‘It can’t be, we’ve still got the wheat to cart yet,’ said Mother.
‘I don’t think I will go, Frank, in answer to your question,’ John said, helping himself to a second slice of pork pie.
‘Why not?’
‘I say you should come with us, John,’ said Father. ‘Hear what she has to say. Uncommon for a woman to stand a man a drink, for one thing.’
‘It’s not her money, by all accounts. Anyway, I’ve heard her speak.’
‘At the table, you mean?’
John nodded, and ate on, stolidly.
‘You still don’t like her, do you?’ said Mother. Her voice was soft, and she sounded genuinely curious.
‘I don’t like or dislike her, Ada.’
‘But you’re always so scornful of her,’ I said. I hadn’t meant to speak out, but now that I had I realised that it was true, and that it bothered me.
‘I’m sure I don’t mean to be, Edith.’
‘Well you are. It’s embarrassing. She’s only ever been nice to you, and all she wants is for you to tell her about horses, and – and how you look after them. Where’s the harm in that?’
‘John forgets his manners sometimes, not being used to female company,’ Father said. ‘I’m sure Connie doesn’t mind.’
Mother got up abruptly and went to the pantry.
‘I’m female company,’ I said.
‘You’re family, lass, and so’s your mother. You don’t count.’
At that moment, Connie put her head around the kitchen door. ‘George, there’s somebody here for you – a Mr Turner.’
‘Turner?’ replied Father, furrowing his brow. ‘I don’t think I know a Turner. What’s his business with me?’
‘He didn’t say – I can ask, if you like, but I don’t expect he’ll confide in one of the fairer sex. Anyway, I let him know you were eating, and he said to tell you not to rush. He’s in the barn.’
But Father had already pushed his chair back.
‘I’ll be there directly,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come in? Ada’ll be making tea before long.’
Mother reappeared from the pantry with a baking tray, which she slid into the oven. ‘Yes, come in and sit, Connie. I’m making coconut shapes. They won’t take long.’
By the time Father came back in, John and Frank had gone out to finish the rick. Connie was telling Mother about unpasteurised milk, which, she said, was far more wholesome than the devitalised stuff from the ‘centralised milk factory’ – wherever that was to be found. Grandfather sat on at the end of the table, lost in daydream, his gnarled hands resting on the knob of his stick. I was washing up. I had traced the witch-mark on my forehead when nobody was looking, and now I found that my headache had gone.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Father, taking his cap off and sitting down. He laid a business card on the table before him, and after gazing at it a moment took it up again and began to turn it thoughtfully over and over in his hands.
‘What is it, George?’ said Mother. ‘What did the man want?’
‘He wants to buy our barley.’
‘Buy our barley? Why, it hasn’t even been threshed!’
‘I know that, woman. But that’s what he said.’
‘A speculator,’ said Connie. ‘I hope you sent him away with a flea in his ear.’
‘It don’t pay a farmer to be hasty, Connie.’
Grandfather had turned his head, and sat gazing at Father with sightless eyes.
‘How much, son?’ he asked. ‘How much will he pay?’
‘Thirteen shillings a coomb.’
‘But that’s nothing, George!’ exclaimed Mother. ‘Surely you won’t accept?’
‘Haven’t you women got any work to do? Allus in here gossiping and bothering a man.’
‘But George –’
‘Be quiet, Ada.’
Mother got up and left the room, but Connie sat on quietly. It was strange how Father tolerated her now, I thought, with a stab of jealousy. I filled the kettle, in case he should want tea, and fetched the pot and cups from the table. There were two coconut shapes left, and I set the plate down next to him, quietly, but with the side of his hand he pushed it away.
‘This Turner – he judges it feed barley, then,’ said Grandfather.
‘No.’
‘Malting? Why, that’s less than six shillings a hundredweight. He must think you a fool.’
‘At least it would be sold. He said he would advance me the cash – we could thresh in November, as we allus do. He would even pay for the transportation.’
‘You’ll get a fairer price in winter, at the corn exchange.’
‘Perhaps; perhaps not. Who knows which way prices will go?’
