by Jojo Moyes
Alice waited for him to ask the same of Sophia, then grasped, with a slightly sick feeling, that of course it was obvious to everyone but her why he wouldn’t, why the others hadn’t pressed her to go with them either. A square full of drunk and rowdy young white men would not be a safe place for Sophia. She realized suddenly that she wasn’t entirely sure what was a safe place for Sophia.
“Well, I’m going to take a little stroll down to watch. But I’ll stop by later and drive you home, Miss Sophia. There’s a fair bit of liquor flying around that square tonight and I’m not sure it’ll be a pleasant place for a lady come nine o’clock.”
“Thank you, Mr. Guisler,” said Sophia. “I appreciate it.”
* * *
• • •
You should go,” said Sophia, not looking up from her stitching, as the sound of Fred’s footsteps faded down the dark road.
Alice shuffled some loose sheets of paper. “It’s complicated.”
“Life is complicated. Which is why finding a little joy where you can is important.” She frowned at one of her stitches and unpicked it. “It’s hard to be different from everyone around here. I understand that. I really do. I had a very different life in Louisville.” She let out a sigh. “But those girls care about you. They are your friends. And you shutting yourself off from them ain’t going to make things any easier.”
Alice watched as a moth fluttered around the oil lamp. After a moment, unable to bear it, she cupped it carefully in her hands, walked to the partially open door and released it. “You’d be here by yourself.”
“I’m a big girl. And Mr. Guisler is going to come back for me.”
She could hear the music starting up in the square, the roar of approval that announced the Singing Cowboy had taken center stage. She looked at the window.
“You really think I should go?”
Sophia put down her stitching. “Lord, Alice, you need me to write a song about it? Hey,” she called, as Alice made for the front door. “Let me fix up your hair before you go. Appearances are important.”
Alice ran back and held up the little mirror. She rubbed at her face with her handkerchief as Sophia ran a comb through her hair, pinning and tutting as she worked with nimble fingers. When Sophia stood back Alice reached into her bag for her lipstick and drew coral pink over her lips, pursing them and rubbing them together. Satisfied, she looked down, brushing at her shirt and breeches. “Not much I can do about what I’m wearing.”
“But the top half is pretty as a picture. And that’s all anyone will notice.”
Alice smiled. “Thank you, Sophia.”
“You come back and tell me all about it.” She sat back at the desk and resumed tapping her foot, half lost already in the distant music.
* * *
• • •
Alice was partway up the road when she glimpsed the creature. It scuttled across the shadowy road and her mind, already a quarter-mile ahead at the square, took a moment to register that something was in front of her. She slowed: a ground squirrel! She felt, oddly, as if the talk of all the murdered hogs had hung a sad fog over the week, adding to her vague sense of depression. For people who lived so deep in nature, the inhabitants of Baileyville seemed oblivious to the idea of respecting it. She stopped, waiting for the squirrel to cross in front of her. It was a large one, with a huge, thick tail. At that moment the moon emerged from a cloud, revealing to her that it wasn’t a squirrel after all, but something darker, more solid, with a black and white stripe. She frowned at it, perplexed, and then, as she was about to take a step forward, it turned its back on her, raised its tail, and she felt her skin sprayed with moisture. It took a second for that sensation to be supplanted by the most noxious smell she had ever breathed. She gasped and gagged, covering her mouth and spluttering. But there was no escaping it: it was all over her hands, her shirt, in her hair. The creature scuttled off nonchalantly into the night, leaving Alice batting at her clothes, as if by waving her hands and yelling she could make it all go away.
* * *
• • •
The upper floor of the Nice ’N’ Quick was thick with bodies pressed against the window, three deep, some yelling their appreciation for the white-suited cowboy below. Margery and Sven were the only ones left seated, the two in a booth beside each other, as they preferred. Between them were the dregs of two iced teas. Two weeks previously a local photographer had stopped by and persuaded the ladies onto their horses in front of the WPA Packhorse Library sign and all four, Izzy, Margery, Alice and Beth, had posed, shoulder to shoulder, on their mounts. A copy of that photograph now took pride of place on the wall of the diner, the women gazing out, decorated by a string of streamers, and Margery could not take her eyes off it. She wasn’t sure she had ever been prouder of anything in her life.
“My brother’s talking of buying some of that land up on North Ridge. Bore McCallister says he’ll give him a good price. I was thinking I might go in with him. I can’t work down those mines for ever.”
She pulled her attention back to Sven. “How much land you talking about?”
“About four hundred acres. There’s good hunting.”
“You haven’t heard, then.”
“Heard what?”
Margery reached round and pulled the template letter out of her bag. Sven opened it carefully and read it, placing it back on the table in front of her. “Where’d you hear this?”
“Know anything about it?”
“Nope. Everywhere we go they’re all about busting the United Mine Workers of America’s influence just now.”
“The two things go together, I worked it out. Daniel McGraw, Ed Siddly, the Bray brothers—all those union organizers—they all live on North Ridge. If the new mine shakes those men out of their homes, along with their families, it’s that much harder for them to get organized. They don’t want to end up like Harlan, with a damn war going on between the miners and their bosses.”
