Post of Honour

by R. F Delderfield

  News that Harold was unemployed surprised him for he had got the impression from Marian, as well as Harold himself, that the temporary gentleman of the long family has done very well for himself and had continued to earn good money throughout the Depression.

  ‘I thought you were dug in,’ he said and Harold replied, bitterly, ‘So did I, but it seems I didn’t dig deeply enough! The boss had a son down from ‘Varsity and didn’t know where to place him. Then he remembered me and reckoned the war was so long ago that we were due for the next, so out I went on my ear! They didn’t put it that way, of course—just the usual cock about hard times and unavoidable economies! Odd how these chaps can make a virtue of necessity. This crisis has been a Godsend to some of them I can tell you!’

  Paul said, sympathetically, ‘We all get a kick in the pants now and again and ex-service chaps more than their ration. What was the idea you had?’

  ‘Mother wondered if you would consider me as tenant at Four Winds.’

  Paul made no attempt to conceal his astonishment. Like all the Eveleighs Harold had grown up on a farm but he had enlisted at eighteen, and after the war had gone straight into industry. To come home with the notion of running Four Winds implied that he was either supremely self-confident or desperate; it was important to discover which for Four Winds was no place for a desperate man, using it as a temporary haven and Marian would surely be aware of that.

  ‘You say it was your mother’s idea.’

  ‘No, it was mine; Mother doesn’t think I could make it and she only let me apply because she’s sorry for Connie and the kids.’

  ‘You’ve got kids?’

  ‘A boy and a girl, seven and five.’

  ‘You’ve been able to save a bit?’

  ‘A bit, but not much, the pay wasn’t all that good.’ He hesitated, then went on, ‘I pretended it was better than it was when I came home! I always was a bit of a show-off, remember? The pips went to my head, I suppose. I daresay you heard about the time the old man had to clear my mess debts?’

  ‘No, I didn’t and you don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘I’d prefer to!’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I never really settled after demob. Everything seemed stale and flat. It was a come-down to have to take one’s place in the queue and be grateful for the odd glass of beer after whisky! I soon got out of my depth and the old man paid up but only on condition I resigned my commission. That was back in 1922.’

  It was, Paul reflected, a familiar story—a boy boosted by his own courage and initiative and being spoiled by older men, whose experiences on the Western Front bred in them a terrible pity for the very young. Then peace and reaction, with any number of sprees in the Mess, and maybe a love-affair or two with girls overseas, who would encourage him to show off and spend freely. Finally Father’s ultimatum and the bump back to earth, the assumption of parental responsibilities and the need to hold down a job in a competitive world. It must have happened a million times since 1918. He looked sharply at the young man and thought he could detect fear behind the eyes. Harold Eveleigh must have faced death many times but it needed a different kind of courage to tackle the challenges of the last year or so. And yet, pitying him and understanding his situation so well, Paul resisted the impulse to welcome him with open arms. Four Winds needed a dedicated man unless it was to go the way of High Coombe and tear yet another gap in Valley defences. He said, aware that he was temporising, ‘You’re over thirty now, Harold, and I don’t suppose you’ve milked a cow or ploughed a furrow since you were seventeen. So far as I’m aware you’ve never even wanted to! That’s what’s important and that’s why your mother was reluctant to encourage you. It won’t be news to you that agriculture is down and out, or that it’s damned low on the priority list of politicians.’

  Harold said nothing but Paul could see he was digesting every word. ‘It isn’t that I wouldn’t like to see an Eveleigh back at Four Winds,’ he went on, ‘but there’s more to it than sentiment. I’ve poured a small fortune into the estate since the war but I can’t go on doing it. Unless things mend very soon I shall be obliged to contract or throw in my hand.’

  Harold Eveleigh shifted his weight from one foot to the other trying, without much success, to conceal his growing desperation. ‘I see your point, Mr Craddock. You need someone with experience, the kind of farmer my brother Gilbert would have been if he hadn’t had the bad luck to meet a bloody fool of a bomb-instructor.’

  ‘No,’ Paul said, ‘not necessarily but I need someone with Gilbert’s love of the place. I daresay your mother could supply the experience but let me put it this way; what I don’t want is a man using Four Winds as a bolt-hole, someone who will move on when something less mucky turns up! I daresay that sounds priggish but I don’t care if it does. This place means everything to me and I’ll fight for it the way you fought Johnny Turk, with every bloody weapon I can lay my hands on!’