‘Thirteen shillings a coomb for malting barley’s an insult – no two ways about it,’ said Grandfather, and banged his stick upon the floor.
‘That may be so,’ said Father, the card, printed MR. A. TURNER, GRAIN MERCHANT, small and flimsy in his hands. ‘But November is a long way away.’
XVI
All the barley came in, but the wheat was not yet dry enough, and we had a job keeping the farm’s birds from it where it stood in yellow stooks in the fields. One bird, though, was missing, for although I called for him daily, Edmund failed to appear. It was still too early in the year for the landrails to have flown away for the winter, so I told myself that he must have found a sweetheart somewhere.
I don’t know why I’d thought I would be allowed to go to Connie’s meeting; because she had told me about it first, I suppose, and because we had spent so much time together that it just seemed natural I would be there. I think she had assumed I would be, too; but then, she was always blind to convention. The fault was mine for forgetting what I already knew: that in the evening – and even more so if there was going to be talk of politics – the Bell & Hare was out of bounds to a fourteen-year-old girl.
But not to Frank, of course. Watching him and Father help Grandfather into the trap that Saturday after supper, and drive away, I felt the gulf between us very keenly; that’s when I really understood that we were on different paths.
I went back inside to begin the washing-up from supper. Mother was packing a basket to take to Doble; John sat on at the kitchen table, idly spinning his bone-handled knife on the soft, old wood.
‘You want to go, don’t you, Edith,’ he said, without looking up.
I began to collect the dirty plates and dishes from the table. ‘Of course. I hate being left out.’
‘Perhaps it’s as well.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘And what about you, Ada? Why did you stay behind?’
‘It’s my turn to sit with Doble this evening; in fact I should be there now.’
‘That’s not the reason.’
‘Course it is, John.’
‘Edith could have done that,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me why you didn’t want to go.’
Mother sighed. She untied her blue apron from around her waist and folded it, then laid it carefully on the back of the chair opposite John and smoothed it with her hands.
‘I’ve heard too much talk of politics lately, and that’s the truth of it. I just – I just want to live an ordinary life, and look after my own family. Perhaps you’ll say that I’m wrong.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, his voice soft. ‘I don’t judge you, you know that. I never have.’
‘And why aren’t you there, may I ask?’
‘I didn’t think I had the stomach for it – that’s the truth,’ John said haltingly. ‘But perhaps I should go, after all. Some notions – well, it’s like when a horse comes down with the farcy, or strangles; or when bindweed gets into a crop. Once things like that take hold they’re terrible hard to shift.’
I went to heat some water in the copper, and when I returned to the kitchen both he and Mother were gone.
It only took me half an hour or so to decide that I would go to the Bell & Hare, and damn the consequences. Most likely I wouldn’t be allowed
in, but it was a warm evening and if the inn’s windows were open I thought I might be able to linger outside and hear what was being said. Perhaps I would get a hiding from Father, but if there was free beer to be had it seemed likely that he would be incapacitated later, and I knew that neither Grandfather nor Frank would give me up. So once the washing-up was done I saw to the hens, ran upstairs to fetch a cardigan and set out.
Darkness fell a little sooner now than it had done on the night of the village fete, but as I hurried along the field path towards Back Lane there was still light left in the sky. A rich green aftermath had grown on Great Ley and over it a white owl floated, wings motionless, the disc of its face turned down to where tiny creatures doubtless crouched and shook. Home Field was invisible beyond a line of field maples and dog-roses on my right, but as I crossed into Greenleaze the view opened up to the stark corn stubble and the clump of alders, black as pitch against an opaline sky, that marked where the horse-pond was.
I stood a moment, my arms folded across my chest against the evening breeze, listening to a robin spill its plaintive song down from somewhere in the hedge. I couldn’t have said why, but I wanted to see the pond again; I wanted to stand on the bank where I had stood two weeks ago in the moonlight, utterly possessed by the conviction that I had to go in. It would only delay me by a few minutes, I calculated; and the soil was dry around the shorn wheat stalks and strewn with flints, so I did not think the earth would cling to my sandals.
