The Farmhand’s face is in shadow, but I sense his meek expression. ‘Suppose you’d have nothing against that.’
‘Can’t say I would.’
‘Just don’t get accidentally caught up between them.’
‘Even if I did, neither of them’d notice me.’
The Farmhand gives my words some thought and says, ‘Maybe so. Long time ago I met a blind man. He said he still went on seeing what he’d last taken in with his sighted eyes. Pity the last thing he saw was a powder keg exploding.’
‘You’re saying they’ve each got a powder keg?’
‘They’re bound to have other things, too. But a keg for sure.’
I would love to tell him. I really would. I could almost certainly trust him; he has his notion of honour. But then there is the Old Mistress. The Farmhand might be obliged to tell her and then the brothers would find out, too, and my big moment would be spoilt. I would have let it all slip through my fingers, everything I have been gathering in my fist, artfully and for so long.
So I will not tell him yet.
‘I’ve been wanting to ask something,’ the Farmhand says.
‘Ask away.’
‘I was thinking of asking if anything particular happened in the war.’
A cold iron stabs my insides. ‘Particular? All sorts of particular things were bound to happen. People got killed.’
‘Yes, of course but I meant something else…’ His hands, dimly visible in the dark, seize the pipe lying on the table and begin filling it from a leather pouch. ‘See, I’ve got this feeling there’s something you’ve not said.’
I feel it, here and now: cries of pain, smell of smoke, blood spurting in the air and bits of guts. I squeeze my thighs under the table and try to keep my voice calm. ‘Like what?’
‘You tell me. I get this sometimes – I start sensing things and then they won’t leave me be. And by now I’ve learnt that my gut feeling’s generally right. God knows why.’
‘Aha. Well, I don’t know what it could be.’
He is busy now lighting his long-stemmed pipe. ‘Perhaps something happened that wasn’t really about the war. Something just as bad or worse.’
Tall, thin pines. Heather. A hilltop. Distant shouts of command and the thunder of cannon. I am crawling among the heather, dragging the musket alongside me. Then I suddenly notice on the ridge the movement of a dark-green frock coat, almost imperceptible. ‘It was all bad. And you don’t want to think back on it.’
‘I imagine not. Don’t mind me, I’m just babbling away. When a man gets old, he starts spouting nonsense.’
I do not reply. I am trying to return from crawling, from that slope. I am trying to come back and stay back. I hear snow crunching outside. Someone is walking towards the cattle sheds. The wind is howling in the field. Light, powdery snow sticks to the window. If a real snowstorm blows up, the labourers are bound to return from the woods. A puff of smoke billows from the fireplace into the room. The Farmhand twists round to the fire, discontented.
‘You’ve had a lot of business in town with Erik,’ he says.
‘Erik has. I’ve been the driver.’
He lets smoke dribble down his lips. ‘People get suspicious. Anna especially.’
I do not understand at first. Then I see. ‘It’s not that. Erik’s not seeing other women.’
‘I didn’t think he was. But something must be going on.’
‘No point asking me. There’s this one house he goes to, but I don’t even get to go inside. Or only as far as the porch.’
‘So he’s kept you right out of it.’
‘Yes. And I haven’t stuck my nose in.’
He keeps nodding his head slowly. ‘But you must have found out who lives in the house.’
‘A gentleman. I don’t remember the name. And there are other men, too. You hear the voices.’
‘I hope they’re not hatching any evil plots.’
As often, I find it hard to follow his thinking. ‘Erik? What could he be plotting?’
‘These are strange times. I’ve heard village talk. Not everyone wants to stop fighting. They’re still set on God knows what – don’t like the Russians.’
I nearly sigh with relief. ‘I don’t think Erik would get into all that. He’s not that much of an idiot.’
‘Maybe not. But you can get into trouble if you’re curious enough to listen to idiots talk.’
‘Should we say something to him?’
‘Might be better to wait and see. He may yet come to his senses.’
Matters tend to diminish when the Farmhand talks about them. He is that kind of man. Even if he were on the scaffold with the noose round his neck, he would remark on the mildness of the weather. He has seen much in his time. He was even in the Pomeranian War, fighting against hussars. If you ask him about it, he says he has forgotten almost everything. I bet he could still use a gun, though, and not just for shooting rabbits.
‘I’d better get going,’ I say, standing up. ‘Don’t know whether to try and look after them or make sure I don’t get under their feet.’
‘Do both. Look after them from a distance,’ the Farmhand advises. After I have opened the door, he adds, ‘But don’t learn their lesson. Rancour is a bad teacher.’
The wind blows heavy snowflakes into my face. The forest is veiled, merely its outline visible. You can only sense the iron-grey sky. Erik is standing, sheltered, on the front steps of the house. He is immobile, just blowing his hands, staring ahead. He does not seem to notice me as I walk along the edge of the yard to reach the back door. I leave my boots by the door and make my way quietly to my tiny back chamber. A bed, a chair and a small table. They were good enough to give me blinds and a miserable oil lamp. The room is cool, the stove cold. I do not know what it is like in houses of correction but probably not much better. Still, I am not complaining. Soon, if I wish, I may brick up the doorway of my room.
I turn, ready to climb the steps leading up from the cellar, when I collide with his brooding gaze. I do not see his eyes, he is a black statue against the snow-grey light, but I sense them. I feel his fingers on my skin, on my shoulder blades. He leans against the doorpost, tall and alert. I stare at him. I step backwards and the basket falls from my hand. A turnip rolls to his feet but he does not kick it.
‘Caught you,’ he says.
‘Don’t touch me.’
He lets out a laugh: the snort of a tortured animal. ‘I mean I caught you in the act.’
‘What act?’
‘Playing the mistress.’
I decide to push past him. The doorway is too small for the two of us and he makes way for me reluctantly. Then suddenly he grabs me, presses me against himself with one hand, pushing the other inside the neckline of my dress. His hard fingers grope my neck, my shoulders, my back. My nose is filled with his smell, the sweet scent of eau de cologne and the salty scent of sweat. I slap his face and free myself from his grip. I leap up the stone steps to yard level. Down in the depths of the cellar, he laughs his hoarse laugh.
I turn and snap down at him, ‘Why did you come here? Nobody wants you.’
‘Just an impulse. I thought you at least would be pleased.’
‘Delighted.’
‘Oh, come on. Wait a minute,’ he says, his voice empty of laughter. He bends and disappears into the cellar. I breathe deeply, stare at the forest, hear the sighing trees. He reappears through the dark opening and hands the basket up to me. ‘You’ve got a lot here, for the winter.’
‘Should cover us. Can’t afford any more mouths to feed.’
He climbs the stairs and then stops, a couple of steps away from me. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning to stay the whole winter. Just came to visit. It can’t be that bad.’
‘I suppose not. If you behave.’
‘Don’t I always? By the way, how’s your father?’
I examine his eyes: grey, steady, mute. ‘My father’s well, although of course he’s getting on.’