The Country Child

by Alison Uttley

No candles were needed and as Susan undressed in the moonlight she smiled happily to think of the haymakers and all the delight they were about to bring to the farm.

  Becky, too, later on, in her little attic in the gable, looked at the moon through the skylight and sighed over Dominick’s bright eyes and Malachi’s gay smile, and the easy country ways of her oatcake man, who certainly couldn’t say the flattering things the Irishmen said.

  Mrs Garland prayed long on her knees by the bed, with her hands folded on the patchwork quilt. She prayed for fine weather, for a speedy harvest, and God’s blessing on the hay.

  Tom Garland lay thinking of his fields, the Daisy Spot, with its rich heavy crop, the Ten-acre, of which the half on the high hillside was so short that it would barely pay for cutting. He thought of Whitewell field, with its hollows and hills, covered with sweet good grass, and Woodside, where the pheasants had made such havoc, trampling the grass with their long feet, of Top Pasture and Bottom Pasture, always fallow, of Harrowpiece, of Greeny Croft, and Silver Field, and Longside, and Four-ellums.

  He turned uneasily as he thought of his own father, and his grandfather, lying in the same bedroom, planning, struggling through the years, from birth to death, ploughing, harrowing, harvesting.

  There was little profit, but a blessed peace in this world high up, away from mithering blustering folk.

  Old Joshua lay in his little room, listening to the owls which hooted over the barn roofs. The scent of honeysuckle poured in at his open window, bringing a sweet pain to his heart. He thought of his own farm, of his hopes at hay-time, under a moon like this. Old Mike had worked for him too, and he and his wife had prepared the little barn for his use, when he came with Andrew, long since dead. His orchard was full of bees, his garden full of roses, far more roses than even there were at Windystone, and a grand red honeysuckle poked its long streamers through his small squares of windows, with regular crowns of flowers. But bad luck had always followed him, first his wife had died, then his daughters had left him, accidents happened to his cattle, in field and wood, and he had bought a mare which turned lame the next day – all sorts of disasters came, till at last, daunted by Fate, he had sold all up and given in. Well, he was glad, life wouldn’t be long now. Perhaps this would be his last harvest, and then he would go to the Lord’s harvest.

  In the fields life went on, under the moon’s white light. Field mice ran along their tiny green tunnels under the bending grass, to their nests, hollowed out among the roots, just below the level of the cruel scythe. Rabbits, unconscious of the morrow, played in the mowing grass, sitting up to bite sweet juicy blades, listening for the fox who stole along by the edge of the wood. Little winds blew the sorrel and swept over the tightly closed silky seeds of dandelion and hawkweed. Then the moon hid behind a rainbow cloud and the world fell asleep.

  Morning came, cool and sweet with birdsong and white mists. At five o’clock when the corncrake whirred in the Whitewell field and the cuckoo called on every side, the mowers were up and in the meadow. A soft rain fell, a good gentle rain, blessing the fields, and the dew lay thick over the grass. The three men stood on the path and sharpened their scythes, and Tom stood watching them. The music of the hone floated up the field, in at the bedroom windows, ringing a strange familiar note which came into Susan’s dreams and made her smile in her sleep.

  They took their positions, Patrick first, then Corney and last Andy, and they stayed in this order during the whole of the mowing, each mowing his own lane through the grass, yet overlapping by the tip of the scythe, so that not a blade of grass remained. The long rhythmic swish, swish, swish, filled the air, as the three men, with bodies curved and motion even and regular, worked, their strong arms sweeping the shining blade through the silken grass. Their voices, murmuring in Gaelic, made a bass accompaniment to the treble of the scythes. Their feet swung onward in time to the cut of the scythe, and behind them they left three deep swathes, pale green, and soft-coloured as the rain. Now and again they stood upright and wiped the blade with a wisp of grass before they honed it afresh with the stone which they carried on their backs.

  At seven they came back for breakfast, of bread and fat bacon which Becky had boiled the night before, washed down with a jug of strong tea, with milk and sugar. The haymakers had breakfast with them and then went away for two days, to work on a small farm over the hill, until enough grass had been cut at Windystone.

