All Among the Barley

by Melissa Harrison

  I nodded and looked down at my hands. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I must just use the W.C., if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh – Edie,’ Connie said, as I got up to leave the room. ‘I think – gosh, I’m so sorry, but I think your monthlies have arrived.’

  Connie and I made our way back to Wych Farm on Connie’s bicycle, me balanced gingerly on the front handlebars. The sun had come out again, and everything steamed; the rain had laid the road dust, too, and washed its pale bloom from the blowsy hedgerows on either side.

  Mary had given me one of her dresses to change into; mine, with a crimson flag on the seat that was probably visible when I stepped out of the motor-car, was bundled up in Connie’s bag. Upstairs, in her bedroom, Mary had found me a sanitary belt and towel, and in a whisper pointed out how relieved I should be. The settee would be fine with a little carbolic soap. ‘Honestly, Terence has done far worse to it than that,’ she laughed.

  ‘I’ll wash your dress and bring it back next week, with Mother,’ I promised at the front door, hugging her hard.

  ‘No – you keep it,’ she said, smiling. ‘I won’t be able to fit into it soon.’ She laid a hand on her stomach. ‘But don’t you dare tell Mother I’m expecting – and that includes you, Constance! She’ll wholly take on if she thinks I told anyone else first.’

  Back in the village Connie and I dismounted by the old mill and carried the bicycle across the stepping-stones, then wheeled it along the narrow path to Back Lane. My cramps were starting, and I was glad not to have to balance on the front of the bicycle any more.

  ‘I’ll go and let Ada know I found you; you nip straight indoors and go to bed,’ Connie said. ‘I’ve left a copy of my latest article for you to read – all about the blacksmith and the wheelwright and the wonderful old farm wagons you see in this part of the world. You must tell me what you think.’

  ‘Thank you, Connie, I’m sure it’s marvellous. But – I’ve been meaning to ask: what happened to the family at Hullets? I’ve been so caught up in everything at home –’

  ‘Oh, they’re being well looked after in Market Stoundham – they’re quite, quite safe. Now, I must find out how my Mr Chalcott’s getting on!’

  ‘He’s still taking pictures?’

  ‘He was when I left him, but the rain probably sent him scurrying indoors. I say, will it have ruined the harvest?’

  ‘Oh no, not just a little bit of drizzle like that. I’m sure it'll be absolutely fine.’

  ‘And how long do you think until you’re finished?’

  ‘I expect all the wheat will be stooked in a few days,’ I replied. ‘Then, while it’s drying, we’ll cut the barley and build the rick. And some time after that, when the wheat’s dry, we’ll cart it in and do the same.’

  ‘But there’ll be no Harvest Home?’

  ‘No – sorry, Connie. Mother might make something nice to eat, but that’s all.’

  ‘It just seems a shame. I’ve been reading about the old traditions, and it was a chance for the whole village to come together.’

  ‘But we’re not peasants now, Connie, harvesting all the fields at the same time for the local squire. The farmers all finish at different times these days; it wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Well, I mean to organise something, in any case – at the Bell & Hare.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s say – once your wheat’s stooked, at least, and the barley’s in, shall we? I don’t want to leave it too long. I’ve a mind to get the local farmers and farm-hands together. I may even be able to bribe them with beer.’

  I laughed. ‘Well, that should do the trick. Just don’t go expecting all the old ballads and harvest traditions; the olden days are long gone.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I had in mind at all, darling,’ she said, but although I pressed her, she wouldn’t tell me any more.

  XV

  With the first of the cornfields cut to stubble came a presage of winter. At once the hedges stood out more starkly, the land revealing half-remembered contours long hidden by the corn, and it was not so hard to imagine the fields ploughed to rich brown furrows ready for the frost to break up the clods. After all, the cerulean sky of August was not so very different from the skies of a bright and chill November day, when all our acres would lie empty and silent.

