Seven Tales and Alexander

  SEVEN TALES AND ALEXANDER

  By H. E. BATES

  TO

  CONSTANCE GARNETT

  Contents

  A Note from the Family

  Foreword by Lesley Pearse

  Alexander

  The Barber

  The Child

  A Comic Actor

  The Peach-Tree: A Fantasy

  A Tinker’s Donkey

  The King Who Lived on Air: A Child’s Tale

  Lanko’s White Mare

  Author’s Note

  A Note on the Author

  A Note from the Family

  My grandfather, although best known and loved by many readers all over the world for creating the Larkin family in his bestselling novel The Darling Buds of May, was also one of the most prolific English short story writers of the twentieth century, often compared to Chekhov. He wrote over 300 short stories and novellas in a career spanning six decades from the 1920s through to the 1970s.

  My grandfather’s short fiction took many different forms, from descriptive country sketches to longer, sometimes tragic, narrative stories, and I am thrilled that Bloomsbury Reader will be reissuing all of his stories and novellas, making them available to new audiences, and giving them – especially those that have been out of print for many years or only ever published in obscure magazines, newspapers and pamphlets – a new lease of life.

  There are hundreds of stories to discover and re-discover, from H. E. Bates’s most famous tales featuring Uncle Silas, or the critically acclaimed novellas such as The Mill and Dulcima, to little, unknown gems such as ‘The Waddler’, which has not been reprinted since it first appeared in the Guardian in 1926, when my grandfather was just twenty, or ‘Castle in the Air’, a wonderful, humorous story that was lost and unknown to our family until 2013.

  If you would like to know more about my grandfather’s work I encourage you to visit the H.E. Bates Companion – a brilliant comprehensive online resource where detailed bibliographic information, as well as articles and reviews, on almost all of H. E. Bates’s publications, can be found.

  I hope you enjoy reading all these evocative and vivid short stories by H. E. Bates, one of the masters of the art.

  Tim Bates, 2015

  We would like to spread our passion for H. E. Bates’s short fiction and build a community of readers with whom we can share information on forthcoming publications, exclusive material such as free downloads of rare stories, and opportunities to win memorabilia and other exciting prizes – you can sign up to the H. E. Bates’s mailing list here. When you sign-up you will immediately receive an exclusive short work by H. E. Bates.

  Foreword

  I have always believed that H.E. Bates was the absolute master of short story writing. He managed to create a little world for you to enter into, and that soft focus world would stay with you long after you’d finished the story.

  When I first started writing I tried my hand at short stories, assuming quite wrongly it would be easier than attempting a book. Bates was my guiding light; there appeared to be a simplicity about his work that I sought to emulate. I did get a few short stories accepted by magazines, but they could never be in his league. I certainly never created anything as lovely as ‘The Watercress Girl’. Did any writer before or since? I think I found it in a magazine and read it curled up in my aunt’s spare room one wet school holiday and then went on to rush to the library to find more of his work. Fair Stood the Wind for France was the first book I borrowed and I was totally hooked on his work, but it was always the short stories I really admired the most.

  Lesley Pearse, 2015

  Alexander

  Early one August morning a curious black cart on low springs, drawn by a little shaggy pony with a tail that swept about its legs like a skirt, jogged steadily off from a narrow street bordering the river, climbed in a leisurely manner through the town, and began travelling slowly and almost sleepily eastward, towards open country.

  In the cart, half-concealed by piles of creaking baskets, sat a small, fair-haired boy of eleven or twelve, with drowsy blue eyes; and by his side a fat, sunburnt man with white hair, attired in breeches and black leggings and a red waistcoat evidently put on with special care and worn with special pride. All the buttons of this garment resembled fishes’ eyes, and a good many cunning pockets were concealed in every part of it, inside and outside, back and front. A silver watch-chain dangled across it, bearing handsome engraved medals won for fishing and shooting. Something about the waistcoat, perhaps the medals themselves, seemed to attract the boy, for he sat very still, his head to one side, gazing at it. Sometimes he looked exactly as if about to drop off to sleep, his head nodding and his eyes shutting with a kind of thankful bliss. At these moments, as if regarding this as the pleasantest, most flattering thing in all the world, the man would turn on him a gaze mild with approbation and beatitude. He crouched as he drove, flapping the reins gently on the pony’s back, and from time to time would raise his head and stare across the plain at the countless cornfields and orchards stretching away to a horizon darkened by misty woods lying upon it like sleeping giants.

