But back to games. In the autumn we collected chestnuts for conkers. Our Billy was the school champion at conkers. He used to bake them in the kitchen range and then soak them in vinegar. Father would allow him a length of good twine and give advice as to the best place to pierce the nut so that it wouldn’t split. My conkers nearly always split before I’d got the knot tied and even the ones that didn’t, broke on the first game at school. But Billy’s didn’t and he was fearless at holding out his conker for an opponent’s hit. His hand never shook and when it was his turn he would bring the conker down so hard that one hit would send bits of nut flying in all directions.
“Keep the bloody thing steady,” he would growl to his quaking victims and I’ve seen bigger boys than Billy crying when a piece of nut had flown into their face and scratched them. Some of the little lads ran away rather than challenge my brother. They said he hit their hands deliberately. I don’t know. He liked to win, our Billy, and you had to stand up to him otherwise he took you for a sissy.
I wonder if young Thomas, out there, plays conkers? I expect not. These days, children have television and computers. I would like to have a go on a computer. I was always a good reader and knew my typing. They taught that to some of us in the army before the war started proper. I’m told that you can find anything on a computer and do anything. I used to be good at lettering, Mother taught me before I ever went to school.
Mother knew her letters, better than Father. She would write out all the bills and read any communications that came to the house. It wasn’t that Father was stupid; no, my father understood everything well enough, but his reading wasn’t as good as Mother’s and his lettering poor. They had their separate ways and that was good. Mother loved Mr Dickens and Mr Trollope whereas Father’s favourite was the Shire Horse stud book, which he would pour over each evening by the light of the kitchen lamp. I can see his finger now, the nail broken and encrusted with dirt no matter how well he washed before supper, tracing along the diagram of blood lines until he came, with satisfaction, to the name of Diamond, our shire. After Father died, Billy added more Manor Farm names to that book and that was a proud legacy.
I loved to read, too much, I think, for a farm boy because there was always so much to do that was more important. But Mother never stopped me, only Father and Billy.
Billy hated reading; he hated being in the house really, all he loved was outside. “Come on, our Dick,” he would say after tea and after we’d done our jobs around the house and farm. His jobs were bigger than mine for although from the time I was about ten I was taller than he was, he was always stronger. He was built like Father, stocky and solid with huge shoulders and arms. They had the same dark brown hair and brown eyes, although Father’s had flecks of green in them and Billy’s were dark and muddy like boot buttons. I had the red hair and blue eyes. My eyes were like Mother’s, but she was blonde more than red. My red hair was a real nuisance when I was at school; I got teased about it all the time. I don’t know why, looking back it seems a foolish thing to be teased about the colour of your hair. Ha! Imagine how a black boy would have been treated in our village. They’d have made his life hell.
Anyway, I used to bring in logs and coal and help Mother with the hens. Billy cleaned out the pigsties and often helped Father with the milking, specially when Herbert Lowe was having ‘gip’ with his leg and couldn’t come to work. But on spring and summer evenings after tea, Billy would grab me and hurry me out of the house.
“Stir your stumps, carrot head, let’s get up the mountain.” And off we’d go, across the fields and up through the gorse onto Windy Hill. One of the local legends was that Cromwell had halted his troops there during the Civil War and that his canons had been bogged down in a rainstorm. You could find the tracks of their wheels if you looked hard enough. We searched that hillside and although once I found an old coin we never saw those tracks. I have that coin still, green with age and not a complete circle, but I have kept it in the little wooden Chinese box I bought from a peddler.
In later years, after Elizabeth had come to live with us, she would come up the mountain as well, running across the scrubby grass on the top, letting the wind pull her glossy hair from its ribbons and trail out behind. She was a bonny sight and even Billy would look up from his search for cart tracks to watch her.
“You’ll never find them, those old tracks,” she would say, throwing herself down on the grass to catch her breath.
“I will.” Billy was stubborn and determined.
Elizabeth laughed and put her head on one side, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t think you liked history. That’s Dick’s department, not yours. Why d’you bother?”
“Because,” said Billy walking on towards another patch of gorse, “if they came up here they must have brought money with them and might have buried it somewhere. That’s treasure trove and after the King has had his share, the rest would be mine. Father told me that and I’m going to find it.”
I loved to run and walk through the rocks and heather but I loathed the caves which penetrated the side of the hill. Dark, echoing holes under ledges of rock that I hated to go in. Even Billy was wary of them, never venturing much further than the entrance although he was keen to dare me and some of the other boys to go inside.
Fred Darlington, who was my friend, once took him up on the dare and taking off his jacket, bent double and squeezed under the ledge. He quickly disappeared from sight but we could hear him whistling. The whistling got fainter as he went further into the cave and we stood outside eyes round and ready to run if the ogre Billy said lived in there, came howling out, angry at being disturbed.
“All right?” said Fred emerging, minutes later, his hair wet and a big rip on the shoulder of his shirt.
“Yes. Well done,” said Billy, giving grudging praise. “I go in every day.” That was a lie, but I never told the others. I never told anyone either what Fred told me. It seems that he had only gone a bit into the cave and stood behind a piece of rock. He had whistled quieter and quieter to make it sound as if he was going away.
