by John Masters
‘Pleased to know you, Mr Rowland. Mr John Rowland, isn’t it?’
‘Sorry to have missed you the other day.’
‘Well, we’ve met now. Nice to see you again, Mrs Rowland.’
‘I do hope you’re comfortable here,’ John said.
‘Very much so, sir. This is a very pleasant establishment with a friendly atmosphere, even for non-combatants. I trust we shall meet again, soon.’ Bowing, they went on their way to a table in a far corner by the window. John watched them sit down, their heads closing as they began to talk, the menu left untouched on the tablecloth.
Louise said, ‘Richard said that they are almost certainly going to lend him the money he needs to start his business, or form a company for him, which would come to the same thing. I don’t know how much it will need.’
‘About a million pounds,’ John said, ‘I asked Richard.’
‘Goodness gracious! What a lot of money!’
‘Making motor cars is an expensive business, my dear.’
‘Well, they can afford it, I suppose, because they’re not spending it on fighting the war. They’ll get richer and richer while we get poorer and poorer.’
John said, ‘I think the Americans may be wise, dear. Wiser than we. This war’s a terrible thing.’
The old waiter served the first course and they began to eat. Louise spoke between mouthfuls. ‘You know when Mother and Alice came down last Sunday?’
‘Of course.’
‘Alice told me privately that there is bad feeling now between Richard and the Governor. The Governor never thought he’d really do what he said he was going to do … or find the capital, or anything. Now it looks as though he will succeed, and your father’s very upset.’
John said, ‘The Governor likes having his own way. He always did.’ He thought to himself that he had been a good father, on the whole: affectionate, reasonably flexible and understanding of his children’s diverse characters and emotions.
‘It’s a shame, though.’
John said, ‘It will get worse when Richard’s factory starts working, and he takes mechanics and craftsmen away from Rowland’s. Last week’s Courier was full of speculation about the wages Richard’s going to pay – even though it isn’t certain yet he’s going to get the money from the Merritts. He told me that several people have already asked him if he’s going to pay American rates, like Mr Ford’s.’
‘Five dollars a working day, I read. That’s over a pound a day, isn’t it? About three hundred and twenty pounds a year.
I don’t think Tom gets more than that as a commander. What are the Merritts doing now?’
‘Talking. The son is drawing on a piece of paper. Why?’
‘Christopher told me that he – the son, Johnny’s his name – is very taken with Stella.’
‘He’s a good looking young man. Stella is lucky.’
‘She’s too young to get married … but she ought to.’
‘Why?’
‘You know, John.’
‘No, I don’t.’
Louise dropped her voice. ‘You remember what I said about Carol Adams? About cows and the bull?’
‘Oh yes. I suppose Stella is a bit flighty.’
‘Flighty is not quite the word I would use. Susceptible would be better, I think. And with Margaret really not being a mother to her … I mean, I can’t imagine Margaret listening to her, if she needed help, or advice.’
‘Are we any better with Naomi?’ John asked suddenly.
His wife stopped her fork in midair. She lowered the fork and said quietly, ‘I sometimes wonder.’ She picked up the fork again, chewed the mouthful, swallowed, and said, ‘Charles will be in France soon.’
‘I know.’
A long silence. ‘I can’t bear to think of it,’ she said, her voice breaking. She dabbed at her eyes. ‘When he went to Sandhurst I never thought he’d be fighting Germans or French or people like that, only natives.’
John said patiently, ‘He’ll do his duty, whomever he has to fight.’
She put away her handkerchief and said, ‘The Germans are no different from natives, really, the way they behave – raping nuns and killing babies.’
John said, ‘I don’t know whether we really ought to believe everything that we …’
‘They cook people,’ Louise said flatly.
‘My dear, it may not be true.’
‘They boil them down for soap. It’s true! It was in the newspaper!’
John thought of Rachel Cowan’s words the day after war was declared. The hatred that she had prophesied was already abroad in the land. He sighed, wishing again that he had persevered in his wish to become a clergyman of the Church of England. Now, surely, if ever, charity and hope were needed in the world: but he was a farmer, a gentleman farmer.
