by S. C. Howe
‘I’m a regular soldier, Fielder, not a “in for the duration”. I was in the army when you were probably still in school.’
Tom looked out the window.
‘So how’s the farm doing?’ Deerman asked, pulling his attention back to him.
‘It’s going well.’
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘Come over then,” Tom said, without thinking.
‘You’re very obliging. I thought farmers had strict timetables.’ Deerman was trying to catch his eye.
‘We’re not full-time farmers yet.’
‘Oh, so you’re just playing at it, are you?’
Tom turned back to face Deerman. ‘No, that’s not what I said. It’s going to take some time before everything’s up and running.’
‘You’ve been in Worcestershire all your life?’ Deerman said, not at all deflated.
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you ever yearn for a change?’
Tom looked at him coolly. ‘I think the war was a big enough change, don’t you?’
Deerman pulled a ‘what do you know’ face and smiled up indulgently at a pretty waitress who brought a tea tray, then poured the tea out and, with an acidic smile, handed a cup and saucer to Tom. Tom took it and just then, a movement outside made him look out. Leaning forward he tapped on the glass. Two figures walking up the hill to the station glanced back. They had been laughing and talking loudly between themselves, as though drunk. Tom tapped again, and held his hand up as Barratt returned the gesture.
‘That was Captain Barratt,’ said Tom, proudly, forgetting himself.
‘Captain,’ Deerman snorted. ‘Another of the temporary gentlemen I see.’
‘He was marvellous,’ Tom said, sitting down regardless of Deerman. ‘The men would have gone to hell and back, for him.’
‘Really? Demobbed now, I see.’
‘Yes. Like I am.’
‘I’m only on leave. I don’t go in for easy opt-outs.’
‘The war’s over.’
‘It’s merely a ceasefire, technically speaking, an armistice.’
Tom stared at him. No-one else back home had said that; almost as though no-one thought the war could reignite. Every day Tom had read the reports in the newspapers from the peace conference, read meanings into bland statements, into throwaway comments. Now he felt the rush of dread at the prospect of the armistice breaking down. Here was an army regular articulating his fears.
‘Do you think it’s possible the ceasefire will break down?’ he asked, immediately regretting the question.
‘It’s possible,’ said Deerman looking bored with the conversation. ‘And saluting your erstwhile captain won’t help.’
Tom looked at him askance. ‘Have you ever considered why it all happened?’
‘Eh?’
‘The war.’
‘No. Not really.’ Now it was Deerman’s turn to look ill at ease. He glanced around.
‘I did,’ Tom said. ‘And all the time I kept asking why. Why give us humans so much mastery, when all we do is mess up so badly.
Deerman drained his cup and made for the door.
‘I at least want to know that we’ve learnt something by it,’ Tom continued, following him out. A mischievousness urging him on. ‘That it hasn’t all been in vain.’
It was dusk outside. Tom looked up, saw the stars, those cold, solitary stars emerging, felt the comfort of isolation around him. Deerman stepped back, looked at him then walked off quickly the other way. Tom smirked to himself.
The hours had long blurred since seeing Fielder. They drank in backstreet pubs, always backstreet establishments, because here no-one noticed them, or, if they did, no-one seemed to care. They made their way through the town drinking, and the drunker they became, the merrier they were. Then Barratt had seen Fielder in the cafe on Station Hill, and remembered he liked him. So then, he and Sykes had concentrated on being youths again, even though youth had long gone. By the time they reached Horsefair, with its tangle of near derelict streets and back alleys, they were plaiting their legs, singing music hall songs in loud, careless voices. Several residents actually wished them good day. Sykes bawled out, ‘Are we down-hearted?’ and Barratt yelled, ‘No!’ then jumped on top of the lock and walked, as though balancing on a tightrope. Sykes went over by the footbridge. As Barratt was close to the end, he slipped. Sykes caught hold of his arm and pulled him roughly onto the cinder path. That sobered them. They sat on the bank, stared down at the dirty water.
