A Solitary War (8 page)

With empty trailer behind him, he travelled forward into the sand and pine-tree country at fifty-four miles an hour. The trailer, all that was left of Ernest’s old Crossley car which Phillip had taken in settlement of his brother-in-law’s debts to him, was well balanced; it never rolled or gave any feeling of being there unless wrongly loaded. He had to go fast because soon the light would fail, and though he had a 36-watt bulb in the masked headlight instead of the regulation 18-watt, driving in the black-out was a strain. Knowing himself, he wanted to arrive at the farmhouse unfatigued; otherwise in the reaction he would be null, and perhaps show by his manner that he could not bear to enter the place. After all, he thought, if they do not like it—and how
could
they like the life—they need not stay beyond the month.

Lucy was to receive little more than a subsistence allowance for herself and the children; for with the loss of nearly a thousand pounds during the first years of farming, and a small harvest the second, Phillip did not see how he could avoid getting more deeply in debt to the bank. All he had to set against the overdraft was ten acres of barley, fourteen of sugar-beet, sixteen of wheat. There were about forty turkeys, and sixteen pigs nearly fat; but no bullocks would be ready as beef for some time.

The Silver Eagle was sliding about the road as though he were sailing
Scylla
in the Channel off the Shingle Bank where the conflict of tides had always made sailing there an adventure. Frost patterns were growing on the windscreen. So far no black ice had formed on the road; the surface had been dry: but hoar frost was crystallising, causing the worn treads of the rear wheels to slip slightly. Even an inch sideways thrust was felt at the wheel. He slowed down to fifty, dreading darkness in a frost-fog which would reduce speed to walking pace.

It was cold. He stopped to put newspapers under his coat. Towards the coast the fog became thinner. The ruddy-brown afterglow of sunset was over ploughed fields, this made him think he must hurry on with the ploughing before frost set hard about Christmas. Matt wanted to fold the fifty-three ewes on the
sugar-beet
tops of Pewitts, thus keeping them with food until within a week or two of lambing. He said that the dung of ewes was better for barley than sugar-beet tops ploughed in directly; but Phillip thought that ewes forming their lambs would take from the land much of the value of the wilted leaves and crowns of the beet. Matt said no; but if the bony frames of the lambs were made out of the beet tops, it seemed to Phillip that the barley following in
spring would find less phosphate in the soil. Perhaps that was good for a malting sample. After all, it was potash that made the grains good; perhaps dung was more readily absorbed by the plants than decaying beet-leaves.

Whatever the answer, the ewes must be fed. He tried to make a plan. The real problem was to know the difference between tops converted into lambs, and barley grown from the same tops ploughed in direct. Now how many acres remained to be ploughed? Count. Twenty-two acres of Higher and Lower Brock Hangers; ten of Bustard; fifteen old grassland of Scalt. Forty-seven. One acre per day for a team of horses; four by tractor.

Say two weeks; call it three.

It was doubtful if the two Brocks could be ploughed, for the ground was tangled and thick with overgrown mustard, sown in the previous June after a bastard-fallow to kill the thistles. He had not wanted to sow mustard there; the idea had been to kill every thistle and every weed as he had on Steep before sowing the wheat; but Luke had suggested they sow mustard instead and plough it in. ‘Good as half a coat of muck.’ It was good farming practice, and Phillip had sown the mustard, which was ready for
ploughing-in
in early autumn; but all during that time he had helped to load the three hundred tons of muck and chalk for the Nightcraft. After that the rains had come.

The Higher and Lower Brocks were in places almost heavy land. As soon as the wheat on Nightcraft had been sown Phillip had gone up there to plough. The mustard was nearly three feet tall. The tough stalks wedged themselves in the disc coulters, causing
blockage
and stoppage every few yards, with several hundred pounds of earth riding on the plough-breasts which were forced out of the ground. Thereupon Luke had declared they needed a big
single-furrow
deep-digger plough. He borrowed one from a neighbouring farm and they tried to plough with it, Luke the tortoise holding the stilts, Phillip the hare driving the tractor. But the soil was too wet, too claggy. The rusty breast would not score. The clay clung to it. No furrow was turned. The moving mass had rattled the engine to a stop.

