Читать книгу Strawberry Roan - A. G. Street - Страница 4

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Breakfast was timed for 7 a.m. in the Dibben household, as the shop opened at eight, but on the morrow long before that time Mr. Dibben had been up and doing. He scamped some of his bakehouse duties that morning, but his baker, a gawky youth of twenty, had been with him for several years and was now well able to carry on; so Mr. Dibben slipped off on his bicycle soon after six o’clock, and pedalled slowly and sedately up to his farm. Mrs. Dibben heard him depart, and heaved yet another sigh of annoyance at “that place”, as she got out of bed and began to dress.

Mr. Dibben knew that there was no real need to go to the farm that morning. Every possible contingency had been thoroughly discussed with Silas the previous evening, but with a farm you never knew. This was true, and so, like most farmers, whenever he had a spare moment, he would go for a walk over his farm, and rarely, if ever, was this walk unproductive.

Besides, in his case, the attractions of the farm in the early morning as compared with the bakehouse, were greatly in favour of the former, for it was September. In mid-winter, the bakehouse would have been an easy winner to most folk, but on a fine September morning the farm would have won, hands down, in any company.

All was well at the farm that morning. Mr. Dibben found Silas and his grandson, a lad of fifteen, busy milking the twelve cows, and his other employee, Tom Hunt, in the stable harnessing the horses. He outlined the day’s procedure to Tom, visited the pasture to find the dry cows and Wold Dolly and daughter all serene, and then cycled steadily home.

The bulk of Mr. Dibben’s milk was purchased by the local milk factory, and picked up at the farm by lorry each morning, but an increasing portion of his herd’s output was being delivered retail in the village. This was a new departure for Coombe Wallop. Hitherto, its inhabitants had fetched their milk from the different farms in the village, but the modern desire for ease and attention had wormed its way into the hearts of the majority of Wallop’s dwellers, and who so able to satisfy that desire as Mr. Dibben, a man well skilled in the delivery of that other essential foodstuff—bread.

Besides, the fetching of milk from the farm by the customers had not been entirely satisfactory. The lorry came for the bulk of the milk at 9 a.m., and Silas would have it all measured up in readiness by eight-thirty at latest. Moreover, he would have written on each churn label, so many gallons in so many churns, and made a duplicate entry in the milk book which hung on a nail in the dairy—a laborious task, which took far more out of the old man than the actual milking. Then, seven mornings out of ten, some lazy village wife or child would come for a pint of milk, thus upsetting all his accounts and calculations.

A Mrs. Green was the worst offender in this way, especially on Sunday mornings. In Silas’s opinion she was a shiftless body, but no bullying nor rudeness on the old man’s part made any improvement in her unpunctual habits. One Sunday, when she had arrived for her milk, long after the day’s output was measured up all ready for the lorry, Silas had bullyragged her for a few minutes, and had finished up with, “An’ wot ’ave ’ee bin at all marnin’? Lyin’ in bed, I ’low.”

“No, Mr. Ridout,” she answered pertly, thinking to embarrass the old man, “I’ve bin a readin’ of the Bible.”

But Silas put this manner of employing the early hours of Sunday morning at its true valuation. “Pity you adn’ ’ad zummat better to do,” was his retort, as he handed her the milk.

“I cain’t do wi’ volk like she,” he reported to Mr. Dibben afterwards. “Whoi, tud be less worrit to take the drattit milk to ’em, but I ’low they’d want fer us to drink it fer ’em as well.”

And from this remark came the birth of Mr. Dibben’s retail milk round in Coombe Wallop.

So on this Monday morning, Silas arrived punctually at the shop in the milk float, and picked up Katenemily, who helped him with the morning delivery. This was another grievance against “that place” in the eyes of their mother, for the children greatly preferred this pleasant task with Silas to household duties performed under the eagle eye of Mrs. Dibben.

