“Aw, tidden possible vor zay exactly, y’knaw.”
There followed a halting two minutes. Then the son came on the other end and said that Feyther wanted to know when the tackle was required.
“As soon as possible.”
“Aw, I can’t exactly zay about that.”
“Why can’t you come here, if you haven’t a definite date to be elsewhere?”
“Wull, us can’t afford to offend a big man, can us?”
When there was no reply, the voice asked how many acres were to be done.
“About ninety.”
There followed a whispered colloquy between son and father. Then the son said, “Feyther says he might come, but only for cash on the nail. ’Tes the coal strike, zur, us nivver knaws exactly where us be nowadays for steam coal. And the merchant demands cash from us.”
“It’s rather urgent, Mr. Johnson.”
“’Old on a minute, wull ’ee?”
He waited, making himself go limp, for patience. At last footfalls; bumps of the receiver being picked up.
“Us’ll come soon as us can, zur.”
“When will that be?”
“Aw, I can’t exactly zay, but us’ll do our best.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I’ll stand by to show you the way.”
“Aw, us knaws the way up th’ old borstal, zur.”
*
Equinoctial gales flung away the first yellow leaves of the elms around the churchyard, peewits in close flock passed over the downs. Phillip sat by his cousin Willie’s grave, before going up the church tower during the practice ring on Thursday night. He took pen and paper with him.
I take the weight and strength of the barrage, and grow mighty with it, until it becomes but a seam of sound nicked with flashes, and puny in space and time controlled by the vaster roar of stars in their agelong travail through elemental space. I see all life created by those flaming suns of the night, and out of life arises a radiance, wan and phantasmal and pure, the light of Kristos.
The wraith of the War, glimmering with this inner vision, bears me to the wide and shattered country of the Somme, to every broken wood and trench and sunken lane; among the broad, straggling belts of rusty wire smashed and twisted in the chalky loam; while the ruddy clouds of brick-dust hang over the shelled villages by day, and at night the eastern horizon roars and bubbles with light.
One morning he was up on the tower, with its flat leaden roof scored by initials, hearts pierced by arrows, and outlines of boots, when he saw over the parapet a white trail of smoke above the thatched cottages to the west. The Iron Horses were coming. He hurried down the steep stone steps within the cold tower, to greet them. Boys followed as the traction engines dragged their slow puffs up the borstal. The broken gate was lifted off its remaining hook, and one of the engines settled against its spades just inside the hedge. The other puffed away across the stubble drawing a trailer upon which was chained an immense plough, consisting of two sets of six staggered steel breasts, one set either side of the beam. The engines weighed twenty tons apiece. Across the field they were connected by a steel-wire cable with a breaking strain of fifty tons, he learned from the driver of the near engine. Five men in all came with the tackle. Beside the two drivers were two men to manipulate the ploughs, while the fifth man was in charge of a smaller engine to bring steam coal from the railway Halt, and water from the brook in a heavy iron tank on four wheels.
He began to understand some of the reasons for the delay: the steam coal had to be specially ordered at the Halt, a truck of ten tons. Each working day of nine hours required a ton of coal and a thousand gallons of water. The rate of ploughing was about an acre and a half per hour: fourteen acres a day. Ninety acres of stubble might be done in a week, providing the weather held. Then there was the Big Wheatfield of hay aftermath, if he could get out the muck from the bullock yard and get it spread in time.
The work could be done, said the younger Johnson, in a week, but it would mean overtime at the rate of time and a half. Phillip could not face the idea of asking what it would cost.
Mr. Johnson asked how deep he wanted the field to be ploughed.
“Well—let me think. We want to get rid of the thistles, and also to break the hard pan, while we’re about it.”
Phillip was told it would mean turning up a lot of chalk.
“Won’t that be good? I mean, the hard pan is acid, according to our samples of soil.”
“Aye, us can do that. ’Twill take a bit longer. Us’ll raise the ploos if they vetch up too much chalk.”
The two teams of horses were put on muck-carting, and the bailiff hired some out-of-works to spread the heaps on the Big Wheatfield.
