The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,78
children, played hide-and-seek, gathered primroses, splashed in the stream. But this had ended for her at the age of ten, when she had started working on the tips. Since then she had come only rarely. Girls did not go alone into the Dene, and it was not customary for women of any age to go on excursions of this sort together. Now it seemed to her altogether a different place, hushed and strange.
For Michael too these slopes felt unfamiliar and new. For the first time he felt truly alone with Elsie, in spite of the presence—felt by both—of others here, occasional muted voices and rustlings of movement among the trees.
They took the path that led downward, toward the beck. From somewhere on the other side of the narrow valley they heard the voices of children. Elsie was having some difficulty in walking now, on this steepest part of the slope. She had hesitated over the choice of shoes and finally, not thinking they would be going into the Dene, chosen the only pair she possessed with raised heels—Italian heels they were called, she had no idea why. She was walking in front of Michael—the path was too narrow for them to walk side by side—and she feared she might seem ungainly to him. But he, able now for the first time to look as much as he liked at her, was too much taken with the carriage of her shoulders and the sway of her hips to pay much attention to the way she set her feet. This too she sensed might be the case, but the thought did not make her less eager to reach easier footing.
As they drew near the beck the ground leveled out. There was a gleam of sunshine on the wet stones, and they saw a green leaf, fallen before its time, go drifting by, edged with bright specks of foam. They followed the stream as it curved sharply and ran through a broad sweep of fern and tall grasses with plumy, bluish heads. There was a blaze of yellow from the kingcups that grew along the wet border, following the line of the curve.
“My father has always wanted to own this piece of land,” Michael said. He had never shared this knowledge of his father’s wish with anyone before—it was like admitting Elsie into the family. “For a market garden, tha knows, to grow vegetables and fruit. About two acres, it is, two an’ a bit, all on this side of the beck.”
Elsie looked about her. “It feels different,” she said. It was completely still here, out of the breeze that had been in their faces as they walked. “It feels warmer,” she said. “A never marked it in arl the times a used to come here.” She paused, seeking for words. “Mebbe a did mark it. When tha’s little, tha sees things, then they gan out of yor mind, but tha dinna truly forget them.”
“Just an idea of his,” Michael said. “A mean, he never had a chance of gettin’ it.” He pointed up the slope. “Nay shortage of water, the beck never dries.”
She looked up to where he was pointing and saw the glint of water as it came down to feed the stream. There was a drift of bluebells alongside the spring and a rowan tree in flower.
“Everythin’ here comes out early,” he said. “Tha sees butterflies here before tha sees them anywhere else. He said so once. An’ dragonflies, he said. He comes down here on his own, tha knows, just to stand an’ look.”
They looked at each other in silence for some moments. Then he said, “Would tha like to sit down for a bit?”
“Yes,” she said, and her eyes rested steadily on him. “If tha wants.”
“A wanted to bring you to this bit of ground,” he said. “A wanted to tell you … there is nowt I canna tell you. A long time a was watchin’ out for you, every mornin’ a was waitin’ to see you. Seein’ you in the mornin’ was like a light a took down with me, down the pit.”
“A was hopin’ tha’d speak,” she said. “But tha needed a good batterin’ first. Walker done us a good turn. Without him we might still be just lookin’ at each other an’ lettin’ the days gan by.”
They went some way up from the stream to where the ferns grew thickly. Elsie sat very straight for a while. Then she untied the strings of her hat,