Winchbury was the nearest market town to Coombe Wallop, being only a matter of four miles distant. Its chief claims to fame were its cathedral and its weekly market, which was held on Thursdays. It was a charming old city, but on market days it was generally a confused muddle of farming stock and modern road traffic. It could have been a pleasant and interesting spot for tourists on Thursdays but for the market, and most certainly it could have been an excellent market for farmers and dealers without the tourists, but the two combined rendered it almost impossible for everybody and for every purpose.

Some ten days or so after its birth, Mr. Dibben arranged to take Wold Dolly’s calf into Winchbury market, and also to take Katenemily with him, as a final treat before they went back to school after the summer holidays.

On this particular day he had arranged to drive in with the older bread van for two reasons. One was that Silas required the milk float in the performance of his farm duties, and the other that Mr. Dibben had various stores to deliver on the way and more to bring back from the wholesale grocers in Winchbury, all of which needed a covered vehicle in case of rain.

From this it will be seen that Mr. Dibben had not as yet gone in for motor transport. He was, in actual fact, in the mid-way stage of deciding to do so. Many motor salesmen had argued with him about the matter. Most of them had referred to his horse bread vans as antiquated and expensive things, and had pointed out the unlimited advantages of the swifter modern vehicle. This was a mistake on their part, for Mr. Dibben loved his horses, and also knew that at a push in haymaking the van horses were invaluable, especially in the evenings.

But recently he had been visited by a motor salesman of tact and discernment, who had said definitely that so long as Mr. Dibben could run his business satisfactorily with two horses, he should on no account purchase a motor van. Doubtless as the business got bigger, the necessity would arise, etc. This man had builded better than he knew. Mr. Dibben would have bought a van from him long before this, but for his wife’s veto.

Mrs. Dibben had put her foot down firmly. There was to be no more money fooled away until she had her front door, and Mr. Dibben had reconciled himself to the fact that there would be no motor van until this demand of his wife’s was satisfied.

His objection to having the front door constructed was not solely on the grounds of expense. He recognized that his wife had loyally earned quite half his worldly wealth, and that it rightfully belonged to her. He would have given her ten pounds quite cheerfully, if she had asked for it, but to pay out that sum for a useless thing like a front door seemed absurd. After all, when it was done, what good would it be? Still, he supposed that it would have to be managed somehow in the near future.

Now there were all sorts of regulations in force concerning the transit of animals by road, and one of these was to the effect that no vehicle used for the carriage of human foodstuffs, should also carry livestock. On this journey to Winchbury Mr. Dibben intended to deliver his bread and groceries to various houses en route. How then, could a righteous man such as he contemplate carrying a live calf in the bread van? But in rural districts there was always a certain amount of give and take in these matters. While it was manifestly absurd to send in two vehicles, still there was a modicum of justice in the regulation, for as all rural folk knew, calves were not the cleanest of freight. However, after due consultation with Silas, Mr. Dibben arrived at a way out of the difficulty, which enabled him to haul the mixed load in the van, and also to satisfy his Nonconformist conscience.

The van was loaded with bread and groceries, and then Mr. Dibben and Katenemily drove it up to the farm. Here the calf was placed in the back of the vehicle, and tied securely by means of a rope around its neck. And for this journey in the bread van Silas had arrayed the hinder portion of the animal in a garment made of sacking, which corresponded, save in appearance, with the napkin used for the comfort and well-being of the human baby of the same age.

It has been mentioned that Mr. Dibben loved his horses, but of late years the increasing mechanical road traffic had robbed his road journeys of much of their former joy. Still, he set out that morning for Winchbury feeling that the world was indeed a very pleasant place. Katenemily sat beside him on the van seat, chattering gaily, and taking turns to hold the reins when their father got down to deliver some goods. The van seat was only an eight-inch piece of board, worn smooth and shiny through constant rubbing by Mr. Dibben’s posterior, and as Katenemily’s legs were not long enough to reach the bed of the vehicle, they almost fell over backwards every time the horse started after one of these business calls.

