Authors: Henry Williamson
He kicked one of the rotten posts which formerly had held the wire fence around the plantation. Phillip gave an owl’s hoot in reply. He heard Teddy say, “That’s bloody funny,” whereupon Phillip gave a catawaul, followed by barking.
“You quite took me in,” smiled Teddy. “I thought it was a bittern. What’s that you’ve got, the bellows? I say, I like that idea. I believe it might be marketed.”
“Bellows should be used at a distance from a fire, and gentle——”
“I know, I saw it as soon as you told me. Of course you’re right, but who can argue with a woman?”
“The horn only hoots when you push too hard. If I left this in ‘Yipps’s’ room, do you think she would chuck it in the fire?”
“Oh no, ‘Yipps’ wouldn’t do a thing like that. I think she’ll see the joke.”
“Well, the light is going, you go on down and get a duck, Teddy. I must be getting back.”
“I’ll tell you what. Billy might get some fun out of that
contraption
with his bull-calf Nimrod.”
But Phillip did not show his contraption to the others. ‘Yipps’ might not appreciate the joke, so he hid it in his room, meaning to take it with Billy and Roz to Tim’s. He was taking a turkey, too—Matt was to kill one of the flock, which Mrs. Valiant in the top cottage had promised to pluck and dress.
*
On the following Saturday morning he and Billy set out to collect Rosamund. She was leaving Mrs. Cheffe’s school, for he could not afford even quarter-fees any longer. He drove to Great Wordingham, picked up Roz and her small bag, and made south-east for Yarwich.
The trailer was hitched behind, with two sacks of tail-corn for Lucy’s hens, also her small leather armchair, three sacks of potatoes, some blankets, and other things he thought she would need. He had started out for the Corn Market in good time to sell his barley. The Hall closed at one o’clock, owing to the black-out. Also he must visit the bank, to leave the deeds of the farm as surety for the overdraft.
The air was keen, it might freeze hard at night. Would Luke have drained the radiator and block of the tractor, as he had been asked to do? Supposing he merely clothed it up, like a horse, as during the last winter? If the engine block broke, there might not be a replacement engine. The hydraulic tractor was a rarity in England, the inventor, Harry Ferguson, of Belfast, had gone to
America in the hope of interesting Henry Ford in his invention.
Phillip pulled up, and sat still, torn by indecision. If he went back, he would not get to the market in time, nor to Gaultford before black-out. On the other hand, if the engine block were cracked by ice, it might mean the end of the farm.
He decided to return and make sure.
*
During the last winter, of 1938–9, a period of intense cold, Lucy and he had started out one Sunday morning for Lady Breckland’s, thirty miles away, where they had been invited to luncheon. They had gone only a few miles when thoughts so insistent upon Phillip’s mind had forced him to turn back. He felt that the orders to drain the radiator of the tractor had not been carried out; that the cylinder-block would be cracked by ice in consequence. So he had returned to the cart-shed, to see what he had imagined: the hydraulic tractor standing there with sacks tied round its grey barrel body and the water still undrained from block and radiator. Removing the drain-plug, there was not even a trickle. Pulling off the sacks, he started the engine and as it warmed up so the ice within melted and drops began to resound in the pail; then the water gushed. The expanding ice would have cracked the block and perhaps opened some of the vertical pipes of the radiator within an hour or two. Luke and Matt showed concern when Phillip told them the next day.
“I did what you wanted,” declared Luke earnestly. “Father and me tried to please you. We covered it all up as best we could.”
That had been their interpretation of the order to drain the water from the radiator base by unscrewing the plug, as demonstrated.
Many times he had tried to explain to Matt the necessity of draining the water-pipes in the cow-house, and of leaving all taps open during the winter.
“From the first of December onwards, Matt, leave all the taps open. Drain the tank immediately after filling the troughs. No water to be left in tank or pipe, Matt, until I tell you. Then we’ll never freeze up, or have burst pipes.”
Useless words. The pipes had frozen solid. Again and again Phillip had unfrozen them, after hours on a ladder with a blow-pipe; again and again Matt had not left the taps open immediately after filling the tank.
“I did undo the taps at night, guv’nor. But they was already empty.”
