by S. T. Haymon
He asked, ‘Are you allowed to eat any of them yourself?’
‘All you like,’ I said, remembering how, the last time we went berrying, Mrs Fenner, Dora Chapman and I, Dora had been turned off without a penny after working hard the best part of the day, all because one of the farm men saw her eating a strawberry that a slug had already had the best part of. I couldn’t tell that to my beautiful brother. He had to be protected from the facts of life.
‘Makes me wish I had the time to go myself,’ Alfred declared. ‘This Caxton’s – is it far? I can drive you over before I go back.’
‘Not far,’ I said, though it was a good mile and a quarter. Once I was in St Awdry’s I couldn’t get rid fast enough of everything to do with St Giles, even Alfred. Actually, though I didn’t say so, I’d already made up my mind to give berrying a miss. True, it was easier work than lifting spuds, and certainly better than plucking; but there was something about it I didn’t care for. It wasn’t so bad when there were only village women picking the fruit. The trouble arose when not enough of them showed up and the growers had to take on some of the gypsies.
If that sounds what today people call racist, it wasn’t so at all. The trouble with the gypsy women wasn’t their fault. It was to do with their nature, which was to think of today and bugger all tomorrow.
The correct way to pick strawberries was this (for all I know it’s the same today): you took your punnet – actually you took four at a time, set out at one side of you – and first you picked some small strawberries to go in the bottom. Then you picked some medium-size ones to go on top of the little ones, and finally you picked some of the best ones to go on top and give the appearance that they were all like that, large and red and juicy, all the way down.
Then again, strawberries don’t all ripen at once. On every plant, at any one time in the season, there are ripe berries, and others that are only partly ripe, as well as some that are still completely green and hard. Sometimes, when there hasn’t been much sun to turn them red, or you’re getting to the end of the crop, you are forced, to make up a punnet, to pick a few of the half-ripe berries, hiding them at the very bottom, underneath even the little ones; but the totally green ones, never. Apart from getting the grower a bad name with his retailers, which might not ordinarily worry you, it’s a stupid thing for a picker to do. The green berries are your insurance that there will be more work picking them when they, in turn, come to maturity.
Strangely, however many times they were told, the gypsies could never see this, or chose not to see it. Once they began to pick over a strawberry plant, they never stopped until it was bare: green, half-green or ripe made no difference to them, they picked the lot. You could hear the grower’s voice half-way down the road, shouting at them when they brought their punnets to the collecting point. He would pick out a few punnets at random and turn them upside down on to the trestle table, uncovering all the unripe berries hidden out of sight. Sometimes he grew so angry that his voice grew too hoarse to bring out words, only an animal anger, and he would throw the green berries on the ground and grind them into the earth with his boots.
When that happened, the gypsy women would act very meek. They hadn’t understood, they would do better next time. But they had understood all right, you could tell by the devil in their eyes; and next time they did the same again, and the time after that. I couldn’t understand why they were never turned off, like poor Dora. Perhaps the grower was afraid of a gypsy curse. I can’t say.
At other times, when the grower wasn’t about, only the foreman and some men who worked on the farm, things went very differently. Then, the gypsy women stole shamelessly. Their mouths, red with strawberry juice, dared the men to make something of it, but they never did. They wore petticoats with big pockets sewn into them, and these they filled with the ripe fruit to take home with them. As the day wore on, the juice gradually soaked out of the pockets into their skirts and then through their aprons, until they looked like menstruating women who had forgotten to put on sanitary towels. When they came to the collecting point a kind of horseplay would begin which made me uneasy, I didn’t know why. The women, despite the evidence of the stains, would flatly deny they had any of the strawberries concealed about their persons, and the men would grab at their skirts, raising them if they got the chance, in order to see whether they spoke the truth. Everybody was laughing and screaming and jumping about. It should have been great fun for a child, only somehow it wasn’t. I was old enough to know there was more to the game than appeared, but too young to know what.