  Winter, though, would bring with it its own pleasures: the fires lit in the two hearths downstairs, filling the old house with the smell of wood; skating on the horse-pond with Frank, if it froze hard enough to take our weight; trips to Market Stoundham to visit the cattle market and the corn exchange. I suppose these last were less of a pleasure for Father, who had the worry of fetching a good price for his grain; sometimes we would make many trips before he sold it, the barley particularly, his little leather sample bag carefully emptied and filled anew for each trip lest its contents had somehow spoiled in the intervening week.

  But for now all that was to come. We cut and stooked Greenleaze and Newlands in dull, overcast weather, then had another day of drizzling rain in which to rest. But the sun came out again, and shone strongly, and after a further day of watching the barometer anxiously, we began on the barley in Crossways. John let Frank take a turn driving the reaper-binder, and Connie spent a day with us, learning how to toss the sheaves up to the wagon on Tipper’s old two-tined barley fork. Meanwhile, Mother visited Doble daily, taking turns with Mrs Rose to bring him his meals. But whether he was still abed or busy harvesting we saw nothing of Alf at Wych Farm, and I did not ask how he was.

  I was sleeping better, and as a consequence, I suppose, each day I felt a little less queer. I told Mother so, saying only that I had been foolishly sitting up late and reading lurid books – something she accepted readily, for it bore out what she herself thought of me; after all, less than a year had passed since my obsession with The Midnight Folk, when I had pretended for weeks to be a boy who could speak to magical cats. I remained a little shy of Father, but not in the same way as when I’d failed to recognise him as my father, an episode that was almost impossible now to recall. As for witchcraft, at church I prayed to God to forgive my confusion and childish games. But every now and again I found my thoughts returning to the possibility that my life was secretly significant, and still I traced the witch-mark on my palm from time to time. After all, it wasn’t as though it could do any harm.

  It was only now, in the slow ebbing away of those strange convictions, that I began to question what had happened to me in the period following the village fete. Had I perhaps been in some way touched, or mad, like the grandmother I’d never met? The idea of it was terrifying – yet something in me missed the elation of those days, and the great power I’d so briefly known myself to have. I shared none of these thoughts with anyone, though, for I knew that no-one would understand.

  We built the barley-ricks next to the hay-rick, making sure to leave enough space for the wheat to come in when it was dry. Father had been talking for years about putting up a modern Dutch barn with a corrugated iron roof between Crossways and Greenleaze, but somehow he had never quite got round to it, so we carted all our corn back to the rick-yard still.

  It is a ticklish business to build a rick so it is weather-proof, safe from heating and – to the greatest extent possible – unwelcoming to rats. A rick must be bedded well with straw, then the sheaves forked from the cart and at first set on end, where the centre of the round rick will be; only gradually, towards the edges, are they laid on their sides with the butts outward. This is to keep the heart full, so that the roof will be conical when it is thatched, and the rain run off. Stack props keep it upright as it is raised, and the man most skilled stands atop it to receive the sheaves that are pitched up to him, laying them in place, treading them down, and at last heading the rick. Then it must be thatched with clean wheat-straw secured with stakes and springles, lashed with rope and trimmed on all sides so that it is neat. And of course, there are as many ways of trimming it as there are farms, with forms and fashions that
vary between districts, and even between particular men.

  As Grandfather had predicted, we missed Doble when it came to making our ricks, for while Father and John could do it, neither had his keen eye, and so the work was slow. At first the heart didn’t hold, but fell flat, which meant that when the rick settled there would be a hollow at its centre and the barley would rot; we had to unstack it, half-built, and start again. Then it wasn’t quite circular, which would make it difficult to thatch; but for want of time we pressed on regardless, John pitching the sheaves up to Father, and Father growing ever more irate. Meanwhile Frank led Moses and Malachi to the field and back, Mother and I filling the huge wagon as best we could; after a break for ‘fours’, as we called it, and then supper, we worked on in the darkening field until sunset, singing ‘John Barleycorn’ and ‘Waiting for the Leaves to Fall’ in the style of Jessie Matthews, and a jazz tune popular that year called ‘Honeysuckle Rose’.