  For a mile or more the cart drove on in this fashion, the boy still half-asleep, the man meditative, the pony never changing its pace. The sun appeared, at first like a fluffy yellow ball, then like a disc of polished brass. Trees, cornfields, farms, pastures, horses and workmen among the mown corn all appeared instantly bathed in a soft transfiguring light. Objects a great distance off, little towers, smoking chimneys, village spires, became lightly pencilled into the scene. The sun ran swiftly over the plain, pursuing lines of black shadow. A covey of partridges scurried, screamed, then spread out like a black fan and vanished, the barley ears waving briefly and lightly where they came to earth. Slowly the woods resolved themselves; the trees stood in sharp, unbroken line; then the dew became visible in manifold, glittering drops, giving the parched grasses a look of fresh life, hanging upon the trees like ladies’ earrings and covering each of the black and crimson berries on the hedgeside like a shell of glass. Soon everywhere was under a warm stillness; all the mist dispersed stealthily and silently, without wind, and the trees seemed to stoop with an invisible burden of heavy airs and the overbearing loveliness of the ripening year.

  As the cart went on, a black shadow began to glide steadily by the horse’s side, and a strong fresh scent, with something autumnal about it, began to blow softly into the nostrils of the boy, who could feel the sun growing warmer and warmer on his closed lids and on his cheeks and hands.

  Presently the man took out his watch and remarked in a soft bass voice: ‘Nearly nine.’ The boy raised his head, and yawned, but did not answer.

  Little by little the nature of the country began to change. Gentle hills and a long shallow valley with a white stream appeared. Soon a vast and magnificent view unfolded like a picture.

  Being long-sighted, the man would rest his eyes upon remote objects like windmills, water-towers, specks that were cattle or harvesters. All at once his eyes sparkled with eagerness and he began to nudge and pummel the boy into a state of wake-fulness and attention. At last he tightened the reins and called excitedly, half-standing up among the baskets:

  ‘Alexander! Alexander! Boy, look, look! What is it? Can you see? Open your peepers, Alexander, and just look. Look, look. What do you make of it?’

  And the boy, excited also, sat upright.

  ‘Herons!’ the man whispered.

  As the boy gazed up the word was several times repeated, more and more excitedly. Two large, beautiful birds appeared overhead, flapping their way with splendour towards the east, silently and impressively, with the sun shining golden upon them at sudden intervals. The cart had come for the firs
t time to a standstill. The little horse stood quietly panting. Nothing else could be heard; only the strange, golden stillness seemed to ring like the dim echo of a bell over everything as they watched the birds, two diminishing shapes becoming swallowed in the depth of blue sky.

  After a long interval, during which the boy emerged for the first time into unconfused wakefulness, the man flapped the reins and remarked:

  ‘I used to know a man who stuffed birds, specially herons. If I’d had a gun just now I might have knocked that pair down for him. He was a masterpiece. For all you knew they might as lief have been alive as dead.’

  The cart moved forward again. The boy, on whom the herons had made a great impression, suddenly remarked:

  ‘You shouldn’t shoot birds, not even sparrows.’

  ‘Sparrows are pests,’ said the man. ‘That’s law, Alexander. You can’t get away from the law.’

  ‘God might strike you, all the same,’ said the boy.

  ‘God what?’ uttered the man, as if astonished or not catching the words. ‘God what did you say?’

  ‘It’s been known! Ursula told me about a man who had stolen a calf from a widow woman and while he was eating it afterwards, God struck him.’

