by Angela Huth
It was a morning of clammy and oppressive heat. The sky was a flat colourless wash: the light it gave veiled the landscape, robbing shadows of their depth. George, jolted in the seat of the old Massey Fergusson tractor, was soon sweating heavily. As he drove back and forth, with the sweet smell of the grass and the chugging of the engine to drowse his head, he watched the arrival of a cloud that darkened as it spread. Soon the small coin of sun was obliterated. The air was gravid with the promise of rain, but no drops fell. The fretwork of trees against the sky, as if caught in freeze-frame, was absolutely still. There was an eeriness, more usually felt at dusk or nightfall, in the weight of the morning.
To George, in his state of misery and exhaustion, the cloud was an omen which added to the doom in his heart. This, he said to himself, was the cloud that was sweeping across British farming, and God knows if there would be any sun to follow it.
When he had finished the first field George stopped the tractor. He jumped down from the seat, shirt clinging to his body, legs damp and itching beneath his jeans. Feeling dizzy and unsteady, he began to walk back to the farmhouse. He had arranged to meet Prodge for a lunchtime drink in the Bell – a rare occurrence, but they had both agreed on the telephone the night before that they needed a short break from their farms. George was glad the arrangement had been for today, when he could not have borne his normal bread and cheese in the silent kitchen. And he could not cut another acre of hay: he would do the next field this afternoon.
Although he arrived early at the pub, Prodge was there before him – the mirror-image of himself, thought George: the wretched Prodge was sweating, tired, worried. His friend was suddenly no longer the young farmer – never carefree, exactly – no farmer could ever afford to be carefree – but full of hope, ambition, optimism. Here was an older-looking Prodge, shocked by the loss of his cow to BSE, fearful for the rest of his herd, alarmed by the financial implications as the disease gradually gripped the country.
George carried two tankards of beer over to the table in the pub’s small back garden. He was grateful for the stinging cold of pewter in his hands. As he slumped down into the slatted wooden chair, it tottered, then recovered. Prodge nodded at him. Both men sipped their beer. George shut his eyes. The merciless buzz of flies worked against his brain like the drill of machinery. When he opened them, rather than look at Prodge again he let them follow the flies’ spasmodic journeys through the thunderous air. He and Prodge were the only drinkers in the garden.
‘How’s things?’ asked George, eventually.
‘Not brilliant. I find myself going back to the cows every twenty minutes, looking for signs. Interrupts baling. I’m behind with the baling. Got to get a grip.’
‘Quite. I quit after just cutting Top Meadow this morning. Suddenly couldn’t face any more. This bloody weather doesn’t help.’ George swiped at a fly.
‘And I’ve a great afternoon to look forward to – the bank. Got to ask for a top-up on the loan.’
‘Loan? I didn’t know you had one.’
‘Nothing very much. But it’s not going to last long, is it? This new situation. I’ve practically given away six bull calves.’
‘Nell said you’d saved a bit… for the bike.’
‘So I had.’ Prodge laughed. ‘That’ll be gone in a trice. I’m telling you, George, it’s all going to overwhelm us. Everything’s gathering together to do us down. It’s been building up – lots of signs. Now BSE’s taken a hold, exports all gone to hell, everything – we’ll be lucky if we survive. There’s a hell of a lot round here – I know more of them than you do – fear they’ll go under. And I daresay they’re right. Farmers’ll soon be a dying breed, a rare species.’
He took a deep gulp of his beer.
‘You’ve heard about Dave Goring?’
‘No?’
‘Dave’s packing it in. These new rules for slaughterhouses – extra veterinary inspections, vets on tap all the time and all that – who can afford that in an outfit the size of Dave’s? Course he could never manage that. So what now? We’ll have to send stock God knows how many miles away to some bloody great abattoir where they don’t give a fuck for animals except as meat. Doesn’t occur to them it might be worth trying to make their last moments on earth easy as possible. What’s more, they’re bringing in foreign vets. I ask you: will a foreign vet know what a fluke looks like?’ Prodge gave a grim laugh.