So I decided not to go to the strawberry field that day. It wasn’t as if, by not going, I deprived Mrs Fenner of increased earnings. Since Nellie Smith went away we had, by tacit agreement, stopped working her system, as if it were her patent, of which, by her withdrawal, she had cancelled our licence. The most I ever made for toiling all day picking strawberries was ninepence, and Mrs Fenner, I knew, counted herself lucky if she came home with as much as half-a-crown in her pocket.
What to do, then, until the family came back, to that glorious gathering round the table? Chicken must be out because, had he been at home, he would surely have put in an appearance at the sound of our car drawing up, if only to see Alfred.
It was a meeting I had both hoped for and feared. Hoped for, because I was curious to test the limits of Chicken’s power. Was it only countryfolk who found him irresistible, or would my sophisticated brother equally fall for him like a ton of bricks? Feared, because Alfred might instantly recognize him for the rascal he undoubtedly was, and, impervious to his charms, decide that it was his duty to warn our parents I was keeping bad company.
Unable to decide whether to be sorry or relieved at the reprieve, I asked Ellie if she knew where Chicken was. She merely tittered; so I went down the back garden to the privy, not because I needed to use it, but because, in the ruined one next door – Chicken being forced to avail himself of the Fenners’ facilities – the house martins were raising a second brood.
When the pleasure of watching the birds palled I pushed open the door of the Fenners’ convenience, and was put out to discover that only one hole was available for use, the other two being covered over with a board. Whenever I stayed at Opposite the Cross Keys I always looked forward to my evening visit there with Mrs Fenner, a restful, gossipy way to end the day. A strong odour of kerosene overlaid the normal smell of ripening excrement and I remembered Mrs Fenner saying something about having one of these days to get at those woodworms down at the bottom of the garden, or the bloody bog would be all hole and no seat.
Any slight ennui I might be feeling, any discontent with the quality of my welcome, was rapidly dispelled upon Mrs Fenner’s return. She bore great news. Old Saffrons had been burgled! Old Mr Hayes, who did the Livermores’ odd jobs, had gone in there Monday evening to water the runner beans, found the kitchen window open, and gone for PC Utting.
‘Detectives were down from Norwich like we was Chicago gangsters.’ Mrs Fenner sounded proud that Salham St Awdry had joined the great world of crime.
‘Was anything taken?’
‘They say so. That gal o’ theirs ’ll be telling you all about it, I dare say. They got ’ em back from wherever they gone to. Mr Hayes were there when they got home an’ he says the missus took on like she’d lost the Crown Jewels. She told him her gold watch were gone, an’ her silver candlesticks, an’ I don’t know what else.’ Mrs Fenner broke off with a laugh. ‘One thing, Sylvie. I reckon you won’t be complaining so much of fuss next time you visit there. You’ll get your tea out of a brown pot like everyone else.’
‘You mean, the burglar stole the silver tea set?’
‘So old Mr Hayes say.’
Mrs Fenner put the kettle on the hob. Cutting the bread into her usual doorsteps, she dropped casually, ‘The cheeky buggers, they come an’ had a word wi’ Chicken.’
‘Who?’ My heart suddenly banged against my chest at the recollection that it was I who had spread the word about the si
lver teapot and its appurtenances. ‘The Livermores?’
‘The detectives. It were PC Utting’s doing.’ PC Utting, a lay reader at the Chapel, was one of the few people in St Awdry’s to be unimpressed by Chicken’s talents. ‘Seems they arst him were there anyone new in the village,’ Mrs Fenner went on, with no sign of anxiety. ‘So o’ course he had to say as there were.’
‘Chicken’s not a thief!’ I cried, hardly giving a thought to the telegraph poles.
‘Who said he were? All they wanted to know was if he wasn’t someone they knew. Someone already on their books.’
‘And was he?’
‘You’ll have to ask him. Shouldn’t think so, from what I heard through the wall. They was jokin’ away like they’d been chums from the cradle.’
