Читать книгу Strawberry Roan - A. G. Street - Страница 5

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Mr. Walter Morley was the tenant of Fernditch Farm, the largest farm in the parish of Pollard Royal. There had been Morleys at Fernditch for more than a hundred years, and their tradition of being good farmers was quite safe in the capable hands of its present tenant. Even Mr. Morley’s men, while they often grumbled at his “worritting”, admitted that the farm “wur done well”.

On it there were a herd of forty milking cows, a flock of four hundred pedigree Hampshire Down ewes, thirteen cart-horses, two nags and the children’s pony. To tend these animals and to grow the annual two hundred acres of corn, about twenty regular hands were employed throughout the year, with many extra at haymaking and harvest. From this it will be seen that someone had to do some “worritting” on Fernditch Farm, if all were to prosper.

Perhaps “prosper” is the wrong word, for there had been little or no profit made by the farm for several years, but everything was still done well, for Mr. Morley had a tidy bit of money and could well afford to carry on through a period of depression.

The only person who did not suffer from Mr. Motley’s “worritting” propensity was the one who received the greatest quantity of it. This remarkable being was one Bill Gurd, who was Mr. Motley’s foreman and right-hand man—a veritable farming Admirable Crichton.

Everybody on the farm, except Mrs. Morley and her husband, hated Bill. He had what might be termed the “all-seeing eye”. No dereliction of duty on anyone’s part escaped his eagle vision. He reckoned that men were of minor importance as compared with the job in hand, and he expected of all a performance equal in both quality and speed to his own—a standard almost unattainable to most of the labourers.

Mr. Morley, Junior, a cheerful youth of twelve named James, cherished for Bill a venomous hatred tinged with respect. Miss Nancy Morley, eighteen, and in Bill’s opinion a bit above herself since she came home from boarding school, considered him to be a rude, uncouth person, and she was continually reproving her parents, especially her mother, for the liberties of conduct and speech which they permitted Bill in his dealings with them.

But it was all to no purpose. Bill had worked for Mr. Morley ever since he had left school, and he was well aware of his value to all at Fernditch. In appearance he was a short active peasant of about fifty. He had square-cut grizzled whiskers, which gave one the impression of a rather surly rough-haired terrier, who might bite at any moment. He accompanied his master on all his farming expeditions, both for pleasure and profit, and no matter what sudden problem had to be tackled, Mr. Morley’s first remark was always, “Where’s Bill? Tell him I want him.” Singly, neither Mr. Morley nor Bill was a simple proposition for anyone: together they were well nigh invincible in agricultural matters.

Most large farms in the district had one man of Bill’s type among the staff. These experts were generally not so gentle, nor so lovable, as the older type of farm labourer—their varied duties were against a placid temperament. For instance, the dairyman, the carter, and the shepherd tended the animals under their care, day after day, and week after week, with little variation in their duties throughout the year; but a man like Bill Gurd was all over the place—a farming Jack-of-all-trades.

Whatever Mr. Morley, or as the men called him, the Guvnor, did, he relied on Bill to carry out the necessary detail work. Supposing the Guvnor bought a wildish bull at a farm sale some miles away; Bill fetched it home. When Mr. Morley went by cheap excursion to the dairy show, Bill went with him. Sometimes the latest purchase in nag horses would not pass motors; after a week in Bill’s charge he would pass anything only too willingly. When Mr. Morley was laid up for a week or so with influenza, Bill had taken charge without any visible effort, and under his control—a trying period for the staff—Fernditch Farm had run quite as well and at a slightly increased speed. During a cold snap in the winter, if the water pipes in the farmhouse roof froze up, Mrs. Morley sent for Bill. When a few dozen snared rabbits were required for Christmas boxes, a word to Bill was all that was necessary. Once when the threshing-machine got stuck in the mud and the carters could not get the horses to shift it, to their everlasting disgust, those same horses pulled it out for Bill. He had taught Miss Nancy to ride her first pony and her first bicycle. He instructed Master Jimmy in ferreting lore and other rural sports, and, when necessary, he dealt with anyone in the neighbourhood without fear or favour, no matter what their station.

