The Two Farms: A moving family saga set in a Victorian farming community

by Mary E. Pearce

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He feels very cold.’

  ‘Yes, and his pulse is very weak.’ Jim turned towards the door. ‘I’m going to fetch Dr Hoad,’ he said.

  Kirren followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  ‘You’re not going to cross the brook, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘After what’s happened to father tonight? Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘It won’t happen to me,’ Jim said.

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  ‘Your father’d been drinking. I have not. I’ll come to no harm, I promise you.’

  ‘Why not go round by the main bridge at Lyall?’

  ‘Because, as you well know, it will add an hour or more to the journey.’

  ‘I see no point in saving an hour if you end up drowned,’ Kirren said. ‘I know what the brook is like in flood. And what about the mare, anyway? Will she cross again after such a fright?’

  ‘I hope she will. Indeed, she must. It wouldn’t be any good taking Griff. He’s not used to it. She is.’

  ‘I wish you would not go,’ Kirren said. ‘You may not have been drinking, it’s true, but when did you last have a good night’s sleep? Oh, I know you’ve slept in that chair, a couple of hours at a time, perhaps. But when did you last sleep in your bed? You’ve been out with your flock at all hours this week ‒’ She broke off, looking at him, and her eyes were suddenly very dark. ‘You’re just about tired unto death,’ she said.

  There was a little silence between them, full of feeling, full of thought, and they looked at each other across the room.

  ‘I’m not so tired as all that … and I think it’s important to get the doctor as soon as I can.’

  ‘Dr Hoad won’t cross the brook. He’ll come the safe way like a sensible man and if you had half an ounce of his sense ‒’ Once again she broke off, giving vent to a short, sharp sigh. ‘Oh, it’s no use talking!’ she said. ‘I’m wasting my breath, I can see that! Go and get yourself drowned in the brook if that’s what you’ve set your heart on doing!’

  She turned away from him, angrily, but he caught her arm in a firm grip and drew her round to face him again.

  ‘I shan’t drown,’ he said quietly. ‘I care too much about my life to run any risk of losing it.’ And, stooping, he kissed her on the mouth.

  A quick glance between them and he was gone and Kirren, left staring at the door, heard him riding out of the yard. For a moment she stood, listening, her thoughts going with him through the night. Then, with a faint flush of warmth in her cheeks, she turned and went out to the hall and up the stairs to her father’s room, to sit with him and watch over him until such time as Jim returned.

  When the mare, as Jim expected, jibbed at crossing the brook again, he dismounted and led the way, stepping down onto the bridge, into water that reached above his waist, and coaxing her to follow him. She gave a snicker of protest at first, but responded trustingly enough to the firm pull of his hand on her bridle, and they crossed safely to the other side.

  It was turned half past eight by the time he reached the doctor’s house and rain was still falling steadily.

  ‘Can’t it wait until morning?’ the doctor asked irritably.

  ‘No, it can’t,’ Jim said.

  ‘Oh, very well, very well, I’ll come! But not with you, mind, across your damned brook. I’m too old for such pranks as that. I shall come round by the bridge at Lyall.’

  Jim returned home the way he had come, again without any misadventure, and Kirren, having been listening for him, came to her father’s bedroom window, peering down through the rainy darkness and raising a hand to him as he rode past on his way to the stables.

  When he went into the kitchen, after attending to the mare, Kirren was busy at the hearth, preparing hot food for him.

  ‘Did you find the doctor at home?’

  ‘Yes, he’s on his way,’ Jim said. ‘He’s coming round by Lyall Bridge. Has your father woken at all?’

  ‘No,’ Kirren said, ‘he hasn’t stirred.’ Still busy with her preparations, she turned her head and glanced at him. ‘By the time you’ve changed those wet clothes, your supper will be ready,’ she said.

  He went upstairs to his bedroom, changed into dry clothes, and brought the wet ones down with him to dry by the fire. The kitchen was empty; Kirren had gone up to her father again; but his supper was ready on the table: hot mutton broth, thickened with oatmeal, and a loaf of the bread she had baked that day. He sat down to it, gratefully, watched by the tortoiseshell cat, Tibby, who lay in her box beside the hearth with four kittens nestling against her.

