All Among the Barley

by Melissa Harrison

  Granfer had gone over to talk to them, and presently Grandma came over to me in the paddock and held both of my hands in hers. Tears sprang to my eyes in case she hated me; but she looked keenly at me with her good eye, studied each of my hot palms and nodded. Then she pressed an old silver florin and a sprig of marjoram into my hand.

  ‘Thank you for the news of your father, Edith,’ she said. ‘Though Ada should by rights have come to me herself. As for the Rose boy –’

  ‘But Grandma, I –’

  ‘Hush, child. Hush. Don’t you give him another thought.’

  We stopped by the pump in the village for Mary to get out. She climbed carefully down with the baby while Mother untied the cord holding the perambulator to the back of the trap and eased it down gently to the road; then I jumped down and led Meg to the horse trough so she could drink. Terence woke and began to scream and wave his red fists; Mary pulled up the hood for shade and rocked the perambulator on its big wheels.

  ‘He’s hungry, poor mite,’ Mother said.

  ‘I know,’ said Mary, one arm awkwardly across her chest.

  ‘Oh, Mary, love,’ said Mother, and they embraced. I set my jaw and looked away.

  Mother climbed back up to the front of the trap and took the reins, and Meg raised her head and shook the clegs from her ears, bright drops of water flying from her velvet lips. I looked over to my sister where she stood with the perambulator, and she looked back at me.

  ‘You should come and visit, Edie,’ she said. ‘We’ll – go for a nice walk, or something. Come soon.’

  ‘I will,’ I managed, in a whisper. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll come when the harvest’s in.’

  ‘Good. After all, you must get to know baby Terence. You’ve hardly spent any time with him at all.’

  I remember every detail of that day, even all these years later, for when we turned the trap into the lane we saw a figure clinging onto the farm gate and waving to us as though in alarm. Mother shook the reins and Meg broke into a trot, and I saw that it was Grandfather, bare-headed, his stick lying on the ground beside him, his old black suit pale with dust and chaff.

  ‘What is it? Is it John?’ Mother shouted as he fumbled open the gate and swung it back to let us in.

  ‘It’s Doble, Doble,’ he called out in reply. ‘They’ve carried him to his own housen. You’ll find them there.’

  I jumped down and picked up Grandfather’s stick and gave it to him, and held open the gate. ‘I’ll follow you there,’ I called to Mother.

  ‘You look after your grandfather,’ she replied, turning the trap in the farmyard and driving Meg hard back up the lane.

  I shut the gate and took Grandfather’s arm and we began to cross the yard, everything else, including the visit to Grandma and Granfer’s, driven entirely from my mind.

  ‘Whatever’s happened, Grandfather? Are you all right?’

  ‘I heard him fall, Edie – oh, it were terrible! Crashing down, he came. Acourse, your father and John were away in the fields, and Frank – I couldn’t find him; I shouted, but he don’t seem to be nowhere about. Oh dear, Edie – ’

  I settled him into his chair in the parlour and crouched beside it, holding his free hand.

  ‘Was Doble in the barn? Is that where he fell?’

  ‘He were making it ready – your father and John’d gone over all they machinery, oiling it and what-have-you, banging away, and you know how Doble can’t abide things being a mess. So he tidied it and plugged up the holes where rats lived, and readied the thatch-rope and the barley forks . . . I don’t know, he must’ve got up on the crossbeam to fetch the sacks as was hanging there to keep, and next thing I know, down he’s came!’

  ‘Oh, poor Doble. Let me make you some tea, and then I’ll go over. I’m sure he’ll be all right.’

  Grandfather’s voice began to quaver then, and he seemed for the first time to me small, and very frail.

  ‘Nobody came for nigh on an hour, though – nobody came! I couldn’t do a thing for the poor soul in his agony – what could I do? His eyes were open, for I touched his face with my hand, but I don’t think he were seeing anything through ’em no more’n I.’

  Doble’s cottage was on the far side of Long Piece, where it met the road, and I hurried over there as soon as I was satisfied that Grandfather was all right.

