Homeland (4 page)

‘I knew that,’ Billy said quickly, remembering too late that Aunt Flor had told him in one of her letters. ‘So, withy men been getting rich, have they?’

‘Making a living, that’s all.’

You don’t say, thought Billy, remembering the bright new tractor.

‘So, this price you were offering Stan – good, was it?’

It seemed to him that the little brown eyes betrayed a wily glint before resuming their porcine stare.

‘Look here, Billy, there’s one thing we got to get straight right at the outset – I can’t be taking on the West Sedgemoor beds. Just can’t be done. They’re
too far gone. And it’s not just me that thinks so – there ain’t no one that’s willing to touch them, not even for hurdles. They’re not worth the time or trouble, see?
They wouldn’t bring in enough to pay for the work involved.’

Frank was waiting for a response, but Billy continued to gaze at him as he might gaze at a rather unwelcome object that had landed up on his doorstep.

Eventually Frank went on. ‘Trouble is, Stan won’t hear of selling off the one crop without the other. Won’t let anyone cut the Curry Moor without swearing to take on the West
Sedgemoor. But it can’t be done, see, Billy? No way. Not without throwing good money down the drain. I keep telling him—’

‘Perhaps that’s where you’re going wrong,’ Billy interrupted. ‘Telling him.’

‘But I’m only trying to help,’ Frank proclaimed in a tone of injury. ‘I’m only trying to do a neighbour a good turn. It’s no skin off my nose either way, you
know.’

Billy suppressed a smile. Frank must think he was born yesterday. Had these people always been this simple? he wondered. Or was it only now that he had the eyes to see?

‘So, tell me,’ he asked in a bored voice, ‘what’s your price then?’

Frank puckered his lips and gave a heavy drawn-out sigh. ‘Well, now . . . It’s not as good as I’d like, Billy. Only wish I could offer more – nothing I’d like
better – but it’s a bit late in the year to be taking on extra work, see? I’d have to hire in another cutter, and there’s a terrible shortage of good cutters. All of
them’s got plenty of work for the winter. Just plenty. I’d have to pay over the odds.’

‘So it’s a case of beggars can’t be choosers, is it?’

Frank’s chin drew back into the soft folds of his plump neck. ‘Look here, Billy, there’s no call for you to take that attitude. It’s not as if I
needed
the extra
work. Quite the opposite, in fact. And it’s not as if there was a great rush to take on Stan’s beds. Go and ask around if you don’t believe me. You’ll find out quick enough.
No, you won’t get an offer that’s fairer than mine, not by a long chalk.’

Billy eyed the broad pink snout in a speculative way, wondering how it would look after a good sharp jab from a quick right. ‘It was just a joke. All right? A
joke
.’

Frank’s ruffled feathers settled a little. He said with an embarrassed laugh, ‘A joke. I see! Yes, a joke . . .’

‘So . . . this price of yours?’

Frank lifted his chin. ‘For the four acres on the Curry?’

‘The four.’

‘And allowing for a good proportion having canker.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Well, let’s see . . . Let’s see . . .’ Frank made a long-drawn-out show of pondering the matter afresh, folding his arms across his chest, chewing his lip
thoughtfully.

Waiting restlessly, Billy caught a thrum of powerful wings and a clamour of ragged hoots, and looking towards the west saw a formation of Bewick’s swans sweeping low over the apple trees.
Following them down to the moor, he had a memory of winter days on the floods, crouched behind a makeshift hide, a gun on his knee, searching the sky for teal and wigeon.

‘Well, now,’ Frank announced at last, ‘I may live to regret this – I may be biting off more than I can chew – but if I really stretch things . . . Yes, I might be
able to go to a hundred and fifty the acre. Six hundred the lot. Can’t do fairer than that.’

Billy was careful to hold his expression. ‘Six hundred?’

‘My best price. Like I told you, there’s a lot of canker and nodules. A quarter, maybe more, won’t be good for nothing but hurdles.’

‘A hundred and fifty the acre . . . And what would the top withies be fetching then?’

‘Oooh . . .’ Frank exhaled noisily. ‘Hard to be sure in this market.’

‘Three hundred? Four?’

‘Oooh . . . I wouldn’t like to say.’

‘Five?’

Frank affected a look of shock. ‘Never that much.’

But not far off, Billy thought. ‘So Stan won’t do better elsewhere?’

Frank shook his head firmly.

‘All the same, I don’t imagine it’ll do him any harm to find out, will it?’

Frank stared hard at him before giving a faint piglike snort. ‘You been away too long, Billy.’

‘Oh, have I?’

