Charles Box had told Phillip that no one had ever taken a crop off Lower Brock Hanger since the days of ewe-flocks, adding that if he liked to waste money it was his own look-out. Charles Box said this all in kindness. It was eroded land where the cricket-ball roots had been grown the year before. With leaf-mould added, Phillip thought it would be different. Anyway, he wanted to try.
The following day was so fine and warm that he felt like singing as he ploughed the Steep hollow where sheep had been folded on sugarbeet tops, dunging the ground as they fed. That pightle of land was well-trodden, compact; he felt it was full of potential life. The new-laid hedge was beginning to show an emerald glint of hawthorn buds. Buoyant sunlight lifted his spirit with the lark over the trees of the Bustard Wood. He saw Timid Wat the hare fleeing along the skyline of the Steep, pursuing another hare, and shouted, “Good luck, old boy. That’s the stuff!”
Peter had mumps. Soon Rosamund joined him. Peter had been sleeping in the same bedroom as Boy Billy. Every day he expected Billy, to go down; it was a race, mumps in bed v. seed in bed. Every day the sun was climbing a little higher in its curve.
Boy Billy remained well. The sweet violets were out in the woods. Roz had picked some, put them in a small potted-meat jar in the Studio. The sight—the thought behind the girl’s gift—was heartening. So was another sight, that of the Bustard Yard where fourteen young neat stock were lying down, tongue-marks of contentment stroked upon their coats. Rolled oats and water-steeped beet-pulp had comforted them. Boy Billy and Phillip went on to find pleasure in the sight of heaped leaf-mould on the Lower Brock Hanger. Billy worked out the cost to be about £18 in labour, or £3 an acre. Remembering the Cold Old Land at the seaward end of the Steep which had produced such a wonderful crop of oats without being ploughed, Phillip proposed that they should not plough the Lower Brock, lest it dry out, but cultivate a very shallow tilth and drill oats there, first broadcasting peas lest the oats fail. Then roll with the rib-roll.
“I have a feeling that oats will revel in the moisture-holding top-soil of leaf-mould and marl, with phosphate and nitrogen broadcast, two hundredweights to the acre. I’ve got half a ton of phosphate stored in the hovel, and we’re allowed a ton of nitrogen, so let’s broadcast the lot on these six acres eroded by tempests. After the war, Billy my dear, we’ll put them down to permanent grass.”
*
The sowing of oats on the composited Lower Brock Hanger was almost a family affair. It came nearer to his idea of happiness in creative work than any other job on the farm so far. Boy Billy on the new and improved tractor, which the inventor had sent them from America for one year’s free use, and Phillip on the original model, ‘the Dicker’, made a shallow cultivation of the top-soil by drawing arrow-headed steel tines of cultivators two inches deep through the yellow crust. While he went up and down the east-west slopes of the Brock Hanger, Billy crossed his work, travelling north-south. Thus a light tilth was made. Into this went the oat-seed, Billy on the tractor drawing the drill, Phillip walking behind, watching the seed-spouts.
Peter, better after mumps, must not do too much: so Phillip sat him on the Dicker and told him to follow the drill with their auction-bought thirty-bob two-horse roll. To the oak beam of this 1880 implement light zigzag seed-harrows were attached by chains. Thus the small lumps were pulverised, the tilth refined, and seed covered. David and Jonathan sat on the beam to add weight to the rolling.
In advance of the mechanocade, like a drum-major of an invisible band flinging first one arm sideways, then the other, walked Steve broadcasting peas. And—perfect timing—hardly had they finished in the clear sunny air of that Saturday afternoon when Lucy and Rosamund arrived with a basket of tea. Soon the boys had a fire of sticks going and a kettle boiling under the crab-apple tree leaning out of the Hanger Wood—Phillip had left it there when hedging, for decoration. Now they sat under masses of pink and white blossoms.
