Читать книгу Strawberry Roan - A. G. Street - Страница 6

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To Mrs. Morley’s satisfaction there was nothing on the back seat of their five-seater Morris-Oxford that morning. This was unusual. Nothing she could say or do would stop her husband from desecrating a nice motor car with some evidence of his calling on the most unsuitable occasions. Sometimes it was a market sack of corn, once it had been an odorous bag of sheep skins; and coming back from market there would usually be barbed wire, hayforks, ploughshares, or some other monstrosity.

After the purchase of each new car she had made repeated protests against this procedure, but within a fortnight Mr. Morley was back into his customary habits.

“What is the good of having a nice car,” thought Mrs. Morley, “if you spoilt it in this fashion?”

But every time her husband could haul some farming need in the car he did so, for it salved his conscience by providing an excuse that the car paid its way as a farm implement. Mrs. Morley was not a proud woman, but on the rare occasions when she rode in the car, she liked to do so as a lady in a private car—not in a carrier’s van.

But all was well that morning. The sun was shining, the car ran perfectly, and Mr. Morley was in a good humour.

“What’s bringing you to market, Missus?” he asked, after he had noisily achieved his top gear, and settled back into his seat. “More clothes, the pictures, or Bridge?”

“No business of yours, Walter. You run the farm, and leave the household to me. If I play Bridge or go to the pictures, you’ll play billiards or some other foolery.”

“True, me dear,” replied Mr. Morley. “Well, I shall put the car up at the County, so you can have your parcels sent there. When and where shall I pick you up?”

“Oh, at about four o’clock outside the Regal. If you aren’t there, I’ll come along to the County.”

When they reached the outskirts of Winchbury, the market traffic, in addition to the ordinary flow through the town, made their progress very slow with repeated full stops. Winchbury’s market was in the centre of the town, some distance from the station, and although the farmers of the district had been agitating for an up-to-date market, situated on the outskirts and giving easy access to the railway, nothing had been done as yet.

Mr. Morley was one of the chief supporters of this new market idea, and his wife consequently knew the arguments by heart, both for and against. Still, every time she and her husband drove to market, she listened dutifully to his heated denunciation of Winchbury’s corporation.

The chief public objection of Winchbury’s leading citizens to a new market was that it would cost money, which might or might not bring in an adequate return to the city treasury. But Mr. Morley knew that the real objection lay in the fear in each trader’s heart that the new market might be two inches farther away from his place of business than the old one.

Mr. Morley’s personal objections to the present state of affairs were many. The economic one was that owing to the increasing maelstrom of road traffic which flowed unceasingly through Winchbury he could neither get his stock into nor away from the existing market without endless loss of time, considerable expense, and much annoyance.

He was a large, fat man, and he had started to drive a motor car in middle age. He could never achieve, when driving, the insolent, lounging, nonchalance of the modern, slim youth. His increasing girth made him appear to be sitting on the car rather than in it, and rendered the business of changing gear a matter of puffing exertion.

The repeated stops made necessary by the traffic that morning caused him to say awful things about Winchbury’s rulers. “Just because old Squires thinks he’ll sell a pint less beer in his bally pub if the market’s shifted, we’ve got to put up with this sort of thing.”

“This sort of thing” was when he got jammed between two large buses, a carrier’s van, several private cars, and a flock of sheep. Eventually his car was stopped in the middle of the flock—a throbbing island in a sea of wool and baas. The sheep flowed round it in varying eddies, leaving a flotsam of locks of wool on mudguards and footboards. When he could get going again, Mr. Morley let in his clutch with a bang, and the car started with a series of disgraceful hiccups.

And so it went on—cattle, buses, pigs, sheep, lorries, carts, cars, and in Mr. Morley’s own words, “Dam’ fool women pushin’ prams with a blasted dog wi’ ’em.”

The circus parade, which had so inconvenienced Mr. Dibben that morning, was the last straw. During its passing Mr. Morley in a loud voice consigned it, and Winchbury, and everybody in the town to the nether regions.

Mrs. Morley suffered in silence. She shuddered a little every time her husband changed gear; she shrank into the car towards him when they passed cattle, and away from him when frantically he sought the central gear lever. “Yes, dear,” she said, and “No, dear,” and “Hush, dear,” as the occasion demanded, and made her customary resolution never again on a market day to go to Winchbury with her husband.

Her trials ceased when Mr. Morley, rather red in the face and neck, triumphantly piloted the car into the hotel yard, and she was free to go about her business in peace.

Mr. Morley descended from the car, a trifle out of breath but still master of his fate. He took his stick from the back seat, promised faithfully once again to pick up his wife outside the Picture Theatre at four o’clock, wished her good-bye, and strode out of the hotel yard, thirsting for the fray.

First he visited the sheep market, and watched numerous lots being sold by auction, including his own twenty-five fat Hampshire Down tegs. This done, a brother farmer and friend, named James Marsh, suggested lunch.

“Come and have a look at the calves a minute, Jim. I can do with a good roan heifer calf.”

