by Chris Jory
Webster nodded and turned his attention again to the potato that he had been hacking at ineffectually with his knife before he had been interrupted.
‘How odd some people are,’ concluded Elizabeth.
Vera cast her mother a reproachful glance.
‘I like the name Webster,’ said Vera. ‘It has a certain dignity about it.’
Webster straightened his back slightly in his chair.
‘Go on, Webster,’ urged Jacob, struggling to get his words past a mouthful of food that was on its way in as his words were on their way out. ‘Tell us your name.’
Webster’s pale cheeks flushed pink and he squirmed again in his seat.
‘Jacob, don’t talk with your mouth full!’ said Vera. ‘You’re not a pig, are you?’
‘Go on, Webster, please …’ said William.
‘He won’t tell you,’ said Norman firmly. ‘I asked him once. Once is enough. Remember that, lads.’
‘Yes, Norman’s right. Leave him alone,’ said Vera, quietly proud of Norman’s decisive intervention and the instant effect it had had on her brothers. ‘His name’s Webster and that’s all there is to it.’
‘How old are you, Webster?’ asked Elizabeth after a moment’s pause.
‘Mother!’ protested Vera, and she looked across at Norman to indicate to him her disapproval of her mother’s continuing inquisition.
‘Nineteen,’ said Webster. ‘And a half.’
‘The same as Vera, then,’ said Elizabeth.
Vera glared at her mother again.
‘Mother, surely you know that a lady’s age must never be mentioned in public?’
‘And you, Norman?’ asked Elizabeth, ignoring her daughter’s interjection.
‘Old as the hills, I’m afraid.’
Elizabeth’s stare indicated that she would not accept such an ambiguous answer.
‘Twenty-five,’ he confessed.
Satisfied that she had extracted sufficient information for the time-being, Elizabeth served the pudding and then they retired to the sitting room where the family cat sat in a polka-dot chair by the warmth of the fire.
‘Thank you for the hare and the eggs, you two,’ said Alfred. ‘They’ll make a cracking dinner!’
‘I can bring you more any time you like,’ said Norman.
Vera felt a little flutter in her breast and her pulse quickened. ‘I’m sure father would like that. He absolutely adores jugged hare, don’t you, father?’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Alfred quickly, noting the slight urgency of Vera’s delivery.
Jacob came hurtling down the staircase with a pair of parcels, tripping over the last step and sprawling across the kitchen floor in his haste. William looked at him with brotherly condescension, accustomed to Jacob’s frequent tumbles and secretly wishing he might burst into tears. But Jacob burst into embarrassed laughter instead.
‘No wonder you’ve so many scars on your chin, Jacob,’ said Vera, ‘rushing around like an absolute lunatic all the time.’
He passed the presents to Vera as she rubbed his chin casually with her thumb, like a billiards player chalking a cue in preparation for the next impact.
‘Get off,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t bloody hurt, you know.’
‘Mind your language, boy!’ said Alfred, and Jacob glared at him and went out into the porch to console himself by petting Norman’s dogs and imagining they were his own.
‘This is for you, Webster,’ said Vera.
Webster opened the present and something welled up in his eyes as he wrapped the bright red scarf around his neck.
‘Webster, you look a picture,’ said Elizabeth.
Webster was beaming from ear to ear.
‘And these are for you,’ said Vera to Norman. ‘I do hope they fit.’
He pulled off the paper and burst out laughing.
‘Don’t you like them?’ frowned Vera. ‘I made them myself. They took ages.’
‘They’re perfect,’ he said, pulling them on. ‘Just perfect. And these are for you. But I didn’t make them myself, I’m afraid.’
Vera pulled off the wrapping and burst into laughter too.
‘Oh, they’re lovely,’ she said as she admired the black leather gloves, and she held Norman’s gaze for longer than could be explained by mere gratitude.