“Your Billy is a pain in the arse,” he said. “I just thought I’d show him.”
I chuckled at that, but gave him a bit of a wrestle too because I had to be loyal to my brother. But I never told. Fred stayed my friend for years, even when he came back to the village as the police constable.
Nell, my dog in later years, when I came back from the army, used to chase rabbits into those caves. Once, she got stuck down a hole, held fast by something that caught round her leg when she tried to wriggle free. Her screams made me brave and I went into the cave then. I wish I hadn’t, for what I found there. Was it worth getting my dog out for what I learned, I don’t know, now. But she was a good little animal and didn’t deserve to be left, so although I walked home on that bleak winter afternoon with sickened heart, at least I had my dog running happily beside me.
If Windy Hill was the scene of most of our summer activities, it was also a place of entertainment in the winter. You must remember that we didn’t have the TV or even a radio then, and Billy thought that quiet home activities like reading or drawing, which I was quite good at too, were boring.
“Oh, come on,” he would cry when I’d settled down in the big chair by the kitchen range on a Saturday afternoon with one of my books, for a good read, “come on, let’s play.”
Out we would go, bundled up in woollen hats and scarves. Us boys had the idea that only sissies wore gloves but, by God, some winters I would have given anything for something to cover my knuckles. I used to get terrible chilblains. We wore Wellington boots winter and summer around the farmyard and when we played in the fields and on the mountain. The rest of the time it was ordinary leather boots, worn for school and best. I never owned a pair of shoes until I was in my late twenties and bought some with my saved up army pay. The sergeants’ mess in Meerut had something of a dress code and proper shoes were a necessity.
Sledding was one of our winter sports. Father made us
a sled out of scrap wood and iron and, fair play to him, it was one of the best in the village. It was about six foot by three with sanded runners and raised sides to grab hold of. He’d even made a sort of movable tiller on the bar where the rope went through, so that the lad in front could steer it. Billy always sat in front if we went together. He couldn’t abide being driven. It was the same later on with cars. He wouldn’t sit in a car unless he was driving.
We didn’t have that many really snowy days, perhaps a week or two each winter, but we dragged that old sled up the hill and launched ourselves off on the flimsiest covering of snow. Lots of village boys came onto the hill for the sledding, some with only a dustbin lid to career down on but much fun was had by all. I saw some accidents though. Some bugger always had a bloody nose or the odd cut and one year, I suppose I’d have been about nine or ten, a bit older than young Thomas out there, Fred Darlington’s brother, Georgie, was killed on the hillside. He was older than Fred, nearly fifteen but simple in his mind. Mrs Darlington kept him at home with her most of the time, because he couldn’t go to school and when I went round to their house he was always on the floor by her feet, playing with a toy train that his father had made for him.
“Hello, Georgie,” I used to say. Mother said that I must be nice to him because he couldn’t help how he was and that it would be a kindness to Mrs Darlington.
“Train,” he would say, or “Good boy,” or something silly like that and push his fingers into his snotty nose and then lick them. Mrs Darlington never shouted at him but only wiped his face and gave him a kiss. She sometimes let him out to play and Fred was supposed to look after him, which he did pretty well most of the time.
This day, I had put my foot into a rabbit hole and twisted my ankle. Fred volunteered to help me home and our Billy said he would have one more go and then come and join us. I suppose he shouldn’t have taken Georgie with him on the sled because the lad didn’t properly understand about holding onto the sides and if Fred had known what our Billy was up to he wouldn’t have let it happen. But he was looking after me, not Georgie on this occasion. I expect he thought Georgie was trailing along behind as he usually did. We were halfway down the hill when Billy came whizzing past us, yelling with excitement with Georgie behind him. He was screaming too, but with fright, I think. Suddenly he flew off the sled and tumbled through the air before landing with a thump on one of the rocks beside us.
He didn’t move again after that and when Fred and I bent over him, his eyes were closed and his head all floppy on his neck. The other lads gathered round and Billy too when he had dragged his sled back up to where we were.
“He’s not breathing!” cried Fred and stood up quickly, “I’d better go and get my mother.” His father was a guard on the railway and was never at home during the day.
Billy pushed him aside and kneeling in the snow, put his ear to poor Georgie’s chest. “He’s dead,” he said with a finality and authority, which we all accepted and Fred burst into tears. The other boys were scared and started to sneak off home leaving only the three of us and the body of simple Georgie, in the darkening afternoon.
“Right,” said Billy, unemotional but taking charge. “You, Fred, help our Dick back to the house and I’ll bring your Georgie.”
It’s hard to believe now, but my eleven-year-old brother hoisted the dead body of poor Georgie onto his shoulders and carried him nearly all the way back to our yard. Father saw us coming from the shippon and ran to meet us.
“Oh, the poor lad,” he said, taking Georgie into his arms and carrying him into the carriage shed where he was laid on the floor of the little wagon. He sent Billy inside to tell Mother while he harnessed up the gelding.
