Sylvia was co-operating now because she did not have any choice. There was nowhere to go and he was satisfied that she would not take her own life. If there was a type then she certainly wasn't it. She was adapting slowly.
The calves had vanished one night about a fortnight ago; Jon had found where they had been killed, driven into a corner of the field and probably been clubbed to death. It didn't matter much because he did not have enough fodder to see them through the coming winter, and as he did not eat red meat himself there was no point in slaughtering them. All the same, he felt sorry for them that they had to die so brutally.
The winter was going to be the big test for all of them, mostly for the throwbacks. If they were going to attack the holding they would do it then when they were short of food and their crude houses were proving inadequate against the blizzards. In the meantime they just lived from day to day, tried not to think about tomorrow. He just wished he knew what had happened to Jackie though.
He found himself looking up towards the thorn bushes again. There was no sign of that guy and for some reason he felt more uneasy than usual.
Sylvia had finished her routine chores, put another boiling of beetroot on the Rayburn. Surely there wasn't much point in pickling any more; there was a limit to how much beetroot you could eat even in a time of food shortage. There wasn't and wouldn't be a shortage, though; eating would just become boring. Jesus, what would she give for a meal at a restaurant, served for her and the washing-up done by somebody else afterwards!
She crossed to the window from where she had a partial view of the smallholding and on up to those steep fields beyond, the rough one dotted with thorn bushes where they had spied that lurking figure day in, day out. He wasn't in view now but she shivered all the same, could almost feel his eyes burning into her.
Her train of thinking flipped back to Eric. For some reason lately they were much closer, closer than they had ever been. Which had to be a figment of the imagination because they had not seen each other since early summer. And were not likely to see each other again. Ever.
A feeling of sadness had her searching the hillsides with misted vision, felt a tear trickling slowly down her cheek. Oh Eric, come back, please, I need you. I'm so sorry for everything.
She couldn't see Jon any longer, he was somewhere up the far end of the holding working on that strip of Jerusalem artichokes. He could bloody well stop there for all she cared, Christ, she couldn't stick this for the rest of her life, chained to the kitchen. Give me a hand with this, give me a lift with that. We'll be glad of it when winter comes. Live for the bloody winter because it's going to be hell. Never mind the summer, winter's on the way. Bang your head on the wall because it'll be lovely when you stop.
The weather had certainly turned much more showery and Sylvia was keeping the Rayburn in all day. Jon had promised to lug another load of wood soon. (They'd need it because winter was coming.) Raining again, slanting spots on the window; just a shower because she could see a patch of blue sky behind the dark grey cloud formation.
Eric again. The best times had been the early days before they were married. Her parents had not liked him, they didn't like anybody who might just take advantage of their sixteen-year-old virginal daughter. You take a tip from us. Sylvia, don't get tied up with one boy, have plenty on the go. Safety in numbers. Sure, mother, I'd like plenty of boyfriends. Good girl!
Sylvia was sixteen and a half when she got pregnant. It had happened at the Jamiesons' twenty-first party, at least that was what she told her parents. True, it might have. She'd named Roy Patterson as the father. Again, it just might have been, and to be fair to him he hadn't cut and run, had stood like a man and owned up to it. Except that the odds were that it was Eric Atkinson who had put her in the family way.
The Jamiesons had gone away for the weekend which was why the party turned out the way it had. By 10.30 there were couples snogging all over the place from,the conservatory up to the sixth bedroom. Slow smoochy music from the stereo and if you were a boy you grabbed the nearest girl and tried your luck, and if it was out you tried another. Sylvia reckoned Sue Ballon was the first one to get laid because she was always boasting about having it off with somebody and judging by the way she was squealing and giggling it wasn't just one of the lads having a bit of finger on the Chesterfield.
Anyway, that was none of Sylvia's business and it wasn't long before Roy Patterson was doing his best to have a feel at her under the guise of doing a very slow samba, a new version that you had to be slightly drunk even to contemplate. A circuitous tour of the corridors, up the stairs, and then they found themselves in Jerry Jamieson's bedroom; the bed was empty, still warm, and there was a damp patch on the bottom sheet.
By this time Sylvia was wanting it very badly, still remembering the loss of her virginity only ten days ago (with Billy Farr) and desperate to relive the experience all over again. Roy was almost too drunk to get aroused properly and she had to give him a helping hand. Then he fumbled and dropped his French letters on the floor and it took him five minutes on his hands and knees with his trousers round his ankles, striking endless matches and threatening to set the pile carpet on fire, before he finally found them.
She told him not to bother with one, even tried to roll it off him when she got really randy but he was adamant. Damn him! That was why it hadn't been such a good screw, that and the fact that he couldn't keep his hard-on.
So later, her appetite already whetted, Sylvia had gone in search of another screw, and stumbling about in the darkened house that now resembled a Soho brothel she had found Eric. Good old Ek!
He had confessed years later that a bird had gone cold on him and he was off to find a nice quiet place to jerk off and sod the birds! Sylvia had taken him upstairs and on the way they had passed a still-drunk Roy who had dropped something else and was striking matches again.
Eric had thought his luck was in when she told him not to bother using anything, didn't even ask if the time of the month was OK. God, he'd really pounded her that night, managed it twice, and it had been four in the morning when she'd got home. Her mother was up waiting for her. Girls who stop out till this time end up pregnant before very long! Not with Roy Patterson though. His name threw a better light on the scene; she didn't mention Eric.
Roy had stood by her but the baby had been adopted so it was really academic. She didn't want to go out with him again, just biding her time to produce Eric out of the conjurer's hat. Come back Eric, I need you.
Those early days had been really good. They could have kept them going if they had both worked at it. She could see his face now as clearly as though it was only yesterday, that cheeky smile, a quip when you expected a lazy draw!. A good lover, the best she had ever had. Jon Quinn didn't amount to much, he fucked when he was in the mood but mostly he was too tired at nights to do anything other than fall fast asleep the moment he got into bed. Oh, Eric, I wish you were here, we missed out on such a lot. We were damned fools, both of us.
She saw his face again; she had to look hard to make sure it really was him because he'd grown a beard, his hair was long and matted and his features were much more squat. But it was Eric all right, the old flame of desire lighting up his eyes the way they used to. She closed her eyes. Opened them again.