Read Online On The Black Hill (Vintage Classics) by Bruce Chatwin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bruce Chatwin
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had collected on his travels in Greece. In March there were crocuses and scillas; in April, cyclamen, tulips and dog’s-tooth violets; and there was a huge dark purple arum that stank of old meat.
Mary loved to picture these flowers growing wild, in sheets of colour, on the mountains; and she pitied them, exiled on the rockery.
One blustery afternoon, as the boys were booting a football round the lawn, the vicar took her to see a fritillary from the slopes of Mount Ida in Crete.
‘Very rare in cultivation,’ he said. ‘Had to send half my bulbs to Kew!’
Suddenly, Lewis lobbed the ball in the air; a gust carried it sideways, and it landed on the rockery where it smashed the fragile bell-flower.
Mary dropped to her knees and tried to straighten the stem, stifling a sob, not so much for the flower as for the future of her sons.
‘Yokels!’ she said, bitterly. ‘That’s what they’ll grow up to be! That’s if their father has his way!’
‘Not if I have my way,’ said the vicar, and lifted her to her feet.
After Matins that Sunday, he stood by the south porch shaking hands with his parishioners and, when Amos’s turn came, said: ‘Wait for me a minute, would you, Jones? I only want a word or two.’
‘Yes, sir!’ said Amos, and paced around the font, shooting nervous glances up at the bell-ropes.
The vicar beckoned him into the vestry. ‘It’s about your boys,’ he said, pulling the surplice over his head. ‘Bright boys, both of them! High time they were in school!’
‘Yes, sir!’ Amos stammered. He had not meant to say ‘Yes!’ or ‘Sir!’ The vicar’s tone had caught him off his guard.
‘There’s a good man! So that settles it! Term begins on Monday.’
‘Yes, sir!’ he had said it again, this time in irony, or as a reflection of his rage. He rammed on his hat and strode out among the sunwashed tombstones.
Jackdaws were wheeling round the belfry, and the elm-trees were creaking in the wind. Mary and the children had already mounted the trap. Amos cracked his whip over the pony’s back, and they lurched up the street, swerving and scattering some Baptists.
Little Rebecca yelled with fright.
‘Why must you drive so fast?’ Mary tugged at his sleeve.
‘Because you make me mad!’
After a silent lunch, he went out walking on the hill. He would have liked to work, but it was the Sabbath. So he walked alone, over and round the Black Hill. It was dark when he came home and he was still cursing Mary and the vicar.
12
ALL THE SAME , the twins went off to school.
At seven in the morning, they set off in black Norfolk jackets and knickerbockers, and starched Eton collars that chafed their necks and were tied with grosgrain bows. On the damp days Mary dosed them with cod-liver oil and made them wrap up in scarves. She packed their sandwiches in greaseproof paper, and slipped them in their satchels, along with their books.
They sat in a draughty classroom where a black clock hammered out the hours and Mr Birds taught geography, history and English; and Miss Clifton taught mathematics, science and scripture.
They did not like Mr Birds.
His purple face, the veins on his temples, his bad breath and his habit of spitting into a snuff handkerchief – all made a most disagreeable impression, and they cringed whenever he came near.
For all that, they learned to recite Shelley’s ‘Ode to a Skylark’; to spell Titicaca and Popocatepetl; that the British Empire was the best of all possible empires; that the French were cowards, the Americans traitors; and that Spaniards burned little Protestant boys on bonfires.
On the other hand they went with pleasure to the classes of Miss Clifton, a buxom woman with milky skin and hair the colour of lemon peel.
Benjamin was her favourite. No one knew how she told the difference; but he was, most certainly, her favourite and, as she bent forward to correct his sums, he would inhale her warm motherly smell and snuggle his head between her velvet
Mary loved to picture these flowers growing wild, in sheets of colour, on the mountains; and she pitied them, exiled on the rockery.
One blustery afternoon, as the boys were booting a football round the lawn, the vicar took her to see a fritillary from the slopes of Mount Ida in Crete.
‘Very rare in cultivation,’ he said. ‘Had to send half my bulbs to Kew!’
Suddenly, Lewis lobbed the ball in the air; a gust carried it sideways, and it landed on the rockery where it smashed the fragile bell-flower.
Mary dropped to her knees and tried to straighten the stem, stifling a sob, not so much for the flower as for the future of her sons.
‘Yokels!’ she said, bitterly. ‘That’s what they’ll grow up to be! That’s if their father has his way!’
‘Not if I have my way,’ said the vicar, and lifted her to her feet.
After Matins that Sunday, he stood by the south porch shaking hands with his parishioners and, when Amos’s turn came, said: ‘Wait for me a minute, would you, Jones? I only want a word or two.’
‘Yes, sir!’ said Amos, and paced around the font, shooting nervous glances up at the bell-ropes.
The vicar beckoned him into the vestry. ‘It’s about your boys,’ he said, pulling the surplice over his head. ‘Bright boys, both of them! High time they were in school!’
‘Yes, sir!’ Amos stammered. He had not meant to say ‘Yes!’ or ‘Sir!’ The vicar’s tone had caught him off his guard.
‘There’s a good man! So that settles it! Term begins on Monday.’
‘Yes, sir!’ he had said it again, this time in irony, or as a reflection of his rage. He rammed on his hat and strode out among the sunwashed tombstones.
Jackdaws were wheeling round the belfry, and the elm-trees were creaking in the wind. Mary and the children had already mounted the trap. Amos cracked his whip over the pony’s back, and they lurched up the street, swerving and scattering some Baptists.
Little Rebecca yelled with fright.
‘Why must you drive so fast?’ Mary tugged at his sleeve.
‘Because you make me mad!’
After a silent lunch, he went out walking on the hill. He would have liked to work, but it was the Sabbath. So he walked alone, over and round the Black Hill. It was dark when he came home and he was still cursing Mary and the vicar.
12
ALL THE SAME , the twins went off to school.
At seven in the morning, they set off in black Norfolk jackets and knickerbockers, and starched Eton collars that chafed their necks and were tied with grosgrain bows. On the damp days Mary dosed them with cod-liver oil and made them wrap up in scarves. She packed their sandwiches in greaseproof paper, and slipped them in their satchels, along with their books.
They sat in a draughty classroom where a black clock hammered out the hours and Mr Birds taught geography, history and English; and Miss Clifton taught mathematics, science and scripture.
They did not like Mr Birds.
His purple face, the veins on his temples, his bad breath and his habit of spitting into a snuff handkerchief – all made a most disagreeable impression, and they cringed whenever he came near.
For all that, they learned to recite Shelley’s ‘Ode to a Skylark’; to spell Titicaca and Popocatepetl; that the British Empire was the best of all possible empires; that the French were cowards, the Americans traitors; and that Spaniards burned little Protestant boys on bonfires.
On the other hand they went with pleasure to the classes of Miss Clifton, a buxom woman with milky skin and hair the colour of lemon peel.
Benjamin was her favourite. No one knew how she told the difference; but he was, most certainly, her favourite and, as she bent forward to correct his sums, he would inhale her warm motherly smell and snuggle his head between her velvet
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