  When Jim had finished his meal he put on the driest coat he could find, and a hood made from sacks, and went out on a round of the buildings, making sure that all was well with the ewes and lambs quartered there. By then it was past ten o’clock so he walked down the track to meet Dr Hoad, whose temper, when he came, was somewhat short.

  ‘Trust that fool Morris Riddler,’ he said, ‘to bring me out on a night like this!’

  The doctor, having made his examination, stood in front of the bedroom fire and drank the brandy Jim had brought him.

  ‘No bones broken as far as I can tell but I shan’t know for certain until he comes to.’

  ‘When do you think that will be?’ Kirren asked.

  ‘Can’t tell you that. Just don’t know. He’s pretty badly concussed, of course, but he’s got a thick enough skull, God knows, and I doubt if much harm will come of it. Dragged along by his nag, did you say? Yes, that explains the twisted foot. As for the bruising to the head and trunk, well, he’ll be pretty sore when he does come round, but maybe that will teach him some sense.’

  ‘What should I do for him when he comes round?’

  ‘Keep him warm and quiet and still, that’s all, and if he starts asking for food, give him something easy and light. Gruel, perhaps, or arrowroot. No stimulants, mind! No alcohol! He’s had quite enough of that for today.’ The doctor drained his brandy-glass. ‘I’ll come out again some time tomorrow. Not sure when. All depends.’

  Jim, having seen the doctor off, returned to Riddler’s bedroom. Kirren sat in a chair by the bed with a piece of needlework in her lap. Jim stood looking down at her.

  ‘I’ll sit with him now while you get some sleep.’

  ‘I don’t need any sleep,’ she said. ‘You’re the one who needs the sleep.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me. Just do as I say.’

  ‘No, I will not! Why should I indeed?’ Her dark eyes flashed in the candlelight. ‘He’s my father, not yours,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you hated him,’ Jim said.

  ‘Yes, well, so I do sometimes. Or at least I have done, in the past.’ She looked at the grey-faced man in the bed. ‘But how can you hate anyone who lies so cold and still and quiet and looks so ‒ so close to death?’ she said. ‘Oh, he’s a selfish, stubborn brute of a man, and I can’t pretend I’m fond of him … But he’s worked so hard all these years, as you know, and for this to happen to him now, when his life has changed for the better at last ‒’

  ‘He’s not going to die,’ Jim said.

  ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘No, he is not. What the doctor says is true ‒ your father is as tough as oak. He’s a born fighter. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘Try not to worry. I’m sure there’s no need.’

  ‘Very well,’ Kirren said. ‘But if there’s nothing to worry about you may go to your bed and sleep.’

  Jim, with a little smile, gave in.

  ‘You’ll call me if you need me?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I will, I promise you.’

  He touched her arm and left the room.

  At five o’clock the following morning, refreshed after more than six hours’ sleep, Jim was in the kitchen making tea. During the night the rain had stopped and the outside world seemed strangely still. When he went up to Riddler’s room, taking Kirre
n a cup of tea, she had already drawn the curtains back and there was a cold pale light in the room. His glance went to the man in the bed and he thought he detected some slight change. He turned to Kirren, questioningly, and she gave a nod.

  ‘A short while ago he woke up,’ she said. ‘It was only for two or three seconds, that’s all, and then he closed his eyes again. But he knew me, I’m sure …’

  ‘Here, drink this while it’s hot,’ Jim said, and gave her the tea.

  He went to the bed and touched Riddler’s face. He put his hand in under the bedclothes, felt Riddler’s body, and tested his pulse.

  ‘He’s a lot warmer than he was last night and I think his pulse is stronger too.’

  ‘Yes, I thought the same myself.’

  ‘He’ll soon pick up now.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Have you slept at all?’

  ‘Yes, off and on.’

  Jim went down to the kitchen again and drank his own cup of hot sweet tea. Then he went out to the milking-shed and told the men what had happened to Riddler.

