A Solitary War

by Henry Williamson

  Oh no! Not thrown on the floor, shapeless, a draught-excluder, pushed by pointed snake-skin shoe between damp pavior and mouse-gnawn bottom of door!

  Mrs. Carfax, seeing his look, exclaimed, “That’s a little bit of the past, my dear man! Now do tell me, does my rearrangement please the artistic consciousness of a genii?”

  “It’s the fumes, I think—— And Aladdin’s genii only had one lamp——” He stopped himself in time.

  Mrs. Carfax repeated her question. “Are you pleased?”

  “Yes, you are the genii of Aladdin’s lamp—how fortunate I am, to have three,” said Phillip, fatuously. “I must get the chimney above the fireplace altered. It could be a beautiful wood-burning hearth.”

  Teddy said happily, “We tried to get a fire with coal, but it made the entire room dark with smoke. How about a drink? You look cold, old boy. There’s just time to go down to the pub before dinner, isn’t there, ‘Yipps’? Won’t you come too, dear?”

  “My dear man, how can I possibly? Those two maids of Lucy’s in the kitchen are a problem,” she said, turning to Phillip. “No idea of anything at all! We’ve had a time getting everything ship-shape, I can tell you.”

  “I carried out two dust-bin loads of rubbish myself,” said Teddy. “The place was simply awful with accumulated filth. I could never have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it.”

  Phillip felt the weakening effect of breathing carbon-monoxide fumes. “I’ll just go to my cottage, Teddy, and will join you here in twenty minutes.”

  *

  He walked up the street to his cottage, and sat by the empty grate. Although he had declaimed about the untidiness of the farm-house, he now found himself wanting to defend Lucy, to say that she had been chronically overworked and over-burdened, with five children, and himself a constant disturber of her peace of mind. Moreover, it was an extremely inconvenient place. There was only a mud path leading to the entrance, and every bootsole brought in dirt. He had promised Lucy to make a path of pavers outside, taken from his cottage floor when a new wood floor was laid there, but had found no time so far. The mud of so many boots had clogged the coconut mats and spread into the house. It was carried upstairs as dust, it floated off trousers and stockings, jackets, coats. He had brought her to this ruinous village, ruinous after two decades of agricultural depression, first proposing to live in a derelict manor house, which, fortunately, had been partly blown up by another ex-military idiot like himself called Bill Kidd; and then to a ‘new’ farmhouse made of two old cottages from which he had now virtually expelled Lucy and the children—poor Lucy who had borne it all uncomplainingly.

  And how awkward were the bedrooms! Practically none of their own furniture could be taken up the narrow stairs. True, a village carpenter had fitted some shelves—and been paid a quarter more wages than the carpenter had demanded because he was so excellent a tradesman. Then this tradesman had ceased to work for him, following a tirade about having all his wages taken away and himself being made a slave, if people like Birkin had their way.

  That was Horatio Bugg’s doing. The village scrap merchant had told all and sundry that the new owner of the Bad Lands was a German secret-service man, one of thousands planted in England to do Hitler’s work by building roads to key-positions, and installing an underground petrol-tank.

  *

  “I’m going to have trouble in getting Maude and May to be tidy,” said Mrs. Carfax, when Phillip returned to the farmhouse. “They simply have no idea. Well, you and Teddy go and have a drink, and be back at eight, will you? The birds will be ready by then, I hope. I’m cooking one of the hams, too. Billy has gone to the pictures.”

  The birds, thought Phillip, what birds? “I got a couple of nice pheasants,” said Teddy, his voice happy. “I went shooting for the pot. There’s a lot of birds about. I saw some duck, too. I think wild duck is the best eating of all birds—although a cold partridge for breakfast wants some beating. Well, you haven’t said anything about your visit. Did things go well where you’ve been? I know what these domestic upheavals are. Which pub shall we go to? I usually go to The Hero.”