Through January and February the hares in the bottom field learnt additional caution as their numbers diminished week by week, Norman taking them away two by two to the ark he was building for himself up the hill, a vessel to keep himself afloat in now, walking once a week after dinner to Mill View Cottage with his offering of hare. He sat at the kitchen table with Alfred and Elizabeth, and Vera would come and join them and Jacob and William would sneak out of bed and appear on the galley stairs in their pyjamas and listen to the adults and Elizabeth would let them perch there for a while, pretending not to see, and then scold them back up the stairs to bed, Jacob calling out ‘Good night, Norman!’ as he went, and Jacob would refuse to settle until Norman and Vera had gone upstairs to tuck him into bed and Norman had told him a story about life up north or something that had occurred that day with the animals on the farm. And as Norman told the story, he watched Jacob breathing and the eyelids start to flicker as the boy slipped into dreams, and he wished that when he was young he could have been a boy just like Jacob, not an unwanted parcel that had been lost in life’s post and left at an address where they had no use for him.
Then one night Alfred and Elizabeth left the kitchen on a nonspecific pretence and Norman and Vera found themselves alone together and conversation came easily as the minutes slipped by and Norman felt the frost inside him thaw a little more. Then they heard a hint-heavy cough from the top of the stairs. Norman looked at his watch.
‘Perhaps I should be going. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. But it’s been a very pleasant evening, I’ve enjoyed our conversations.’
‘Yes, Norman, it’s been lovely,’ said Vera. ‘You’ve been lovely.’
He did not know what to say. She accompanied him to the door and without intending to he suddenly heard himself saying what he had been thinking, his voice soft now beneath the decorative canopy of the porch.
‘Vera,’ he whispered. ‘Will you come out with me sometime?’
She stared at him.
‘The cinema, perhaps?’ he continued. ‘A matinee, I mean, in the afternoon.’
She had replied before he could finish.
‘This Saturday, then?’ he said.
She touched his gloved hand and felt him squeeze her fingers gently and then he turned and walked up the lane with his dogs either side of him and a single question in his mind. How on earth was he going to persuade Brailes to give him the day off?
***
The following day began and ended in a downpour.
‘Norman, there’s something I have to tell you,’ said Webster as they were fixing the gears of the tractor in the barn. ‘I’m thinking of going back home. I wrote a letter, you see, and they said they’d have me back. I think I really should go home, you know.’
Norman patted Webster’s shoulder.
‘I’ll miss you, Webster. You’re a good sort.’
‘I’ll miss you too, Norman. You’re like my big brother, you are.’
‘When are you planning on going?’
‘Whenever Brailes will let me.’
‘I’ll speak to him for you.’
That night, Norman and Webster walked up to the pub and stayed until closing time. As they staggered home, Norman finally asked the question.
‘So then, Webster, what is your Christian name? You can tell me now, you’re off home soon.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Come on, you’re my mate. You can tell me.’
‘All right, but don’t mock me. It’s … Verdun.’
‘What?’
‘Verdun. Like the battlefield. 1916 and all that.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘Well, it’s a bloody original name.’
‘My dad chose it. He was gassed there in the war. He said it would remind me not to trust too much in human nature.’
‘Well, Webster,’ laughed Norman, ‘Maybe you should just stick to the surname.’
And he gave Webster a bear hug and they staggered on in the dark towards the farm.
Webster left for home on the early bus and when he had gone Brailes and Norman went out to check if the sheep had started to lamb.
‘Mr Brailes, there’s something I need to ask you,’ said Norman. ‘I know it’s not part of my contract, but I’d like to take Saturday afternoon off. There’s something I have to do. Just this once, mind.’
‘Whatever can be so important, Norman?’ asked Brailes.
‘It’s Alfred Arbuckle’s girl, Vera’ said Norman. ‘You see, we … well, I’ve asked her out, just for the afternoon, like. I can check on the sheep in the evening …’
‘That’s fine, the sheep can wait a few hours, a woman can’t. And Norman, now Webster has left, we’ll be needing more help, so I’ve been thinking. You do the work of two men, I want to give you more responsibility, a sort of promotion, I mean. There’ll be more money in it for you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Brailes.’