  ‘Poor old master,’ said Nahum Smith. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘I think so,’ Jim said.

  ‘It’s certainly some old flood down there. It’s like the Sea of Galilee. And the state of the fields as we came down ‒ I’ve never seen so much mud in my life!’

  The miry state of the fields and the yards made extra work for everybody. Because carts could not go on the land, hay and turnips for the sheep sheltering in the pine wood had to be taken up on the horses’ backs. Because a trough had overflowed and water had got into the root house, the mangolds all had to be taken out and spread on straw in the barn to dry. And all through the greater part of that day there were similar trials and calamities.

  First it was a young sow that fell into an open drain; she was heavily in pig and it took three men to haul her out without doing her any harm. Next it was Bob Lovell who slipped wheeling a barrowload of muck across the fold-yard so that it ran into one of the pillars supporting the linhay and brought part of the roof sagging down. The sheep in the linhay were unharmed but the roof, in danger of further collapse, had to be shored up immediately. Then it was Kirren’s pony, Griff, who had to be treated for colic after Willie Townsend had carelessly allowed him to drink from a pail of water just drawn from the well. While Jim was giving the pony a mild draught of peppermint and laudanum, Prue Townsend came to him with a message from Kirren.

  ‘The master’s awake and he’s asking for you.’

  Riddler, clad in a nightshirt now, still lay flat on his back, but there was some colour reviving in his face and he was breathing more normally. Jim sat down in the chair by the bed and Riddler, turning towards him, groaned.

  ‘I ache in every particle,’ he said in a low, hoarse voice.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Jim said, ‘after what happened to you.’

  ‘How’s my stupid cow of a mare?’

  ‘In better shape than you by far.’

  ‘She doesn’t damn well deserve to be, dragging me over the lots like that. Did you bring my saddlebags in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Money safe?’

  ‘Yes, quite safe.’

  ‘I reckon I’d better leave it to you to pay the men their wages today.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ Jim said. ‘They sent their good wishes to you, by the way. They hope you’ll soon be on the mend.’

  ‘I hope it myself,’ Riddler said.

  Kirren came into the room with a bowl of warm barley gruel. Jim helped Riddler to a sitting position and propped him up against his pillows. Kirren sat on the edge of the bed, spread a napkin on Riddler’s chest, and offered him a spoonful of gruel. He looked at it with some distaste.

  ‘If this is all I’m getting to eat, the sooner I mend the better,’ he said.

  Jim, with a little smile for Kirren, quietly left the room.

  It was a day of comings and goings; of jobs interrupted and left half done, returned to, and left again; a day of hurriedly eaten meals and short, snatched conversations.

  At three o’clock the doctor came and Jim, again called into the house, was climbing the stairs to Riddler’s room when he heard the old man give a bellowing shout. On going in he found Riddler sitting on the edge of the bed, glaring ferociously at the doctor, who stood nearby, quite unmoved.

  ‘He said he couldn’t straighten his foot, so I straightened it for him,’ he explained.

  ‘I reckon the damned fool has just about crippled me for life,’ Riddler said.

  ‘Well, we shall see, shan’t we?’ the doctor said cheerfully, and downstairs, as Kirren and Jim saw him off, he said: ‘Keep him in bed for a day or two ‒ if you can get him to stay there. I’ll be over again on Tuesday morning.’

  Jim went back to the task of cleaning out the root-house, and Kirren, knowing her father was now well enough to be left alone, went to help Prue Townsend in the dairy. It had begun to rain again and by early evening, when Jim paid the men their wages, it was turning to sleet.

  ‘The master’s in the best place, tucked up in bed,’ said Nahum Smith. ‘I shan’t be sorry to get there myself and rest my poor old rheumaticky bones.’

  When the men had gone Jim went into the barn to look over his ewes and lambs and found Kirren there. She was with her fosterling and was letting him suck her thumb.

  ‘It seems he still remembers me.’

  ‘So he should,’ Jim said. ‘You were his mother till yesterday.’

  ‘He likes his new mother best.’