Once an old labourer at Fernditch named Frank Chalke had a bedridden wife, and as they had no children living with them, the domestic problem in the cottage became very difficult. Bill discovered this, and also that owing to it the man was getting little or no rest at night. Forthwith he sought the Guvnor.

“Zummat got to be done down there,” he said fiercely, after he had explained the position. “You pays to the nursin’ fund, don’t ’ee? Thee see the Rector, and get un to let ’is Missus send the nurse in each mornin’ to put the old lady comfortable.”

Mr. Morley sought out the Reverend Charles Guthrie, and demanded nursing assistance for his man’s wife, offering to pay extra for a little special attention. The Rector agreed, and Mr. Morley reported to Bill that the necessary help would be forthcoming.

Bill grunted, but made it his business to meet the Rector in his travels. “Pretty vine shepherd ov a flock, you be,” he said to that amiable cleric. “Sleep most o’ the time, I ’low. ’Tis a good job as ’ow we do look atter sheep bettern thee do atter ’umings. Wold Frank Chalke ’ave done ’is duty all ’is life. ’Sposin’ you does yourn.”

The result of this was that the parish nurse received urgent instructions to attend to the case, which she found to be a pitiable one. The day after her first visit, she met Bill, and suggested that it was a case for the Workhouse Hospital.

“Look at yer,” said Bill. “That bain’t gwaine to ’appen. Tell ’ee fer why. T’ud break wold Frank up if they wur parted. The Guvnor ’ave offered to pay a bit, I got a shillin’ er two if ’tis necessary, and wold Frank got a bit o’ money put by. ’Ee do want ’is missus made comfortable, and wunt mind payin’ fer it. ’Ee do stand by ’is weddin’ obligation—fer better, fer wuss.”

“But she would be much more comfortable in the hospital,” replied the nurse.

“Comfortable!” sneered Bill. “Wot do a single ’ooman like thee know about comfort? Frank’s over seventy, an’ so’s ’is wife. They bin together now fer nigh on fifty years, an’ ’ouldn’ be comfortable, if one wur in Bucknam Palace an’ tother in the Duke’s castle.”

“Well, anyway,” said the nurse, “Mrs. Guthrie said that——”

“Don’t thee goo ’atchin’ up no plots wi’ old mother Guthrie, cause t’wunt ’appen. Frank ’ave allus done ’is duty cordin’ to ’is station: I do try to do mine; you be the parish nurse, I bain’t; you try to do yourn fer a bit, an’ bide quiet about ’ospitals.”

The nurse reported to Mrs. Guthrie that Bill Gurd was a rude, insolent man, but there was no more talk of hospitals, and Mrs. Chalke ended her days contentedly in the cottage with her husband.

To Mr. Morley’s credit, he not only appreciated Bill’s worth, but showed it by paying him a wage which caused the Farm Wages Board Inspector to raise his eyebrows, when he examined the Fernditch wages book. “What hours does this man Gurd work each week?” this harassed official once asked Mr. Morley.

“Goodness only knows,” was the reply. “He does his job.”

“I grant you that 50s. weekly plus cottage more than covers practically every possibility, but you are taking a grave risk. Apparently some weeks he may do sixty hours for it, and some only forty-eight. You never reckon out his overtime, so that he could claim to be paid the fifty shillings for the forty-eight hours and compel you to pay overtime for all the extra hours. Aren’t you placing yourself in his hands should you ever come to disagreement?”

“Maybe I am, but I’m content to do so. Bill knows me, and I know Bill.”

The Inspector shook his head, and left it at that.

Undoubtedly Bill knew Mr. Morley even better than Mr. Morley knew him. He was well aware that the Guvnor went on the rampage during haymaking, harvest, and at all times of stress, but from long association he knew how to deal with his master.

Market-day mornings were usually days when Mr. Morley was a difficult being. On these mornings, as a rule, he rose early, and went out without any breakfast at about six-thirty. After dealing with the ordinary routine jobs, he would go to the sheepfold perhaps to pick out the fat lambs, which were to go to market that day. At this job he would get so busy and interested, that he would forget that his fast had not yet been broken. Suddenly, say at about nine o’clock, it would dawn on him that he had arranged to meet someone in Winchbury market at ten. He would then leave whatever he was doing, and ride furiously home on his cob. Outside the farmhouse he would bellow raucously for Bill to take his horse. This accomplished, he would proceed to behave in his home like a spoilt child.