The rest of us were already seated and eating our tea before Chicken came through the front door in that trim, balletic way of his, making an entrance. You almost expected an orchestra somewhere off in the wings to sound an introductory ‘Ta ra!’
‘Brought you all a present,’ he announced, bringing out two small bunches of purple grapes, one from each trouser pocket. He put the fruit down in the middle of the table.
‘Better watch out,’ Mrs Fenner warned. ‘Sylvie here’ll think you knocked ’ em off, and run for PC Utting.’
Chicken sat down in what had already become his place, sacred to him alone.
‘Parson gi’ me them, if you want to know, for cutting down some bunches in his conservatory too high up for his holiness to get at. Said heights made him dizzy. Fine thing! His job to lead the way up to heaven an’ he can’t go three steps up a stepladder without the blood rushing to his head!’
Over tea we discussed the burglary at Old Saffrons some more. Tom didn’t like the sound of the word ‘burglar’. His face clouded over and he had to be reassured that those who lived at Opposite the Cross Keys were lucky. There was nothing worth stealing.
Tom was only partly convinced.
‘There’s my snail. I put it back on the geranium.’
We had to admit that the snail on the geranium was indeed a prize worth breaking and entering for, one that had slipped our minds.
Tom, his beautiful, unfinished features screwed up in concentration, thought hard and solved the problem. ‘I’ll put it in my pocket, tha’s what I’ll do!’ he declared; got up from the table, went over to the plant on the window sill and was as good as his word. Smiling beatifically, he returned to his place. ‘He’ll be safe now, along o’ me.’
‘Tha’s right.’ Charlie, who did not usually have much time for his brother, put his arm round the other’s neck, and repeated, smiling, ‘Safe now!’
I slept deeply that night, on the horsehair sofa, deeply happy. Instead of rats thirsting for my blood on the other side of the wall there was Chicken, asleep on his mattress, not even snoring: able, I was quite certain, to defend me against all comers if the need arose. I slept deeply, yet awoke when it was still deep night, thinking at first that it was the very silence which had roused me. Then I heard the clank of the pump – at two o’clock in the morning? – the splash of water into the pail, and realized it was not the quiet but the sound of something intrusive, out of context, which had brought me back to consciousness.
I swung my legs out of bed, feeling with my feet for my slippers, and then making my way to the door into the scullery which, pushed open, disclosed moonlight pouring in through the window on to the tiled floor. I moved stealthily, skirting the piercing illumination. Cautiously, I raised my head above the window sill and saw Chicken, fully dressed, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, washing his arms under the pump.
Oddly enough, the thing which I found most surprising about the picture thus revealed was the khaki-coloured slab of soap, the kind that used to be purchasable by the pound for heavy domestic chores, with which the man performed his ablutions. Never had I seen anyone at Opposite the Cross Keys wash himself with such dedication. Certainly, unless it were some trick of moonlight, Chicken’s hands and arms looked even dirtier than usual; an adhesive dirt he seemed to be finding difficult to remove. From time to time he raised his hands to his facc or lowered his head into the bend of his elbow and sniffed.
When at last he appeared satisfied, he emptied out the bucket and refilled it with fresh water, which he proceeded to slosh over what I now saw was a package of some kind on the ground beside the pump. It was large and bumpy, with a sheen to the wrapping, as if it might have been oilskin or something similar. As I watched, Chicken, using the toe of his boot – he seemed unwilling actually to touch it with his freshly washed hands – turned the parcel over to get at the underside. It made a tinkling sound.
Up to that moment I had watched, making no sense of what I saw. With that tinkle came enlightenment. I opened the back door without care for quiet. The bolts were stiff, the hinges grumbled as usual. The man at the pump looked up at the sound, saw it was only me, lifted a hand in greeting and went back to his labours.
Without haste, he sluiced the oilskin clean and moved the package to a fresh patch of ground before strolling over to me in a leisurely way, unrolling his shirt-sleeves as he came.