However, all went well until they arrived at the outskirts of Winchbury, where they met a circus, complete with brass band, on its parade through the town. Their horse did not approve of this addition to the usual market traffic. He tossed his head, quickened his pace, and chasséed gaily towards the curb in a vain endeavour to get as far away from the big drum as possible.

Mr. Dibben hauled at the reins to keep the horse from mounting the pavement, and whacked him firmly with a stick. Away he pranced down the street until he saw the camels, at which sight he stopped dead.

Katenemily had been so interested in the procession that they had forgotten the insecure nature of their perch. Accordingly, this sudden stop precipitated them, faces foremost, on to the horse’s rump, thus exposing plump black-stockinged legs, and a bird’s-eye view of serviceable underwear to their harassed parent.

Their father grabbed at their clothing, hauled them back on to the seat beside him, and brought his stick down on the horse once again. They started with a jerk, and there was a loud crash in the rear, as the calf fell through the back doors of the van and hung suspended by its neck.

Mr. Dibben pulled up the horse with a jerk, and out popped Katenemily again. He hauled them back, and gazed around for assistance. Fortunately a policeman came to his aid, and still more fortunately this Good Samaritan proved to be a Wallop man. He ignored any suggestion of broken regulations, heaved the choking calf back into the van, and shut the doors.

A few yards further on the horse made the acquaintance of an elephant for the first time in its life, and stopped suddenly once more. Out went Katenemily, to be hauled back as before, and down came the stick again, which produced another jerky start, sending the calf out again in another attempt at suicide.

Mr. Dibben pulled up the horse, and replaced his offspring on the seat almost automatically. The band continued to play. The calf gave a dying gurgle. The elephant slowly teetered by. The bobby rescued the calf once again, and shut the van doors. Away went the horse, and Katenemily fell off the seat once more, but backwards this time.

It was too much for Mr. Dibben. Being a good Wesleyan, he could not swear to relieve his feelings. Perhaps he prayed; the situation certainly warranted such a course. But he was taking no more chances. He got the policeman to mind the horse. Then he got down, took off his coat, which he wrapped around the horse’s head, thus blindfolding that sensitive animal completely, and, thanking the bobby for his help, he walked solemnly through Winchbury’s main street in his shirt sleeves, leading the blinded horse until the market square was reached, and the circus band but a faint murmur in the distance.

One by one the vehicles laden with livestock slowly entered the market, and about one hour after taking his place in the line—such were the conditions of Winchbury’s market—Mr. Dibben was able to leave the calf tied securely under a long, low shed in company with about a hundred other bovine babies.

He put up his horse and van at the Blue Lion, where they were met by his father, and after due salutations this gentleman took charge of Katenemily, while their father went about his business. To everyone he met in his travels he mentioned that Number 123 in Smith’s Auction was a roan heifer calf from a wonderful milker.

Grandpa Dibben took Katenemily on a tour of the market before they went to his home for dinner. His early childhood had been spent on a farm, which his mother had been compelled to give up when her husband had died. There had been no alternative, for when all the debts had been settled there remained only a few hundreds for the widow. Mr. Dibben, senior, had been the eldest of her children, and these financial straits had caused him to be apprenticed to a baker and grocer at an early age. He had prospered in life, and had been his son’s predecessor in the shop at Coombe Wallop, but he still remembered his boyhood on the farm, and Winchbury’s weekly market was an unending source of pleasure to him in his retirement.

Grandpa Dibben was not one of those who resent the fact that getting old means retiring from the cut and thrust of business life. He had retired gracefully and contentedly at seventy, well content that his son should reign in his stead at Coombe Wallop, and he was an ideal companion for Katenemily that morning. Let their father get on with the business of the day, they were just three children, with all Winchbury market to explore at their leisure.

First they visited a coffee stall, for Grandpa knew that his small companions must have contented tummies if they were to enjoy the market’s delights to the full. Here two large, steaming mugs of cocoa, and two huge currant buns were consumed rapidly by Katenemily, then Grandpa lighted his pipe, and away they went.