“They were frozen solid by then, Matt. Frost is frost, both by day and by night.”
Luke said earnestly, “Father here, he’s got a lot to do.”
“I know; but with frozen pipes there is more to do.”
“Yew can’t help nature,” said Matt.
“That’s what I mean,” said Luke, earnestly.
“Thet’s right,” said Matt.
“Father and me, we try to please you——”
*
Unhitching the trailer, he drove to the farm premises.
“As I thought,” he muttered, seeing the aluminium bell-housing or body of the tractor rugged up, but the plug under the radiator still in its place. Thank God no one had taken tools from the tractor box. Leaving plug in box and radiator cap beside it, he ran back to the car and then remembering the two-stroke engine which worked the pump above the artesian well, he took away the plug, put it in his pocket, and ran back to the car. Up and over the hill, past Charles Box’s house at Henthorpe, swerving round corners and on the straight but narrow lane opened out the engine. Would they be in time before the bank shut, and the Corn Hall? Frost was forming its ferny patterns on the windscreen, so he lowered it, put Billy and Roz under tonneau cover, and getting back into the cockpit put his foot down.
“I must get to the bank before it closes!” he cried to Billy and Roz, “to get money for your Christmas feast, and Mummy’s, too.”
“Cor, I bet you make her scrap, Dad!” cried the voice of Billy in darkness.
“I won’t take any risks, so don’t worry. The trailer may break up, the tyres catch fire, the sparking plugs melt, but we’ll get there!”
They reached the town, and the parking place behind the new international-type building of the County Hall dominating the market, at 12.53 p.m. Grasping the black leather manuscript bag containing an envelope filled with a sample of Bustard barley, and telling Billy and Rosamund to
meet him outside the Corn Market, he ran down to the bank in London Street, pushed the deeds under the grille; and then, running to the Corn Hall, paid 2d. for the ticket, pressed through the clicking turnstile, and entered the press of office-solid and weather-lean men standing and moving slowly about the desk-stands ranged in line down the hall.
Sparrows were flying about the iron cross-pieces and supports
of the roof; the birds had an easy living from grains scattered on the floor around the desk-stands.
He looked about him in the babble and press of faces and figures, wondering where to go. Always that necessary half-hour was deficient in the execution of his plans.
The glass of the Corn Market roof was opaquely white despite heat arising from the thousand bodies and every fourth man smoking a pipe or cigarette.
(There were no cigars about then: the cigars came for the big farmers two years later, when barley rose to 210
s.
a sack or coomb.)
The clock on the wall told a minute to one o’clock. Phillip was breathless from running. He thought what a fool he was to sell barley at the very last minute the last Saturday before Christmas, when the buyers were in all probability filled up. Still, the idea had been to feel secure for Christmas, with overdraft safe.
At the beginning of the season barley had made up to 25
s
. a coomb or sack; now the best malting sample was as high as 40
s.
He wondered how many had sold their corn after showing their samples at first one stand, then another stand, and then a third and fourth stand; and failing to get their price, had put their samples back in their pockets, like strong-minded men. He felt himself to be the weakest-minded man in the Hall. If only he knew one familiar face, to advise him of the worth of his barley off ten acres of the Bustard. Dare he ask the County Agricultural Adviser, who was holding forth quietly to one of several young farmers waiting to ask his advice? No, that would be improper: an Adviser must be impartial, above participation in money-matters.
What should he do? The clock pointed to one o’clock. Already merchants were leaving, clicking the brass locks of brown leather cases containing envelopes of samples neatly packed; already their coats were buttoned up against the cold outside, their thoughts on hot roast beef and baked potatoes. He must be quick; but not rash. What about the children’s lunch? There would be no time for that if they were to travel a hundred miles before black-out.
And supposing Billy and Rosamund had wandered away and got lost in the cattle market, Billy after pointing out with pride where he had bid ten shillings for his calf Nimrod? Perhaps the children would lose all sense of time staring at the red Case tractors on show by the implement dealers, at the orange Fordsons, and (with great luck) a yellow Caterpillar crawler or even a green Oliver with huge wheels that would not scrap even in the sumpy black Fen soil. Oh, where were they?
“Hullo, Dad!”
There they were, smiling, behind him.