‘And how are we going to afford to transport them, anyhow?’ he went on. ‘Petrol prices rising again. My great uncle Matt – you remember, blacksmith in Adlesham for fifty years – he’s just had to give up his old Morris Minor. Only used it to take my aunt Sal to the supermarket, now the village store’s closed. But he says he can’t afford the petrol any more. If it wasn’t for a neighbour they’d be left with nothing but the weekly bus to get about. It makes you sick, what’s happening.’ He was silent for a long time, then he said: ‘Nell reckons we should take guests in. That’s what several are doing round here. Diversifying.’ He sniffed. ‘Apparently that’s what the government advises. What the hell do they know about diversifying in a place like this? Farming’s what this part of the country’s made for. So there we are. I’d better talk to the bank about the possibility … I don’t see what else—’
‘No, no,’ said George. ‘Don’t do that. It would add to all your work, put far too much on you and Nell.’
‘It would. But what’s to do? You have to spend, of course, to set up in the B&B business. Can’t just advertise a nice farmhouse. Oh no: tourist officials demand certain standards. En suites, waitresses in frilly aprons, I don’t doubt – tourists want the works in their B&Bs. We’d have to paint the kitchen, stop the damp everywhere. Can’t imagine it, but we’ve not decided yet. If the bank manager goes along with the idea …’
George ran his hands through his hair: thunderflies pricked at his scalp.
‘Why don’t I lend you the money?’ he asked carefully. ‘No interest?’
Prodge shook his head.
George was feeling stronger. The beer had revived him. Prodge got up and took the empty tankards to the bar without asking. When he came back with them, refilled, George took his time. He had to go gently if he was to persuade Prodge of his plan.
‘Look,’ he began, ‘you know I’m not a rich man by today’s standards. I invested quite a bit of capital in the farm when I sold the firm, but I’ve also got a fair bit just sitting there. I’d like to put it to a good use. Far as I can see, there’d be no better way than helping a friend.’
‘No, George.’ Prodge shook his head again, moved. ‘Thanks all the same.’
‘Money’s only important if you haven’t got it: that’s my way of seeing it. I’ve got enough for my own needs, some to spare. You’ve done wonders since you took over your farm, and rightly made a fair bit from your efforts. But as you say, the good times are coming to an end, if they’re not already over. It’s only sense for me to tide you over.’
‘I can see your argument,’ said Prodge, ‘but I couldn’t find it in myself to agree. I don’t think Nell could, either. We’ll manage, somehow. She mentioned selling the horses—’
‘She can’t do that.’
‘Up against it, she can bring herself to do anything, Nell. And it’s fair to say a B&B would be a bloody nuisance, having to tidy up and that. But it could bring in the necessary. Dave Goring’s sister just registered with the Tourist Board, done her back room up like the Ritz. She’s had a few to stay, quite enjoys it. But then she hasn’t got a farm to run.’
‘You talk to the bank: let me know what they say. My offer’s always on the table, should you change your mind. Any time.’
‘Thanks.’ A look of harrowed reluctance crossed Prodge’s face. ‘And you?’ he said after a while, jerking his thoughts from the grim alternatives that crowded his mind. ‘You, George? Any news from Lily?’
‘None.’ George sighed.
‘She’ll be in touch.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Perhaps you should contact her. Women often say what they don’t mean, try to provoke you.’
‘Not Lily’ George gave a wry smile. ‘She asked me not to try to get hold of her. If that’s what she wants, that’s what I must do. I’d never take the risk of going against her wishes.’
‘Huh! You’re too much the gentleman, sometimes. That’s what I think. If it was me, and a wife like Lily had just buggered off, no proper explanation, I’d be after her in a flash. Search the whole country till I found her.’
‘Wish I could be more like you, then. But I can’t.’
