Harry de Moraville loves words. He’s been a professional actor, a teacher of drama and English. He’s always been a writer, really. And now he’s dedicating his life to the craft. He is working on a collection of short stories that explore the nature of identity and privilege in modern (and not so modern) Britain.

 

The Ha-Ha

    

‘And don’t forget to say please and thank you,’ said her father from the driver’s seat.  

She frowned. It was hard to remember all the rules about going to the Big House, especially with the countryside flashing past her window. She should be out there, running through the fields, not trapped in her father’s motorcar and an itchy yellow dress, sunshine violent through the glass. ‘You listening, Mary?’ She turned to him and nodded. He looked strange, her father, wearing church clothes when it wasn’t a Sunday, hair slicked across his forehead, moustache tamed. He stuck an arm out of the window to indicate, and as they turned away from the village, something moved behind her, a dark figure in the backseat. But it was only her father’s jacket, which he’d hung from a hook before they’d left home.   

Home for Mary was a cottage in the Somerset Levels with not enough bedrooms, and jackdaws in the chimney. She had two younger sisters, but her parents really wanted a boy. Twice her mother had grown bigger, only to slim again each time, with no explanation, and no baby brother. The second time this happened, Mary, listening at the door, heard the doctor mention ‘complications’. Her mother had been unwell ever since.  

Mr Gurney was the only mechanic in the parish. He ran a repair shop and visited the Big House fortnightly to see to its fleet of cars. Five days ago he’d returned home from working there with a letter a footman had handed him, addressed to ‘Your eldest daughter.’   

‘Well I never!’ said Mary’s mother, sitting up in bed. 

She opened the envelope with a butter knife and drew out a thick sheet of card the colour of whey. With all five of them around the single bed it felt like the Queen’s Coronation again, except without the radio. Her mother read the invitation aloud twice: a frilly jumble of ‘cordially’ this and ‘promptly’ that. Mary was more interested in touching it: the card was furry, and there was a bumpy bit at the top, a picture of a grand house sunk into the surface. What a lot of effort for a birthday party! Still, Mary was glad to see her mother perky: she seemed to stand out more from the pillows; even her voice was different, seasoned by excitement, as she planned a telegram to her relatives in Devon.  

It turned out that a ‘great honour for the family’ meant a miserable week for Mary. She had to stay inside: learning what to say and when; mending a dress; dying a ribbon for her hair; polishing and repolishing a pair of shoes bought specially. She felt like a backwards Cinderella. Couldn’t one of her sisters go to the party instead? They were the ones who liked clothes and hairstyles. What Mary liked, more than anything, was to run. She was the fastest in her year, and, at seven and a half, already one of the fastest in the school. A will-o’-the-wisp, untouchable in playground games. When she ran, her body was her own. She was no longer a girl, no longer even human. When she ran, she was breath and pulse and hair flicking the back of her neck like a jockey’s whip. When she ran, leaving the others on Sports Day gawping behind her, it didn’t matter that she wasn’t a son.   

They turned off the road and stopped in front of a stone archway with a fiddly iron gate. To the side of the arch was a thin house, all turrets and slit windows. Mary crossed her legs and felt the back of a knee unstick from the clammy leather. A man in uniform approached.   

‘Alright, Ted,’ the man said, his big red face at the driver’s window. ‘Not your usual entrance, this.’ Her father handed him the invitation in silence.   

They drove through lush parkland with white puffs of sheep.  

‘The Chestnut Avenue,’ her father murmured. And they were suddenly in a hushed tunnel of green and bronze shot through with red shreds of sun. Her eyes relaxed; she’d been squinting before. Then whoosh! They emerged into loud light and limitless blue sky, a golden million-windowed house before them.   

The road changed sound as they rolled onto a gravel courtyard. There were several cars here already, long sleek ones that glistened in the sun like sucked sweets. Her father hesitated, drumming the steering wheel, then he turned the car around and proceeded down a bumpy track to a yard surrounded by stables. People were busying about, carrying furniture.   

‘La-di-da!’ someone called as they stepped from the car. A man in overalls bowed elaborately. Her father ignored them, but his eyes were big and pleased as he put on his jacket and hat and led her by the hand, past manure and murky puddles.   

They crossed sloping lawns, which were trimmed to firm, cushioned perfection. Her feet begged to be bare. She longed to slip her fingers from her father’s hand, to race over the springy grass. Tables and chairs were being set up under an apple tree. The invitation had said ten o’clock, but they were early. Her father looked around, his hand shielding his eyes.  

‘There,’ he said, in the direction of the house. ‘Come.’  

They climbed steps of honeyed stone and reached a terrace. Tables were being set up here too, overlooked by a man and a woman, their backs to the balustrade. Her father took off his hat and moved towards them, patting down his hair. He stopped a discreet distance away, but Mary, standing beside him, caught some of their conversation.   