  Connie arrived at Wych Farm late one morning as we were getting ready to head the second barley-rick. Mother had gone indoors to make dinner; Frank and Father were both up on the rick, Father demonstrating how to catch the sheaves from John, who stood on the fast-emptying wagon.

  ‘Gosh, they make it look easy, don’t they,’ she said admiringly; and there was a deftness to the grown men’s movements that was, I suppose, something like grace; as John pitched the sheaf up, Father took it on his fork in one easy movement and swung it neatly into place. Frank could do it, but it was as though he was putting too much energy into it, and I could see from his face that it would soon tire him, whereas the more experienced men still looked fresh.

  ‘Don’t think about it so much, son,’ said Father. ‘Just take it on the swing and let the rhythm do the work.’

  ‘May I have a try, George?’ called Connie.

  ‘No, Constance; we’re nearly done now, and then we shall thatch. Pity you didn’t come yesterday, when you might’ve been of some use.’

  She grinned, and stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘I had business in town, George. Anyway, I’m here now, so I can help thatch.’

  John snorted.

  ‘I don’t think you will, for all that,’ Father said.

  ‘Oh! That reminds me, Edie,’ she said, turning to me. ‘I passed the postman on my way here.’ And she drew a crumpled letter from the pocket of her trousers and held it out. It was postmarked Corwelby. ‘Don’t tell me – a secret admirer?’

  But I had recognised the handwriting on the envelope, and drew away from her with a frown.

  Dear Edith,

  How are you keeping? I do hope that you are well.

  I trust you will forgive me writing with news of another opportunity, but I could not in all conscience fail to put it before you, despite what you set out regarding your disaffinity for children in answer to my last idea.

  A woman of my acquaintance, a widow, but at only 29 years, is seeking a girl to act as her companion and to assist with the duties surrounding her daughter, a girl of three years old, so that she may pursue her hobby of painting with watercolours. No housekeeping duties are required.

  My acquaintance lives at Market Stoundham, in comfortable circumstances. The position is live-in. Upon learning of her requirements I immediately thought of you; but of course, there are likely to be many applicants, so do let me know by return of post whether you would like me to arrange an interview.

  Edith, I must be frank with you, and trust that the regard we had for one another when I was your teacher still affords me the privilege of telling the truth. You are only fourteen, and at fourteen girls do not yet know their own minds – although of course one rather feels as though one does! But I know you very well, for I was just like you when I was your age, and now have the added benefit of the perspective of years.

  My advice is that you take up this position, and avail yourself of all the advantages of living in town. True, Market Stoundham is not London, but there is the lending library, and a small theatrical society, and the company of many more young people than you will ever meet in Elmbourne. You will be free to cast off the lassitude that I observe to have afflicted you in recent years, and truly begin your life. And I have no doubt that in time you will discover in yourself that which is is most natural to Woman: the instinct to care for children, whether one’s own, or those of others.

  I look forward to your reply –

  Ever affectionately,

  Geraldine Carter

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked Connie, as I refolded the letter and put it back in its envelope. I felt rattled, as though a trap was closing, but I pushed the feeling from my mind. I was far too much needed at home, for one thing.

  ‘Just a letter from my old teacher, Miss Carter. We write to one another sometimes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and give Mother a hand.’

  In my bedroom I slipped the letter inside a book and ran back downstairs. I had a headache building somewhere behind my eyes.

  ‘Ah, there you are, child. Fetch the pork pie from the pantry – it’s under a cloth. And then cut it up into eight, will you? And slice some bread.’

  ‘Mother, are you happy?’

  ‘What do you mean, am I happy, girl?’

  ‘Are you happy? You know, with how your life’s turned out.’

  ‘What’s got into you now, Edie? Course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Don’t you ever wish you’d – done something with your life?’

  She frowned at me. ‘You think I’ve done naught, is that it?’

  ‘I mean – well, do you ever miss being a horsewoman, for example? You must have been sad when John came back from the War.’