‘I’ll tell you something funny’ said Prodge. He frowned. The humour of what he was about to reveal did not seem to have a happy effect on him. ‘Your Lily is something special. Fancy her rotten myself. In fact I told her that. One afternoon down by the river I ran into her and I told her. Course, all she did was laugh.’
George looked at his friend enquiringly. He remembered the day. Both Lily and Prodge had briefly reported the meeting.
‘Don’t look so worried! I’m only joking. But I’m the first to see you’ve got yourself a good woman there. Terrific looker, kindest heart in the world, lively, serious, but funny, too: loving … the sort of woman, if I had an imagination, I would imagine … You’re bloody lucky, there, George, and don’t you forget it. Don’t you let her slip through your fingers. She’s at risk from Christ knows what dangers on her own. Men after her, that sort of thing. You mind my words. Do something before it’s too late.’
George nodded. This was probably the longest speech Prodge had ever made to him. He scratched his scalp again – damn flies.
For a few moments, deflected from his own problems by thinking of George’s, Prodge had looked more cheerful. But now the earlier shadow recrossed his face.
‘I must be off,’ he said. ‘Bank manager awaits, prepared to hand over thousands.’
‘Well, don’t forget my offer.’
Prodge nodded. George knew the matter was unlikely to be mentioned again.
By mid-afternoon a breeze had come from the south, dissipating the cloud and lightening the air. George, on his tractor, no longer uncomfortably hot, looked about the rise and fall of his own fields and woods – neat, ordered, productive – and felt something near to contentment. Grief, like happiness, is hard to sustain in its deepest form without a break. While he was conscious that in an hour or so, back in the empty kitchen, the misery would return, for a while this time on the tractor, this sense of achievement at cutting a field of hay, gave relief.
When he had finished his task, he walked up to the parlour. Milking over, Saul had taken the cows back to the pasture. Ben, having meticulously scraped the gutters and hosed them down, was sweeping away the water. The sweet, warm, furry smell of milk and cow shit that had become a part of his life struck George as he entered the building. Recently there had been a letter in the local paper from a man from Birmingham who had bought a farm not two miles from here, not to farm, naturally, but for the occasional weekend’s sunbathing on a hastily installed terrace which he referred to as his patio.
While sunbathing on our patio, he wrote, the revolting smell from a nearby cowshed assaults our noses. You can’t walk down the lane without running into mud and cowpats, and a neighbour’s cockerel wakes us at dawn every morning. Is it any wonder that the divide between urban and rural communities is ever-increasing? Those of us who appreciate the niceties of life fail to see the joys of so-called real country life. I for one am reselling my farm as soon as possible.
There were several acerbic letters, the following week, from locals speeding him on his way. George smiled at the thought.
Ben paused in his sweeping, looked up at his boss. Since Lily’s departure both he and his father, in their efforts to offer sympathy without sentiment, had become grim-faced in George’s presence.
‘Finished the hay,’ said George.
‘I was planning on that, when I’m through here. Dad said you’d got more than enough on your shoulders.’
‘Thanks,’ said George. ‘But I enjoyed it. All well?’ He meant: any signs of BSE?
‘Touch wood.’ Ben patted his head, then resumed sweeping.
George stood looking at the young farmhand, wondering about him. He was an exceptionally strong youth, all muscle and bone: a man of few words and occasional bad jokes. Few of his contemporaries, George appreciated, could work with Ben’s continual energy and zest. Few would want to. A farmer’s life had little appeal to the young these days: relentless hard work, little time off, decreasing financial rewards. It was only for those with a passion for animals and the land – and that was something inherited in families, not a subject you learnt at school. Ben had few friends, went out with them rarely. Those he did see were now so far removed in a different life, working in mechanics or computers, earning a decent salary, that they had little left in common with Ben. On one occasion, Saul had admitted, his son had been pitied, scoffed at, by a few of his contemporaries who had once been friends.