  At the inn with Teddy, drinking whisky, Phillip dismissed his doubts about the success of the trial partnership. Teddy was a kind and friendly fellow. After a second glass he realised what he had missed before: the jocund life, the true spirit of the village. The faces behind the pint pots and glasses were easy-going, quiet with contentment; the eyes were humanly kind, the voices concordant; talk was of sugar-beet weights, the price of barley (‘I shouldn’t be surprised to see it go to three p’un a coomb, as in the last war’), the duck beginning to come in to the mashes (marshes), Lord Haw-Haw on the wireless saying that the clock at Yarwich Town Hall wor’ five minutes fast the other day and how did he know (‘Spies about telling him, thet’s it’) and the new lot o’ sojers come to the camp.

  “Nice field of sugar-beet you’ve got, sir, ah, that it is.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re a-improvin’ of your land well, if yew doan’t mind me saying so.”

  “How much did Mr. Maddison pay you to say that?” Teddy asked the speaker, in fun.

  “Thanks for your encouragement,” said Phillip, before the labourer could reply. “Won’t you have a drink?”

  “No, no, I didn’t say that, other than because I meant it, sir.”

  “Nor did I.”

  “Let’s all have a drink,” said Phillip. “Landlord, fill everyone’s glasses.”

  Thus began the new life on Deepwater Farm. But it did not continue like that. When, a few days later, Phillip opened his post, lying on the table of the downstairs room of his cottage, he read a letter from a firm of solicitors saying that unless their clients’ account of £40 for pig-meal was settled at once, a writ would be issued. No account had been sent in previously. He paid it the next day, going to Great Wordingham for the purpose; and to receive, with his receipt, apologies for the mistake. Was it coincidence that, a week before, he had seen the village trader, Horatio Bugg, in conversation with the manager of the feeding-stuffs firm?

  *

  Mrs. Carfax was an excellent cook. Usually at dinner they had soup, followed by fish, then a roast of either meat or game, a pudding, occasionally a savoury, followed by cheese, dessert, and coffee. This food was bought in either Crabbe or Yarwich. Whenever she motored to either of these towns, Mrs. Carfax brought back flowers with which to decorate the table. Phillip waited for three weeks with some trepidation to learn what all that was costing, for the overdraft at the bank was now mounting towards four figures: and nothing coming in. During the fourth week seventeen fat pigs had been sold to a dealer for £95: cheque paid in and cleared. He had a feeling that if ever the overdraft reached a thousand pounds it would be the end. The sugar-beet returns were coming in; that was something; and there was a stack of wheat and another of barley to thresh out. The money for the corn would not be more than £300. This, and the sugar-beet money, would be all with which to pay the wages until the next harvest, as well as the farmhouse expenses, and the £3 weekly he was giving Lucy.

  *

  It was frosty weather, roads and tracks were slippery. Little could be done on the farm, certainly no ploughing. The tractor stood idle in the hovel. The only use for the petrol in the underground tank was when it went into Mrs. Carfax’s car. She had declared that unless she had some means of transport she would not be able to run the household. It was a reasonable request, part of the farm’s running expenses.

  His thoughts were constantly with Lucy and the children. What were they eating, on the £3 a week he sent them, out of which all clothes and school-fees and half the rent of Tim’s house were to be paid? Tim worked in a factory, his wages were £4. a week. He could not get them out of his mind, or the thought that he had turned them adrift. And in the rationing of food they would miss the butter and milk and cream from the farm. Were they short of food?

  By contrast, for breakfast Mrs. Carfax provided a choice of cold ham, or bacon an
d eggs with tomatoes and sometimes devilled kidneys. There was porridge, grape-fruit, toast, butter, honey, marmalade; and a choice of tea or coffee. Usually Phillip went to breakfast after the others had finished, owing to the need of something or other to be done on the farm in the early morning—perhaps the water-pump would not work, or the two-stroke engine wouldn’t start—Matt had kicked off the kick-starter again—or tools for hedging could not be found. Mrs. Carfax had a tray waiting for him when he returned. Both tea and coffee were on the tray. Knowing that the undrunk coffee was usually thrown away he said one morning that he drank only tea at breakfast.

  “Well, in giving you a choice of tea or coffee, I am only trying to please you, my dear man!”

  “Yes, I know, ‘Yipps’. I’m really grateful for all you’re doing.”

  “You might look like it then, once in a while, instead of looking the picture of misery.” She sat on the table beside him. “In fact, you are a perfect Little Ray of Sunshine! Are all genii like you? Cheer up, the world is what we make it, you know!”