  ‘Sad? Don’t be ridiculous, Edith. I was glad the man survived. We all were.’

  I felt as though she wasn’t truly answering my question, although her reply was so definite; but perhaps it was just that I didn’t believe her, which wasn’t entirely fair.

  ‘Is it that Connie putting ideas in your head again? I shall be glad in some ways when she’s gone, you know.’

  ‘Why, has she said she’s leaving?’

  ‘No, not that I’ve heard,’ Mother replied, picking the shells from a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. ‘But she’ll want to be back in London come the colder weather, I’ll wager. And then we shall have some peace.’

  ‘Mother. . .’

  ‘Yes, child?’

  ‘Miss Carter’s written to me about a position. In Market Stoundham.’

  ‘In service?’

  ‘No. Well, in a way. A lady’s companion – a widow. She has a three-year-old daughter. She paints.’

  Mother finished the eggs and wiped her hands on her apron.

  ‘Well, that’s rare news, Edie! Have you replied?’

  ‘Not yet – the letter only came just now.’

  ‘But you’ll take it? You’ll say yes?’

  I felt stung that she seemed so happy; it wasn’t what I’d expected. ‘But – who’d help with wash-day? And wouldn’t you miss me?’

  ‘Edie, you listen to me: it’s a good opportunity, and you must take it. You must.’

  I gathered up the eggshells and put them into the pail for the pigs. Far from keeping me at home, it was as though she wanted me gone now. Perhaps my recent behaviour had exhausted her love for me, I reflected. I felt my headache tighten into a band around my skull.

  ‘Mother,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Edie?’

  ‘What happened to Grandmother?’

  ‘What do you mean, what happened to her? She took ill and died.’

  ‘Was she – mad?’

  She sighed. ‘Well. I don’t rightly know; it was before I married your father, and Albert won’t speak of her at all. Some say she was stricken with delusions; but if you ask Lizzie Allingham, she’ll tell you the poor woman was just tired.’

  Connie didn’t eat with us that day, but remained outside, sketching the ricks.

  ‘How long until you bring in the wheat, George?’ I heard her ask when I w
ent to tell them to come in and eat.

  ‘A week,’ Father replied, but John shook his head.

  ‘Nine or ten days from now, if the weather holds.’

  ‘We’ll cart in a week, man – and sooner if I give the word.’

  Back in the kitchen, Mother switched off the wireless as the three men followed me in and sat down.

  ‘I’ll just fetch Albert,’ she said. ‘You all start; I know you don’t want to be long.’

  The talk as we ate was mostly of rick-building. John asked Mother if Doble might be well enough to be brought to see our work, but she didn’t think he could manage the distance yet, although he was sitting up now and fretting for news. Grandfather told us about the time when he was a boy and one of the ricks began to smoke; how it had smouldered for weeks without fully catching fire, and how his father had been too afraid to open it up in case letting air into it caused it to burst into flames.

  ‘And acourse, there were some who were firing ricks on purpose in those years,’ he added darkly.

  ‘Why?’ asked Frank.

  ‘Blasted unions driving a wedge between man and master, lad.’

  John cleared his throat. He was a member of our local agricultural union, and went to meetings in Market Stoundham.

  ‘Those days are long gone now,’ he said. ‘And anyway, isn’t your own son here a member of the Farmers’ Union?’

  ‘Tain’t the same, John,’ said Grandfather, ‘as well you know.’

  ‘Will you be going to Connie’s meeting, John?’ said Frank.

  ‘What meeting’s that?’ Mother asked.

  ‘Connie’s arranging a meeting on Saturday at the Bell & Hare – everyone’s invited. She says there’ll be free beer.’

  ‘Free beer? Whatever for?’

  ‘She said she’s been given ten bob to spend however she likes, and she wants as many people as possible there. Ed, do you know what it’s all about?’

  I shook my head slightly, wincing at the throb my temples gave. ‘Only that she was planning it. I thought it was a sort of Harvest Home, though.’