  ‘Take him his cap, child – it’s in the barn,’ he said as I set out. ‘He’ll not want to be bare-headed, if he – if –’

  I entered the barn with trepidation; and sure enough, there was Doble’s ancient, greasy cap on the floor near the Fordson. There was blood on the floor there too, dark like port wine, and filmed with dust.

  It was past six o’clock when I set out. I wondered whether I should have put together a basket of food to take over, but while I could picture Mother telling me that I was thoughtful to think of it I could also picture her saying that I should have come over without such delay. The truth was, I didn’t know what I should prepare for, or how, and I was frightened. I just couldn’t imagine Doble dead.

  It had been humid all day but now the air was moving, and from the hedgerows spinks sang, though not of coming rain. An evening breeze rippled the sun-bleached barley and soughed in the leafy castles of the elms, and there were banks of cloud on the horizon, low and barred. It wasn’t enough for wet weather, I thought; but I didn’t have the knack for reading the skies that my grandparents, or Father and John for that matter, seemed to possess. But if Doble was all right – and he must be, I thought, he must – if Doble was all right I would remember to ask John before bedtime if the weather would change.

  At the cottage’s back door my legs suddenly weakened, and I nearly turned as though not of my own volition to walk away. I am a coward, that much is true – but looking back now, I can see that I was also worn out by everything that had happened, and by the effort of making sense of a world which had begun to seem strange. In that moment I would have given anything to have remained outside in Doble’s garden with its well-hoed rows of vegetables, and not have had to go in.

  It was only a moment, though, and from indoors I could hear voices, so I made myself lift the latch and push open the door.

  There were only two rooms, the first with a grate and an old wooden chair beside it, some cooking pots and kindling by the hearth. I ducked under the low lintel to the other room, where I found Father and John standing, bare-headed, and Mother sitting on a stool.

  They had laid Doble on his cot and loosened his collar, and there was an old feed-sack folded behind his head. His eyes were closed now, his mouth slightly open to show his brown peg teeth and the gap in them where his pipe usually sat. Without his cap I saw that his forehead and scalp under his thin hair were as white as the flesh of a mushroom, whereas the lower part of his face was brown from the sun. All his skin was underlaid with greenish-grey.

  ‘Is he dead?’ I asked.

  Mother sighed. ‘No, Edie, but he’s in a bad way.’

  ‘I can’t manage without him, not at this time of year,’ Father said. ‘Damn the man! What was he thinking, monkeying about up there?’

  ‘George, we will manage,’ said Mother levelly. ‘Edie, come and sit with him a moment. Sing out if he moves, all right?’

  So I laid Doble’s cap on the threadbare coverlet and took her place, and she took Father out to the little garden with its canes of fragrant sweet peas among the potatoes and cabbages. I could hear them talking in urgent voices, not quite loud enough to catch the sense.

  John cleared his throat after a few moments. ‘Edie,’ he said. ‘Edie – we need the doctor.’

  ‘Well, can you go for him?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘George – your father won’t allow it.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘He says it’s too expensive, Edie, do you see? To call the doctor out.’

  I clutched the antique coin Grandma had given me where it lay in my pocket. ‘What does Mother say? Surely –’


  ‘It’s – it’s hard for her; you know that. He said she should make him better with – with herbs, or something. Told her to use her knack.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Well, acourse not, Edie. She can’t work magic, and your father should know that. It could be that the man’s back is broke.’

  ‘What do you think, John – can Doble pull through?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, only – only that he should have a chance. All his life that man’s worked for your family, and worked well; and I served with his boy in France and I saw him – I saw him killed. I won’t stand by and see Tipper’s father left to die like a dog. It in’t right.’

  ‘But what –’

  ‘Edie, I can’t go agen your father. You know that. I’m asking you to go over to Rose Farm and get one o’ them boys to ride over on that motor-cycle and fetch the doctor back.’