For the first twenty minutes of the drive back to High Staining, they had talked, avoiding what was closest to both of them – the imminent arrival of their son on the battlefield across the Channel. Instead they spoke of the weather (it was still raining): the poverty of the year’s local hop harvest: and the price of Friesian cattle. Then they had fallen silent, each listening to his own thoughts, the hiss of the tyres on the gravelled road, and the patter of rain on the canvas hood. John drove slowly, Louise huddled up beside him, both wearing gloves and goggles, for visibility was poor, whether he tried to see through the spattered windshield or peer over the top of it into the driving rain. They passed through Walstone soon after three in the afternoon, forty-five minutes after leaving the back yard of the South Eastern Hotel, where guests other than residents left their motor cars, and took the narrow lane to High Staining.
With the house close ahead, no more than a hundred and fifty yards up the slope, the Rowland lurched to the right. This was followed immediately by a heavy thump thump thump from that side. ‘Puncture,’ John said briefly. ‘It’ll be another horseshoe nail.’
He climbed out and stood a moment in the rain, water dripping off his cap and coat, inspecting the right front tyre. It was flat.
‘Can’t we just drive it to the stable?’ Louise asked. They still called the place where the car was kept ‘the stable’, which was reasonable enough, as it still was the stable – the horses and trap and dog cart were at the far end of the same building, all presided over by Palmer the groom, who had his quarters above.
John shook his head. ‘It would ruin the tyre, cut it to pieces. Come on, it’s not far. Leave your packages.’
He helped his wife out of the car and they started up the remaining distance, hurrying through the rain. A minute after leaving the car, they passed the hay barn, where hay was stacked after it was brought in from the fields, and stored until it was needed. As they passed the half-open sliding door John distinctly heard a sound like a stifled scream. Louise heard it, too, and stopped with her hand on his arm – ‘What was that?’ she whispered, her face paling.
‘Don’t know.’ He started towards the barn door, Louise at his heels. They went in, half-running, to stop dead a yard inside the door. In front of them, not ten feet away, Carol Adams, the Vicar of Beighton’s daughter, lay on her back under a man. One arm was round his neck, pulling him down to her, her skirt and petticoat thrown back to bare her loins to his thrusting, her legs round his lower back. His trousers were off completely, thrown into the hay to one side, the great gluteal muscles of his buttocks contracting and releasing as he drove in and out of her body. Her eyes were closed when they first saw her, and she had one hand in her mouth, biting into it to stifle the animal sounds of sexual arousement that were pouring out of her. She was still making a lot of noise, though nothing now as specific as a scream; but she heard Louise’s loud gasp. Her eyes opened, and she stared at them for several seconds while the man continued to thrust, but she did not seem to see them. Then recognition came, and dragged her violently back from that place of instinct rather than reason, where she had been. She cried, ‘Fred!’
The man paused, then obviously unable to control t
he oncoming orgasm, thrust finally down and held tight, groaning and jerking rhythmically.
She had closed her eyes again, and lain still, realizing that she was helpless to move him for the moment. After a time she said quietly, ‘It’s Mr Rowland, Fred … and Mrs Rowland.’
Fred Stratton lay on her, turning his head a little to one side to breathe. He said, ‘You’d best go. I’ll come up later.’
Louise turned and went out. John said, ‘Come to my office,’ then he followed his wife; but before going to the house he went to the stable, found Palmer cleaning saddlery, and told him to go down to the Rowland, change the wheel, drive it up, repair the puncture, and bring the packages to the house. These horseshoe nails hadn’t mattered when he was a boy: now, with all the cars and motor bicycles on the roads, they were becoming a real nuisance, indeed an actual danger.
Then he faced the house, and Louise. After changing his outer clothes and boots for something drier and more comfortable, he went to the office. She was waiting for him there, in front of the fireplace, his Cambridge oar slanting across most of the wall behind her.