The work was going well; he felt a sense of completeness. It was exhilarating to watch the six ploughs below their shining fellows quivering as though eager to dig into the ground on the return journey, to burst up the weedy litter of the field. So silently, too, below his eyes, as he sat with the two men on a plank tied to the superstructure of the plough. The soil came up in six waves almost silently, yet sometimes whispering as the shares were drawn through layers of gravel, to be followed by a grating changing to a crackle as broken flints came up and tumbled over, to lie upon six fresh new furrows braiding with new hope the poverty of the thin stubble. He wondered how he could re-create the scene in words: the hissing and chuffing of the engine, with its smoothly whirring flywheel to which was attached a drum: the noises of the steel cable in tension, sometimes holding a whippering quarrel with the drum which gathered its protecting coils so tightly.
The two men riding with him got off, and pulled down the shares for the return journey; the driver pulled his lever, the flywheel ran backwards, releasing the cable. He walked back beside the plough, sometimes breaking into a run, since the pace of ploughing was half as fast as a quick walk. It was wonderful to feel that he was on top of the work. He walked down to the Big Wheatfield, which adjoined the Shakesbury road, feeling freedom that the work there was being done well; returned up the borstal to the Iron Horses, eating his sandwiches under the hedge beside a fire; remaining out of doors until the engine fires were damped down with slack for the night, then down the borstal to the lights of the farmhouse in the vale below, a contented man, to sleep deeply, to awaken with keen anticipation.
*
“How lovely,” exclaimed Lucy, standing by the beech hanger one morning towards the end of the week with Uncle John and Phillip. Field below field revealed a unity, each transformed from its shabby littleness to the aspect of a cloth woven of many autumnal hues, with white and near-white predominating. He led them over the furrows, pointing out here a patch of pale brown loam pied by broken flints and streaked with yellow clay; there an area of fawn sand ending in a saucer-like bowl, once a dewpond when the land had been pasture before the war. Then the dewpond had been but a hollow overgrown with reeds and surrounded by thorns: a dumping place for dead animals. Now the deep plough had torn up the clay fretted by layers of wheat straw and streaked with a black compost amidst the bones of sheep and bullocks, fractured and decayed, breaking down into lime and phosphate to feed once more the thin mother-soil.
“The deep ploughing will bring in air and light, you see. This soil was enfeebled—sick. I used to feel when I was walking here that it was crying for help.”
She was drawn to him by his strange expression, and moved to take his hand, but he preferred to walk back alone.
“He’s been writing rather late at night,” she explained to Uncle John.
“Ah.” He had seen a look of his dead son on Phillip’s face. He was disturbed; but concealed his apprehension.
“It looks to me to be a capital job of work, Lucy.”
They followed down the borstal. Only the ragged hedges remained of the former aspect of poverty; but to Lucy they were beautiful with their grey of traveller’s joy, clusters of blackberries among the red haws of the thorns and the brighter vermilion hips of the dog-rose. To John there was pleasure in
the sight of a covey of partridges flying over to the ploughed work, not because he was a shooting man, he had long given that up, but partridges brought the land alive again.
*
Outside the farmhouse stood a horse and trap. An aged man sat beside the driver’s seat, his son waited in the lane. In the aged man’s hand was a bill. He wore broadcloth, with a hard square hat above a fringe of white whiskers surrounding an otherwise shaven face.
Mr. Johnson had a long memory, unspoiled by any fiddle-faddle connected with the arts. His mind was the land, seen from an agricultural implement dealer’s world. The name Maddison meant to him money lost when he had had to accept, when Phillip’s grandfather had died towards the end of the last century, 10/- in the £ for steam ploughing, and threshing. Now he wanted his bill settled.
Phillip looked at the bill. Ninety pounds! It was a shock. With horses it was reckoned that the cost per acre was 5/-. The son spoke.
“Can you let feyther hev your cheque for fifty p’un’, sir? Us’v got thik coal bill vor meet, and then there be the men’s wages——”
“I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Johnson, but a cheque I’m expecting from London hasn’t arrived yet. Can you wait until Saturday? It ought to be here by then.”