  XIII

  On a cornland farm, such as ours, the pause between haysel and harvest is like a held breath. The summer lanes are edged with dog-roses and wild clematis, the hedges thronged with young birds. At last the cuckoos leave, and you are glad of it, having heard their note for weeks; but the landrails creak on interminably, invisible among the corn. The nights are brief and warm, the Dog Star dazzles overhead; the moon draws a shadow from every blade of wheat. All day, dust rises from unmade roads and hangs in the air long after a cart or a motor-car passes. Everything waits.

  In midwinter the farm is one thing, you see. Then it is a world. There are the hay-ricks and root clamps, the huge piles of logs and coal, the flitches of bacon, jars of lard and preserves. The animals are all close by, and all the long labour of summer is gathered to hand. Should snow fall, or the road to the village thicken impassably with mud, the farm, entire unto itself, must be able to go on.

  But in high summer it is another thing. The farmhouse windows are left open for any breeze, its occupants far distant, labouring in the fields. The beasts are largely working or grazing, so the yard is quiet; the ricks are long gone, and perhaps only some oats and oilcake, and a little chaff, is left for feed. The land lies open to the weather and undefended, exposed to the ripening sun.

  God forgive me, but the main thing occupying my mind as I hurried to Rose Farm was not poor Doble but Alf Rose, for the thought of him made me want to turn and run the other way, as silly as that might seem. I wondered whether Doble’s accident meant that we would now need help with our harvest, the closest help to hand being either Alf or Sid. ‘Please no, please no,’ I muttered to myself as I approached the farmyard, and on the silver florin in my pocket I traced a witch-mark with my right fingertip.

  I found Sid in the farmyard, where a brand-new Massey-Harris stood, bright red, its modern contours gilded by the low light of the setting sun. There was no sign of Alf, and I felt almost light-headed with relief. Sid was a good person; I could trust him. I felt sure of that.

  ‘Hullo, Edie!’ he called, grimacing only slightly. ‘C-come to see? We’ve had a regular stream of visitors to-day. What d’you think, will John want to borrow it to get your corn in, or is he still w-wedded to horsepower?’

  ‘Sid, is my brother here?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him all day – why, is he not with you? P-p-perhaps he’s over with Sally,’ he said, taking a short pipe from his waistcoat pocket and beginning to fill it. ‘W-what’s wrong?’

  ‘Doble’s had an accident, and we need the doctor. Could you go on your motor-cycle?’

  ‘Oh dear. M-must be serious for your father to get old sawbones out. What happened?’

  ‘He fell, in the barn. It’s – it’s John who wants the doctor. Look, I’ve got this –’ and I held out the florin, damp bits of marjoram dropping from it to the ground.

  Sid laughed. ‘Put that away. Yes, I’ll r-r-ride over. I’ll bring him back with me if he’s at home, and if he’s not I’ll leave a message. Where’s Doble – at your place?’

  ‘No, he’s in his cottage. He’s not moving, Sid. It’s bad.’

  When I got back to the cottage John and Father were gone, and Frank had arrived. It was beginning to get dark.

  ‘Did you send for the doctor, Ed?’ he asked me straight away. Mother was sitting with Doble; he and I were in the other room, where Frank had made a fire to heat water for tea and lit Doble’s ancient lamp. I saw that he’d brought a basket of food over for Mother; it was Grandfather’s doing, no doubt, for he would never have thought of it himself.

  ‘John told me to. Is it all right?’ I asked. ‘Sid’s riding over on his motor-cycle.’

  ‘Yes. Blast him! It’s not right.’

  ‘Blast who – Father?’

  ‘Yes. He said – he said that even if Doble survived the night he’d be useless now, and so it were better that he died so we could get a new man into the cottage, quick.’

  ‘Frank! He didn’t!’

  ‘He did, Ed. And Mother – she didn’t take it well.’

  ‘Did John hear?’

  ‘No, thank heavens. Things are bad enough. And don’t you go telling him, either.’

  I felt cold and still inside. ‘Frank, there’s something wrong with Father.’

  For once he didn’t chaff me, or tell me I was being silly.

  ‘I know there is,’ he said.