The field looked smooth and honest, for the thistles cut by the cultivators were everywhere wilting. The compost addition had been of the slightest, a mere scattering, like black pepper from one of the wooden grinders used at table. Nevertheless he felt it would be a success, especially the non-ploughing of that yellow-biscuit soil. Thereby they had conserved all sub-soil moisture. The work was pleasant, it was creative, they were a team, no voice was raised the whole time. There was unity in the work; perhaps that was why they were not tired. It was the yeoman-family harmony he had dreamed of but never experienced before. Lucy looked happy. And in due course a good crop of rich-looking, golden-brown oats, with peas, came off the Lower Brock Hanger.
*
When all the spring seeds had been sown, he said to Lucy that she deserved a holiday. Why not stay for a week or two with your brother Tim and his wife? He would look after her poultry, and Mrs. Valiant take care of the farmhouse.
So Lucy set off by train to Southampton, with the ‘Revelation’ expanding suit-case which had been her wedding present from her brothers, all those happy years before the coming of the reformator. He had never seen her looking so young and happy. She had been gone four days when Tim wrote to say Phillip would be welcome if he cared to join them, should he be fit enough to travel. Why not, said Mrs. Valiant, I can look after Master Billy, go you to your holiday, sir. Phillip arranged for Bert Close to come evenings to help him repair some of the fold units on the Home Hills. He had bought a dozen, very cheaply, at auction after the start of the war, when poultry keepers, faced with ploughing-up orders of grasslands, had sold off most of their equipment, known as ‘dead stock’. Each unit had cost about £5 before the war: Phillip had bought a dozen for £13. By folding the hens, Lucy would be able to keep check of any that died, or strayed, and so prevent the dreaded maggots getting at his sheep. He had been told by Matt that Josiah Harn, the man ‘who could smell grease on your hair and come and lick it off’, had been about complaining that his meadows were not only sheep-sick (the grazing sour with excess of dung), but Phillip was doing Hitler’s work by letting the fly get on his sheep every summer. Harn, of course, wanted land; he had tons of swill weekly from all the camps around, and was making a lot of money from over ten score of pigs on his couple of acres.
Bert Close said he would get all the fold units repaired. He would take them in couples on his lorry to Crabbe, and bring them back. He knew an old carpenter who would be glad of the job.
From Bert Close, Phillip heard of an almost new motorcar, a Ford 8, for sale in Crabbe. It was a 1938 saloon model, the original price when new being £100. It had seldom been used, the mileometer registered 200 miles. Since the outbreak of war it had been kept under a dust-sheet, in the shed next to his own garage. A local trader had bought it for £125, and would re-sell it to Phillip for £135. It was the very job for him, now that the blitzed Silver Eagle engine was having a re-bore at Yarwich.
Everything now seemed easy. Phillip’s decision to go to Southampton surprised him. All he had to do was set off! Mrs. Valiant made up a basket of food—some whole-wheat scones, spread with their own butter and honey; a shoulder of bacon; basket of eggs; a packet of boiled-bacon sandwiches, flask of tea—thus provided, he set forth in his new shiny Ford 8, making for Winchester.
He made an early start. The engine ran well at a steady 40. Six hours of daylight lay before him. He was an observer of the art and mystery of farming over the hedges, and far up on the slopes of the downs, as he sped along empty roads to the south, singing at times, and praising sturdy little Ford giving no trouble at all, only pleasure; and in no time, it seemed, he found himself in one of the suburbs of Southampton, and outside Tim’s ground-floor apartment, surprised at the neatness and design of lawns and gardens before the building which looked to be about ten years old.
He approached and rang the bell. Almost immediately the door opened and Tim was standing there. A look of delighted surprise came over his face. And Phillip felt warmth rising in him.
“Come in, come in, dear Phil!” he cried. He explained that he ha
d gone to the door expecting to see Brenda his wife; but seeing Phillip instead, he was absolutely delighted. This was the Tim he had known and liked before his marriage to Lucy. He was relieved that he had made good, and so the old worry for him and his brothers was gone. Tim was now, after a period of training, an inspector of repaired fighter aircraft. His marriage had made a fuller man of him, easy and soft-spoken as ever, but with a firmness where before he had been dreamy and callow. His young wife was the fortifying influence, Phillip could see at once when he met her; she had the physique, bearing, and mental freedom for which Australian girls were famous.