  After breakfast, when Dan had gone with the milk, Tom and Joshua brought out the mowing-machine, clattering and clanking from a cart-shed. Last year the farmer had bought it, for use in the few level parts of the fields, and on the gentler slopes. Often the wet had caught them before the Irishmen had finished, and with the machine he could speed up the mowing. The mowers took the high steep field, where the machine could not climb. They swept under the hedges round the smooth meadows, where the ground always rose steeply, they mowed over the ditches and by the streams and springs, in soft ground and by the troughs, on the slopes of the stiff hills, round groves of trees, and the boles of the great isolated beeches and ashes and elms, which stood in the fields. Most of the work was done by the mowers, the machine could not cut clean on those curving, steep hills.

  All day they worked, returning only for meals to their Place. The fallen grass lay in even swathes, in broad, coloured, parallel stripes on a pale green robe, white dog-daisies, red sorrel, purple vetch mixed with the deep blue of wild geranium, and the yellows of buttercup and dandelion, lying on the short pale grass.

  Over the horse’s eyes hung a leafy branch of ash, to keep away the flies, but the men worked on, each with his accompanying halo of dancing insects.

  Now a rabbit darted out and the mowers dropped their scythes with wild yells, and threw their hats at the bewildered animal which doubled backwards and forwards among them until with bare hands they caught and throttled it. Often a rabbit’s legs were cut off with the scythe, and then it only staggered a few yards before they killed it. They were put beside the men’s coats and carried back for a stew. Hedgehogs, too, were caught by the busy mowers, and roasted on little stick fires, when they tasted like chicken.

  Fieldmice, long-legged frogs, solemn toads, were disturbed, and fled past Susan who hurried down to the fields when she came home from school and ate her tea in the grass. But sometimes a wasps’ nest or even a hornet’s hole turned the tables and made the Irishmen run.

  Round and round went the mowing machine, encircling a piece of meadow land, and the little creatures who lived in it retreated further into the middle. The loud whirr and buzz of the machine terrified them, they knew not from which direction it came, and they lay trembling in the deep grass. As the island became smaller the mowers came up with cudgels from the woodstack. They stood round ready for the frantic flight of the rabbits which came as the grass disappeared. There was pandemonium for a few moments, they yelled and bellowed, to confuse the lost, startled animals, and then a heap of furry bodies smeared with blood lay on the ground.

  When the haymakers returned, with merry talk and much laughter, with the clinking of tin mugs, and the rattle of chains and harness, they went into the fields to ted the grass.

  Days of hard work followed, long days, from dewy cool mornings before the sun rose behind the steep hills, to dusk, when the bit-bats came out and flew over the haymakers’ heads. The house doors were all locked and Susan stayed away from school to her great delight to go with Becky and Margaret, each in a pink, lilac, or buff-coloured sun bonnet, and a pale holland frock, to work in the fields. Margaret did not stay long, but Becky and Susan worked all day, running errands and haymaking. The mowers were well ahead, but the haymakers came after, tedding the grass with their forks, and spreading it to dry, then raking it into long lines, one behind another, each making his own swathes which curved over the hills, down the hollows, and up the little slopes till they faded away among the thin grass at the top.

  Susan was for the first time in her life allowed to use a rake, one a little sm
aller than the others, which she slowly pulled over the hay, careful lest a tooth should be broken out, or a piece of hay should be left lying loose on the green grass.

  In the next field the tedders were tossing, and in the field beyond the mowers were honing their scythes and then bending over their heavy grass. The sun beat down and dried the hay, bringing out the hidden scents, the clean delicious odours which so soon follow the pungent strong smell of cut grass.

  So they travelled from field to field, uncovering all the hidden secrets of the individual meadows, the patch of rosy ragged robin, in the little marsh, the white pool of dog-daisies, the hedge covered with honeysuckle, the round nest of fieldmice with pink, curled, little bodies, the water troughs which had been so long unused that they were now hidden under the surrounding ferns. Susan left the haymakers to run after the mowers, who were the first to find all the treasures, but, heedless, they moved steadily forward, and she hunted alone until her father called her back to bring him a drink.

