by S. C. Howe
‘What parasites do we have to look out for?’ Joss asked as they went back into the courtyard.
‘Mites, fleas–’
‘Kill that insect, Tommy!’
‘Send them Harrison’s Nursery Pomade!’
Joss’s birthday came – it was the first really hot day of the year. The sun was out as he woke to find Tom clumsily cooking a large breakfast. Outside, he had erected a trestle table with a cloth and laid it with plates, cups and saucers. In the kitchen, Nico was standing by Tom’s side as he inexpertly fried sausages and bacon and the dog cocked his head hoping the food would somehow come his way. He shuffled on his haunches as Joss appeared, wanting to rush up and greet his master but too distracted by the food.
‘Happy birthday, Joss!’
Nico pulled away from the range, ran up to Joss, licked his hand and ran back.
‘Go and sit outside,’ Tom called as Joss peered into the courtyard and saw the table. ‘At least you can enjoy the sun – can’t guarantee the food though!’
It was a wonderful day. They ate voluminously in the sunshine. Sat back in their seats and enjoyed the sun on their faces as Nico tucked into the scraps Tom had purposely cooked for him. Mrs Deerman arrived late morning, festooned with presents, and took tea with them in the courtyard, cooing enthusiastically as they showed her the strawberry field being patrolled by the ducks that were still eagerly scattering the straw in their search for all things slimy or grub-like. She laughed with a girl-like glee at the antics of the dominant drake who undertook various charges against perceived enemies. They didn’t tell her they had named the drake Roger. They walked back to the courtyard to find Nico shaking hands with the chauffeur who jumped to his feet when he saw them.
‘Oh sit down, Watkins,’ said Mrs Deerman. ‘Join us for more tea.’
Watkins stared around awkwardly. ‘Sit by me,’ said Mrs Deerman. ‘I don’t bite, you know.’
‘Nice place this,’ Watkins said looking around.
Joss smiled back. ‘Thank you.’
After they had gone, Tom and Joss sat back in the seats. In the afternoon they walked up the slope which lead to the heath and lay down on the new spring grass and relaxed, both looking up at the summer-blue sky. Tom couldn’t believe he could be so happy.
And he was even happier when the Peace Treaty was signed. It was June 29th and they were out in the strawberry fields hoeing between the plants, which were starting to show big fat fruits, glistening in the sunshine. Tom had broken off and walked up to the halt where the papers were delivered. He had taken to having two newspapers delivered every day and which he scoured as he walked down with them, not noticing the explosion of leaves in the bushes by the side of the track or bright flowers starring in between. His eyes always ran over the words; his spirits falling as some other technicality was reported that slowed the process down. All the time he had been inventing bartering systems within himself to ensure the treaty would go through – hoe twenty lines or else the armistice will break down and he would be rounded up, along with the rest of the able-bodied. Go and check on the ducks, even though it’s pitch black and you only checked them an hour ago. And Joss would say, ‘Are you going looney again?’ not lowering the newspaper. And Tom would stop, sit down and mumble ‘Thanks.’
Thus, this morning was almost unbelievable to him.
‘It’s over!’ he yelled to Joss who was still in the field. ‘The peace treaty’s been signed!’
Joss put down his hoe and sloped as quickly as he could back to the house. It was at times like this that he found the damage to his foot angered him.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Tom was shouting, almost beside himself. ‘It’s over. Over!’
‘Calm down, otherwise you’ll explode.’ Joss went into the kitchen and down into the cellar to find the bottle of wine he had hidden to open on this very day. He came out into the bright sunshine holding two wine glasses.
‘To peace!’ he said. They chinked glasses.
Tom kept rereading the announcement. Eventually Joss took hold of the paper and read it out clearly. ‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘And what do you want to do with today?’