  He gave him a moment or so to ponder, crossing to the sideboard and pouring two drinks. When he turned the young man was hunched by the window, hands deep in pockets, chin lowered as he looked beyond the leafless chestnuts to the point where Four Winds’ boundary met the skyline midway between the rivers.

  ‘Here’s to Gilbert and all the others anyway,’ Paul said, nudging his elbow and Harold said, slowly, ‘I daresay I should have been as good a farmer as Gil if I’d stayed behind like Francis Willoughby, over at Deepdene. Come to that, we can’t swear to how Gil would have reacted if he had survived and had to pitch in with the rest of us and make the best of it. Sometimes I think they were the lucky ones, Mr Craddock; chaps like Ikey Palfrey, Big Jem and all the others who went West! At least they died still believing in one another!’

  ‘I still believe in the Valley and Four Winds is a vital part of it,’ Paul said but he was touched nonetheless. There had been times when identical thoughts had occurred to him, particularly during the last few months.

  Eveleigh went on, ‘What can I say that won’t sound like a bleat? I can’t tell you I’m longing to trudge behind a plough, or that I think raising a crop of marigolds is Mankind’s noblest endeavour, but ten years in industry has at least taught me there are far dirtier ways of earning a living! If I had my time over again I’d settle for marigold-raising as the lesser of two evils. I’ve got farming in my blood, I imagine, the same as Gil and all of us and I’ve got a flair with some animals. Apart from that I’ve got a duty to Connie and the kids, and two other things in my favour are that I’m fit and still old-fashioned enough to keep my word if I give it. If you like to take a chance on those qualifications I’ll do my best and at least I’d accept guidance. I was pigheaded once but not any longer!’

  Paul found himself drawn to the man, liking both his honesty and his awkward humility. It must, he thought, cost a son of Norman Eveleigh a great effort to admit so many shortcomings. He said, on impulse, ‘Would you bring your wife over to see me, Harold?’ and Harold said, ‘She’s here now, I left her in the kitchen having a cup of tea with Miss Mary but she knows even less than I do about running a farm. She gets on with Mother, however. She’s a Lancashire lass and worked in a chocolate factory up to the time we married. Shall I fetch her?’

  He sounded eager and Paul wrote this down as a point in his favour. He remembered Arabella, and how essential it was for a farmer’s wife to accept the limits of the life if her husband was to succeed. A Lancashire girl, who had worked in a chocolate factory and who got along with Marian Eveleigh, sounded promising material. ‘By all means,’ he said, ‘and bring Mary with her in case she’s shy.’

  Harold shot off like a boy at the end of an unpleasant interview and was back almost at once with a pretty brunette in tow, a tall girl with a very clear skin, soft brown eyes and a child’s mouth. Mary, always at her best with shy people, came to the rescue saying, ‘Shake hands with him, Mrs Eveleigh! He always scowls like that when he’s introduced to anyone!’
and Harold laughed, adding, ‘She’s not such a mouse! She thinks we’re a soft lot in the South but says the climate makes up for us!’

  ‘She can make Lancashire cream cheese,’ Mary said, ‘and I think she’ll like it here,’ but Harold said quickly, ‘She might not get the chance, Miss Craddock! Your father is chewing it over and I’m hanged if I blame him! We’re both rank amateurs and it isn’t as if Mother was still young.’

  ‘She’s young enough to teach you a thing or two,’ Paul said, ‘so I’ll get the new lease drawn up this afternoon. You and Marian can be joint tenants for three years and we’ll see how things shape. Will that satisfy you?’

  He saw young Eveleigh and his wife exchange a quick glance and read their relief. The girl Connie said, in a strong Lancashire accent, ‘We’ll make a go of it, Mr Craddock, I’ll see to that!’ and suddenly Paul knew that they would, that Harold and this pretty young wife of his were much-needed reinforcements and that Four Winds would soon regain its place as the natural bastion in the West. After they had gone Mary confirmed this impression. ‘I took to her at once,’ she said, ‘she’s down-to-earth and doesn’t say things she doesn’t mean!’

