to believe it. He had found the line that separated humans from the animal kingdom to be a porous one, and all the things that people thought unique to them – intelligence, kindness, communication – he had seen in his pigs, his horse, even the rooks that hopped and strutted amongst his cows. And then there was this: the methods he used on animals generally bore fruit when applied to people too. He could usually win them round in the end.
The sudden disappearance of the people he had glimpsed only a moment or two ago made things difficult though. He did not know Bampton. Armstrong walked along for a few yards and, coming to a crossroads, saw a boy sprawled in the grassy centre by the signpost, nose almost to the ground. He was so engrossed in studying the lie of a number of marbles that he seemed not to notice the cold – nor Armstrong’s approach.
Two expressions passed across the boy’s face. The first – alarm – was fleeting. It disappeared when he saw the marble that appeared as if by magic from Armstong’s pocket. (Armstrong had his clothes made with large and reinforced pockets to store the items he kept habitually upon him for the taming and reassuring of creatures. As a rule he kept acorns for pigs, apples for horses, marbles for small boys and a flask of alcohol for older ones. For females of the human species he depended on good manners, the right words and immaculately polished shoes and buttons.) The marble that he showed to the boy was no ordinary one but contained flares of orange and yellow so like the flames of a fire that you would think you could warm yourself by it. The boy now looked interested.
The game that ensued was carried out with professional concentration by both parties. The boy had the advantage of knowing the terrain – which tufts of grass will bend as a marble passes and which have congested roots and will divert its path – and the game ended, as Armstrong had always intended, with the marble in the pocket of the boy.
‘Fair and square,’ he admitted. ‘Victory to the better man.’
The boy looked discomfited. ‘Was it your best marble?’
‘I have others at home. Now, I ought really to introduce myself. My name is Mr Armstrong and I have a farm at Kelmscott. I wonder whether you can help me with some information? I want to know the way to a house where a little girl called Alice lives.’
‘That is Mrs Eavis’s house, her mother lodges there.’
‘And her mother’s name is …?’
‘Mrs Armstrong, Sir – oh! – that is just like your name, Sir!’
Armstrong was rather relieved. If the woman was Mrs Armstrong, then Robin had married her. Things were perhaps not quite so bad as he had feared.
‘And where is Mrs Eavis’s house? Can you direct me there?’
‘I will show you, that will be best, for I know the shortcuts, it being me who delivers the meat.’
They set off on foot, Armstrong leading Fleet.
‘I have told you my name, and I will tell you that this horse is called Fleet. Now you know who we are, who are you?’
‘I am Ben and I am the son of the butcher.’
Armstrong noticed that Ben had a habit of taking a deep breath at the start of every answer and delivering his words in a single stream.
‘Ben. I suppose you are the youngest son, for that is what Benjamin means.’
‘It means the littlest and the last, and it was my father who named me, but my mother says it takes more than naming a thing to make it so, and there are three more after me and another one on the way, and that is on top of the five that came before, though all my father needs is one to help in the shop and that is my eldest brother, and all the rest of us is surplus to requirements since we do nothing but eat the profits.’
‘And what does your mother say about that?’
‘Mostly nothing, but when she do say something it is generally along the lines that eating the profits is better than drinking them, and then he gives her a bash and she don’t say nothing at all for a few days.’
While the boy was speaking, Armstrong eyed him sideways. There were ghosts of bruises on the lad’s forehead and wrists.
‘It is not a good house, Sir, Mrs Eavis’s house,’ the boy told him.