“How about fifty pun now, sir? Otherwise feyther will hev to take thik tackle to once.”
Several farmers had gone bankrupt in the district that Michaelmas, and Mr. Johnson was much worried by bad debts.
“Yew promised cash, zur.”
“I ought to have inquired about the cost. However, you’ll be paid all right. I’ll telephone tomorrow to my agent in London, as soon as he gets to his office, Mr. Johnson.”
There was the advance of £25 due for the Donkin novel.
Anders said that he was about to write to him to say that Hollins didn’t want to see the novel, since they were not proposing to take up the option. Had he done anything more on The Water Wanderer? “That’s the book that will sell, you know.”
Phillip telephoned Mr. Johnson. The contractor replied that he was sorry, but he would have to take his tackle away, and he couldn’t do any more ploughing without something on account.
“Why not ask the Boys,” said Lucy. “Shall I ring up Tim?”
“No, please don’t. I simply couldn’t ask them for money now they’re hard up themselves.”
“But you helped Pa by giving him a cheque for the rates, remember?”
Mr. Copleston had written a brief letter to Phillip asking for £15/7/6, beginning, ‘Needs must when the devil drives’, and Phillip had sent the amount by return.
“Why not? Pa didn’t hesitate to ask you.” She looked out of the window. “They’re taking the tackle away.” There was a plume of steam by the row of elms.
“Didn’t even wait to hear about my telephone call. Did you give the wages to the bailiff last night? I must call at the bank and see what I have got in my account. Precious little I’m afraid. What a fool I was not to find out the cost of that ploughing beforehand. I thought it would be about eight bob an acre. Well, I’m off into Shakesbury, and then on to see the Boys.”
Billy had been listening to this conversation. He had not understood much of it, but had felt the anxiety in his father’s voice. The trundle of the traction engines came nearer.
“Iron Horsey goin’, Dad.” Billy thought they were his father’s engines, and grieved.
“Yes, how right you are. Well, Lucy, I’ll be going now.”
“Daddy come back?” said Billy, smitten with fear.
“Of course, darling.” How anxious he was whenever Phillip went away.
*
The Works were open, but silent. Ernest and Fiennes had gone to look at an aeroplane which had landed under the slopes of Whitesheet hill, and broken its air-screw; Tim was with Pansy, ‘his young woman’, said Pa, who offered him a bowl of Cox’s apples. Phillip took one and sat down.
After awhile Pa looked up and said briskly, with a kindly look, “Anything particular brings you here? All well at home, I hope?”
“Oh yes, sir. As a matter of fact I wondered if you would care to shoot with us in a month’s time? I don’t shoot, so you are welcome to my place. My uncle is coming and it will be partridge driving. It’s the first shoot this season.”
“They usually walk ’em up for the first shoot, I fancy. However, you know your business best. Unfortunately my legs won’t stand such walking nowadays, thank ’ee all the same. My shooting days are over. But give your Uncle my thanks for the invitation, won’t ’ee?”
He had finished the apple, eating it to the stalk, when Ernest and Fiennes walked in. Fiennes said, “Hullo, you here?” Ernest said nothing as they sat down, looking tired. Phillip asked Fiennes if Tim was likely to be in soon.
“Tim? I’ve no idea.”
The bell for the petrol pump rang outside. All sat still. After awhile Ernest muttered, “Bother.”
“Why does anyone want to come here on a Saturday?” said Fiennes. “Let them ring.”
The bell rang again. “I may as well go and see what’s wanted,” Phillip offered.
Ernest murmured something; Fiennes went on with his reading.
Phillip went out and saw ‘Mister’ sitting astride his pre-war worn-out 2-stroke motorbike known as the Onion. He recalled that ‘Mister’ had borrowed some cash from him once: dare he ask for it back? It was only £10, but that was something.
“Well, well, well,” said the thin asthmatic voice. “If it isn’t the very man I wanted to see. I was on the point of coming over to your place, to call on you and leave cards, don’t you know. How’s Lucy these days?”