  ‘That’s a Lancashire characteristic,’ he told her, ‘we had hundreds of them about here during the war. The thing that decided me was the fact that they’re prepared to take advice from Marian!’ and then he smiled and when Mary asked the reason, added, ‘I was thinking of the buzz in Four Winds’ kitchen that led up to this—Harold and his wife trying every trick in the pack to talk Marian into acting as their spokesman, knowing that she would be a damned sight more likely to win me over than he would!’

  ‘Well, it so happens you’re wrong, Daddy. Marian wanted to come but the girl wouldn’t let her. She told me she didn’t want his mother talking-up for Harold. If you had turned them down they were leaving in the morning to look for work in London!’

  He was struck by this and it reinforced him in the rightness of his decision. They had their troubles, these youngsters, but were probably maturing under them and somehow the entire interview now presented itself as a hopeful signpost into the future. Then, following this chain of thought, he remembered Rumble Patrick’s last letter in which he talked of quitting Queensland for Alberta.

  ‘You hear from Rumble a good deal more frequently than we do,’ he said. ‘Does this Canadian venture mean he’s tired of sheep-farming and must needs fly off at another tangent?’

  He saw the colour rush to her cheeks and instantly regretted the question. Her head came up sharply and she said, defensively, ‘He’s having to feel his way, like anyone else far from home! You don’t have to worry about Rumble. He’ll surprise you one of these days!’ and she left the room with an abruptness that left him in no doubt at all but that she preferred to keep Rumble and Rumble’s letters to herself. He thought, with a smile, ‘Well, she’d damned touchy about him! I wonder if Claire knows as much as I think I know, and whether we ought to pool the evidence?’ but postponed a decision as something that could wait and went into the office to find the old Four Winds’ lease, drawn up the day after the inquest on Martin Codsall and his wife. Searching for it he came across the estate diary and opened it to see what Claire had written about the election. The entry startled him. Under October 19th, 1931, she had written: ‘General Election: a three-cornered fight here with Paul Craddock standing as successor to James Grenfell, Liberal MP for Paxtonbury since 1904. He was defeated, but only just. General opinion is he could have won if he had tried.’ That was all, a reasonable if prejudiced statement of fact, for he had to admit that he was more elated over the Eveleigh succession than he was deflated by defeat at the polls and this must surely mean that he would carry his parochialism to the grave. He turned a page and wrote, ‘Harold Eveleigh, second son of the late Norman Eveleigh, tenant of Four Winds for twenty-five years and foreman prior to succeeding Martin Codsall, today applied for and was granted the lease which he will hold jointly with his mother, Marian Eveleigh. He is aged 32, married and has two children.’ It seemed incredible that the man who had just asked for the lease had been the smaller of the two night-shirted boys peering down at him the night he thundered on the Eveleigh front door to pass the news that Martin Codsall had killed Arabella and hanged himself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I

  Traveller, the oldest and craftiest fox inhabiting the country of the two rivers, could usually be found in Folly Wood, north of Heronslea, when said to be at home but it was not by remaining for long in one covert that he had survived any number of cracking days on the part of the Sorrel Vale Hunt. Robbie Eveleigh, huntsman to the local pack, had ceased to regard Traveller as a legitimate quarry and had his hounds succeeded in running the old rake to earth (which was unlikely, for Traveller had come to doubt the security of earths before he was half-grown) he would have probably called them off and cast around for a fresh scent; Traveller, he might have reasoned, had provided everybody in the district with so much sport for so many years that he had earned the right to die of old age.

  Traveller was readily identifiable by less experienced men than Robbie. All the Heronslea keepers knew him, recognising his drooping left ear and abbreviated brush when they caught a swift glimpse of him on routine patrols beside the pseudo-Gothic tower raised by the mad Gilroy nearly a century ago. They also recognised his curious lop-sided gait, caused by an old injury in a gin-trap when he was in his prime and now that he was very old his coat was so shot with grey as to pass for brindled. Yet age and infirmities had done little to restrict Traveller’s movements about the country or impair in any way his prodigious memory for nooks, crannies, short-cuts or places where a decoy scent could be found, or a stream forded on dry pads. And within this web of knowledge was another, with threads feeding back to an instinct that taught him how to differentiate between danger areas and safe areas, dependent upon the people occupying them. He knew the Valley and Valley folk far better than Paul Craddock and Smut Potter, better than Smut’s gypsy mother, or Marian Eveleigh, neither of whom had ventured far beyond the Whin or the county border. Indeed, the only two-legged creature who had known it as well had been Hazel Potter and she had died before Traveller was born.