‘Half her school chums…Such a shame,’ the woman was saying. She was dressed for horse riding, and her elegant statue’s face barely moved as she spoke. ‘Cruel time for influenza,’ she said.  

Her companion lit a cigarette. His suit was the same creamy colour as the invitation. ‘Cruel disease,’ he replied, sighing smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘She’s well, that’s what matters.’   

‘Of course.’   

‘Who’s making up the numbers?’  

‘Village children.’  

‘Ah.’  

‘Quite.’ The Horse Lady spotted Mary’s father, who was staring into the bowl of his hat. ‘Good morning?’ she sang.   

‘Morning, ma’am.’ He eased Mary forward by the shoulder. ‘This is my daughter, Mary, ma’am.’   

‘Pleased to meet you, Mary,’ said the Horse Lady with a twitch of a smile. ‘This is Georgina’s uncle.’   

‘From the village?’ asked the man, gesturing over the balustrade. Mary looked that way and saw, beyond the lawns and fields, a huddle of roofs and a church spire, crinkling in the hazy heat.   

‘I work here sometimes,’ said her father.   

‘Yes.’ The Horse Lady looked at him properly. ‘Remind me…’  

‘Gurney, ma’am. Edward Gurney.’   

‘Of course. He’s an absolute wizard with motorcars,’ she said to the man.  

‘That so?’   

Just then a boy came through the open glass doors of the house. He had smooth blonde hair, and a lollipop in his mouth.   

‘Ah, Jonty,’ said the Horse Lady, seeing the boy. ‘Mary’s here for your sister’s party. Show her down, would you.’  

‘Fine,’ the boy said, not looking at Mary.   

‘Good lad,’ said the man. ‘Here.’ He produced a coin, which he flicked high into the air. Mary watched it, fluttering silver on blue, before it slapped onto the flagstones. Half a crown!  

‘Thanks,’ said the boy, who picked it up and walked off.    

‘Go on, dear,’ the Horse Lady said to Mary, motioning after him.   

‘Now,’ the man turned to Mary’s father, ‘I’m jolly glad you’re here…’  

Tentatively, Mary followed the boy down the steps. Now that she was away from her father she wished she wasn’t. The boy spun the coin a few times. Then, pocketing it, he clapped at the air and checked his hands for squashed insects. He seemed mercifully unaware of her presence.  

Then, quite suddenly, he said, ‘Race you to the tree,’ and hurtled off.  

Her heart cheered. Even with one hand on her parachuting skirt, even with her stupid shoes, she drew level with him ten yards from the apple tree. He was taking whining breaths as she passed him and slapped the warm bark with her palm. The boy looked at her for several seconds, breathing hard, saying nothing. Then he walked away.   

  

* * * 

 

A woman with a sharp face and voice, in a beige uniform and white gloves, chivvied the children into a semi-circle. Mary knew a few of the others. The Chilcott girl who couldn’t say her esses properly. Jim, the postman’s boy, with his pockets full of stones. They looked scrubbed and uncomfortable. Nobody spoke. One girl wore a tiara in her blonde twirls. The birthday girl, surely, Georgina. She glared round at her guests, blinked twice, and burst into tears.   

The Sharp Woman walked forward. Her gait was like a pair of scissors opening and closing.  

‘Before we begin,’ she said, ‘you need to know an important rule. The ha-ha is out of bounds.’ Her arm sliced the air, indicating down the slope of the lawn towards the fields. Mary sat up. She’d never heard of a ha-ha; it sounded fun. ‘We don’t want an accident,’ the woman went on. ‘Children, repeat after me: we are not to go near the ha-ha.’   

‘We are not to go near the ha-ha,’ Mary mumbled along with the others.   

They played Grandmother’s Footsteps. The Sharp Woman was ruthless, sending them back to the start for so much as breathing. Georgina won the first game and didn’t want to play again. Next someone brought out a portable gramophone and they played Musical Chairs. Mary lost in the first round, tripping on her skirt as the music stopped. She picked herself up and looked over to the grown-ups, hoping her father hadn’t seen. The grown-ups were up on the terrace, under huge white umbrellas, their drinks winking in the sun. They looked like the members of two teams: one half wearing bright, colourful clothes; the other, drab, pale ones. Women, Mary realised, and men. Her father was the only one in a dark suit. Standing apart from everyone else, he could’ve been the referee. She felt a strong urge to wave, but thought he wouldn’t want that.   

They were playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey when the boy from earlier appeared, rolling his lollipop from cheek to cheek. While the Sharp Woman was distracted setting up refreshments, he jumped the queue, seizing blindfold and tail.   

‘Jonty, stop it!’ hissed Georgina. ‘Stop it or I’ll tell!’  