“Grub!” he would yell, as he strode in the back door. “Grub, quick!”

Then at the breakfast table he would perform the marvellous simultaneous feat of eating his meal, looking at his letters, taking off his dirty boots and gaiters, and yelling copious and varied instructions to all the household.

“Put out my best breeches, Mam, and see there’s some hot water; I’ve got to shave.”

“Nancy, get my market book and cheque-book.”

“Jim, tell Bill to see the car’s full up, tell him to start her up, and bring her round to the front door.”

“Mary,” this to the maid, “bring some more milk. Look alive, this tea’s too hot to drink.”

Breakfast over, he would storm upstairs in his stockinged feet, and change his breeches, yelling more orders as he did so. Then along to the bathroom for a hurried shave, which would frequently be interrupted by the appearance of his lathered countenance at the open window, from which point of vantage he would yell more orders to anyone in sight. Generally he cut himself severely on these occasions, which would bring forth yells for cotton-wool, as he raged along to his bedroom to wrestle with his collar and tie. Then, after much puffing and blaspheming, he would descend to the ground floor with his coat and waistcoat over one arm, and proceed to yell madly for his boots and gaiters.

He was a stoutish man with a thick bull neck, and as he used to bend down to fasten his boots and gaiters, shouting more orders the while, his neck would become very red, his braces would creak, and his breeches looked so tight around his posterior that an explosion at some point or other appeared inevitable.

The finish of this weekly market-day performance was usually a hurried grabbing of pocketbook, cheque-book, and other papers, a hasty good-bye, the slamming of the car door, the grind of the self-starter, the gnashing of long-suffering gears, and the disappearance of the car down the drive, followed by Mrs. Morley’s plaintive remark, “Thank God, he’s gone. I hope he comes back safe.”

Usually one item in Mr. Morley’s list of market jobs would be in his wife’s handwriting. It read, “Have a dinner.” This was necessary, for as a general rule Mr. Morley was so engrossed in the turmoil of his market business that a detail like a dinner would be forgotten, and on his return to Fernditch about four o’clock, his household would hear his cry of “Grub! Grub!” almost before his car had stopped.

However, on the Wednesday evening before the market day upon which Mr. Dibben had journeyed to Winchbury with his calf, Mr. Morley informed his household that he had a somewhat light day in front of him on the morrow, whereupon Mrs. Morley said that she would journey to Winchbury with him. Not altogether trusting her husband’s word as to his lack of business cares, she also told Bill of her intention to go to market, and said that she wished to start rationally and peacefully about ten-thirty.

“Don’t ’ee worritt, Mum. I’ll see as all be ready fer un, and I’ll ha’ the car washed and polished fer ’ee.”

Bill did more. He warned the shepherd to see that the Guvnor went home in good time for breakfast, after which meal he laid before Mr. Morley a list of the farm’s more immediate needs.

It was Mr. Morley’s intention that season to wean a dozen heifer calves, and after he had discussed his market business in detail with Bill, he inquired how many calves they had weaned already.

“Eleven,” replied Bill, “and we got two good cows comin’ in in about a fortnight, old Dumplin’ an’ old Plum. One ov ’em ’ll likely ’ave an ’eifer calf, and that’ll make our tally.”

“Let’s see,” said Mr. Morley, “we’ve managed to pick up all roans up to now, haven’t we? Both those cows are reds. I like to have all the calves as near one age as possible. If I see a good roan heifer calf cheap in market, I might buy it.”

“Well, that’s all, Bill,” his employer went on. “You’ll set the threshing tackle to those two wheat ricks at the buildings to-day, and put the fear of the Lord into young Sturgis. He’s half asleep driving the presser. Some of yesterday’s work’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”

Bill departed to his manifold duties, and Mr. Morley, after only a comparatively mild bustle in getting dressed ready for market, set out with his wife for Winchbury.