Sven leaned back in his seat. He blew out his cheeks and studied Margery’s expression. “I’m guessing the letter is you.”
She smiled sweetly at him.
He ran a palm across his forehead. “Jeez, Marge. You know what those thugs are like. Is trouble actually in your blood? . . . No, don’t answer that.”
“I can’t stand by while they wreck these mountains, Sven. You know what they did over at Great White Gap?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Blew the valley to pieces, polluted the water, and disappeared overnight when all the coal was gone. All those families left without jobs or homes. They won’t do it over here.”
He picked up the letter and read it again. “Anyone else know about this?”
“I got two families headed over to the legal offices already. I looked up legal books that say the mine-owners can’t blow up land if the families didn’t sign those broad form contracts that give the mines all the rights. Casey Campbell helped her daddy to read all the paperwork.” She sighed with satisfaction, jabbing her finger onto the table. “Nothing more dangerous than a woman armed with a little knowledge. Even if she’s twelve years old.”
“If anyone at Hoffman finds out it’s you, there’s going to be trouble.”
She shrugged, and took a swig of her drink.
“I’m serious. Be careful, Marge. I don’t want nothing happening to you. Van Cleve has bad men on his payroll on the back of this union fight—guys from out of town. You’ve seen what’s happened in Harlan. I—I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”
She peered up at him. “You’re not getting sentimental on me, are you, Gustavsson?”
“I mean it.” He turned so that his face was inches from hers. “I love you, Marge.”
She was about to joke, but there was an unfamiliar look to his face, something serious and vulnerable, and the words stilled on her lips. His eyes searched hers, and his fing
ers closed around her own, as if his hand might say what he wasn’t able to. She held his gaze, and then, as a roar went up in the diner, she looked away. Below them Tex Lafayette struck up with “I Was Born in the Valley,” to loud whoops of approval.
“Oh, boy, those girls are going to go hog wild now,” she murmured.
“I think what you meant to say is ‘I love you too,’” he said, after a minute.
“Those dynamite sticks have done something to your ears. I’m sure I said it ages ago,” she said, and shaking his head, he pulled her toward him again and kissed her until she stopped grinning.
* * *
• • •
It didn’t matter where they’d said they were going to meet, Alice thought, as she fought her way through the teeming town square: the place was so dark and dense with people that she had almost no chance of finding her friends. The air was thick with the smell of cordite from firecrackers, cigarette smoke, beer and the burned-sugar scent of cotton candy from the stalls that had sprung up for the evening, but she could make out almost none of it. Wherever she went, there was a brief, audible intake of breath and people would back away, frowning and clutching their noses. “Lady, you got sprayed by a skunk!” a freckled youth yelled, as she passed him.
“You don’t say,” she answered crossly.
“Oh, good Lord.” Two girls pulled back, grimacing at Alice. “Is that Van Cleve’s English wife?”
Alice felt the people part like waves around her as she drew closer to the stage.
It was a minute before she saw him. Bennett was standing over near the corner of the temporary bar, beaming, a Hudepohl beer in his hand. She stared at him, at his easy smile, his shoulders loose and relaxed in his good blue shirt. She observed, absently, that he seemed so much more at ease when he wasn’t with her. Her surprise at his not being at work after all was slowly replaced by a kind of wistfulness, a remembrance of the man she had fallen in love with. As she watched, wondering whether to walk over and confide in him about her disastrous evening, a girl standing just to his left turned, and held up a bottle of cola. It was Peggy Foreman. She leaned in close and said something that made him laugh, and he nodded, his eyes still on Tex Lafayette, then he looked back at her, and his face creased into a goofy smile. She wanted to run up to him then, to push that girl out of the way. To take her place in the arms of her husband, have him smile tenderly at her as he had before they were married. But even as she stood, people were backing away from her, laughing or muttering: Skunk. She felt her eyes brim with tears and, head down, began to push her way back through the crowd.
“Hey!”
Alice’s jaw jutted as she wound her way through the jostling bodies, ignoring the jeers and laughter that seemed to swell in bursts around her, the music fading into the distance. She was grateful that the dark meant barely anybody could see who it was as she wiped the tears away.
“Good Lord. Did you catch that smell?”
“Hey! . . . Alice!”
Her head spun round and she saw Fred Guisler pushing his way through the crowd toward her, his arm outstretched. “You okay?”
It took him a couple of seconds to register the smell; she saw shock flicker across his features—a silent whoa—and then, almost immediately, his determined attempt to hide it. He placed an arm around her shoulders, resolutely steering her through the crowd. “C’mon. Let’s get you back to the library. Move over there, would you? Coming through.”
It took them ten minutes to walk back up the dark road. As soon as they were out of the center of town, away from the crowds, Alice stepped out of the shelter of his arm and took herself to the side of the road. “You’re very kind. But you really don’t need to.”
“It’s fine. Got almost no sense of smell anyway. First horse I ever broke caught me in the nose with a back foot and I’ve never been the same since.”
She knew he was lying, but it was kind and she shot him a rueful smile. “I couldn’t see for sure, but I think it was a skunk. It just stopped in front of me and—”
“Oh, it was a skunk all right.” He was trying not to laugh.