‘Did you kill anyone, out there?’ Barratt slurred.
‘I must have done...I think.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think I did?’ asked Barratt
‘I don’t know.’
‘No, I don’t either.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not face to face then?’
‘No,’ said Sykes.
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes.’
‘Could have said no,’ said Barratt, sitting heavily on the path.
‘What?’
‘Perhaps the conchies were right,’ mumbled Barratt. ‘And we were all wrong.’
Sykes tried to heave him off the path, but Barratt fell back down like a rag doll.
Tom rolled over and raised his head above the blankets. It was still dark and Joss was snoring quietly on his left side. Tom stretched, then feeling the comfort of warmth, snuggled down and thinking he would drift back to sleep, waited for the quiet oblivion, but it did not come. Small threats started infecting his mind. If I don’t get downstairs within ten minutes, the armistice might break. He rolled his eyes. Who did he think he was? Like it or not Fielder, he thought, you’re not that powerful. He tried to laugh it off, but it came back: but how would you feel if you found out that because you didn’t do that, something happened and Joss got – Shut Up! He tried turning over, but the worm of anxiety was active now, wriggling into his consciousness. If you don’t get out and feed the livestock, the farm will fail and you’ll be homeless. He tried concentrating on his breathing. All that work and you could be homeless and never see Joss again. Homeless and shunned. He sat bolt upright. Why the hell was he doing this to himself? He looked over to Joss, peacefully sleeping. Warm. Happy. Why couldn’t he be like him? He slithered back under the covers but his mind was humming with threats. Do this, or that’ll happen. Roger Deerman’s face loomed into his mind, sneering but needy. Tom squeezed his eyes shut. Then the carnage of the trenches bled in from the sides. In the end, it seemed easier to get out of bed and start the day. It was still pitch black when he went out. Lighting a lamp, he took the pails of waste vegetables out, drew some water from the well and walked quietly over to the outhouse. Closing the door behind him to keep some of the damp cold out, he started mixing the mash for the chickens. It occurred to him that they ought to get pigs as they were good for using up kitchen waste, but then they did need constant cleaning out. He would have to talk about it to Joss. It would be his job to clean the animals out though, as Joss wasn’t physically able to do it. But he didn’t mind. In fact, he expected it. All he wanted was for them to be together, for the farm to be financially secure and for the armistice not to break. He started sweating. He tried to think of the chores to do for the day, but in the end, sat in the dark, his head in his hands.
Joss was tinkering with the two bicycles that afternoon. The bicycles had been allowed to seize up but, little by little with the help of a small oil can, he eased them up; at first getting the chains oiled and whirling effortlessly, then the sprockets. The brakes freed up as he cycled around the courtyard, braking sharply here and there to test them. Jasper looked up in alarm from the pasture and Nico barked excitedly. Tom came over from the fields to investigate.
‘Your chariot, Sir,’ Joss said, bowing with a flourish at the old machine.
‘I can’t ride one.’
‘Well, now’s the time to learn! Come on!’ Joss held the bike steady.
Tom put down the tools he was carrying on the
side of the track. Nico was circling with delight. Very cautiously Tom clambered onto the saddle, his face tense and the whites of his knuckles showing as he clutched the handlebars.
‘Try and relax,’ said Joss. ‘You won’t hurt yourself.’
Tom took in a deep breath and wobbled out and immediately the bicycle slanted sideways and collapsed with Tom on top. He extracted himself, looking at his grazed elbow. For the first time Joss felt irritation with him, at his unenthusiastic attitude.
‘You need to propel yourself forward by pumping the pedals – here look.’ Joss stood the bike up, jumped on the saddle and pushed down with both legs and the cycle moved forward easily. ‘You’re trying to control it with the handlebars – do it with your legs!’ he added gliding around the courtyard perimeter with only a couple of fingers on the handlebars.
Tom still stared impassively, took the bike off Joss and, sitting back in the saddle, pushed down heavily on the pedals and wobbled around one corner but then the handlebars seemed to gyrate and he thudded down across the cobbles and fell heavily on his side.