  By the open gates, where the little blue butterflies lived all the summer, on the shady side of the hedge, the drinks lay. Great old wicker-covered bottles, and a brown oval jar, covered with crosses and flowers like an embroidered quilt, were filled with beer and carried proudly by the Irishmen in the morning. By the side lay the tot, a pewter drinking cup. Old Mike called the halt for a drink and Tom gave his consent, looking up to the sun, and calculating the time since the last tot. The beer was never left in the field with the men alone, after one disastrous day a few years before. Tom poured out the beer and the tot passed round, whilst the men wiped their foreheads and shook the sweat off their necks.

  Tom and Joshua drank tea from a large white jug, with a cup over the top, or sometimes they had oatmeal water, or dandelion beer which Becky had made a short time before, very sweet and pleasant. Susan ran with the jug to her father and Becky, or went all the way back over the fields to the house for more. Inside it was cool and strange, the blinds were drawn in the parlours and sunlight danced through their whiteness, flickering on the furniture. The rooms were talking again, and she stopped to tell the news of the fields to the ghosts of the house, to the listening shadows, which waited expectantly when she entered. Margaret filled up the jugs, and gave her a little sugar-cone bag full of oatmeal and brown sugar from the two big glazed mugs on the pantry shelf. She took a toy spoon from her doll cupboard and ate the feast before she went out again to the fields, walking carefully and slowly lest she should spill the tea which ‘swaled’ in the jug.

  At milking time Dan and Joshua left off, but Tom worked with the men, only stopping for a bite of food, and then on again. The long lines were pushed downhill and made into cocks, first little ones and then two or three were joined together to form great cocks, like small stacks. If rain threatened everybody rushed to cock the hay, and sometimes days were spent cocking to keep out the wet, and tedding the hay out again to get it thoroughly dry.

  Tom and Old Mike laid the straddles and prepared for the stacks. Then one fine day leading began, and the two haywains were brought out. Tom Garland and Dan led the two mares, Duchess and Diamond, with the loads of hay up the hills to the stackyard where Old Mike waited. When a cart was piled with a mountain of hay, ropes were thrown over to keep the load from slipping off as the mares struggled to the stackyard.

  ‘Pull! Pull! Pull agen! Pull agen! Agen! And agen! And agen!’ sounded through the summer air like a sea chanty as the Irishmen strained at the ropes to tighten the mass. Then the man on the top slid down and the perilous ascent began.

  The two mares strained at the great load, and men pushed behind as the cart moved up the hills. Tom led one mare and Dan the other, encouraging, helping, and resting when there was a chance in the slope of the field. Other men hung like flies on one side to keep the top-heavy load from tumbling over and falling down the field. It was always an anxious time, a slip and a man and mare might be killed. Only the steady-going mares could be used, the pony was too frisky, although she was often put between the two, when the hill was especially difficult, and the horse was needed for other work.

  Sweat poured down the men’s faces and splashed on the ground, their shirts were soaked, their arms were taut and knotted with thick veins. Old Mike stood high on the sweet-scented stack, watching the hay-cart appear and disappear, like a ship in a rough sea, as it climbed up hills and sank into hollows. Always the voices came through the crystal air, singing across meadow and wood:

  ‘Diamond! Diamond! Pull! Pull! Diamond! Duchess!’ The mares, with heads stretched forward and the muscles of their great flanks quivering, corded, stretched, pulled with all their might, and the men exhorted them, putting every ounce of strength to the task.

  Shouting, sweating, the load reaches the top. Men pause to draw their hands across their faces and wring off the water, whilst they look at the bitter track up which they have fought their way. The mares tremble and Tom soothes them and strokes their wet sides. Then they start again, the last fifty yards up a gentler slope to the stackyard, and everyone asks for a tot as the animals rest and eat a bundle of hay.

  So it went on, and the fields were emptied of their burdens. One of the men walked up and down with the bonny-rake, collecting all the scraps left from leading, and men went round the hedges cleaning everywhere up. Susan rode back each time in the empty cart, clinging to the side of the jolting wain, which jerked over lumps and into hollows and threatened to throw her out. But she sang a paean of joy, for this was the most beautiful thing in the world, better than a circus or a fair.