“The old man at the clicker-gate let us in for nothing, as it was Christmas holidays,” cried Rosamund. Bless her, she had a realistic mind: trust Rosamund to understand.
“Quick, Billy, where shall I sell our barley? Keep by me, and shove me away if I let it go under thirty-eight shillings!”
There was a name-plate painted on a stand, FRAMLINGHAM. It was adorned with leaves and flowers, as by a peasant artist.
“It’s coastal barley,” he said to the merchant of Framlingham.
The coastal barley was famous: soil and sea-mists combined to make a mellow sample for the best ales. The merchant took the sample, poured grains into the palm of one hand, smelt them, shook his hand to separate them, glanced at them sideways, poured some more, shuffled them.
“How much to you want?”
“Forty shillings. At the farm.”
“How far from Crabbe station?”
“Four miles.”
The merchant poured the grains back into the envelope, spilling some; handed it back. “Too much.”
Phillip took the envelope. There was no expression on the merchant’s face.
“How much have you got?”
“One hundred and twenty coomb.”
The merchant held out his hand for the envelope again. “There are some green kernels, you see.”
Again he smelt the grains in his hand; then took a cutting instrument looking like a watch, opened it, shook the grains over it to settle them into the holes, closed the cutting lid, and split the grains. He held out the open circular lid for Phillip to see the result. Almost one-third of the kernels were hard and grey, steely; the rest were soft and white, mellow.
“Lot of steel, you see. I’ve bought better barleys for thirty-five shillings.”
“It’s a nice colour, and plump little kernels.”
The merchant threw the cut sample away, closed the
nickel-plated
cutter, and poured from the envelope once more into the palm of his hand. “None of this is kiln-dried?”
“No. There was less than a coomb of damp on top, but it hadn’t sprouted. It’s kept apart.”
“I’ll give you thirty-four.”
“No, it’s worth more.”
The merchant glanced at the clock. Billy prodded his father in the back. “I think I’ll keep it for after Christmas.”
“Will you take thirty-five? It’s a good price.”
“I want thirty-eight.”
Billy nudged Phillip again. Phillip turned to see the boy’s fixed stare. “No less!” hissed Billy.
“My manager,” Phillip explained to the sphinx on the stand. The sphinx smiled.
“No, it’s really not worth so much. The brewers are well supplied, too, nearly all filled up. We haven’t dealt with you before, have we?”
“No, I’m a newcomer. My second year up here.”
“Well, last year was a bit discouraging, wasn’t it? But you’ve come into farming at the right time. I’ll give you another sixpence, thirty-five and six at the farm. That really is a good offer. It’s not fine ale barley; but a good medium sample.”
During the previous season Phillip had been shown a sample of fine ale barley: yellow as a canary, all the grains of an enviable sameness; not too fat and not too slim; rare quail-like grains; grains with faintly wrinkled skins denoting uniform ripening without excessive shrinking; grain arisen from a land where the sea-mists of summer crossing over the coast-line to upland fields dampened and mellowed the grains of the bleached-prawn heads hanging straight down, dead ripe, completely bent at the narrow thread of the neck; the bearded heads hanging damp in the coastal fogs of August which moved in from the grey North Sea and dulled the afternoon sun and the constellations of night and the morning star of dawn until breezes eddied over the corn and the heads dried in the morning sun once more. Barley corn grown on the coast grew damp and dry alternately in mist and sunny wind, and so it became mellow, its kernels white within the
even-wrinkled
skins. The best of the barleys of that coast were second only to the unique sample which came from the red soil behind Porlock on the Severn Sea, off the fields above the rocky coast of Somerset.
“I know mine isn’t a fine-ale sample.”
“Thirty-five and six a coomb?”
“Did you paint this board?”
“I did.”
“Artists should be encouraged. I’ll take your offer.”
Two prods in his back. Two reproachful faces.
“Dad, why
did
you?”
“Because, my dears, instinct tells me I have met an honest merchant; and the price he offers is fair.”
The honest merchant, all unaware of the whispered tribute, wrote on the envelope 60 qrs. 71
s.
‚
together with the name of the village, and said, “We’ll post you a bag for bulk sample. Good morning. Merry Christmas.”