‘He’s got to go,’ she said at once, her hands folded in front of her.
‘I suppose so.’
‘He’s been above himself ever since he came here – and not very good either, you say.’
‘Yes,’ John agreed. Fred would have to go; but he wished the whole unpleasantness could have been avoided. For one thing, whom could he get to replace Stratton? He voiced the thought.
‘I don’t know,’ Louise said, ‘but we’ll find someone. Or you can run the farm without a foreman.’
‘I can try,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Christopher’s suggested it more than once, but …’
There was a knock at the door and John said, ‘Come in.’
It was Fred Stratton, still flushed from his exertions, rain drops pearling his coat and reddish hair. The wide-set blue eyes stared straight at John, the mouth was firm. He said, ‘I’ll be leaving, Mr John.’
John said, ‘I suppose you’d better.’
‘I didn’t like the work anyway. I’ve been here four years, and how many days off have I had?’
John said, ‘Very few, I know. Farming is a demanding business.’
‘Not for some.’ Fred’s voice and demeanour were surly. John thought, now he’s trying to work up anger to justify his conduct. He said, ‘I do not wish to quarrel, Fred. If you want to go now, I agree that you should … What are you going to do next? I am sure my father will be happy to find a good place for you at Rowland’s.’
‘I don’t want that,’ Fred said, a little less angrily, ‘I never liked factories. I’m going into the army.’
‘You’re going to join up?’ Louise interjected, surprise apparent in her voice.
‘No,’ Fred said curtly, ‘I am going to be an officer. I’m as good a man as many that are.’
Louise sniffed. John said, ‘I am sure you are. The Wealds?’
‘Why not?’ Fred said belligerently, ‘why should I join a crowd of Welshmen or something, just because I didn’t go to Eton?’
‘Quite, quite,’ John said. ‘You know that my brother is a major in them.’
‘Major Quentin. I know. Is he all right?’– the tone was less abrasive.
‘So far as we know, touch wood –’ John religiously tapped the oak desk. ‘He knows you, from visits here, and Mr Cate will write a letter of commendation, I’m sure … the rector, too.’
‘I don’t go to no church,’ Fred said, ‘don’t believe in it. My dad and mum are chapel.’
‘My father will certainly do all he can for you. It might help, you know.’
‘Well, thanks,’ Fred said grudgingly, ‘that’s kind of you … Don’t blame the girl. I talked her into it.’
Louise sniffed again, and John said, ‘Quite.’
‘I’ll pack. Then I’ll walk to the station and catch the evening train.’
‘I owe you a month’s wages,’ John said.
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ Fred said. ‘I’m leaving. You’re not sacking me. You could send my bag after me to Dad’s place – 85 Jervis Street. I’ll be there a few days.’ He nodded and said, ‘Well, goodbye …’
John stood up, his hand out. He had once been a clergyman, almost. It was noble to forgive. Besides, the lusts of the flesh were hard to control in the young, and Fred was only thirty-one. After a moment of surprise, Fred took the hand, shook it, said, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Rowland,’ and walked out.
‘Well!’ Louise said, sinking into the hard chair opposite the desk, ‘Fred Stratton an officer! They’ll never take him.’
‘I think they will,’ John said gently. ‘Lord Kitchener’s armies are going to be so numerous that our class cannot possibly supply officers for them all.’
She said, ‘But … he might go to Charles’s battalion! Or Quentin’s. And eat with them in the mess, and everything.’
‘He might. There’s nothing we can do about it, my dear. It’s the war … and it might turn out for the best.’
His wife said, ‘I can’t see how, but – ’ she shrugged, and changed the subject. ‘Carol will have to leave, too. We can’t have that sort of behaviour at High Staining.’
John didn’t speak for a time, his thoughts progressing in the same groove they had been moving in since he saw the girl’s ecstatic face pressed back in the hay, stalks in her hair. What to do? She was twenty-four; not exactly elderly, but no longer a minor by any standards. She had committed a folly – several times by now, probably; but how many others had done, and were doing the same – even girls of her class, infected by the spreading virus of war? And the men? But what would Louise say – fearing perhaps that the next man to fall into her trap would be himself?