  On Saturday nights the double doors of the big cart-shed were opened wide and the Irishmen gave a concert of song and dance.

  Dominick was the chief singer, and he stood in front of the doors on the cobbles, whilst the song rolled on, verse after verse, none of which Susan understood. Then Old Mike danced, with great clatter of heels and swinging of arms. The others sat round motionless, with their eyes fixed on his feet, which twinkled in an astonishing way for one so old. They interrupted with cries of ‘Bravo, bravo’, and Old Mike’s blue eyes stared across the fields to the beech wood as if he saw his own Galway mountains up there.

  One after another they danced or sang, and joined in the merry choruses with stamping feet and shaking shoulders.

  Sometimes Tom Garland brought out his concertina and played the airs they sang, or he gave them a hymn tune and they listened attentively. The darkness came down like a blue cloud, bit-bats flew in and out of the pitch-black shed, and screech-owls hooted in the fir trees. In the nearest fields, pale green and emptied of hay, the mares could be heard softly whinnying with pleasure, as they took their weekend rest. They knew as well as anyone that whatever the weather, however urgent the need for speed in the harvesting, nothing would be done on Sunday, and they were free.

  Becky sat with Susan on the wall, joining in a hymn, clapping and listening to the concert which was the only kind she knew.

  On Sundays the men fetched buckets of hot water from the kitchen boiler and borrowed razors and soap. They retired to a little field, mockingly called ‘The Forty-Acre Field’, and there they washed their bodies, and shaved off the week’s growth of beard. They put on clean shirts and trousers from their bundles, in the manger of the cow-house, and tied clean bright handkerchiefs round their necks. Then they washed their dirty shirts and hung them on the hedges and bushes to dry.

  When they were clean and trim and all prinked out, they went off to Mass at a church six miles away, where the priest loved these children from over the sea, and welcomed them as they waited at the door for the fine folk to enter first.

  But in the farm kitchen the great iron pot simmered and bubbled over the bright fire with the Irishmen’s dinner inside, which Dominick and Patrick would soon carry to the little home in the cattle stall.

  21

  The Wakes

  The last load of hay was gathered amidst cheers from the men who followed it down the steep hill, bumping and shaking across the uneven cow ro
ads, under the massive beech trees which swept up handfuls among their boughs, through wide-open gates, each of which took its toll of the hay, to the stackyard. Dan walked the fields with the big red rake, Joshua tidied up the hedges and gateways, and Old Mike and his son put the final touches to the trim, neat haystacks, the green-gabled houses with clean stack-cloths hoisted on the tackle over their roofs, to keep them dry until they had sweated and were ready for the ‘thacker’.

  At the top of each stack was a little attic, left open under the transverse pole, and Susan looked up at it with her eyes wide open, expecting to see a hay man peep out to say all was well up there. Once she had been helped up to the top, and there she had sat, under the heavy cream canvas roof, with the sweet-scented floor beneath her, and soft green light all round, wrapping her in aromatic waves. She looked across the open fields to the Druid Wood with its gaunt tree on the edge of the world, at the beech woods on every side, the orchard with its green fruit peeping up the slope, and the fertile valleys deep down in the hollows. Beyond were the hills edged with black trees and ragged rocks, and beyond again, out of sight, were stretches of moors, with curlew crying plaintively among the gorse and bracken, the heather and bilberries. She was glad she lived here, on an island, in the hills, and she prepared to play Robinson Crusoe in the ship as the canvas flapped round her. But at that moment Tom looked up and saw her small face peering out of the dark-shadowed triangle.

  ‘Coom down, you naughty lass. Whoever let you get up there was clean daft. You might fall and break your neck.’

  He climbed up the long ladder and carried her down to safety.

  ‘Never let me see you up there again, and be off home and help your mother. This is no place for you.’

  That night they had the harvest supper, beer and beef and pasties, in the cart-shed, with candles stuck in the walls, lighting up their strong faces and hairy necks, twinkling against the shafts of the brightly varnished milk cart in the background, and the heavy harness on the wall.