‘Move about,’ Tom said. ‘Work’s out of the question.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
They drank the wine then pulled the bikes out of the barn and cycled, clattering over the track, with the gears grating loudly, to the next village but nobody was congregating around the pub; life was going on as normal. It was as though no-one had noticed that the agony of uncertainty was over. Tom looked about, wanted people to react, make the news real. They went to the pub, which was unusually still open, and Tom ordered two pints. He said something about the treaty being signed but the old bartender shrugged. ‘Of course it were going to go through. Old Fritz ain’t in no state to start it up again.’
They took their beers outside, sat in the sunshine, Tom still looking around, waiting for the garden to start filling with people who had heard the news. But no-one came.
‘Let’s go to Worcester, see if anyone’s noticed there,’ he said.
Locking the bicycles up, they walked down to the village railway station. As they stood on the sunlit platform, waiting for the train, Joss thought how quaint the woodwork and signage looked, painted the usual coffee-brown and cream. Tom sat on a bench and kicked at a small stone, stood up, sat down again. Joss looked at him closely.
‘You do want to go to Worcester, don’t you?’
Tom looked up sharply. ‘Yes. I need to go somewhere where people are.’
Joss wanted to ask why, but decided to stay quiet.
In Worcester they went into the busy everyday streets; walked down to the inn by the river, drank pints on the quay and Tom kept looking for some reaction but people appeared to be merely going about their everyday lives.
‘I wish someone would just say something,’ Tom said, peering down at the Severn, sliding by in its unhurried, summer way.
‘I think everyone was expecting the treaty to go through.’
‘Are people so disinterested?’ said Tom, looking up. There was an unusual look in his face, anger mixed with something; Joss wasn’t sure what.
‘Can’t we just enjoy the treaty signing ourselves?’
Tom nodded then smiled. ‘Yes. Sorry.’
They sat on a bench. People were on boats, off-loading at a wharf further up the banks. A pleasure boat steamed by with people in their summer best milling about on deck. Joss waved. Several waved back. He was laughing in the sun. Tom stared at him and his expression closed in. He needed to move on. It seemed imperative to keep moving. Like a greyhound hurtling from the slips, he had to keep his sights ahead, hurl along on the surface of things. Quite why, he didn’t know. So he got to his feet, Joss reluctantly to his, and minutes later, they boarded the train back to Heathend village and sat out quietly in the garden of the pub where they had left their bicycles. It was late evening when they emerged into the stock-scented night. It was still warm. In verges, meadowsweet and stitchwort shone like cream clouds and chalk-white stars. Tom stopped. Felt the stillness finally overcome him, like a thick, physical presence, ushering in the new longed-for peace in his mind. It was as though he had taken his first breath of a new life. A blackbird began singing loudly. Cycling, he caught up with Joss over the smooth sandstone tracks that grew narrower and more incised as they neared the farm. The darkness thickened into night and the silhouettes of full-leaved trees stood out inky-black against the red, westering sky. On reaching the farm, they sat out on the bench drinking the cool, malty beer that Joss had brought up from the cellar. Tom felt the soporific effect of the beer draining into him at last, sat back against the wall and looked up at the hard white stars above, the same stars he had stared at from the trenches, and wondered at their indifference.
They became deliciously drunk that night in front of the range and fell asleep. The sun came through the uncurtained window in the gable end and touched Joss on the face. Stirring, he woke, wet his
lips, his eyes still closed, and then they snapped open. Trying to move, he looked over to Tom who was sitting in the opposite chair, still deeply asleep.
After a few minutes of trying to get into a position where he could launch himself, he went down on his left side, overbalanced and lurched against Tom’s legs. Tom woke with a start.
‘I’m sorry,’ Joss whispered. ‘It’s this bloody foot, gets me off-guard.’
Tom looked at him blearily and then went back to sleep, moving his mouth as though deep in a dream. Joss crept out. It was before 5 a.m. and the sun was just reaching the top of the terrace bluff at the start of the heath. The air was surprisingly damp and cool. Sitting on the bench outside the front door, he rubbed his injured foot. Every time he overbalanced, it hurt like hell, as though the nerve endings that were left were exposed and over sensitive.