Alice stared at him, her cheeks flaming. She thought she might actually burst into tears, but something in his expression felled her and, to her surprise, she began to laugh instead.
“Worst thing ever, huh?”
“Truthfully? Not even close.”
“Well, now I’m intrigued. So what was the worst?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Two skunks?”
“You have to stop laughing at me, Mr. Guisler.”
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Van Cleve. It’s just so unlikely—a girl like you, so pretty and refined and all . . . and that smell . . .”
“You’re not really helping.”
“I’m sorry. Look, come to my house before you go to the library. I can find you some fresh clothes so you can at least get home without causing a commotion.”
* * *
• • •
They walked in silence the last hundred yards, peeling off the main road up the track to Fred Guisler’s house, which, being behind the library and set back from the road, Alice realized she had barely registered until now. There was a light on in the porch and she followed him up the wooden steps, glancing left to where, a hundred yards away, the library light was still on, only visible from this side of the road through a tiny crack in the door. She pictured Sophia in there, hard at work stitching new books out of old, humming along to the music, and then he opened the door and stood back to let her in.
Men who lived alone around Baileyville, as far as she could make out, lived rough lives, their cabins functional and sparsely furnished, their habits basic and hygiene often questionable. Fred’s house had sanded wood floors, waxed and burnished through years of use; a rocker sat in a corner, a blue rag rug in front of it, and a large brass lamp cast a soft glow over a shelf of books. Pictures lined the wall and an upholstered chair stood opposite, with a view out over the rear of the building and Fred’s large barn full of horses. The gramophone was on a highly polished mahogany table and an intricate old quilt lay neatly folded to its side. “But this is beautiful!” she said, realizing as she did the insult in her words.
He didn’t seem to catch it. “Not all my work,” he said. “But I try to keep it nice. Hold on.”
She felt bad, bringing this stench into his sweet-smelling, comfortable home. She crossed her arms and winced as he jogged upstairs, as if that could contain the odor. He was back in minutes, with two dresses across his arm. “One of these should fit.”
She looked up at him. “You have dresses?”
“They were my wife’s.”
She blinked.
“Hand me your clothes out and I’ll douse them in vinegar. That’ll help. When you take them home get Annie to put some baking soda into the washtub with the soap. Oh, and there’s a clean washcloth on the stand.”
She turned and he gestured toward a bathroom, which she entered. She stripped down, pushed her clothes out through a gap in the door, then washed her face and hands, scrubbing at her skin with the washcloth and lye soap. The acrid smell refused to dissipate; in the confines of the warm little room, it almost made her gag and she scrubbed as hard as she could without actually removing a layer of skin. As an afterthought she poured a jug of water over her head, rubbing at her hair with soap and rinsing it, then rough drying it with a towel. Finally she slipped into the green dress. It was what her mother would have called a tea-dress, short-sleeved and floral with a white lace collar, a little loose around the waist, but at least it smelled clean. There was a bottle of scent on top of a cabinet. She sniffed it, then sprayed a little on her wet hair.
She emerged some minutes later to find Fred standing by the window looking down at the illuminated town square. He turned, his mind clearly lost elsewhere, and perhaps because of his wife�
��s dress, he seemed suddenly shaken. He recovered himself swiftly and handed her a glass of iced tea. “Thought you might need this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Guisler.” She took a sip. “I feel rather silly.”
“Fred. Please. And don’t feel bad. Not for a minute. We’ve all been caught.”
She stood for a moment, feeling suddenly awkward. She was in a strange man’s home, wearing his dead wife’s dress. She didn’t know what to do with her limbs. A roar went up somewhere in town and she winced. “Oh, goodness. I haven’t just made your lovely house smell awful but you’ve missed Tex Lafayette. I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I couldn’t leave you, looking so . . .”
“Skunks, eh!” she said brightly, and his concerned expression didn’t shift, as if he knew that the smell was not the thing that had so upset her.
“Still! You can probably catch the rest of it if we head back now,” she said. She had started to gabble. “I mean, it looks like he’ll be singing a while. You were quite right. He’s very good. Not that I heard a huge amount, what with one thing and another, but I can see why he’s so popular. The crowd does seem to love him.”
“Alice—”
“Goodness. Look at the time. I’d better head back.” She walked past him toward the door, her head down. “You should absolutely head back to the show. I’ll walk home. It’s no distance.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“In case of more skunks?” Her laugh was high and brittle. Her voice didn’t even sound like her own. “Honestly, Mr. Guisler—Fred—you’ve been so very kind already and I don’t want to put you to more trouble. Really. I don’t—”
“I’ll take you,” he said firmly. He took his jacket from the back of a chair, then removed a small blanket from another and placed it around her shoulders. “It’s turned chilly out there.”
They stepped onto the porch. Alice was suddenly acutely aware of Frederick Guisler, of the way he had of observing her, as if looking through whatever she said or did to assess its true purpose. It was oddly discomfiting. She half stumbled down the porch steps and he reached out a hand to steady her. She clutched at it, then immediately let go as if she’d been stung.