  ‘How? Struck him?’

  ‘I don’t know how. Ursula says——.’

  ‘Never mind what Ursula says! The woman’s all nonsense and popery. Never you mind what she says, the old fool. There’s no truth in it.’

  The boy did not speak. To all this conversation he had listened gravely, taking everything to heart. Each time he looked at the man, his uncle, he was overcome with reverence and admiration. Nevertheless, there was a warm note of affection between them. Often something serious and mature lurked in Alexander’s eyes; and frequently from the other’s some child-like and naive light shone down upon him.

  The cart proceeded at the same unvarying pace as before. Now the boy sat upright. The hot morning sun began to burn him. Gradually the sky assumed a richer shade of blue and the grasses began to give off a little vapour. The boy began to take a great interest in what was going on, his mind dwelling on the day ahead—where they were going, what would take place, how much longer they must drive. He tried often to picture the great house to which he understood they were driving, the long avenues of plums and pears, the over-reaching apple trees, the walls bearing peaches, apricots and even quinces in great abundance, and the old, wizened, solitary creature who lived in this house surrounded by many brown-and-black dogs and a white cat which she never allowed out of sight. He pondered for a long time, but without enlightenment, on this strange creature who sold fruit to his uncle—‘Because, Mr Bishop, you knew me when I was a girl and I can trust you not to break the trees and put the wrong measure in the basket for yourself,’ and sometimes he pictured the garden with great success, almost smelling the warm ripeness given off by fruits and leaves.

  ‘What time shall we be there?’ he looked up and asked.

  The man was lighting his pipe and to Alexander it seemed a long time before he answered:

  ‘A little after ten if we don’t stop anywhere. Are you hungry? Ursula put some cheese-cakes in the basket in case you were hungry.’

  He was not hungry. In spite of this and though he considered Ursula’s cheese-cakes very moderate indeed, he ate two and while eating, loosened the collar of his shirt. The sun was hot on his face and neck. A little afterwards the road turned abruptly to the left, and from the hot stillness of the open country they passed suddenly into a cool wood of beeches, oaks and firs, to the accompaniment of stirring leaves and branches, a fitful talking of birds, a gentle whispering of a thousand unknown mysterious voices.

  ‘The house sits that way, on the far side of the wood,’ said the man, pointing the whip.

  Alexander looked into the wood, from which now and then broke strange scuffling noises. He saw nothing but a vast extent of trees with a glimpse of some fungi as large as pancakes and bright orange in colour. All the leaves, twigs, grasses were dripping with dew, setting up everywhere a kind of watery music, as if from a hidden spring. Drops fell from the overhanging branches and plopped on the cart and the baskets and even on his hands.

  Something red appeared along the road. Before long it grew large and life-like and resolved into a woman in a red woollen jacket and a black skirt, carrying a basket. His uncle suddenly began whistling and gave the horse a playful flick as if he were very happy.

  From that moment, until they drew level with the woman, the man stared hard at the red skirt, and when they came closer brought the little horse to a walk and tried to catch a glimpse of the woman’s face, which was turned away from them. Suddenly she started violently at the sound of wheels, and turning sharply, almost dropped her basket.

  His uncle ceased whistling. ‘I thought so! Annie Fell, my girl!’ he shouted at once. ‘It is you! Yes, it’s you right enough. Thinks I, coming all along the road, that’s Annie Fell’s walk, it’s like her father’s. God bless me! You look well. Mushrooms! So you got up before you went anywhere this morning. Well, God bless me, God bless me.’

  While speaking he slapped one knee in astonishment. Alexander took in the woman’s fresh, plump features, her sturdy body and the immense yellow bunch of hair, too heavy to be held up, falling like fine wool about her neck and shoulders.

  ‘Oh! it’s Eli. It’s so long since we saw you .…’

  ‘Yes! Seven or eight years. At Pollyanna’s wedding. Ah, how’s Pollyanna?’

  ‘Ah, she’s poorly. Her legs keep swelling. She ain’t good for much.’