‘You’ve forgotten the way things are done around here. If a man can’t offer a fair price, then he won’t offer no price at all. Stan won’t get no fairer price than
mine, not in a month of Sundays. Yes, you’ve forgotten the way things are done, Billy.’

‘Well, thanks for the reminder,’ Billy said with a laugh that hit just the right note, halfway between scorn and amusement.

Walking away through the orchard, Billy hastily turned the skirmish over in his mind and decided that, all things considered, he had come out of it on top. The leap over the fence had been a
mistake, a stupid infantile gesture, luckily overshadowed by Frank’s desperate efforts to catch up. Remembering the puffing pink face, the bobbing stride, and the laughable attempts to pull
the wool over his eyes, it seemed incredible to Billy that this ridiculous man could have been the fearsome enemy of his youth.

A car was parked by the latch-gate, black and shiny except for a spray of mud over the lower doors. A tin of Fisherman’s Friends sat on the dashboard, a fine woollen scarf on the passenger
seat.

There was no one in the kitchen, but Billy heard the murmur of voices overhead and the creak of floorboards, and guessed at the doctor.

Taking a sharp knife, he went across the yard to the withies stooked against the drying rack and cut open a bundle from the top layer. Another two bundles and there was no doubt: the withies had
been exposed too long to the wet and the wind. Having been soaked and dried out repeatedly, they were shrivelled and brittle, good for nothing but burning. The bundles beneath weren’t much
better. Only the bundles at the very bottom contained a few stems with a bit of sap and bend in them, though as likely as not they would snap in the basket-maker’s hands.

He wasn’t aware of anyone approaching until a voice bid him good morning.

‘I’m Dr Bennett,’ the man added.

Billy acknowledged him with a short nod before turning back to the withies.

‘Mr Thorne told me you were here.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘I’m sorry, but he didn’t give me your name.’

‘Greer. Billy Greer.’

‘How do you do, Mr Greer?’

Billy’s second nod was even briefer, so it couldn’t be mistaken for a sign of deference.

‘You’re a nephew of his, I believe?’

‘Distant. Of hers.’

‘I see.’ Dr Bennett was a thin man, with a long bony face, greying hair with a neat side parting, grave eyes and a soft voice. ‘May I ask if you’re staying long?’
His manner was oddly modest for a doctor.

‘Just today.’

‘Ah. And have you come far?’

Not trusting the question, Billy didn’t answer.

‘I was merely wondering if you were likely to be dropping by on a regular basis.’

‘No chance. My work’s miles away.’

‘I see . . .’ The doctor lowered his gaze with a frown. Standing there in his long tweed coat, clutching a trilby to his stomach with one hand, gripping a battered medical bag in the
other, he reminded Billy of someone else, though he couldn’t think who.

‘It’s just that Mr Thorne seems to be struggling a bit with the farm,’ the doctor said. ‘Understandable, of course, in the circumstances.’ When Billy again offered
no comment, he added, ‘I wondered if you knew of anyone who might be able to give him a hand.’

Billy shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I’ve been away in the war.’

‘Yes, of course,’ the doctor acknowledged rapidly. ‘I just thought you might know of a relative . . .’

‘Well, I don’t.’

The doctor absorbed this with a slow nod. ‘Mrs Bentham thought of asking the neighbours for help. But your uncle, well . . .’ Bennett swung his hat away from his chest in a gesture
that suggested tactical difficulties. ‘He didn’t seem too keen.’

‘No, he wouldn’t be.’ Billy had no idea who Mrs Bentham might be, but she couldn’t know Stan too well if she thought he’d be prepared to accept favours that he
couldn’t return. ‘He could always hire someone,’ Billy suggested drily.

‘That’s the problem – there’s a shortage. Quite a few farms are having trouble finding workers. Not enough men home from the war.’

‘Just goes to show how much I know.’

‘There is another possibility,’ the doctor said tentatively. ‘This new government scheme which allows farmers to hire Poles from the Resettlement Corps. I was telling your
uncle. It could be just the answer.’

‘Oh yes? And what would he want Polacks for?’

The doctor gazed at Billy uncertainly. ‘Well, they’re extremely hard workers.’

‘Like the Germans, you mean?’ Billy tipped his head towards the moor. ‘I’ve just seen how hard the Germans work.’

‘But the Germans are prisoners of war.’

Turning rapidly away, Billy tugged at a binding on some rotting withies.

‘Everyone who’s worked with the Poles has been extremely happy with them,’ the doctor insisted mildly.

‘But they’ll be wanting to skedaddle back to Poland, won’t they, the second they get the chance.’

‘In fact . . . most of them are intending to stay here.’

‘Are they now?’