Tom came out of the kitchen, yawning and sat quietly at his side. His gaze was drawn to a scurry of activity under the hazel hedges by the gate; a blackbird was scattering leaf mould, looking for insects. He thought of the crow trying to feed off the minenwerfer paste, and sat back, realising how absolutely everything had changed.
Later that morning, they worked on scything the meadow nearest the house. Within weeks, it had grown a luxuriant cover of grasses after the chickens had been moved to a pasture a few fields back. They were only a short way in when Tom’s scythe hit a large stone near the edge and the iron fractured. They both stared at it.
‘Must’ve been faulty,’ Tom said.
‘We should have bought more than two.’
‘I did suggest that.’
‘When’s the next market?’
‘Thursday.’
‘Bugger!’
‘I can get the next train and get some more. The hardware shop has them in Kidderminster. We need spares. We can’t just rely on one tool per person if we’re going to do this properly.’
Joss gave him an incredulous look. As Tom walked away, he saw that Joss was staring after him, as though trying to work something out in his mind, so he waved and Joss seemed to come-to and retuned the greeting, then turned back to scything in the late June heat.
Kidderminster’s main street was sweltering when Tom walked down from the station. Over the tall brick shop buildings and factories, curdled blue-black clouds were piling up. The air was stagnant and smelled thickly of carpet flights. People quickened their pace. The first clap of thunder broke and the street emptied. As he followed the rest under cover of the retail market doorway, Tom thudded up against a shabby looking man, an ex-private, who was holding out his cap.
‘Spare a coin for an old soldier, mate,’ the man said. He was not old, barely looked thirty but his face was thin and prematurely lined. ‘Got two children and no job.’
Tom reached into his pocket and clutched all the change he could reach. As he put it into the man’s cap, there came a violent clap of thunder and then lightning flared in a massive electrical discharge, only yards away. The soldier muttered, drawing himself up against the wall. Tom stepped into the market and on finding the stall he wanted, bought two scythes and two spare blades then walked out quickly into the hammering rain and somehow managed to get up to the station with the clanking and clattering of scythes on the way. Luckily, the pavements were deserted and a train was just pulling in. Within minutes he was sitting, streaming with rainwater and sweat, moving out into the countryside. The storm cleared quickly and sun soon lit up the pastures and copses in rich golden tones. Tom’s mind was working fast. They could do with help. In fact, the closer they got to harvest time, the more pressing the need to find help would be. Much as he wanted only to share the farm idyll with Joss, he knew they would eventually have to re-emerge into the commerce of life. It might be a struggle to pay them at first but with more help they could produce more and earn more.
By the time he reached the halt, he was rehearsing the conversation he was going to have with Joss. He clanked down the grassy track, hollering as soon as he caught sight of him. Joss looked up and halted over as quickly as he could. They met in the sun-drenched courtyard.
What’s happened to you?’ Joss asked as he brought him out a towel and a beer.
Tom waved his hand vaguely, the gesture unconsciously taken from Joss. ‘There was a belter of a storm over Kidderminster... Anyway, I need to talk to you. I bumped into a man begging on the streets and it occurred to me that we would be needing help soon with the harvest, and then I thought, well why not offer him a bit of work here? He’s married with two children and it seems wrong that he’s having to struggle like that–’
‘Tom, just slow down, will you? It sounds a reasonable idea but I’m not sure if there’s going to be enough work to support a family here.’
‘We can start expanding a bit. The more we farm, the more we earn.’
Joss raised his eyes. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Of course I am. It’s like we have some point to the place at last.’
The next morning, Tom appeared with the man, his gaunt wife and two small children, a boy and girl of about twelve and ten. Joss beckoned Tom over, out of earshot.
‘Where are they going to live?’ he asked.
‘They have lodgings close by. We asked at the village shop and they’re going to rent a place a mile away. So it’s all very convenient.’
‘How are we going to pay them? We haven’t earned enough to have hired help.’