“Oh, everything is all right, ‘Mister’.”
Had he come over to borrow more money from the Boys? Well, he wouldn’t be able to tap him. There was only £7 odd in the bank.
“Who’s at home, anyone?”
“Pa, Ernest, and Fiennes. I really came over to see Tim.”
“You’ve heard the news, I suppose?”
“What news?”
“Why, about the Works. Haven’t you heard? The bank has told the Boys that it won’t meet any more cheques. And creditors are pressing, I fancy. Among other things, it’s a question of a judgment summons having been ignored. And that’s no joke, I can tell you.”
“What’s a judgment summons?”
“Well, a creditor has got a judgment against them, and if the money isn’t paid into court within a stipulated time, the question of contempt arises. Then the bailiffs are put in. If they come here, they’ll take possession for a knock-down sale of all this machinery.” He pointed at the Works, which had been built and equipped earlier that year.
“How much is the sum required?”
“About eighty pounds, I think.”
“Can’t we rake round and find eighty pounds?” said Phillip. He was thinking of ‘Mister’ paying back what he had borrowed from the Boys, from time to time.
“The trouble is, old chap, I haven’t a bean to bless my name with. It’s all tied up with trustees. In fact, I owe the Boys some money, with no prospect of paying it back just yet, otherwise I would.”
“I’ve got only seven quid in the bank.”
“The trouble is, they’ve no idea of business. Some of that new machinery in the Works isn’t paid for. From what I can gather they lost a couple of hundred pounds on the Gasworks contract, putting on that roof. Well, I must be off, I suppose.” ‘Mister’ sighed. “I suppose you can’t come to supper? It’s dashed dull at home these days.”
“Many thanks, ‘Mister’, but I must get back.”
“When are you and Lucy coming to stay? Oh, before I forget, the magneto of this beastly Onion has gone wrong again. Before you go, ask Ernest to come over and have a look at it, will you? Tell him to come to dinner tonight, will you? Now, be a good fellow and let me have a gallon of petrol. I would have done it myself, but the beastly pump’s locked for some reason. The key is in the office, I expect. They usually keep it on the top of the till.”
He found the office door locked and got in at the window facing the railway cutting. The till was open and empty, the key lying on top.
“Shall I book it, ‘Mister’?”
The old man hesitated; then said, “Oh yes, you might as well, I suppose, old chap. Now be a good fellow and shove me off, will you? This beastly asthma always comes back in the autumn, dash it.”
*
When Lucy heard about the Boys’ troubles she thought to ask Uncle John’s advice when she took Billy there to tea, as was the Sunday custom, while Phillip stayed at home and tried to write. Perhaps she could sell her share of the marriage settlement. Uncle John had been a barrister, and would know about such things.
“The Boys have had their share, I think about a thousand pounds each. I’d like to sell, well, some of mine, anyway.”
“For an agricultural speculation, Lucy?”
“Well, partly,” she answered, blushing. It had not occurred to her that Phillip did not want Hilary to know about the Iron Horses.
“Let me share in it, Lucy.” He went on, “After all, it’s a job well done. The weathering will do good to the soil. In the spring a scattering of what they call ‘artificials’ before drilling lucerne, or sanfoin—lucerne perhaps on the drier fields, since it puts down deep roots—with ryegrass and clover should result in sound grazing. That is what Hilary is after: when he was here last his idea was that all the farms should turn over to stock, and so the deep ploughings, which could not have been done with horses, are just the thing. With balanced grazing I am sure the land will be brought back into heart. Now with your permission, I’ll take care of Johnson’s account. Be sure that I will not mention to Phillip that you have been here to talk about it. Before you spoke of it, I had intended to propose to Phillip that he allow me to regard it as an investment for the future. After all, what little I have, beyond my annuity, will eventually come to Phillip. I’ll telephone Johnson first thing tomorrow and ask him to bring back the Iron Horses, so that the Big Wheatfield can be drilled before the shoot.”
“Iron Horsey come back?” exclaimed Billy, happily. “Daddy come back too, Mummy?”
The Power of the Dead Page 5