‘That’s the point of the Corps – to help them resettle.’

Billy cut another binding with a quick upward jerk of his knife.

‘The thing is, if your uncle did decide to take some, I’d be very glad to start the ball rolling. There’s one soldier who could come straight away. I can vouch for him –
a good man. And if your uncle wanted a second, there’s an airman who used to be stationed at Churchstanton. Once the camp gets up to strength there’ll be plenty more to choose from, of
course.’

‘Camp?’

‘At Middlezoy. It opened a month ago.’

‘Oh,
that
camp,’ Billy said dismissively. ‘But soldiers – they’d be bugger all use as withy men. It’s skilled work.’

‘I would imagine they’d need supervision, certainly.’

‘A bloody sight more than supervision. Full-time nannying, more like.’

‘But it would be better than nothing.’

‘Not if they have to be paid, it won’t.’

‘They do have to be paid a basic agricultural wage, I believe.’

‘More than some people, then.’

‘I understood it was to be very low . . .’

‘That’s what I’m saying,’ Billy insisted stubbornly. ‘More than some get.’

The doctor gave way with a small baffled nod. ‘Maybe so,’ he murmured.

‘But look, it’s not up to me, is it?’ Billy offered abruptly. ‘It’s for my uncle to decide.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What does he say?’

‘He’s thinking about it.’

‘I bet he is.’

The doctor put his hat on, and made to move away. ‘Oh, I take it the coal’s finally arrived?’

‘Not that I’m aware.’

‘The range was lit. I thought . . .’

‘There’s no coal.’

‘Oh dear. I know Mrs Bentham was looking into it. Has she run into a snag?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Ah . . .’ He gave a doctor’s smile, empty, distracted. ‘Well, I’ll see if I can find out later. Good day, Mr Greer.’ He bowed politely and began to walk
away.

Something made Billy call after him. ‘How’s my aunt doing?’

The doctor stopped and turned. ‘Oh, as well as can be expected.’

‘She’s not going to get better?’

The doctor took a few steps back towards Billy. ‘I wish I could offer hope of improvement.’

‘There’s no treatment?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Why do you come then?’

A sharp pause before the doctor said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite . . .’

‘What’s the point in you coming?’

The other man looked taken aback.

‘Nothing personal, Doctor,’ said Billy, for whom few encounters with authority were anything but personal, ‘but I’m thinking of the fees.’

The doctor dropped his eyes for a moment. When he looked up again, his expression was strained. ‘It’s not just your aunt I call on, Mr Greer. It’s your uncle too. And
there’s no great urgency for my fees, I assure you.’

Billy nodded. ‘Glad to hear it.’

The doctor bowed again, solemnly. Watching the tall figure walk away, Billy felt the frustration of someone who realises he has revealed himself in a bad light. He didn’t give a damn for
what the doctor thought of him – officers, doctors, they were all the same – but he cared for the fact that he had let himself down. He had set himself a target, to be a man apart,
detached, calm, slow to anger, a figure of respect, and he had fallen below the standard he had set himself. He had resorted to sarcasm and point-scoring; he had demeaned himself in front of a
stranger. It was finding himself back in this place that had dragged him down; the sense of being forced back in time, of being trapped. Everything would be fine once he got away. Nevertheless, he
couldn’t shake off a niggling sense of self-disgust, which was linked in some obscure way to the man the doctor reminded him of. It had finally come to him as the doctor put on his hat that
he was not unlike the priest who’d asked Billy and his mates to help dig the people out of the ruined house in Belgium. The priest had possessed the same air of solemnity, the same bowed
shoulders and grave face, the same quiet manner. He had also had an impressive capacity for drink. After the burials the two of them had polished off the best part of a bottle of cognac, but while
most men of Billy’s acquaintance quickly got roaring drunk, the priest had maintained a steady if melancholy dignity. Speaking broken English that gathered momentum with each glass, he told
Billy about the family they had just buried – the girl with the gleaming eyes had been a nurse in the local asylum – and the catalogue of hardships and disasters the village had
suffered during the occupation, and the spiritual dilemmas facing a priest in war. He spoke so frankly and listened so intently to Billy’s opinions that for a while Billy thought he must have
mistaken him for an officer, but when Billy dropped his rank casually into the conversation it seemed there was no mistake. They went on to discuss faith, evil, and the limits of personal
responsibility. Afterwards, in the blur of a hangover and a rapid advance under gunfire, Billy couldn’t remember every detail of the conversation, only that he’d managed to say quite a
few good things, and say them well. This burst of eloquence had taken him by surprise. Maybe his brain, so doggedly championed by his English teacher Mr Margolis, wasn’t so dead after
all.