  “That’s the theme of the book I’m writing.”

  “Well, it’s never too late to mend. Do you object to my having a cup of coffee, if you’re not going to deign to try my special Mocha, or do you wish to brood alone with your liver so early in the morning?”

  “Well, the fact is, I’ve begun to write a book, you know. And so most of the time I’m thinking about what I am going to write. So if I’m not talkative, I hope you won’t take it amiss. I’m like an old broody hen.”

  She was swinging her slim jodhpured legs. “You don’t object to me sitting on the table beside you, ‘Little Ray’?”

  “I’m proud, dear lady.”

  About four gallons of milk arrived daily at the farmhouse door, and after superficial skimming for cream to make butter, were returned for the sows.

  “Whatever are yew doin’ of?” asked Matt. “All that lovely milk coming back to me? Yew can’t afford it, guv’nor! Yew don’t get narthin’ back on this farm—it’s all pay, pay, pay.”

  “I know, Matt. We’re not quite organised yet. We’re making butter, and we haven’t a separator.”

  “Humph,” said Matt. “Yew won’t have the milk either if you go on fer long like that, master.”

  “I know, Matt, I know.”

  “You will an’ all,” said Matt, significantly.

  *

  Mrs. Carfax was not happy. She felt chilled in both body and spirit. She felt set apart from life. She ate little. Phillip saw that her eyes had a fixed look in them; it was more than the cold. The oil-stoves and electric-stoves which burned all day in the parlour seemed only to heat the air, not the life within the farmhouse. Her attempts to be gay were brave acts, she forced herself to move rapidly, to be energetic without real motive or desire. She had been a beautiful woman, but now, approaching forty years, while she still retained a youthful figure and colouring, she felt herself to be a mere vehicle, an empty woman. The life she had known died with her husband. No new lease of life had yet been offered to her. Phillip felt that she suffered the more because she had no ear for music, no taste for literature. Her late husband had been a sporting country gentleman, she his constant companion.

  *

  The drift of Siberian air which had moved down from Northern Europe over the North Sea to the island of Britain held all East Anglia in snow and ice. Foot-marks frozen hard in the mud-path outside the black-curtained farmhouse seemed to have been there for ever. A walk at night to the bathroom in the built-on stone-and-brick annexe was a cautious groping through darkness which at any moment might end in a slip, a thud, a cry.

  The open fireplace in the farmhouse permitted only the tiniest fire, and then only if the wind outside was not blowing, the sticks kept back against the wall, the door open, and the flames not more than six or seven inches high and about ten inches wide. At night Teddy, Billy and Phillip sat by its meagre cheer, listening to Teddy’s portable radio set, often to the nasal voice of ‘Lord Haw-Haw’ speaking from Germany, and to symphony concerts wherever they could be found on the medium and short wave-bands.

  On one such evening of comparative harmony, when Billy had bicycled to the pictures in Crabbe, Phillip brought up the subject which had by now become heavy upon him.

  “Well, how do you feel about things, Teddy? The trial month is up, I fancy.”

  Teddy hesitated; then in his slow, soft tones he said, “I’m not quite sure I know, Phillip. It’s rather early to decide. I’ve tried to talk to ‘Yipps’, but I don’t seem to be getting any farther forward. You see, it’s not easy, because there’s some trouble about my getting capital out of my old business, as I mentioned to you.”

  Teddy passed his hand several times over his forehead as though to smooth away worry.

  “And another thing, Phillip. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. You see, apart from the dubious question of capital, there doesn’t seem anything for me to do here.”

  He went on, stuttering slightly, “‘Yipps’ accuses me of doing d-damn-all. In fact, she accuses me of no ambition. Well, what the hell is there for me to do? Work as a labourer, for a bob an hour? I want to do better than that. Why, in my old business, before those Jews swindled me out of it, I used to take up to a couple of thousand, even more, every year. I don’t want so much nowadays, four hundred would do me, but I can’t see myself working for the rest of my life for a bob an hour, as you have been for the past two years and more. The question is, where is it leading to?”

  “Well, I’ve made a rough valuation, and would be prepared to consider fifteen hundred to two thousand for a half-share in the farming business. That is to say, for a half-share in the live stock, the dead stock, and all the covenants—hay, straw, muck, and growing crops. The crops at the moment consist of the wheat in one field, the Nightcraft, and the sugar beet.”