‘There’s a bit put by, so we can pay their rent until we have enough to pay them proper wages, and they can eat with us.’
‘You could at least have asked me first. Looks like a fait accompli.’
‘A what?’
‘Oh never mind.’ Joss strode forward to introduce himself and to explain the money situation. The family, the Greeners, became animated when they realised Joss was friendly.
‘We can get cracking on the hay, if you want,’ said Mr Greener or Joe as he wanted to be called.
‘No it’s all right for today, said Joss. ‘You get settled in your lodgings and we’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight. Do you need help getting your things across?’
‘There weren’t much,’ said Joe, ‘just what we can carry.’
‘You could have asked me,’ Joss repeated as the family walked up the track.
‘I did. Last night.’
‘You threw the idea at me, Tom. When I woke up you’d already gone.’
‘It was playing on my mind. About their plight.’
‘How do you think we’re going to pay them?’
‘Through hard work.’
‘So our time together is over then, is it?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Joss. We’ve got the evenings.’ With that he walked out over to the meadow to continue with the haymaking. Joss watched him go. This scenario reminded him of London with the time schedules, concerns over profits. But maybe he was being selfish and Tom was right. Perhaps it was time to give other people the chance to enjoy something of the life they had. The harder we work, the better we fare. That was equality, wasn’t it? No, it wasn’t. The hard fact was that they owned the buildings, the land and the livestock, whether crops grew or failed. This was no utopian dream, just a bartering of favours. Joss gave a quiet laugh as he recalled their conversations in the trenches, how naive they had been. He didn’t want to admit that, but he had to; those days had had their own warmth, a sense of purpose in that things may change for the better. That was the hope. Now they had to make it a reality.
‘The hard work may wear off after the harvest, mightn’t it?’ Joss asked Tom as they sat in front of the range that evening. His back was painfully sore from picking the ripe strawberries and then hoeing between the plants that were still to bear ripe fruit. He had then moved the trestle table into the sun in the courtyard and put the strawberries into equal sized punnets for Tom to take up the halt early the next morning. Tom had arranged for several greengrocers in Kidderminster to take them and trade had been brisk and the money good. But Joss had mostly wo
rked alone as Tom was busy weeding the oat field and cleaning out the chickens (whose eggs were now also being taken up to the halt every morning) and the two pigs that snorted and ate and produced vast quantities of muck. The same for Jasper, who was Tom’s constant companion. The Greeners worked with him and they proved to be hard-working and companionable and seemed much more at ease with Tom than with Joss, who would break off from hoeing the strawberry field and look over and see them laughing in groups.
Within a week, they would take delivery of a small flock of sheep. Joe Greener accompanied Tom to the market; Tom had said Joss’s time would be better spent on the strawberry crop.
So back to that evening and talk about the work easing off after the harvest to which Tom smiled vaguely, as though he was only half listening as he totted up a column of figures.
‘I think we should sow a winter crop as soon as the harvest is in, and, if we play our cards right, we can get two crops in in one year.’
‘What about exhausting the soil?’
‘With the amount of dung the animals are producing, there won’t be much chance of that!’
The muck-heap was now Joe’s responsibility and he tended it almost territorially.
‘And what after that?’ said Joss. ‘Another spring crop, then another, and another...? ’
‘We have to put the work in to survive. Farming’s sinking like everything else.’
‘Work at the expense of everything else? I’d be happy just to pay the bills.’
‘This is what we’ve got to do to pay the bills!’ Tom said, looking up from the accounts ledger. ‘You do want this farm to work, don’t you?’
Joss folded his arms, leaned back against the range. ‘Of course I do. But not so it drives us mad.’
‘We have a responsibility to the Greeners,’ Tom said. Joss wanted to retort ‘Well, that was your idea, not mine’ but decided to keep quiet.
‘Working the Greeners onto their knees for an extra few bob a week isn’t what I’d call equality.’
Tom put his pen down. ‘We can share the earnings equally.’