‘That’s better!’ Joss called running over to help him up. ‘Didn’t you ever have a bicycle as a boy?’
Tom gave him an odd, irritated look. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘My grandfather was trying to run a post office and shop, not trying to play at nannies.’ Tom snapped and picked the bike up roughly and tried again around the smoother perimeter. After several wobbling circuits and near fallings-off, he eventually cycled around the perimeter with studied slow caution. All the time his expression was one of intense concentration.
Shortly after, Joss came out of the kitchen holding two mugs of beer from the cellar. ‘To celebrate your new mode of transport!’ he announced.
A wide smile broke Tom’s face and, for a moment, Joss saw the visceral delight of a child at finding he can achieve what had seemed the unachievable. He started laughing.
‘I’ve done it, haven’t I!’ he said and putting the mug down he started cycling the bike around the perimeter track again, blasting on the old horn as he passed Joss. Nico was running after him, barking with delight.
After a few more laps, they sat on the stone seat, the bicycle propped against the farmhouse wall, drinking their beer in the late afternoon’s mild air.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry into your past,’ Joss said.
Tom looked at him in surprise. ‘You’re not prying. You know it all, anyway.’
What Joss wanted to say was ‘I could never really understand your life. My life was ordered and easy. I forget the differences’.
‘I suppose I feel angry sometimes,’ Tom said suddenly. ‘That I had to be so grown up so quick, but that wasn’t my grandfather’s fault. He did way more than anyone else for me. But when I saw what other boys had in their families, our life seemed straitened, it was always different. Don’t get me wrong, Granddad did everything he could for me, but there was nothing spare.’
Joss clapped him around the shoulders. ‘That’s in the past. You can afford to relax now.’
Tom turned to him. ‘We do need to start thinking about livestock,’ he said. ‘I wondered about having a few pigs. They’re an excellent way of turning kitchen waste into meat. I’ll do the mucking out. We can also use their manure on the fields, too.’
There were two sties which Joss had had restored during the major renovations.
‘As long as you want to do it. I won’t be much use there.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘And how about if we go to Worcester and see about those glasshouses?’ Joss said.
Thus, the next day they took the train to Worcester. They dressed in their best, needing – just for a day – to get out of baggy, unwashed trousers and jumpers, and bathe and put on clean, well-fitting clothes. They tried not to notice when several young women looked at them with undisguised approval. Joss was noticeably chivalric to women of all ages and Tom could see it was genuine courteousness. Several older women became giggly and clumsy when he held open a door for them, or stood up and offered them his seat on the train. Tom followed suit, but their adoring looks were for this tall, fair-haired handsome man in the mariner’s jacket.
In the Cock and Comb, they drank Worcester’s own beer, looking out over the river. It was a small tavern, pushed in between the river and the first narrow street toward the centre, where the tops of the crooked half-timbered taverns and shops leant inwards, as though gossiping. It often flooded, which, it was said, added to the taste of the beer. Tom and Joss sat, grinning stupidly at each other.
Earlier, they had ordered two glasshouses from a large hardware shop on the main street. Had described the location of the farm and the grassed tracks to the courtyard and the shop owner had said curtly, ‘I know of Heathend. Me father-in-law lives just atop Framley. The track’s no bother, lad.’ Payment had been made, together with arrangements for delivery, and then the rest of the afternoon stretched out before them. Joss had said, ‘How about the birthday celebration we didn’t have?’ Tom had smirked, remembering their other entertainments.
And so to the Cock and Comb, and waiting for the wholesome fare that was brought out on large platters as they drank, talking over each other about the plants they would grow, the markets they could try. By late afternoon, they were red-faced and still enthusing over the market garden idea as they made their way up to the platform and the train back to Heathend.
Joss stopped as they were let off at Heathend Halt to look at the early evening sky with the bare ink-black outline of the large trees on the skyline, the outline of hedges and bushes weaving over the intricate landscape, then listened to the beautiful song of a blackbird, which emerged after the noise of the train had gone. Slipping his arm around Tom, he began walking down the track to the farm, and their life.