‘Who said that?’ he called from under the blindfold, blundering around with his arms out like an Egyptian mummy. ‘Where are you?’ Boys sniggered. Then he reached the donkey and pinned the tail in quite the wrong place, which made the boys snigger even more.   

While Georgina dissolved into sobs, the Sharp Woman strode over – snip-snip – and snatched the tail from where it dangled.   

Jonty stayed while they had a break for lemonade. He was a head taller than the other boys, who clustered round him while he told stories, their laughter furtive.   

‘I’ve an idea,’ Jonty raised his voice for everyone to hear. ‘Let’s play a fun game.’  

‘It’s my party!’ said Georgina, her face tight and red as an unripe blackberry.   

‘It’s called Hunter by Hunter,’ he went on, ignoring her. ‘Heard of it?’  

In a flurry of tears and tiara, Georgina ran off towards the house, two concerned looking girls trailing behind her.  

‘For goodness’ sake!’ The Sharp Woman took a step towards Jonty, then threw up her white gloved hands and followed the three girls up the lawn.   

With a shrug and a smile, Jonty continued: ‘Hunter by Hunter is like It, except that you start with one hunter, and anyone he catches becomes a hunter too. You keep going till everyone’s caught.’   

Mary leapt up. Here was a game she could win. She looked over to see if her father was watching but could no longer find him on the terrace.   

‘I’ll hunt first,’ Jonty announced. ‘You get a twenty second head start. One, two, three…’  

The lawn was just as bouncy as Mary had imagined. She sped down it until she reached a thick hedge and paused, her back to it, heart clattering about in her chest.   

‘Ready or not,’ called Jonty. ‘Here I come!’  

Thrilled whispers rose around the grounds. In no time he had the Chilcot girl cornered by the table under the tree. He played with her, feinting one way then the other, before swooping and catching her as she squealed. Then he looked around. Mary kicked off her shoes and waved her arms above her head. For a second they faced each other, motionless. Then he broke into a long-limbed charge. She waited a moment, letting him get closer, then turned and bounded down the slope. The grass felt wonderful on her soles. After a while she glanced back and saw that he was gaining, his strides wide and greedy. Ahead of her was the sheep field and in it an old cart, leant forward over a missing wheel. If she reached that she could rest for a moment, using it as a shield, then make a break past Jonty and back up the lawn. She flung herself forwards. There was a yell behind her, and she turned her head but kept running…  

Her tummy plunged down.  

The ground slammed up.  

Her lungs grasped uselessly for air.   

She had fallen a great distance and now lay sprawled in a heap. Tears massed behind her eyes. Not from pain – she was numb – but because she had believed the ground would be there for her. She sat up as best she could. Her dress was rubbed with green and brown, the skirt torn.   

She was at the bottom of a steep cliff – maybe as tall as her father – that extended right and left as far as she could see. It was made of the same sandy stone as the house, with small flowers and roots squeezing through the joins. In the field ahead, sheep were staring at her with wide set, alien eyes. Pain was getting involved now, especially in her scuffed, bleeding hands, and in her left leg. She tried to stand, but her knee throbbed and buckled. Sitting again, she hiked up her skirt and saw that there was a reddish mark under the skin of her thigh. Would she ever run again?  

‘Crikey!’ called a voice from above. Jonty was peering over the edge. She hurriedly replaced the skirt.  

‘Tried to warn you,’ he said. Then he grasped a root near the top of the cliff, swung himself down, hovered for a moment, his feet feeling for a hold, and dropped, landing in a crouch.   

‘You’ve caught me,’ she said, miserable.   

‘Good job too.’ He stood over her, dusting himself down. He still had the lollipop, but when he took it from his mouth, she saw that only the stick was left.  

‘So dangerous,’ he said, kicking at the wall.   

‘What’s it for?’   

‘Them,’ he said, waving over the field in the direction of the village. ‘Stops them coming onto the lawn and eating it.’  

‘Eating it?’   

‘Oh yes. What do you think they eat!’ She looked again and realised he’d meant the sheep. Her cheeks flushed with her misunderstanding.  

‘It doesn’t ruin the view like a fence or hedge. Dangerous,’ he said again, ‘but clever too. Which is more than I can say for you!’ He squatted down beside her. She wondered which pocket the coin was in.  

‘Now,’ he said, ‘what hurts?’   

‘It’s nothing.’   

‘Can’t be. That was some fall. Let’s see.’   

She shook her head. ‘It’s under there,’ she said, pointing through her skirt.   

‘I study biology at school. A famous school. Ever heard of biology?’ She shook her head. ‘We do lots of experiments,’ he continued, rolling up his sleeves. He had fine hairs on his arms. ‘I can help.’ He reached out a hand. It was cool in the shade made by the cliff. She shivered.   

‘My father could…?’   