‘You put that woodworm stuff on the seat!’ I burst out as soon as he was near enough. ‘You covered up those holes with the board! You had Mrs Livermore’s silver hidden there all the time!’
‘You aimin’ to wake up the whole sodding village?’ Chicken sounded amused rather than angry. He came nearer, and held out his arms towards me; not pleading for mercy, as, for a moment, I had romantically imagined, but for inspection. ‘Smell anything?’
‘Only the soap,’ I answered unwillingly, aware that my righteous wrath was being bypassed: but I answered.
‘Tha’s a relief. Thought I were going’ to stink till Christmas. You lot,’ Chicken observed without animus, ‘when you lot shit you certainly let yourselves go. Anyone ’d think you bin weaned on Syrup o’ Figs.’
‘We never even used the ones with the board on –’
‘’Course you didn’t! Why you s’pose I covered ’em up? I’m not stupid. Wanted a good depth of coverage, if you unnerstan’ me.’
He stood there, smiling. Suddenly, against my conscious will, I had a great desire to smile back. More, to hoot with laughter, an owl shattering the night with its manic mirth.
‘You never – !’
‘On’y thing to do,’ Chicken assured me. ‘Knew them Norwich gents, even if they got nosy, ’d draw the line at poking about in the jakes.’ Looking at me with concern: ‘You can’t go on standing out here in your pyjamas, gal. You’ll catch yer death o’ cold.’
He pushed me gently back into the scullery, and followed after. Safely out of earshot of the neighbours, and with my hands over my mouth in case the Fenners should hear me up above, I shook with laughter until I thought I should dissolve in it, like sherbet in water. By the time I was able to gasp out, ‘It’s very, very wrong of you,’ my moral stance had lost a good deal of its force.
‘You didn’t have to burgle a friend of mine! You could have gone and burgled somebody else. You wouldn’t even have known about the Livermores’ teapot if I hadn’t said –’
Chicken said, ‘Do me a favour! How many silver teapots you reckon goin’ begging in St Awdry’s? It don’t give a bugger a lot of choice.’
He went outside again. I heard the swag clunk as he picked it up from the ground. I bolted the door and went back to bed feeling – I didn’t know what I was feeling, my life to date not having equipped me with a set of responses appropriate to the situation. I knew of course that crime was wrong and the thing to do was call a policeman; but I also knew that to call in PC Utting was unthinkable, even though I should never again be able to pass him in the High Street without blushing from head to toe. At least Chicken had not insulted me by begging me not to give him away. As if I ever could!
Burrowing deep under the bedclothes, I discovered that I had after all grown cold in the moonlight, and slid down to sleep shivering with the pai
n of love.
Mrs Fenner peered out between the geraniums into the freshness of the morning.
‘That Livery gal o’ yours is over the road,’ she announced, ‘jumpin’ up an’ down like she needs to go somewhere. Whyn’t she come across if she want something? The bugger afraid we’re catching?’
I didn’t know what Patricia Livermore was afraid of, either; only that, after her one and only glimpse of the interior of Opposite the Cross Keys, she had never come to the Fenners’ door again: she and Nellie Smith both the same, though not for the same reasons. She stayed safely outside the Cross Keys, staring hard at the cottage as if willing me to appear. Every now and again, out of boredom perhaps, or in solicitation of some private god, she went into a little dance, a soft-shoe shuffle diversified with hops and skips that set her pigtails flapping. Spying between the flowerpots I asked myself what on earth I was doing with such a friend.
I laced my tea with an extra lashing of condensed milk and opined gloomily, ‘I expect she wants to talk about the burglary.’
‘Wha’s wrong wi’ that? Should ’ve thought you couldn’t wait to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’
‘I’m fed up with it. You’d think there wasn’t anything else to talk about.’
I took my time finishing my tea, and then began to clear away the breakfast things. Mrs Fenner looked at me curiously.
‘I’ll see to those. You go on over an’ put the mauther out of her misery. She’ll wet her pants if you keep her standing there any longer.’