The glasshouses arrived with a clatter and confusion a few mornings later. The man delivering had agreed that, for a fee, he would assemble the structures with a small gang of men who arrived with the train. He advised them on a position on the furthest side of the home meadow in the sun and by the stream, so the watering of plants would not be too irksome. Tom worked with the gang, as Joss stood by, keeping sheets of glass vertical until it was time to put them in. He took his inactivity in good humour, but had to go in when the cold started cramping his affected foot and hand painfully. He baked some edible fare and told them to come in to eat it. Although it was a grey late winter afternoon, Tom was sweating as he sat down. He rubbed his face on his sleeve.
‘Nearly there,’ he said.
‘What happened to your foot?’ the man asked bluntly.
Joss looked momentarily surprised but replied, ‘I lost some of it in a blast injury.’
The man nodded his head. ‘In France?’
‘Yes.’
‘So was I. Saw me best mate’s head blown clean off.’
They ate in silence. Tom fingered the fading scar on his face.
‘Same for you?’ asked the man.
‘Same explosion,’ Tom said. ‘We were stretcher-bearers in the same company.’
The man looked at them curiously. Tom wished he hadn’t said it.
They worked for another hour and a half and the men left with a taciturn nod of the head and an unexpected ‘Look after yourselves.’
They watched the cart trundle awkwardly up the grassed track, then when they were sure it was gone, Tom put an arm around Joss.
‘Well,’ he said as they gazed towards the new glasshouses shining dully in the late afternoon light. ‘To our new venture.’
Joss’s industry and enthusiasm frankly surprised Tom. Joss was up before him, brewing tea and frying bacon and eggs noisily as Tom emerged in the kitchen, which was steaming and disordered. Then as Tom trailed out with the pails of food for the chickens, Joss walked with him across the damp meadow as the chickens squawked and fluttered in the coops. Then Joss went over to the glasshouses where soon there was the sound of sawing and hammering a
nd lines of shelves started to appear within the interior. At intervals, Joss emerged then halted over to the kitchen as the cold worked into his foot and clenched into the side of his body, the scar along which looked livid from cold. Tom joined him from mucking out the horse or chickens and made him a large mug of tea as Joss sat trying to get some feeling back into the affected parts.
‘Why don’t you get a heater for the glasshouses?’ Tom asked, sitting by him at the range.
‘It’d stink, wouldn’t it?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t that be better than the cold?’
‘I had enough of bad air at the Front. I can always come in and warm up.’ To be honest, he didn’t want any more filth entering his lungs and there was something about the smell of paraffin that made him retch. He stretched out, smiled up affectionately to Tom. ‘I really love you, you know.’
‘And me,’ said Tom. ‘I never thought I could be so happy.’ As soon as he said it, a rush of dread passed through him. The armistice was still only an armistice.
Joss saw Tom’s expression tighten. ‘Come here,’ he said, pulling him towards him.
Boxes of strawberry plants and bags of composted soil suitable for market gardening were dumped at the halt the next day by arrangement. Joss harnessed Jasper to the cart, which was now much less rickety because of his ministrations, and slowly walked the horse and cart to the halt with Tom following. It seemed wrong to merely stand and hold the horse as Tom lobbed bag after bag into the back of the vehicle, but just as Joss thought of insisting they change over, the discs in his back seemed to clench involuntarily. A sickening pain flashed down his leg, but he said nothing, just stood there, trying to distract his frustration by stroking Jasper’s velvety nose. The horse shook its head and the air steamed. It was still grey and cold, even though it was now March. The movement stopped and Tom peered round.
‘Do you want to show me where you want the strawberry plants putting?’ Tom asked.
Showing him, Joss moved back to the horse’s head but Jasper had sensed the slackening of the reins, and started lumbering up alongside the track. They laughed, retrieving the docile animal, turned him to go down to the courtyard and then into the meadow.