‘And a week’s holiday once a year.’
‘I’d certainly appreciate that.’
That Saturday, Norman and Vera walked awkwardly into town and sat through a George Formby film barely following the plot, then stopped for steak and kidney pie at the café on the top side of the market square, and as they walked back home Vera slipped her arm through his.
The following week, Vera took Jacob along to Elm Tree Farm as a chaperone, her little brother eager to follow Norman about the farm as he worked. They hiked over the fields with the dogs, from sheep to sheep, and Jacob watched as Norman checked each ewe’s nether regions, fumbling about it seemed with his great big ruddy hands. That night Norman was out again in the snow and he was up half the night with the new-born lambs, warming them in front of the fire and feeding them from a baby’s bottle.
1935
Winter turned to spring and Vera and Jacob visited Elm Tree Farm regularly, and William just on Sundays when he knew Mrs Brailes would be baking cakes for the week. Jacob found himself alone with Norman in the barn one day.
‘Are you going to marry my sister, Mister Norman?’ he suddenly asked.
‘That’s for her to decide,’ said Norman.
‘Don’t you think you should ask her, then? I’ll ask her for you if you like.’
‘Perhaps I should ask your father.’
‘He won’t mind. I know he likes you.’
The next time Jacob came down to the farm to follow Norman around the stables and in and out of the barns and across the fields to where the sheep stood strewn about like stones, Norman took him up to the top wood and showed him the trees where the woodpeckers were.
‘Can you hear them?’ asked Norman, and Jacob nodded at the ra-ta-tat smacking of beak against bark. ‘There it is, up there,’ said Norman, and the boy saw the flash of green and red.
‘Come on,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll show you where the pheasants roost. If your father will let you down at night, I’ll take you and we’ll bag a few. It’s not the season, but nobody need know. And they go down just the same any time of the year.’
His eyes twinkled at the thought of the roasting birds.
‘What do you mean he’s gone shooting?’ said Elizabeth, when Alfred told her later. ‘He might get shot, we don’t know if it’s safe.’
‘Of course it’s safe,’ said Alfred. ‘He’s with Norman, isn’t he?’
Across the valley, Norman and Jacob were in the trees in the dusk and Norman knocked a pheasant down with his first shot and the dogs ran to fetch it and he passed it to the boy and then took it back and stuffed it into one of the deep pockets that lined his coat. They walked on into the wood and out into the glade on the far side of the hill. The moon had risen now and Norman stretched out an arm and stopped the boy.
‘Ssh now,’ he said quietly. ‘Can you see it? There …’
Jacob followed Norman’s pointing hand and saw the hovering thing, an inverse silhouette, a pale silent flutter against the dark.
‘What is it, Mister Norman?’
‘A barn owl,’ he whispered.
‘Gosh,’ said Jacob. ‘I never thought I’d see one of those. Shall we kill it?’
‘No, lad. You don’t shoot one of those.’
The bird glided silently away and the glade was empty again.
‘Thank you, mister. For showing me the owl.’
‘You’re welcome, lad.’
On the way back down the hill to the farm, Norman took an envelope from the deep pocket where the pheasants were.
‘Here you are, Jacob, son. Give this to your sister, will you?’ Norman winked. ‘Don’t go losing it, mind. You’re to deliver it straight into her hands as soon as you get home.’
Jacob nodded.
‘And give this bird to your father. Tell him it’s from me.’
‘I think I’d better be going home right now, Mister Norman,’ said Jacob, clutching the letter and the pheasant to his chest. ‘I told mother I’d be home in good time for bed.’
‘Good lad, run along now. And remember,’ he called after the fleeing figure, ‘straight into her hands, mind, straight into her hands!’
Vera tore the letter open, Jacob at her elbow, craning his neck to read Norman’s flowing scrawl.
