Was she wrong, too impatient, in thinking that the word should have been spoken by now? After all, as her mother had said, the Fullers had invited her to Sunday dinner, which was the recognised way for parents to show their approval. None of Danny’s other girls had ever been so recognised by his parents. She was sure of that, but she had asked him just for the pleasure of hearing him say so, and he had given the right, the pleasing, the reassuring answer, but in a curious way, as though the whole subject embarrassed him. She had wondered at the time whether it was tactless of her to mention all those girls … but afterwards she had wondered whether Danny felt that his parents had been a little hasty.
She had not been able to go to dinner and thus be, as it were, established, because she was never free until afternoon on her Sunday out, but she had, on the nearest Saturday, gone’ to tell Mrs Fuller and explain, and she had been given plum cake and cowslip wine—completely harmless despite its name, Mrs Fuller had assured her; and she had been shown the quilt on which Mrs Fuller was working this winter and asked if she liked the pattern. Even Mr Fuller, though less warmly welcoming than Mrs Fuller at first, had ended by being friendly and showing her his cattle and pigs. She had really felt accepted and
respectable that afternoon; and she had expected that on the way back to Muchanger Danny would say something about getting married. After all, they’d seen one another twice a month ever since October and his family had asked her to Sunday dinner.
Her mother’s voice broke in on her thoughts.
‘You are fond of him, aren’t you?’
‘Oh yes. I’m fond of him.’ What a weak, poor word to use. She wondered what her mother would say if she used
the right ones.
‘And it’s plain he’s head over heels in love with you. When you think what a young rip he was and look at him now … you’d hardly believe it.’
Yes, there was that, too. She knew that she had power over him. If she said, ‘Go and jump in the river,’ he’d
probably do it___
Nevertheless there was something—well, not wrong exactly; something queer about it all.
There was another trouble too; the violence of her own feeling for him. It frightened her. She believed that she would remember until the day she died the first time he kissed her, which was when he came to take her back after her November visit home; her bones had melted and she’d turned dizzy and there was nothing left on earth or in the heavens above or in the waters under the earth save the pressure of his hands on her waist and the pressure of his lips on hers and the savage hunger that they awakened. She’d pulled herself free and run into the house and up to her little attic bedroom and cried and prayed God to forgive her for feeling like that about Danny Fuller, who was, after all, only a human being. It was awful to think that she had been tempted to behave
like Sally Ashpole and all the rest of them–-
‘You’ll see, it’ll work out right,’ her mother said. ‘I reckon Danny isn’t used to keeping company with a respectable girl, it probably makes him shy like. And, anyway, we got this stuff cheap; there’ll be no harm in laying forward a bit whatever happens.’
On the other side of the village Mrs Fuller, chopper in hand, stood regarding what was left of half a pig after the hind leg and shoulder had been taken off to be smoked. When her mental calculations were complete she raised the chopper and dealt two expert blows, took a knife and did a bit of trimming and neatly scored what would be the crackling. The very best middle cut; what better form could her goodwill take?
Her voice was carefully casual when she asked, ‘Will you be seeing Damask tonight?’
‘Yes,’ Danny said; something wild and shy taking fright within him.
‘It was only that I had a mite of pork I’d no use for, and I thought you might take it along with you. They don’t rear a pig, do they? No, that’d be too sensible for Amos. They’ll be glad of it then. Don’t go off without it.’
That was all she said and it was well-meaning and innocent enough, but it sent Danny off scowling to wash and change his clothes.
What a situation for him, of all people, to get himself intol Like being stricken with the falling sickness; like running mad in the full of the moon; like stepping into Filby Bog and sinking in up to the neck. Up to the neck —but he’d still kept his head out, just his head; and now even his mother was trying to shove him under.
He had never, in all his life, been in such a muddle. He could look back over seven years of being set on girls and see that all his affairs had followed the same pattern, or rather the same pattern with one variation. He’d be set off for one reason or another, he’d chase the girl; they’d have fun—for most girls, in the end, let him have his way with them, though one or two had been cautious—that was the variation; they did, or they didn’t—but whichever way it went the end had always been the same; with lightning suddenness his interest had waned and the whole thing was over.
This affair hadn’t followed the pattern; it had lasted six months and he was still mad for the girl; she was hard to please, but he’d tried to please her, and every time he
kissed her she turned into a block of stone. And the outside world, which hitherto had merely watched his affairs with amusement, was now all agog, trying to be helpful. Great lumps of pork. Invitations to Sunday dinner! Trying to push his head under, trying to marry him off to the one girl he’d ever known who didn’t care one bit about him. And there he was, unable to help himself; dead set
on a girl who didn’t care one bit about him–-One day
he’d give up the fight; he’d ask her to marry him and she would, and he’d end up the most hen-pecked man since Reuben Farrow, who, after a lifetime of saying ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ as his Martha bade him, went to rest in Clevely churchyard under a tombstone which bore the words:
‘Here lies the body of Reuben Farrow.
God made him man I made him mannerly.’
Everybody who thought at all about that epitaph thought of Reuben as small and cold-blooded, of Martha as large and vital. Danny Fuller knew differently. Reuben had been big and lusty and hot—Martha small and cold. It was always the ice that made the fire look silly.
It shouldn’t in this easel Damn it all to hell, he’d done everything he could to please her, and she hadn’t been pleased. The one thing he had not done was to ask her to marry him; and he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. Not until she had given him some sign.
And he wished to God he’d never met her; and he wished to God that he could be cured of this ‘set off’ as he
had of all the others.
And he shaved himself carefully, carefully; and cleaned his nails and brushed his hair and donned his best clothes, self-immolate, votary of the unknown goddess.
He remembered the pork; which assured Mrs Fuller, and, ten minutes later, Mrs Greenway, that all was well. He drove Damask to Muchanger; he kissed her; she turned into stone. She let him call for her; she chatted away, as friendly as could be; and then as soon as he touched her she turned into stone–-
That night, rattling home over the Stone Bridge, he saw Sally Ashpole standing back in one of the recesses to let the cart pass. There’d been a time when he had been set on Sally Ashpole, black-haired, easygoing, good-natured trollop that she was, and she was not one of the girls who turned nasty when he ceased paying her attentions; they were still on terms of friendly banter. Sally had been anything but cold and hard and demanding, he remembered. With a feeling that he was making a gesture of defiance—though against whom or what he could not have said—he stopped the cart and called, ‘Hi, Sally___’
That was towards the end of March, and once March was over the year moved rapidly into spring. Mrs Greenway persuaded herself that the warmer weather eased her stiff bones and stitched away diligently, entertaining herself with secret thoughts about three of everything, about a golden-brown lindsey dress, about Damask attaining the security and comfort that she herself had missed. Mrs Fuller, with her pullets beginning to lay, her broody hens beginning to sit, and all the bother of the calf-rearing season approaching, stitched away with equal diligence at the quilt and entertained herself with thoughts of grandchildren.