‘Thing is, you’re not meant to be down here. There’d be big trouble.’  

She didn’t want this boy touching her, but she didn’t want trouble either. She pictured her mother, waiting for news of how the day had gone, news she was dying to share with her relatives. The difficulty of the situation rose up and burnt the backs of Mary’s eyes. She turned her face away.   

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, touching her forearm. His hand was soft, not at all like her father’s. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ There was no choice. She gulped down the rest of the tears and nodded. ‘Good.’  

She winced as he extended out her leg. His fingers tickled in a chilly, luxurious way. She bit her lip and focused on not kicking out. He felt each toe one by one, then kneaded the sole and instep. He was immersed in what he was doing, crouched over her, murmuring.  He reached the ankle, gently ringing it with his fingers.  

‘Say if it hurts,’ he said.  

He moved up the leg, pausing before exploring the knee. She wanted this to be over, for it never to have happened. She squirmed when he placed his fingers near the bruise.   

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, pressing the knee lightly with his fingertips, once, twice. She exhaled. At least it was over.   

But his fingers kept going.   

They moved up the thigh, probing, stroking.  

‘Don’t worry,’ he kept saying. ‘Say if it hurts.’ He rolled up the skirt. She couldn’t look, couldn’t bear to see what underwear she had on. Please let it be a new pair. From miles away came the sound of Happy Birthday being sung. The boy wasn’t talking anymore, his breathing was intent. She looked up at the sky, so blue it was white, and so far away. He slipped a finger under the edge of the fabric.   

‘What do you think you’re doing!’   

He snapped away from her and onto his feet. Glowering down from the top of the cliff was a uniform, a face, the Sharp Woman. Mary pulled her skirt back down and managed, painfully, to stand. The boy slouched off, hands in his pockets; he was suddenly much younger. He didn’t once glance at Mary as she hobbled behind him, holding on to the wall. A little way along, some chunky steps were hewn into the side. The boy sprang up them, leaving Mary to be yanked up by the Sharp Woman.   

White gloved fingers bit into Mary’s arm as she was steered, along with Jonty, across the dazzling lawn. Her leg ached. She couldn’t believe that it was still daytime, that the other children were sitting at the table under the apple tree, paper hats on their heads, paper napkins in their laps.   

‘Stay here,’ the woman said, leaving them at the foot of the terrace steps. The boy kicked at the gravel, raising a cloud of dust. Kick after kick after kick. It tasted chalky, the dust, gritty. It clung to her skin. On a plinth above her was a stone urn, large enough to swallow her whole. If only it would.  

The Sharp Woman returned with the Horse Lady, who now wore a blue dress and wide sunglasses.   

‘Come here, Jonty,’ she said.   

The boy stamped, grinding his feet into the gravel. ‘I didn’t do anything!’ 

‘Come here, please.’  

Eventually, with a sigh, the Horse Lady went to Jonty and bent down in front of him. They spoke for a moment. Then he ran away.   

The Horse Lady turned to Mary. ‘Let’s find your father.’ Her voice was terrifyingly calm.  

The two of them walked slowly round the side of the Big House. Her leg was sore, gravel nipped at her feet. She could hear an engine, grumbling throatily again and again, getting louder as they reached the front courtyard. Steam was rising from the propped-open bonnet of a shiny red motorcar. A dark jacket hung from one of the wing mirrors. Mary’s father was leaning into the engine, his sleeves rolled up, holding a yellow cloth stained with oil. She felt sick, seeing the car’s insides exposed like that, being delved into.   

‘Try her again,’ said her father, stepping back. This time the engine gave out a pure baritone croon.   

Someone leapt from the driver’s seat, the man in the cream suit, cigarette in hand. 

‘Bravo!’ he said to her father. ‘You really know what you’re doing.’ He clocked the Horse Lady and, shaking his head, said, ‘A wizard!’ Then he clapped her father on the shoulder, said, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ and trotted into the house. Mary had to look away while her father, using the yellow cloth, wiped each of his fingers one by one.  

‘Your daughter took a bit of a tumble,’ said the Horse Lady. ‘But she’s not one to complain.’ She tousled Mary’s hair.   

‘Oh Mary,’ said her father, taking in the torn skirt and bare feet. ‘Where are your shoes, eh?’   

‘I expect they’re in the ha-ha,’ said the Horse Lady. ‘We’ll find them.’   

Mary had forgotten about the ha-ha. It didn’t sound fun anymore, but mean and mocking. She thought of the boy’s hands. The coin in his pocket. The dead eyes of the sheep.   

‘First,’ the Horse Lady said, ‘let’s clean you up, and get some cake.’  

‘How does that sound?’ asked her father.   

‘Would you like that, Mary?’  

Mary wasn’t at all hungry. She wanted to go home. But the two grown-ups were staring at her, expectantly.  

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’