Dearest Vera, you must know by now my feelings for you, and I have foolishly allowed myself to believe that they are perhaps matched by your own. I hope you do not consider it rash of me, but I should like to ask if you will consider me as your companion, for a life together, I mean. You know I am a humble man of little culture, but I can assure you I am honest and true and I will build a good life for you and will stand by you for as long as you will have me. But if you should turn me down, I will understand, for you could surely find a man more worthy of your hand than I. I await your reply with an impatient heart. Norman
‘What is it, Vera? Tell me …’
‘Jacob, did you read this letter?’
He shook his head.
‘Oh Jacob, you’re not made for lying, are you? Listen, not a word of this to anyone! I have to go and see Rose.’
Vera dashed down the stairs and out of the house and down the path by the orchard, then across the lane to Rose’s house, Jacob running after her.
‘So what do you think?’ she asked her best friend breathlessly. ‘Should I? Would you?’
She took a large bite out of the apple that Rose had given her. Rose considered the letter for a moment.
‘Vera, my dear, your second question is irrelevant, you know I’m simply not the marrying kind. As to your first, only you can know the answer. You do know the answer, don’t you? You must follow your heart, Vera. Your heart must tell you what to do.’
At dawn the next morning Jacob was flying back down the lane to Elm Tree Farm, another envelope clasped in his hand. He tripped halfway down the hill on a rock in his haste and went sprawling in the damp earth and skinned his elbow and grazed his chin on the rough stones, but he leapt up again and wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, laughing with joy as he ran. He hurtled into the farmyard and up the low rise of steps and into the Brailes’ kitchen.
‘Hello, my dear,’ said Mrs Brailes. ‘What’s all the excitement about? And what have you done to your chin? It’s bleeding.’
‘Mrs Brailes, Mrs Brailes, where’s Norman?’
‘In with the cattle. Would you …’
But Jacob was already out of the door and half-way across towards the cow-sheds. He thrust the envelope into Norman’s hands.
‘That was quick, Jacob. We’ll make a career for you in the post office yet.’
‘Sorry I’ve dirtied it with blood, Mister Norman.’
Norman passed him a handkerchief, took a deep breat
h and opened the letter. He looked at Jacob, the boy looked back for a moment, and then he flung himself at the man and hugged him tight.
That evening Norman and Vera went together to speak to Alfred and Elizabeth. They sat side by side on the sofa in the front room as Jacob and William hung silently out of sight on the stairs.
‘Mr Arbuckle, I must inform you of a development,’ said Norman.
‘A development?’
‘Yes, Mr Arbuckle. An important development at that.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, well, it’s like this. You see, we …’
‘Go on, Norman, tell him,’ Vera said.
‘Well, Vera and I, we …’ said Norman.
‘Father,’ Vera interrupted. ‘We have developed an affection for each other and we shall be getting married. There now, I’ve told you.’
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and smiled at Vera.
‘Yes, Mr Arbuckle,’ said Norman. ‘With your permission, and Mrs Arbuckle’s of course, I should like to marry your daughter.’
Alfred looked at Norman sternly, then at Vera. She nodded.
‘Are you in trouble, girl?’ he said.
‘Of course not, father! How could you think such a thing?’
‘Look here, Norman,’ said Alfred. ‘Vera is only nineteen. Come back and ask me again in six months.’
Six months later to the day, Alfred came out at first light to feed the pigs and Norman was waiting by the wall of the orchard.
‘Mr Arbuckle, I haven’t changed my mind.’
‘Very well, Norman, you have my blessing. But you’ll have to promise me one thing first.’
Norman nodded.
‘You may marry my daughter, but she’s only young and must live a little still. She must on no account have a child until she’s twenty-one. Do you agree to those terms?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ He shook Norman by the hand. ‘Welcome to the family. Now help me feed these pigs.’
***
Norman and Webster sat at the kitchen table as Mrs Brailes poured out their cups of tea from the pot and dropped a plate of toast in front of each of them, a wedge of butter melting into each slice, and went back to the range where she spiked the sausages with a fork and the fat sizzled out. She cracked a pair of eggs and dropped them into the spitting fat, then refilled their cups with tea.