‘We bin stopped,’ said Tortoise.

‘You’re right,’ said Hare.

‘It ain’t go good,’ said Tortoise.

‘You’re right,’ said Hare.

‘We can’t go on,’ said Tortoise.

‘You’re right,’ said Hare.

‘That’s what I mean,’ said Tortoise.

*

He could see by the glazing of the windscreen and feel by the ice of wind-tears on his cheeks, and the ache in toes and fingers that the frost was hardening. It would be the third season in succession he had failed to plough his land in time. It was a quelling thought, that he could never get forward as he wanted to, because of his own weakness in considering the wishes and feelings of others before his own.

*

Through blue dusk, by fields, hedges, dark patches which were woods, the Silver Eagle descended a narrow lane between high banks and entered the village of Banyard.

Every cottage was dark, the street deserted.

When he opened the door of the farmhouse, after knocking (for he regarded it no longer as his home) he saw a transformation. Teddy Pinnegar and Mrs. Carfax had obviously been awaiting with some anticipation how his face would show delight at what they had prepared for him. Both were smiling; both said, “
Welcome
to the New Farm”; both asked him if he had had a good journey, and—after a pause—in one voice, “What do you think of it now?”

He saw the polished tall-boy and walnut cupboard standing against the wall, and wondered how they had obtained entry into the workshop, which he had left locked.

“What do you think of it, Phillip?”

“Well, well, well!” he heard himself exclaiming, with an attempt at Tim-like enthusiasm. He noticed the two workshop oil-stoves burning redly near one wall. There was a smell of tractor vaporiser oil. A drum of it was standing in the shed next to the workshop. T.V.O. gave off carbon-monoxide and was not for stoves. It had a higher flash-point than paraffin. He must mention it later, not now.

“There is a change indeed,” he said, making as though to warm his frozen fingers over the stove. “Br-r-r! It’s cold in an open car.”

An electric radiator glowed in another corner of the room. It stood on the damp paviors. He had been warned by the electrician to stand it on wood, lest a short-circuit through the damp floor cause electrocution. Mrs. Carfax was watching his face.

“You don’t seem altogether pleased,” she said.

“The engine is still running in my head, ‘Yipps’.”

On the table were flowers. The dark oak surface shone with a high polish. Golf-club bags leaned against the wall. A leopard skin was draped over the sofa. The elephant feet still stood guard beside the unlit hearth. There was his old carved Bible box, kept
locked in the workshop ever since leaving Rookhurst, also taken from the workshop. The deeds of Malandine field and Barley’s sand-shoes had been in the box. He opened the lid, and saw within a dozen pairs of delicate evening shoes, in gold, silver, black, white, and green; but no sandshoes, no lace which Barley had broken on the day before her death.

Had they been thrown away?

“It seemed a pity to waste all this furniture, so I ordered Luke to bring it up in the cart with the other furniture,” said Mrs. Carfax, with a brilliant smile that did not reach her eyes.

“It looks jolly nice,” he said, avoiding her face. Almost abruptly she turned away to stuff Lucy’s grey tweed coat under the door.

“We kept the deeds in the box,” said Teddy, softly, coming close to Phillip. “Also the old pair of sandshoes. Billy, who showed me where the key was, told us they belonged to his mother, so I put them on one side in the workshop, in a biscuit tin.”

“Oh, thank you.”

When first he had seen Lucy, before she had held baby Billy and blushed after kissing his head, she was wearing that grey tweed coat as she walked beside the river with her father. She had looked so beautiful: dark hair, grey eyes, rich colouring, grey felt hat and lichen-grey coat and skirt. It was Irish tweed—bogs and mountains, white trout and smoke from cabeens—and during that summer when the icicle in his breast had melted before her compassion, she had worn it again and again, having very few clothes, except those she had made herself.

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 and 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.