I can’t rightly say what I was searching for there at the edge of the dark water; but what I found was Edmund’s body, flyblown and stinking, his breast torn open and his heart removed from its bloody cavity, his once-bright eyes picked out by crows.
As soon as I emerged from the cut onto The Street I could hear Connie’s meeting. The Bell & Hare was rowdy with voices and hubbub, and there by the green, Elmbourne darkening around me, the sound of it brought me up short. But I couldn’t turn and walk home again, not now, for the discovery of Edmund’s body had left my blood singing strangely in my ears. Compulsively, I traced a witch-mark on the goose-bumped flesh of my hip.
I took a breath and let it out slowly. I knew there was likely a door at the back of the inn somewhere, but I didn’t dare try it; it seemed even worse to me to be caught trespassing in the private part of the inn than to risk making a spectacle of myself by going in where everyone could see. So, heart thumping, I crossed the road, thumbed down the iron latch and pushed open the door.
The air was hot and humid, and thick with the smell of hops and tobacco smoke. No-one turned to see me slip in, or seemed to feel the breath of night air I brought with me. I latched the door behind me and stood a moment to try to understand what was taking place.
All the tables in the tap-room on my left were taken, and men were standing between them, holding their mugs of beer; I had never seen the inn so full. I was glad to see some women at the tables: Elisabeth Allingham from Copdock, Mrs Godbold and one or two others. There was my father, red-faced at a corner table with Grandfather next to him, and my stomach lurched as I saw Alf Rose, laughing, on Father’s other side. Frank and Sid sat on stools with their backs toward me; none saw me, I felt sure, as I ducked back quickly and stood once again just inside the inn door.
The bar-room, on the right, had had its tables entirely removed, and all I could see at first were backs, so that for a moment it looked almost as though I had arrived late for church: jackets and waistcoats, shirtsleeves, a press of men. But unlike the reverent atmosphere in St Anne’s there was a loud clamour of voices, and it was clear that this was where the meeting itself was being held – or perhaps had been held, for nobody seemed to be making a speech. I realised that in delaying at home I had probably missed it, and that I might as well just slip out again and walk home.
But just then I heard Connie’s voice rising easily over the crowd and saw that she was standing in the entrance to the snug at the back, which was raised up a little by a step from the floor of the main bar-room. Six wormy, vertical timbers were all that remained of the snug’s long-gone stud wall, and she stood in the gap where once there must have been a door. I craned to see her between all the men’s heads; her height, and the step she stood on, gave her an advantage. She was wearing what looked like a shepherd’s smock, but in silk, tucked into a narrow grey skirt; her hair had been set into loose waves and was held at the side with a barrette adorned with a yellow oxlip. She looked wonderful.
‘Dear friends and neighbours, thank you again, and let me beg just one more moment of your time,’ she called out. She looked happy, perhaps almost triumphant, and as the hubbub died down, she gave one of her dazzling smiles.
‘You’ve been kind enough to listen as Mr Seton Ritter set out the great need in our country now for the Order of English Yeomanry, and explained a little to you about our beliefs and our aims. The Order is made up of honourable patriots, people like Hugo – like Mr Seton Ritter here – and myself, and growing numbers of farmers like your own George Mather, too: ordinary Englishmen who believe in progress and in fairness, who decry the enthronement of international money-lending, the centralisation of markets, and modern urban industrialism. People who are not afraid to question the high-handed edicts of the League of Nations or the P.E.P., and who above all understand the irreplaceable value of our rural traditions, and wish to protect the health and the purity of our English soil.’
There was a rumble of assent from the crowd. Connie was doing rather well, I thought; it all seemed eminently sensible, though I wondered what the P.E.P. was, and resolved to ask her later if I got the chance. It was a surprise to hear that Father had joined her club, or party, or whatever it was; I wondered if Mother knew.
‘Many of you here belong to an agricultural union. The Order of English Yeomanry does not require that you give up these loyalties, for while there are important concerns to be raised about the evil of Bolshevism, we believe that the re-creation of a vigorous indigenous peasantry – one with a true stake in the future of this country – is by far the more pressing goal.