  He had not acquired this detailed knowledge without working hard for it and neither had it been dinned into him by being chased over it in peril of his life several times a season. He had built it up bit by bit during countless forays, east and south-east as far as the backyards of Coombe Bay cottages and the marram grass tunnels of the dunes, sometimes going there in search of food and sometimes to look for a mate, for there were always young vixens to be found in Shallowford Woods and a favour­ite of Traveller, who had already borne him several litters, still hunted the landslip ten-ace under the Bluff. His survival was therefore no miracle of hardihood or ingenuity but simply the result of keeping abreast of every change that took place in the country of the two rivers. As regards this, the constant revision of the map imprinted on his mind, he was a pedant among foxes, like an old man who has sworn on oath to achieve the age of a hundred and is prepared to regulate his life accordingly. At certain seasons of the year he would make one of his great, circular sweeps of the Valley, noting every minute change as it presented itself—a sagging gate here, a new plank footbridge there, a different pattern of lights at one farm, a variation in an occupier’s step at the next. Methodically and painstakingly the new scents and sounds were absorbed and filed away for future use. Not one was overlooked or forgotten.

  In the late spring of 1932 Traveller padded free of the trailing briars of Folly Wood and set out on one of his routine reconnaissances, moving swiftly over the mile or so of bracken as far as the barrows on Blackberry Moor, for there was no profit in lingering near home where nothing had changed for a long time. His goal lay further east, where things were constantly changing, and he did not slacken his urgent pace until he reached the old hunting ground above Periwinkle Farm. Here he lingered a few mo
ments, his pace slowed more by nostalgia than curiosity. The farmhouse was empty. He knew that well enough, having passed this way often since Elinor Codsall had gone, taking her succulent hens with her. Periwinkle had been a winter larder to Traveller in his heyday for all Elinor’s vigilance had never succeeded in denying him occasional access to a hen or a duck. Tonight he did not have to descend into the hollow to make certain that the yard was still derelict, or the rotting hen-houses empty of anything larger than a shrew. He climbed to the top of the hill, looking across the dip at Hermitage Wood, then turned north heading for Hermitage itself but tensed himself nevertheless for the Pitts family was unpredictable and many a buckshot had come his way in these fields and the rutted lane that bisected them. Old Arthur had never fired at him (he had not seen the old man about for some time) and Henry, the ponderous, splay-footed master was content to bellow ‘Be off, you bliddy varmint!’ if Traveller broke cover in his line of vision, but the younger Pitts, David, did not hunt and regarded all foxes as vermin to be exterminated by any means, fair or foul. Tonight, however, none of the men-folk were astir although there was a car parked at the head of the lane and as he slipped by he heard a woman’s soft laugh and a voice say, ‘Dornee now! Tiz late, boy . . . ’ but he paid little heed to sounds or taint. Whenever he descended Hermitage lane between late spring or early autumn there was a car of some sort in the passing bay and Prudence Pitts was sitting in it, with one man or another. Traveller knew it was here, identifying her by the sickly scent that clung to her, a scent that suggested dog violets but was not violets or any other flower of the woods but a bastard alloy of some kind and usually competing with whiffs of human scent and petrol exhaust. He went on down to the yard, noting a fresh rat-hole that would give access to the cattlecake store and the mice who lived there but he did not explore, preferring to reconnoitre on an empty belly. There was a square of orange light above the rain tub so he scrambled up and looked into the kitchen. There was not much to be seen. Henry, and his son David and the old crone were there, all three crouched round the oblong box with a trumpet on the top, their attention devoted to the caterwauling issuing from it, a medley of sounds dominated by one not unlike the bray of a hunting-horn. He jumped down, skirted the yard where there was a chained and very observant collie and went past the sties, wrinkling his lip at the sour stench of pigs. Then he climbed the long, sloping field to the sunken lane that circled the escarpment and headed north-east for Shallowford Woods where, in his day, he must have given hounds the slip on a hundred occasions.