Aminatta Forna - The Hired Man

In the night I woke once and listened to the sound of the breeze through the tree tops, the whispers and murmurs of the house: the roof, walls and floors, windows, shifting with the wind, keening with the myriad, minute movements of the earth beneath the foundations. The low hum of the fountain pump. Above it all the water, like a descant sung by a choir. I rolled over on the narrow couch, stood up and went to the window. A waxing moon in an empty sky cast an unwavering light, creating shadows of the deepest blue. The wedding party had finally worn itself out. For a moment I thought I saw the silhouette of a man standing beyond the hedge across the road. I watched, but it was nothing, a sign on a post and a trick of the light.

The next morning was Sunday. The family slept late. I walked to my house to let Kos and Zeka out and returned bringing yoghurt and honey. I picked some wild flowers and put them in a jar of water. Laura was up, sleepy-eyed, she apologised for putting me to trouble. Matthew and Grace appeared and Laura started making breakfast, scrambling eggs and cutting bread for toast. Once she stood behind Matthew’s chair and pressed her nose and lips to the crown of his head. Matthew, who took no notice of these shows of affection, carried on chewing his food. As I watched them casually touching, leaning over or against, nudging and bumping, they reminded me of animals in their lair, treading on each other on their way in and out, or in search of a better position, at night pressing themselves against each other in search of warmth.

I thought how fine it would be to have a son, though perhaps one with a bit more spine than Matthew. A daughter like Grace would be a fine thing. Fabjan had sons, God only knew if he had other children with his girlfriends. Maybe the new girl was already pregnant, maybe that’s why she looked so depressed. Fabjan was the kind who’d press a girl into an abortion. Even Krešimir was married and had a child. As for me, I had my sister and my mother. No one else.

Suddenly I felt like being on my own. I stood up. Thanks and goodbyes. Nobody was asking me to go but on the other hand nor did they beg me to stay. Once home I exercised hard, heaving myself up to the cross bar above the door. Afterwards my muscles ached, but I still felt tense; in the pit of my stomach lay a queasy anticipation, like when I was challenged to a fight at school. I’d wake up after a night of dreaming, I’d have forgotten and then the memory would come back, and my stomach would collapse into my bowels with fear but also a fluttering excitement, knowing there could be no turning back, no choice but to see it through.

I picked up a fork and went to work in the garden turning over the soil in one of the beds. The ground was parched and rock hard, each strike set the fork quivering and shock waves travelled through my arms, my shoulder blades and back down into my guts. Forty minutes passed. When I stood up to wipe the sweat from my eyes I saw Grace coming down the road. She was alone, wearing a dress and the hat she’d bought in Zadar, a plain straw hat with a narrow brim. She smiled, waved. I said, ‘You look smart. Where are you going?’

She smiled shyly. ‘To church. I just came to ask which one is the nicest.’

‘St Mary’s or Annunciation. Both. You need to hurry though.’

‘What about the other one?’

‘Those are the only two.’

‘No, there’s a third. We drive past it all the time.’

‘That’s the Orthodox church,’ I said. ‘There are no longer services held there.’

‘Oh,’ said Grace. ‘Why?’

‘It’s closed down. Come on. I’ll walk you to St Mary’s. My mother’s favourite. Smaller than Annunciation and much more beautiful. They have a big tree outside at Christmas. We can walk along the river.’ The Orthodox church had been beautiful too, with paintings instead of statues, of the saints doing what saints did, painted on the wooden panels of the walls, deep dense colours.

I pulled a shirt on, called the dogs and met Grace at the front of the house. I said, ‘Your mother and brother don’t go to church?’

‘No. Matt thinks it’s dumb. Mum says she doesn’t see why anyone should have to go to church to worship.’

‘And you do?’

‘Not really. I just like it. I like the music and the singing, you know, and the quiet. I don’t know yet if I believe in God. I’m sort of waiting to find out. If I do I’m going to be confirmed. Some of my friends were confirmed last year, but I didn’t do it. Actually, I think they just wanted the presents.’ She marched heavily up the hill. Ahead of us a magpie bounced from tree to road. Zeka lunged sloppily. The bird bounced back up. We reached the bridge.

‘Careful, it’s steep,’ I warned. I ducked under the railing at the near end of the bridge where a rough path led down to the riverside and joined a gravelled path on a high bank. The gravel path was overhung by birch and willow trees and followed the course of the river towards the centre of Gost. The surface of the water shivered beneath a light wind, the clusters of water lilies shook, in the middle of the river were two pontoons used as floats at Christmas and by swimmers in the summer.

Grace followed unsteadily, panting, still talking as though she’d waited all her life in silence for the opportunity. ‘Laura married in church twice. First to my dad and then Conor. That time I was bridesmaid; I wore a yellow dress. The kids at school teased me about her wearing white. I thought it was kind of odd too, actually. Because you’re supposed to be, well you know, a virgin. Anyway. When I was little she used to call herself Aura. She hates anyone mentioning it.’ Grace giggled and bit her bottom lip as though to stop her mouth from opening; her eyes widened in shock at herself, she frowned and said, ‘I shouldn’t have told you that. Don’t say anything, will you?’

I shook my head. ‘Your father, where is he? Is he alive?’

‘Yes, of course he’s alive. He lives on a boat and sails around the world.’

‘Is that true?’

‘No, I made it up. I wish he did. He lives in Edinburgh.’

‘Do you see him?’

‘Not very often.’ She shrugged. ‘I think Matt has an idea about going to live with him, but Conor’s richer and so we live with Mum and Conor. I’m not sure Dad really cares much, though he doesn’t actually say so. Anyway, I like Conor, he’s been around a lot more than our real dad has. It’s just that him and Matt don’t get on. But then Matt doesn’t get on with lots of people.’

‘What about you and your father?’

‘I don’t think he knows I exist.’

I said, ‘That’s sad.’

‘It’s OK. I never really knew him anyway.’

The path swung away from the riverside, behind one of the old grain stores. ‘There’s the church. Up there. One hundred metres.’

‘Thank you,’ said Grace. She kissed me on the cheek. I stood in the shadow of the trees with Kos and Zeka and watched her go.

I remembered the last time I was in St Mary’s Church. How many years ago was it? I’d taken this same path to town without knowing why, I changed my course, walked to St Mary’s and went inside. The church was empty, it was that time of day. I sat in a pew. I didn’t know why I was there, I hadn’t been to church in many years, not since Daniela and my father were buried, except for the funerals that followed, I attended one or two of those, I remember how the services became shorter and shorter as demand on the priest’s time grew. After a while I stood up to leave, and decided at the last moment to light a candle for Daniela and my father. I placed it among the huddle of dead and fluttering flames at the plaster feet of the statue of the Virgin in the small chapel. Of the several statues of her in the church, this had always been my favourite, ever since I was a small boy: her open hands, the slight downward and sideways turn of the head, which on that day made her appear to have noticed me and be listening. I knelt down and pressed my head against the low wooden altar. I thought to say a prayer for the souls of my family members, but I couldn’t bring myself to it. If there was a God, I wouldn’t be lighting candles and praying for them.