They began by visiting the calf shed to say a final good-bye to Wold Dolly’s daughter. This done, a black man, who was making some herbal toffee at a nearby stall, entertained them. His black hands, manipulating a huge lump of greyish-white stuff while it was in a plastic condition, fascinated the children. There was a big, silvery, shining hook at one end of the stall, and his final exhibition was to place the confection on this hook, pull it out about a yard long, reloop it on the hook, and repeat the procedure until the cure-all was set hard, when he chopped it up into small pieces, and wrapped them up for sale.

For it undoubtedly was a cure-all. The black man said so. He said so very loud and clear, and once he shouted it in Emily’s ear, causing her to shrink back hastily, and to clasp Grandpa’s hand even more tightly than before. Coughs, colds, shortness of breath, lack of vigour, obesity, loss of weight, everything, this wonderful sweetmeat was a perfect cure for all; so Grandpa bought three-pennyworth for the children to take home to their mother.

Next a cheapjack claimed their attention. He was selling watches, knives, saws, hammers, and similar goods. “We’ll bide a bit,” said Grandpa. “Perhaps he’s got some scissors, and Grannie wants some, I know.”

The man began with watches, but nobody seemed to want them. Next he tried saws. “Now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, holding up a saw, “winter’s coming on, and wot’s better than a log fire? Who’ll give me five shillings for ’im?”

No answer.

“Don’t use’ em, I s’pose. Didn’t the gale blow any trees down in these parts? Come on! Gimme a start.”

No answer.

“ ’Ere,” seizing another saw, “tell ’ee wot I’ll do. Five bob the pair. Cold days you can use one with each hand. Anybody ’ave ’em?”

Still no response from the crowd. The salesman mourned over the saws, he painted pitiful pictures of mother sitting over a cold hearth for lack of fuel, and he grieved openly at the evident lack of any desire in his audience for that healthy exercise of sawing logs. With tears in his eyes he reduced the price of the saws to four shillings the pair, at which figure he got rid of three pairs to Katenemily’s great satisfaction, as they were beginning to feel quite sorry for him.

The demand for saws being satisfied, the salesman turned his attention to scissors, and the children became very interested. “ ’Aving got the gentlemen a sawing logs for the ’ome,” he said, “wot about the ladies? Wot is ’ome without a mother? Ah, wot, indeed? Why, nothin’. Ah, ’ere we are, scissors. One large pair ’ere for cutting out Johnnie’s pants, makin’ one. One smaller pair ’ere for ’ome barberin’, makin’ two, and one pair o’ nail scissors ’ere, makin’ three. ’Ow much shall we say? Five bob! Anybody ’ave ’em?”

No answer.

“Four bob? Three bob? Blime, ’alf a dollar the three? Anybody ’ave ’em?”

No answer.

“Don’t use ’em, I s’pose. Buys all ready-made Mallaby Deeleys. Damme, don’t ’ee ever cut down father’s trousers fer Johnnie’s pants nowadays? ’Ere, a dainty pair o’ embroidery scissors fer dainty fingers, makin’ four. Four pair fer ’alf a dollar? Anybody ’ave ’em?”

Katenemily were wriggling with excitement. “Here,” said Grandpa, producing a half-crown, and pocketing the scissors.

They watched the cheapjack for a few more minutes, then wandered the whole length of a row of stalls, where Grandpa bought the children pokes of sweets and bead necklaces, and made his final purchase from a fish salesman, who was selling his goods in much the same manner as the cheapjack had sold the scissors. Grandpa bought an enormous cod for two shillings, which price, the salesman said, should cause him never to forget to pray each night, not only for the poor fishermen but also for the speaker.

Laden with their spoils they went to Grandpa’s home, where Katenemily were feasted royally and made much of by their Grannie, until such time as their father called with the van to take them home.