzling reflection from the road. For a long time she stayed there, while shadows came across the fields and leaped against the window. Her eyelids began to droop, but suddenly she lifted her head and pressed her face to the glass. Someone was cycling down the road, a vague dark shape moved on the glistening tar. She went out to the hall, and into the garden, where the wind beat fiercely on her face and shook out her long curls. She stopped outside the gate and shaded her eyes with her hand. The traveller, back-pedalling, came across the road in a graceful arc and stopped.

— Well well, he said. What have we here then?

He looked at her, his head to one side, and with his lips pursed he stepped down from the bicycle and brushed at the wrinkles in his trousers. He was a very tiny man, smaller even than the girl, with a great square head and thick hands. His hair was oiled and carefully parted, and his eyebrows were as black and shiny as his hair. There were four buttons in his jacket, all fastened. At his neck he wore a gay red silk scarf. He said:

— My name is Rainbird.

With her mouth open she stared at him. He watched her and waited for a reply, and when none came he shrugged his shoulders and began to turn away. She said quickly:

— Is that your last name?

He looked around at her, and with his eyebrows arched he said:

— That is my only name.

— O.

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket with his thumbs outside and took a few swaggering turns before the gate.

— Do you live in there? he asked casually, nodding towards the house.

— Yes, she said. That’s my house.

He looked up at the ivy-covered walls, at the windows where the lowering sun shone on the glass.

— I lived in a house like that before I went on the road, he said. Much bigger than that it was, of course. That was a long time ago.

— Was it around here?

— Eh?

— Was it around here you lived?

He gave her a pitying look.

— Naw. It was in another country altogether.

The suggestion that he came from these parts seemed to offend him deeply. There was a silence, and then he whirled about and said:

— I can tell fortunes.

— Can you?

With his eyes closed he nodded proudly.

— Yes. Do you want me to tell yours?

She pushed out her hand. He took her fingers with a sly grin, and the tip of his little red tongue came out and explored the corner of his mouth. Then he wiped away the grin, and with great seriousness he bent over her hand. After a moment he stepped back, and with vaguely troubled eyes he considered the sky.

— Well? she asked.

He folded his arms and ruminated deeply, a finger supporting his chin.

— Well it’s a difficult hand, he said. I’ll tell you that for nothing. You’re waiting for someone.

She laughed.

— Yes that’s right, you’re right. My papa is coming to visit me today. How did you know that?

He seemed a little startled, but he quickly covered it up and said:

— You haven’t seen him for a long time.

— I never saw him. He went away after I was born because my mother died.

— Yes, he said sagely. Yes.

He clasped his hands behind his back and walked around her in a circle, rolling from side to side on his short bandy legs. At last he stopped and shook his head.

— No, he sighed. I see nothing else. If I had my cards …

He looked at the ground, and pulled at his lip with a thumb and forefinger. She waited, and then said in disappointment:

— Is that all?

— That’s all. Well I told you, it’s a difficult hand. What do you expect?

— Can you do any magic?

— I surely can, he said. Why, that’s my job.

— Well do a trick for me then.

— I don’t do tricks, he said archly. I perform feats of magic.

— All right then, go on, perform a feat of magic. Go on.

— Take it easy, he said. Take it easy. Just hold on a minute now.

Once again he struck a pose with arms folded and finger under his chin.

— Look, he said, and turned up his hands for her to examine. Nothing there, right? Now wait.

She watched him eagerly. He made fists of his large hands and held them out before him, tightly clenched. He was quite still, concentrating, and suddenly he opened his hands again. In the hollow of each palm there lay a small white object. She stepped forward for a closer look, and cried:

— Eyes! They’re eyes!

She reached out to touch them, but he quickly closed his fingers over them.

— O let me see them again, she begged. Please. Let me touch them.

He shook his head.

— Forbidden.

— O please.

He grinned delightedly and shoved his fists into his pockets. Out came the tip of his tongue once again.

— No, he said softly.

— All right then, keep them, see if I care. I bet you had them up your sleeves. Anyway they’re not real.

She turned away from him and gave the rear wheel of his bicycle a kick. He pulled the machine away from her and glared at her in outrage.

— Watch what you’re doing, he threatened.

He gave her another black look, and with an expert little hop he was in the saddle and away down the hill. She watched him go, biting her lip, and then she galloped after him, crying:

— Wait! Wait!

He stopped, and with one foot to the ground he looked back at her. She came up to him, panting, and said:

— Listen, I’m sorry for kicking your bike.