He said, ‘I’d like to keep her. If I’m going to take over the running of the farm myself, I need people with some experience – and intelligence. Carol has them.’
Louise said, ‘What if she’s pregnant?’
He said unhappily, ‘I don’t know. We’d have to send her home. She’d have to tell her mother, I suppose.’
‘Well, we can only wait and see. If she starts getting morning sickness, we’ll know.’
‘Then you don’t mind her staying?’
‘Not after I’ve had a little talk with her … And it’ll be best if you have only girls on this farm, John. As to what to do if Carol is pregnant, well, we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.’
There was a small tap on the door, and Louise said, ‘Here she is.’ John said, ‘Come in.’
Carol Adams entered, not exactly sidling, but not walking in firmly, head high, as she used to. She stood just inside the open door, as though keeping her escape route open, her hands nervously intertwining, and said, ‘I’ll go home, Mrs Rowland.’
Louise said, ‘Come in, girl. Shut the door.’
John said, ‘Fred’s leaving.’
‘He said he would, some time ago. He … he wasn’t really happy here. Nothing to do with – this.’
‘I know. Look, Carol, I am going to manage the farm myself. I need labourers. If you will promise to behave yourself here – I don’t want you to leave.’
She did not speak, head hanging. He said, ‘Will you stay?’
She said in a small voice, ‘If you want me. If Mrs Rowland doesn’t mind.’
Louise said, ‘You can stay, Carol, but there are some things we must talk about. John, will you tell Wood we’ll be having tea in twenty-five minutes? Come with me, Carol.’
The two women went out, Carol closing the door carefully behind her. John stared at the oar over the mantel, feeling a great sense of relief.
They were in bed, the high double bed that Louise had inherited from her grandmother and brought down from Yorkshire at great expense soon after their marriage. The rain hissed gently against the window panes, the electric light was on at the bedside, for John had been reading, a book he’d bought in Hedlington after lunch, on breeds of milk cattle round the world. He had
been studying the Friesian breed.
When Louise finished her toilet, she climbed into bed beside him and said, ‘Carol is sure she’s not pregnant. I asked her how she knew. She blushed scarlet then, and said Fred used those things, those rubber things you can buy. For the man.’
French letters, John thought to himself. He had heard that the French had the impudence to call them capotes anglises. He himself had never used one, feeling that they were somehow wrong; but whether withdrawal from the woman’s body – at the moment when spouses ought to be closest, physically as well as spiritually – was any better, he did not know.
Louise said, ‘I promised not to say anything to her mother, as long as she behaves herself. We can’t have a parson’s daughter demeaning herself with the local men. I don’t know how she could bring herself to do it with Fred. But then, girls like Carol can hardly control themselves.’
‘Then her promise to behave herself is not of much value, is it?’
‘You’ll have to keep an eye on her … You’ll need another labourer.’
‘I know, but heaven knows where I’m going to find one.’
‘Carol told me something. Lady Helen wants to work on a farm.’
‘Lady Helen Durand-Beaulieu? Swanwick’s daughter?’
‘How many other Lady Helens do we know? She’s spoken to Carol about it several times, apparently.’
‘You said I ought to get all women here, but I don’t know whether I want to. It’s too much responsibility. What dreadful trouble we’d be in if Lady Helen went like Carol!’
‘She won’t,’ Louise said firmly. ‘That young woman has her head screwed on the right way. She’s quite different from Carol, and with the two of them working together, each of them’s going to find it harder to stray.’
‘I don’t know whom they’re going to stray with, the way the men are leaving for the war … unless it’s to be with me.’
She patted his hand beside her on the quilt. ‘I don’t think you’re the philandering kind, my dear. Do you think – ’ she hesitated – ‘Charles has been with a woman yet?’