  ‘He isn’t himself any more,’ I said, dropping my voice to a whisper. ‘He hasn’t been since the fete, as a matter of fact. I think he’s . . . somebody else.’

  It may seem strange, but it felt true to me as I said it, and not a figure of speech. Father wasn’t Father; an imposter had somehow taken his place, and I was the only one in the family who wasn’t fooled.

  Just then Mother appeared in the doorway from the other room and looked very levelly at us both. My heart banged, for I thought she was going to tell us that Doble had died.

  ‘Edith, Frank: I never want to hear you speaking ill of your father again. Either of you.’

  ‘But Mother, he –’

  ‘That’s enough, boy; you’re not master yet. Edie, go home. You’re ready to drop, I can see.’

  ‘I want to be here.’

  ‘And I’m telling you to go. I’ll stay here with Doble, and Frank will wait with me for the doctor to come. He’s had a far easier day than you – he’s been gallivanting around with Sally all afternoon.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Enough! Go and rest. Come back in the morning, if I haven’t sent Frank with word; and bring breakfast over – enough for Doble too, in case he wakes. And find out from your father if he still wants to start tomorrow. The wheat’s ready, and the weather won’t wait.’

  Her expression softened then, and she held out her arms to me.

  ‘Come here, girl. There’s things we need to talk about, you and I. But not now. Tomorrow, when you’ve slept. All right?’

  Wrapped in my mother’s arms and held against her broad, familiar body, so different from Connie’s, I nodded; and under Doble’s low, mould-spotted cottage ceiling I realised that I was growing taller than her. I wanted to weep, I wanted to tell her everything; but I knew that I must keep all my feelings within me, and make sure only that we got the harvest in.

  ‘Everything will be all right, Edith June, I promise,’ she said, releasing me with a pat.

  Again that night I did not sleep. I lay fretting – not about Doble, or Father, or Sir Cecil’s speech at the fete, but about Edmund, for some reason; I kept picturing him being taken by one of the cats, or by a fox if – as was likely – he was roosting on the ground in one of the dark fields. It was such a silly thing to worry about, given everything, but lying in the dark with my eyes wide open I didn’t feel in control of my thoughts.

  Perhaps I should keep him with me always, I told myself, turning over yet again; perhaps he would be safer in a pen at night; for although he was here to protect me, I had rescued him from Moses’ hooves and so was responsible for him for the rest of his life. Yes, he was mine, and I decided that he must not fly south in autumn, as all th
e other landrails did; he must always stay at Wych Farm, with me, where we were safe. Yet no sooner had I resolved this to my own satisfaction than the thought somehow began again and I had to pursue it until it had run full circle, and this seemed to go on for hours. Perhaps, I thought, as a gibbous moon outlined the edge of the wooden window shutters, sleep didn’t really matter any more.

  I suppose I must have dozed at last, for Frank came to wake me at six. He brought a cup of tea up, and by this I knew that Mother had said something to him – most likely that I had women’s troubles, for that would embarrass him and keep him from asking what was wrong.

  ‘Frank – come back,’ I said, sitting up in bed. ‘Is Doble – how is Doble?’

  ‘Awake and talking, after a fashion. Looks likely he’ll survive.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! What did the doctor say?’

  ‘He came, but Doble’d already woken up by then. It was a miracle, Ed. I was in the chair by the fire – I was asleep, I suppose – and the first thing I knew Mother was shaking me and telling me to warm up some milk. I thought it must be for her, but she said he was stirring, and when I went in to see, his eyes were open and looking straight at me. It fair gave me a shock, I’ll admit.’

  So the doctor hadn’t saved Doble; this was interesting news.

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Befuddled at first. You know, his speech was strange. I think his head hurt – he kept touching it and closing his eyes, though he didn’t actually complain of it. Mother sat and held his hands and talked to him, and after a few minutes he – he began to cry.’

  ‘Doble? Cry?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, Ed, I hated to see it. I went and sat by the fire again.’

  ‘So . . . his back isn’t broken?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. But I don’t think he’ll be back on his feet straight away. Did you know he’ll be seventy years old come September?’