What would happen to him? George wondered. When Saul retired – though George could not imagine him ever wanting to retire – would Ben want to continue working here? Or would he want to join a more mainstream way of life with all its more obvious rewards? Ben had given no hint of ever wanting to leave, but the greater world must surely hold its temptations. Should he go, George knew it would be impossible to find an equal replacement. He resolved one day soon to talk to the lad, see if there was anything he could do to make his life here more appealing.
George returned to the house. The kitchen was warm, stuffy, but clean and tidy – Dusty still attended to domestic matters three days a week. In fact, thought George, as the clock greeted him with its incessant, menacing tick, should Lily walk through the door at this very minute, she would be pleased.
As he had been out at lunchtime, he had not seen the post, which arrived at midday. The bundle of letters and magazines had been piled on the table by Dusty. George sighed. He could see he would have to spend a long evening dealing with it all. Best to do it straight away, was his theory. If you left it a few days it became unmanageable.
He began to sort through the gloomy mass of official envelopes, dreading the moment he must turn to the milk quota forms. A postcard fell from between two envelopes – a photograph of a Norfolk windmill. Scarcely daring to hope, he turned it over.
Oh, George, there are great PRAIRIES here, he read. So many hedges gone, combine harvesters the size of houses racing over the corn, scarcely a human being in sight Dehumanised farming personified. I thought how shocked you’d be. It’s so sad. Yes, I came home. Horses still on the marsh. My boat leaking. Am off to Norwich to teach for a bit, H of A. Don’t worry – if you were worrying – about our joint account. I promise not to touch it. I can manage perfectly OK on the rent from my flat. I expect you’re busy with the harvest. Please keep my roses watered. Love to Nell and Prodge and you, L.
George sat down. The card shook in his hands. He read it again. In his ungrounded state the words were flung about, confusing: he had to go over them several times to still them. They left him mystified. What was she doing, sending this jaunty little message after weeks of silence? Was it just a signal of reassurance that she was all right? Or did it mean there was some melting of the inner stone, and soon she would be back? Water the roses. … That could mean she wanted to see them well cared for on her return before the last petal had fallen – which would be any day now. George’s heart beat faster.
He spent the evening attaching meanings to phrases innocent of meaning, but the process gave him comfort. It renewed his hope, filled him with new expectation. That she was all right was the most important thing. That she even mentioned money was very odd – surely she must know she was welcome to every penny he owned? That she mentioned the horses signified she remembered conversations … Oh God, what was she up to, Lily?
George struggled to decide whether to do as she bade him, and not attempt to contact her, or whether – as
every instinct now urged him – to try to persuade her to return. He was convinced he could assure her that whatever she felt – or didn’t feel – home was the best place for her to be. He knew he could not fully understand her mysterious trauma, but he knew also that it would be best if she tried to solve it with his help.
George opened the desk drawer where there was a pile of postcards of some of her favourite paintings he had collected from time to time. He chose Van Gogh’s chair: solid, calm, the magic of familiarity its only message. He picked up his pen and rejected the elaborate phrases that swarmed into his mind (he sometimes felt he was cursed for ever with a sonorous, legal style of writing). Constraint, he told himself. So: Darling Lily, he began, we’re keeping the roses watered. The Norwich plan sounds good. All well here. You’re much missed. Please come home soon. I love you, G.
After long contemplation of this brief missive he realised that, for all its stringency, it might well frighten her off. In her present state, the merest gesture could be counterproductive. George put the card back in the drawer. He might change his mind, he thought. But, more likely, he would never post it.
It was late by now, but he continued to sit at his desk thinking about his wife, and the loss of her. At least this Norfolk card showed that her husband and her home had not been entirely obliterated from her mind. For that, he was grateful. He could feel a rising of his natural optimism. Eventually he propped up the card on the dresser, only to take it down a moment later. He read it once more, put it in his shirt pocket. Then he took it out again to study its words one last time. By now he knew its message, so simple and yet so incomprehensible, by heart.