  “What’s that wheat worth?”

  “If it comes to a crop of, say, ten sacks an acre, at the Government price of 15s. 9d. a sack, plus subsidy of a few shillings, say, £10 an acre—the field is about thirteen and a half acres—I’ve reckoned that the gross yield from the field will be, say, one hundred and thirty-five pounds.”

  “And what did it cost you?”

  “For an acre, before the war, roughly one pound for rent, one pound for seed, one pound for fertiliser, one pound for ploughing and cultivation, one pound for harvesting and threshing. Five pounds an acre costs; say, six pounds today; receipts, ten pounds. I won’t count the chalking, for that’s supposed to last thirty years, although strictly a proportion of it should be allowed. Also the muck—ten tons an acre, five shillings a ton to haul, that’s fifty shillings an acre, plus another five for spreading. Say two pounds fifteen shillings an acre.”

  “How many acres have you, did you say?”

  “Nearly two hundred of arable.”

  “Two hundred quid a year profit.”

  “Then there are the meadows and the cattle.”

  “What ought the meadows to make?”

  “Nothing at present. They need draining.”

  “Who pays for draining, you as landlord or you as farmer?”

  “I as farmer.”

  “What does it cost?”

  “To dig out the dykes used to cost six shillings a chain of twenty-two yards. But mine are bad. They will cost ten bob, at least. There are four thousand yards. The dykes are choked with reeds and mud, and about one thousand yards are a jungle of fallen dead trees, growing thorns, and elderberries. Ten bob a chain as average, for some are wider than others. One hundred pounds.”

  “A year’s profit to drain the meadows. My God!”

  “The mud we’ve pulled out has a value. It’s excellent black stuff, rotting leaves and water-plants, with water-snail shells thick in it.”

  “How much do you reckon is the value of the mud?”

  “Ten bob a ton, dry. The compost is equal to five tons of well-rotted yard muck.”

  “Aren’t artificial fertilisers cheaper?”


  “They don’t supply humus. They’re a short-term means of growing crops, when used solely. They lead to dust bowls, dereliction and damnation.”

  “But other farmers use artificials in this country and make a good profit without wrecking the land. After all, a man isn’t farming just for his health, is he? Anyway, what will the mudcarting cost?”

  “At fifteen tons an acre, half-a-crown a ton, say two pounds an acre. The increase in crops will pay for it, easily. Though some of the men think I’ve more money than sense to cart mud, actually it is a long-term improvement of land. The war will provide good prices, you know.”

  “If it goes on. It’s a phony war. Hitler won’t fight, why should he? He’s not just a bloody fool with a Charlie Chaplin moustache as the cheap newspapers make out. He knows if he sits still and builds up his trade in Europe, while we rely on the blockade and continue trying to buy up stuff we don’t really want in Central Europe, our financial system will just fall to pieces. We daren’t begin to bomb his industries, he’d retaliate. Supposing the war ends next year, what will happen to farming?”

  “If it ends as you say, there will be a great change in this country, and a policy to preserve home agriculture.”

  Teddy Pinnegar considered awhile. “Well, there’s another thing. I don’t know if I can get any capital until I’ve been to London to see my solicitor.”

  “I see.”

  “As a matter of fact, my engineering business was swindled from me, as I’ve told you. Also, I’m a bit fed up the way ‘Yipps’ is treating me. She complains all the time. I say it’s because she won’t eat a damned thing. She’s starving herself, I tell her, just to keep slim. Look what she eats. A cup of coffee for breakfast, no lunch, a cup of tea in the afternoon, and nothing for dinner. Then about eleven o’clock, as I’m going to bed, she usually starts on me. Why don’t I do something, she asks. What the hell can I do? I’ve ploughed half a dozen furrows, and then the frost came. I’ve sawn some wood, but we can’t burn it, the bloody chimney smokes so. I fetch the eggs and I feed the turkeys, as I arranged to do, and get a laugh out of Billy’s cockerel scrapping with the whole damned flock of ’em. What else is there to do? I ask her. Sometimes I wish I’d joined the R.A.F. I was on the waiting list, but cancelled my application to come down here and help you.”