  ‘That’s no good. A woman needs good legs …’ There was a pause, as if this statement had added to the sum of human knowledge or had a mysterious, subtle meaning. Alexander felt awkward and took his eyes away from the woman and was relieved when his uncle broke the silence again.

  ‘How’s your father, my girl?’

  She looked up and said in a weary, disillusioned voice: ‘He ain’t worth a hatful of crabs, either. He’s had an operation and every drop and tittle he has Cilla and I have to put down him with a spoon. We have a life with him.’

  ‘So they cut him, did they?’

  ‘There’s cuts on him as long as a kidney bean, and a bit longer, I’ll swear .…’she said.

  ‘That’s no good to a man. It’s all knifing and butchery with doctors. What do they care? What’s the like of me and you to one of them? They want to see what’s inside you, and so out comes the knife and you’re half-way to Kingdom Come without a chance to say ‘Our Father’. Ah! … Are you going home? Give me your basket then, and get up and we’ll put you down at the house. No, I don’t hold with this butchery.’

  He shook his head gravely and vehemently. The woman climbed into the cart and sat between the boy and his uncle. Alexander remained silent and reserved. When they drove off he concentrated his attention on the wood, looking out for jays, squirrels and mushrooms. But often he glanced at the woman furtively, attracted by something warm about her, and the thought of the unfortunate man with cuts as long as beans on his body would trouble him strangely, until he felt that he would be glad when they were alone once more, only his uncle and himself and the little horse bearing them steadily forward into the unfamiliar, golden country.

  He observed with relief, a little later, a break in the woodland and a small stone house with a snug, picturesque appearance, tucked away in the clear space. A number of hens and geese, with a white goat, were bobbing hither and thither like scraps of paper on the surrounding grass, and a warm smell of animals and burning wood reached him. Uncle Bishop brought the cart to a standstill and the woman alighted.

  Alexander felt as if he had been pressed in a little box. His body seemed shrunken and he would have been thankful to have driven off without delay. But, looking up, the woman said:

  ‘You must come in and say half a word to him——’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Eli, gazing at the distance. ‘We’ve a long way to go.’

  ‘
Don’t say you won’t have a glass,’ she went on, as if pleading. ‘You haven’t so far but what it might be a little farther.’

  And to Alexander’s disappointment and annoyance his uncle began to alight also. The boy sat still, holding the reins, glaring. His heart sank lower. And in a not very convincing tone he suddenly said:

  ‘I’ll sit here.’

  ‘Oh! but the horse can look after itself,’ said the woman.

  They both looked at him. ‘Make haste,’ said his uncle. ‘It’s Fanny’s boy, you know Fanny,’ he explained to the woman.

  ‘Fanny’s boy! So that’s Fanny’s boy? Well, well, I knew your mother, years ago. You tell her you saw Annie Fell.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right, there’s something for you to remember.’

  So he followed them across the grass, through a wicket-gate and into a garden flanked by trees. A grey sheep-dog lay like a rug across the doorstep, dozing. The door stood open. Uncle Bishop and the woman entered, but Alexander lingered behind, trying to look as if the sheep-dog interested him, though secretly he was afraid of dogs.

  ‘Cilla! Cilla!’ the woman began to call upstairs. ‘Cilla, here’s a visitor. Ah! you couldn’t guess in a month of Sundays.’

  ‘Let’s go up,’ she said.

  She removed her hat, and Uncle Bishop began to follow her heavily up some narrow stairs. At their departure the sheep-dog opened his eyes, got lazily to his feet and pattered after them. Alexander began to wonder if he too ought to go, but presently feet resounded overhead and a murmur of voices floated down, and he felt that he had been forgotten.

  A little time passed. The sun was hot on his face, and the wooden lintel burned against his hand. Nothing stirred. In the dense sheltered growth of the garden there was not a breath, not a petal or leaf in motion. Bees would appear and spend a little time among some yellow dahlias and surge away.