‘Therefore, if you have agreed with our speeches tonight, I would ask you to consider joining your neighbour George Mather in this, the local chapter of our Order. The cost is a shilling; but tonight you need only give me your names. I shall be here until closing time – oh, and before I forget,’ she said, holding up a copy of a magazine, ‘I’ve more copies of our weekly publication here, The English Pioneer; it’s usually a penny, but tonight they’re free for you all to take away, so please help yourselves, if you haven’t taken one already. I write a regular piece in each issue myself, and I think you’ll agree it’s a good read for all the family.’
She grinned at us, said ‘Thank you’ again, and sat down next to an elegantly dressed man in spectacles, who I presumed was Mr Seton Ritter; I recognised Mr Chalcott, her friend the photographer, in the snug too. But just as the roar of conversation began to swell again, a fair, stocky man shouldered his way up the step to the snug and turned to face the room. It was John.
‘I have something to say to you all, friends, if you’ll grant me a moment.’
Behind the bar the landlord folded his arms. There came a stillness now to the men’s backs such as hadn’t been there when Connie had been speaking, and again I was reminded of church.
‘We’ve seen a lot of Miss FitzAllen at Wych Farm this summer, and heard a lot about her ideas,’ he said. ‘In fact she’s become a regular fixture – out in the fields, too, where I’ll allow she’s been of some use. Now, you all know me for a fair man, and not one to speak out of turn. But I must say to you tonight that this woman is not all she seems.’
The inn was utterly silent; even the low murmur of conversation from the tap-room had stilled. I saw that Father and Sid Rose had got up from their seats and were craning to see through into the public bar. By standing on tip-toe I could just about glimpse Connie’s face in the shadows behind John, wearing a fixed expression. I felt sick with embarrassment, and angry on her beha
lf.
‘Mr Seton Ritter here has talked to you tonight of patriotism, and duty to one’s countrymen, and the bonds of blood and soil. Now, I don’t hold with everything he’s said – not at all – but I believe him to be a man of honour. In the War he was Lieutenant-Colonel Seton Ritter, and he’s had the D.S.M. and the Military Cross. To my mind, he has taken the wrong course since then, but I respect him nonetheless.
‘Miss FitzAllen, however –’
Connie made as though to get up, but John simply turned and looked at her, and she sat back down again.
‘Our Miss FitzAllen here spins a great yarn about her days in France as a V.A.D., but I’ve been asking around and from what I can make out she never even volunteered. Did you know that, Lieutenant-Colonel?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘Or did she pull the wool over your eyes, too?
‘And there’s more!’ he continued, turning back to us and raising his voice over the sudden hubbub. ‘There’s something else you should know before you decide to throw your lot in with this order, or society, or whatever it is. A few weeks ago Constance FitzAllen took it upon herself to evict a family of indigents living over at Hullets for no reason that I can see other than that they were Jews – them being to her mind responsible for everything that’s wrong with the world these days. Well, I’ve news regarding that family. I was at a union meeting three days ago in Corwelby where all the talk was of a family called Adler not long arrived from our direction, the father carrying a girl by the name of Esther, four years old and no more than a bag of skin and bones. She were dead.’
I closed my eyes as voices roared and bodies surged around me. I felt as though I was floating; I knew I should find the door somewhere behind me and go out to get some air, but I couldn’t leave. I took a deep breath but it was of stale pipe-smoke and men’s sweat. John was wrong, that much was obvious. He was quite, quite wrong in everything he said.
‘Now, I don’t claim the right to tell you how to think, and so I won’t; there’s been enough of that manner of talk for one night,’ he continued. ‘All I’ll say is this: we cannot set our faces against change: it don’t do, it never has. Albert Mather is here tonight, the first and best man I ever took a wage from, and he taught me well. He allus said we must have change – we must have it! For the past is gone, and that’s just the way of it. Change allus comes, and all that falls to a man to decide is whether he’ll be part of it or not.’
All Among the Barley Page 21