“Eggs, by Jove, Brenda! Just look at them! My dear Phil, we’re lucky to get one each a month on our ration books. All we get is dried egg powder. And honey! Jolly decent of you, I must say, Phil!”
“They’re all Lucy’s doing.” He was a little anxious that she had not yet appeared.
“She went for a walk, she’ll be back for tea.”
Relief. At the same time he found himself wondering why Lucy had not brought any eggs. They had plenty on the farm, even allowing for the depredations of searchlight soldiers. Perhaps she had not liked to ask him, though they were her own hens? How sad it was that they were nearly always ‘missing’ one another…
Tim showed his guest the Anderson air-raid shelter he had erected on a patch of garden behind the house. It covered a hole dug in the gravel subsoil, and would have been considered cushy in any front or support trench of the Western Front, Phillip told him. The pit was four feet deep, the corrugated elephant iron topped by a double layer of sandbags laid in the approved header-stretcher pattern, giving cover from splinters or bomb and anti-aircraft shrapnel shell. The only flowers grown in their garden were Japanese nasturtiums, the vermilion and yellow blooms of which covered the dugout roof. Tim pointed out these flowers with pride, saying, “I really cannot claim to be much of a horticulturist, but I fancy they’ve come along quite well, considering that I regard myself as an amateur.”
Tim was on the night-shift that week, so he was free until 8 p.m. every day. Phillip thought of his father, who lived alone in a cottage on the Dorset coast. There were four tins of petrol, eight gallons, in the boot of the Ford. Would they all like a ride through the New Forest, to call on the old man?
“By Jove, yes, that would be splendid, Phil! I say, Brenda, did you hear that? Phil’s offered to take us into the country!”
“I’ll make some bacon sandwiches,” said Lucy.
“I wonder if you could spare some eggs for my father?” Phillip asked.
“Of course we must take some with us,” said Lucy. She packed a basket of eggs, butter, home-made brown bread, and a pot of honey. Phillip was now feeling free and happy; this was altogether another world.
They went through the town to the northern road at a modest 30 m.p.h., for it was not wise to attract attention to private motoring, which implied that petrol coupons, given only for those ‘engaged in the war effort’, were being used for joy-riding. At a ’bus stop a civilian stepped off the pavement and nearly bumped into their near-side wing, but saved himself in time. Phillip was amused at Tim’s reaction, and heard Tim’s ‘Pa’ in the low exclamation of “Brainless ass!” the same moment as he himself apologised through the open window. Probably the cause of the pavement carelessness was war fatigue and poor feeding at that time when German submarines were sinking English supply ships in the open Atlantic; but Tim’s remark, perhaps, would not have been made had he been driving alone. Was he trying to reassure himself, in case Phillip condemned the preoccupied fellow—as he had, in the past, condemned Tim and his brothers?
They moved at a steady 40 m.p.h. to Ringwood, through the woods, down and up again to the heaths of the Forest and so to Wimborne Minster, where Phillip turned south for the coast. His father lived alone in a small house among pine trees near the harbour where Phillip had often sailed his boat Scylla when he lived in the West Country. And so down a gravelled and bumpy lane, the verges of which were grown with blackberry bushes, and wildling ash and oak. This must be the cottage. Yes, there was his father, digging in his garden. The garden shed door was open, revealing spades and forks and other gardening tools all aligned, handles dark brown with linseed oil and metal parts bright.
In the garden Richard was double-spitting a light soil, to lay within the trench forkfuls of half-rotted weeds and other rubbish. He looked up and saw Phillip, and after straightening his back came forward with a smile and held out his hand saying that it was a pleasant surprise, and he hoped all was well?
“Good afternoon, Father, I’m down this way for a few days, staying the other side of Southampton, and have brought Lucy and her brother Tim with me.”
“Tim? Didn’t I see Tim some years before when you brought him and his brother Fiennes to Wakenham, on the way to take them to Tilbury, and Australia?”