He said nothing, and she lowered her eyes and fingered the rubber grip on the handlebar.

— Would you … she began hesitantly. Would you give me a carry down the road a bit?

He considered this for a moment, and the sly grin crept over his face.

— All right, he said, and giggled.

She pulled herself up and sat on the crossbar, and they bowled away down the road. She glanced over her shoulder at him nervously, and he winked.

They moved swiftly now, the hedges flew past on either side and the tyres threw up water that drenched her legs. She looked into the sky, at the swirling clouds, and the wild wind rushed in her hair.

— Allez up! he cried out gaily, and the little girl shrieked with laughter, and plucked the red scarf from around his neck and waved it in the wind. Down they went, and down, faster and faster, until at the bottom of the hill the front wheel began to wobble and when he tried to hold it still the machine twisted and ran wildly across the road to tumble them both in the ditch.

She lay smiling with her face buried in the thick wet grass. A hand pulled at her arm, but she shook it off and pressed herself against the ground. All was quiet now, and somewhere above her a bird was singing.

— Eh, listen, little girl. Are you hurt? Hey.

She turned on her back and looked up at him, her fingers on her lips. She smiled and shook her head.

— I’m all right.

He brushed the grass and flecks of mud from his jacket, and all the while he was looking worriedly about. He began to wipe his shoes with his handkerchief. The girl sat up and took the cloth from him and rubbed at the damp leather. He put his hands on his hips and watched her.

— Now, she said, and gave him back his handkerchief.

He took her hand and helped her to her feet. Hurriedly he retrieved his bicycle from the ditch and wiped the saddle with his sleeve. He paused with his foot on the pedal and turned to look at her. She stood with her hands joined before her, and there were leaves and bits of grass in her hair, and a long streak of mud on her cheek. He put a hand into his pocket.

— Here.

She took the little glass ball from him and looked at it. On one side two dark circles were painted, the pupils of an eye.

— Thank you.

He grinned, showing his yellow teeth, and said:

— They weren’t real.

— What harm.

Now he cast another look around, and whispered urgently:

— Listen, you won’t say you saw me, will you? I mean you won’t say I took you on the bike. I might get into trouble.

She shook her head, and he gave her a wink.

She watched him go away down the road. He did not look back, and soon he was gone around a bend. She turned and walked slowly up the hill. The sun had fallen behind the mountains, and the clouds, like bruised blood, were massing.

Tantey stood in the doorway, and when she saw the little girl come wandering along she cried:

— There you are. Come here to me. Where have you been? And look at the state of you! I should box your ears.

She caught the girl by the shoulder and gave her a shake.

— I went for a walk, the girl muttered sullenly.

— Went for a walk indeed.

She led her down the hall, and to the kitchen. While the girl scrubbed her hands at the sink the old woman fussed about her, straightening her dress and pulling the pieces of leaf from her hair.

— Were you rolling around in the fields or what? An infant wouldn’t be the trouble. A nice sight you’ll be to greet your papa.

The girl turned from the sink and stared with wide eyes at the old woman.

— Has he come? she asked, and her lip trembled.

— Yes child, he’s come. Now tidy yourself up and we’ll go in to him.

The girl slowly dried her hands, staring before her thoughtfully. At last she said:

— I don’t want to see him.

— What are you saying? Hurry up now.

— I won’t go near him.

— Have you lost the bit of sense you had? He’s come all the way from London just to see you.

— I don’t care.

The old woman stepped forward with her lips shut tight and caught the girl’s hair in her hand.

— If you won’t come by yourself I’ll drag you. Come on and stop this nonsense, you little rip.

She pulled the girl struggling out into the passage and along the hall.

— No Tantey, I don’t want to see him! No Tantey, you’re hurting me!

The old woman pushed open the door of the dining-room. Inside, the tall grey-haired man was sitting at the table, twisting the brim of his hat in his long fingers.

— No Tantey, no, you’re hurting my hair!

The girl clutched at the door frame, tears on her face, while the old woman tugged furiously at her hair. The grey-haired man rose uncertainly and peered out at them with raised eyebrows. When she saw him the girl sent up a fearful wail, and lifting her arm she flung something, something white flashed past him and there was the tinkle of glass breaking. He spoke, but his words were drowned by the cries of the girl:

— No Tantey no, leave me alone, I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to, you’re hurting me, Tantey, let go you’re hurting me …