  They stood for a little while in silence, watching the lamb. Then they both began speaking at once, Kirren to say what a day it had been, and Jim to ask about her father.

  ‘How is he now?’

  ‘Better,’ she said. ‘But still very quiet ‒ for him.’

  ‘Make the most of it.’

  ‘Yes.’ She laughed.

  ‘I told you he would be all right.’

  ‘Yes. You did.’

  They left the barn and went into the house and Kirren at once became very busy, first making up the fire and swinging the kettle over it, next moving to and fro, lighting the lamp on the table and setting out the supper things. Jim, having hung up his jacket and hat, stood quietly watching her as she went again and again to the larder, bringing out bread, butter, cheese, and ham, and two or three different kinds of chutney. At last he spoke.

  ‘Kirren, can’t you be still for a moment?’

  ‘What?’ she said, with a flickering glance. ‘Yes, very well, if that’s what you want. But I thought you’d be hungry for your supper ‒’

  ‘Supper can wait,’ Jim said. ‘At the moment I want to talk to you and I can’t talk sensibly while you keep flitting about like that.’

  ‘Behold me, then ‒ standing still.’

  She stood at the opposite side of the table and placed her hands on the back of a chair, folding them there in a gesture of primness. But although she was now facing him, her glance was still evasive, unsure, and, watching her closely in the lamplight, he saw a faint tinge of colour come stealing slowly into her face.

  ‘Something’s been happening to us, hasn’t it, during the past few weeks?’ he said. And when she failed to answer he said: ‘Or perhaps it’s only been happening to me?’

  ‘No,’ she said, quickly this time, ‘it has happened to me as well.’

  ‘Then why won’t you look at me, properly?’

  ‘Because ‒ I don’t know ‒ it’s difficult. And you haven’t yet said what it is …’

  ‘I love you,’ he said, ‘and you love me.’

  There was a pause. She drew a deep breath.

  ‘You make it all sound so simple,’ she said, ‘and you’re always so ‒ so sure of everything.’

  ‘Kirren, are you afraid of me?’

  ‘No, of course not. Why should I be?’

  ‘I know what you’ve always felt about men and I’m thinking of what you said to me the day I first came here from P
eele ‒’

  ‘Don’t remind me of what I said. That was then. It’s different now!’

  ‘How is it different?’

  ‘You know very well.’

  She was looking at him directly now, letting him see what she felt for him, and although, when he moved and came towards her, there was a hint of shy alarm in the sudden widening of her eyes, she turned to him and went into his arms and gave herself to him in a kiss that was free of shyness, free of constraint.

  In a little while, when Jim spoke again, it was in a voice very quiet and deep, and he looked at her in wonderment, touching her face, her lips, her throat, delicately, with his fingertips.

  ‘When I married you, I was deceived.’

  ‘Who deceived you?’

  ‘You did,’ he said. ‘You allowed me to think that your past life had roughened you and made you hard, that you had no womanly passion in you, nor any womanly tenderness.’

  ‘And now you know better?’ Kirren said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, in the same deep voice, ‘now I know you for what you are.’

  There came a knock from the room above, loud and peremptory, making them jump. They looked at each other with laughing eyes, drawing apart, reluctantly, with a last lingering touch of the hands.

  ‘That’s father,’ Kirren said, ‘just in case you didn’t know.’

  ‘I told you he wouldn’t be quiet for long.’

  ‘I’d better go up and see what he wants.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t want you with me. Not just yet. He’d know there was something ‒ he’d see too much.’

  ‘No one would ever see anything that you didn’t want them to see,’ Jim said. ‘Not if you had made up your mind to it.’

  ‘You think so, do you? I’m not so sure. And I don’t intend to take any chances until I’ve had time to ‒ to gather my wits.’

  Another loud knock and she hurried away. The kitchen seemed suddenly empty and bare. Jim stood, a faint smile on his lips, listening to the sounds overheard, of Kirren and her father talking together. Then, in a moment, she reappeared.

  ‘He’s asking for something to eat,’ she said, ‘and he wants you to take it up to him.’