“Oh dear,” said Mother sadly when she saw the dead boy. She had brought out a blanket to lay over the body and I saw her wipe the snot off his face and gently smooth his hair back from his forehead before covering him up. Then she helped Fred up onto the wagon beside Father so that the Darlington boys could be taken home.
We children didn’t go to the funeral, and neither did Mother, out of respect for the Darlington’s feelings. Being chapel, they were strict about women and funerals, but she did all the food for the funeral tea, cooking one of our own hams and pressing a tongue. Fred was quiet for a few months after that. I think he felt guilty about not taking proper care of Georgie, but once when I was at his house, his mother said that God had taken the boy to heaven because he couldn’t live happily on earth, and after that Fred said he felt better.
Our Billy was the hero of the village for carrying the body such a long way and in the snow. Father was that proud of him and took many compliments at the market. My ankle healed up quickly. Mother treated it with hot and cold poultices and tied it up with a tight bandage. I got a couple of days off school and was able to read in peace without being dragged out into the cold. But for weeks afterwards I wondered about Billy taking poor Georgie with him. It was strange, specially as I knew that our Billy hated being around anyone crippled, either in body or mind. “They should be put down,” he’d say. “It’s the kindest thing. After all, you wouldn’t keep an animal like that.”
Chapter 4
The first snowdrops have pushed up beneath the fruit trees and have made a real show these last few days. I asked Sharon to pick a few and she brought them in, stuffed untidily into a sherry glass and put them on my desk. She has no idea. No matter, they smell of cold fresh air and their green and white petals look well against the oak partitions in front of me.
I have been to the hospital for a check-up which is such a waste of time because I’m not going to get better, but it seems to make the doctors more comfortable if they see me.
When I came home, the girl was still here and brought me bowl of soup and some bread and butter. “Thank you,” I said, politer now with her than I was when they first made her come to the house.
“It’s OK,” she said, “I’ll just bring you a cup of tea and then I’ll be on my way. There’s more soup in the fridge All you do is heat it up for your supper.”
I drank my soup; it was very good and home-made which surprised me. The girl, Sharon doesn’t look capable of proper cooking but there I go again, leaping to conclusions.
“I’m taking Thomas to the rescue centre when he comes out of school,” she said when she brought my tea. “I’m getting him a dog. It’ll be a bit of company for us.”
I nodded. A dog is company and I wish my old Nell was still alive to sit by my feet. We always had dogs and cats about the house and farm. Mother didn’t mind them coming inside in the evenings, to sit by the range in the kitchen, although Granny said she was foolish. She was of the firm belief that animals should be kept outside. Pets were for townsfolk.
Our dogs were of the working kind, although over the years some of them became pets as well. We always kept two at a time, cattle dogs, they were, who would work the herd with as much efficiency as any sheepdog worked a flock. I remember one of them, Ben, who understood the working of the farm better than any of the casual labourers we had over the years. Every morning, when Billy and I came downstairs, Ben would be waiting by the back door.
“Fetch them on, lad,” Billy would say and while we were putting on our boots and having a pee, old Ben would chase off across the fields, jumping over gates and wriggling through hedges until he had reached the milking herd. Carefully, never barking or upsetting them, he would round them up and have them waiting by the first gate for Billy and me to open it. He would then bring them all the way to the milking parlour as we walked in front and behind, opening and closing gates. The funny thing was that he used to disappear during the rest of the day, rabbitting on the hill, I think, until about half three in the afternoon when he would turn up again for the afternoon milking. He was a grand dog, that.
His half brother, Fleck, was as useless as Ben was good. He never got the hang of rounding up the cattle and was a damn nuisance, either stupidly chasing the milkers or sitting, gormless, gazing around, sniffing th
e air for rabbits in a way that infuriated Father and Billy. But he was an excellent house-dog and could play ball. You could throw a ball as far as you like and Fleck would tear off to fetch it and bring it back. Billy was nasty with him and used to throw it into the big pond or into a bed of nettles, but Fleck didn’t mind. He’d always retrieve it and bring it back to your feet. Father had to get another dog for the cattle, though.
The cats stayed in the barns mostly, except one big tortoiseshell who was Mother’s favourite and was allowed in the house. One of my chores was to put out milk and scraps of meat for the barn cats because Father said that they had worked for it. They kept the vermin away and he believed that a labourer was worthy of his hire. Father was like that, a fair man who always paid for what he got, although he hated slackers and spongers. Any tramp who came to the house and asked for a bite to eat or a cup of tea would always get a meal but they would have to do a job for it. “Nowt for nowt,” said Father.
I remember once playing with Billy in the hay loft of the big barn when one of those travelling men was below us, chopping wood to pay for his supper. I suppose I would have been about six or seven at the time and I’d seen him earlier when he’d asked Father for work. A young woman had come with him, a ragged sort of girl with her hair tied up in dirty ribbons and bare legs stuffed into gum boots. It was slating with rain, but they didn’t seem to care, simply pulling closer the old sacks they wore over their shoulders.
The Love of a Lifetime Page 3