The son went back with the father who invited the others into the house. Just inside the hall was a pile of newspapers, Richard’s favourite Daily Trident, about five feet in height.
“Ah,” he said, “you see, Phillip, the Trident was right in nineteen nineteen about ‘those Prussian Junkers will cheat you yet!’ Well,” he went on after a pause, “that’s my reserve fuel if things get really bad. Now tell me, Lucy, how are all the grandchildren? And particularly Billy? He must be growing into a big fellow by now.” He smiled at Lucy, “I’m afraid I have very little to offer you after your journey. You know, for one living alone, things are not too easy.”
“Lucy brought some food, Father. Also, I’ll send you some butter when I get back. Here are some eggs from the farm. We’ll send more. And a cockerel, if you would like one now and again.”
“Oh, I couldn’t eat it, old chap, thanks all the same. My needs are modest. And of course I have all the vegetables I require.”
When they were alone, Phillip asked his father about the family plate, which he had last seen in an iron-bound box soon after the war of 1914 had broken out.
“Oh, when my time arrives, come and take it, old man.”
He asked if it would not be better if this were left in writing.
“My dear boy, you will be the only one to benefit from my Will. I have left everything to you.”
Phillip wanted to say that it might be better if he left only the plate to him, and the rest to his sisters, but this would have been in poor taste, so he said nothing; while thinking that in due course he would see that both Elizabeth and Doris had their shares.
“Yes,” said Richard, “all will be yours to do what you like with, but if you decide to follow the same course as my father did, the family plate will be Billy’s after you.” He looked at his watch. “You will all stay to tea, won’t you?”
“Well, Father, thank you, but we are too many, perhaps. Won’t you come to tea with us in an hotel, or somewhere?”
“Well, my dear boy, I have a little friend who comes to visit me every Sunday afternoon. Now with the tuck Lucy brought over so kindly, will you not all join us? I will, by your leave, go and get the table laid.”
Lucy and Brenda helped Richard, who was slightly discomposed by having, as it were, to unset himself from habit. Everything in his kitchen and scullery was neat and clean. Phillip knew how a habit disturbed could be upsetting, so he kept out of the way while the three were inside.
He sat on the lawn with Tim, who said, “You know, Phil, I was absolutely surprised to note the difference between your father as he is now, and when I saw him fifteen years ago. He looks younger than you do.”
While they were sitting there in the sun an adolescent girl came in the gate and said “Good afternoon”. They stood up, her polite manner induced them to do this. She was self-possessed and pretty, with a small oval face under a red tam-o’-shanter below which auburn hair fell upon the shoulders of her blouse. She had grey eyes, and quick movements. She seemed intelligent. Phillip gave his name.
“Oh, you are Mr. Maddison’s son!” as she gave him a wide-mouthed smile which remaine
d while her eyes showed she was thinking whether or not to go away. “I did not know Mr. Maddison was having company,” she said, aware that Phillip was looking at the red tam-o’-shanter. It was set on her head like a Scots bonnet, unlike the usual ‘tam’ worn more or less flat on the head like a beret. Where had he seen one, half upright like that, before?
“Mr. Maddison plays the Beethoven records on his radiogram every Sunday,” she said.
“I’ll tell him you’re here.”
Richard was almost light-of-heart, as seldom Phillip had seen him in the old days. Was this due to his feeling for the young girl, hardly more than a child, just coming into bud? How old was Father? He had been just within the age limit to join the Labour Corps in 1918. What was that age limit, fifty-four? If so, Father was now seventy-five years old. Was he in what was called second-childhood? The strange thing was that he and the girl appeared to share the same spirit. But the same hopes? Poor Father, desperately alone and loveless. What a neglectful son he was. How Father had loved Elizabeth—then called by her first name, Mavis—as a child. And how suddenly, after kissing his daughter in adolescence, his puritan conscience had rejected that feeling for her. And ever afterwards it seemed, Elizabeth—and Father—were apart; and distraught.
Lucifer Before Sunrise Page 32