Wold Dolly’s calf had been very miserable ever since she had left her birthplace, and more so since Mr. Dibben had left her tied up in Messrs. Smith and Sons’ calf shed. For one thing she was getting hungry, and for another there was not any too much room. She was hemmed in by calves on either side, and she disliked her immediate neighbours. When she lay down, first one of these, a white calf, trod on her, and then the other, a hideous black, would get his leg over her neck rope and kick spasmodically. Her fashionable colour had attracted many prospective buyers, who had slapped and prodded her to make her stand up, and who each had encompassed the small of her back with a large hand and squeezed it firmly. Why, she did not know. In all probability the squeezers did not know either, but it was the recognized thing to do.

Mr. Morley and his friend ambled gently along the line of calves, performing the same operation on several which took their fancy. Presently James Marsh spotted Wold Dolly’s calf. “That’s the one for you, Walter,” he said after the usual examination. “Ain’t that a sweet pretty calf? Reg’lar strawberry roan.”

Mr. Morley agreed; like most farmers he could not resist the appeal of this colour in cattle. “ ’Tis a pretty calf, Jim. Wonder who bred her? Hi! Bill!” This last was to one of the auctioneer’s men near by. “Who brought in Number 123?”

“Come from Dibben, out to Coombe Wallop, sir.”

“Dibben?” queried Mr. Morley. “Oh, I know. Li’l feller with a baker’s shop. Took Bigg’s farm last year. Let’s see, he bought one or two goodish cows when he went in. Wonder if he’s anywhere about?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bill, pointing. “There he is, over by the pigs.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

Mr. Morley wandered casually over to the pig auction, and inquired of Mr. Dibben whether Number 123’s mother was a lady of good, sound, milking qualities, whereupon Mr. Dibben became almost lyrical in his description of Wold Dolly’s beauty of form and character.

“Ah well,” said Mr. Morley, “don’t run her up for the sake o’ pushin’ me. I can do with her at a fair price but I don’t stand for squeezing. When d’ye reckon she’ll be sold?”

Mr. Dibben guessed in about two hours’ time, so Mr. Morley and his friend adjourned for lunch, and on their way out of the market they met the auctioneer, who was going to sell the calves.

“Morning, Dick,” said Mr. Morley. “Look here, I can do with Number 123 up to four quid. If I don’t get back before she’s sold, just see to it for me.”

The auctioneer made a note in his book, and the two friends went off to the County Hotel for lunch.

They lunched at a long table at one end of the dining-room, which accommodated about a dozen of the leading farmers of the district. During lunch this company settled the affairs of the world in general, and their own district in particular; designed several new markets for Winchbury; and went over the old arguments again and again about the price of milk for the ensuing year. It was late on in September then, and next year’s prices for this commodity had not yet been settled, and they had to be decided before October. There was unanimous agreement that for various causes the price should be higher than that of the current year, but each speaker knew in his inmost heart, that next year’s price was bound to be a lower one. They talked largely about loyalty, and about holding up their milk, and about standing firm, knowing full well that any firmness in this direction would be a minus quantity with at least sixty per cent of milk producers by September the twenty-eighth.

Lunch finished, Mr. Morley, in company with Marsh and one or two other cronies, set out for the Corn Exchange. On the way they looked in at an auction yard, where cows and calves were being sold. Here they studied the trade, and continued the discussion of milk prices, which proved such an interesting subject to Mr. Morley, that the strawberry roan calf in the market was completely forgotten.

Afterwards keen business in the Corn Exchange claimed their attention. Here Mr. Morley bought some feeding stuffs for immediate delivery, refusing to buy forward on the ground that corn prices were falling and that cake therefore would be bound to follow suit. In spite of this prospect he purchased some seed wheat from a seedsman. He also inspected various sacks of grain exposed for sale by brother farmers, argued fiercely with some about milk prices, and loudly damned the Government to others.

All these things took time. Mr. Morley did not buy anything until he had chaffered with every merchant in the market, save one or two, who in his opinion had done him on some previous occasion. These he ignored, and would ignore until his death—or theirs. First he met a Mr. Jones.

“Anything you’re wanting in my line to-day, Mr. Morley? Cake? Manures? Cotton Cake’s down five shillings. Do you a six-ton lot to your station at six pounds five.”

“H’m,” replied Mr. Morley. “What about dairy cubes?”

After much reference to the wonderful analysis of his special brand of cubes, Mr. Jones quoted him at nine pounds per ton, delivered to his nearest station.

“I’ll think about it,” said Mr. Morley, and drifted away until he met another man in the same way of business, from whom he got a quotation at the same figure, but delivered by lorry to his farm. Then he went to another dealer, and so on. Having finally decided that nine pounds delivered home was the general price for dairy cubes that day, he went to the salesman he liked best as a man, and bid him eight pounds fifteen shillings. This proved successful, as the fact that Mr. Morley was a sound man financially, and usually paid up quickly, made his business worth having; and he found that the same procedure was efficacious in the matter of the seed wheat.

But the general atmosphere of the Corn Exchange was one of gloom, as compared with some years ago when farming was a paying game. By two-thirty Jim Marsh had had enough of it. He sought out Mr. Morley, and asked him if he had finished his business.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Morley.

“Well, then, let’s get out o’ this. It’s like a dam’ funeral. There’s nobody here as we can do, and if we bide here much longer someone’ll likely do us.”

Mr. Morley agreed, and having found two other kindred spirits, the four left the market, and set out for the County Hotel to play volunteer snooker pool.

While all this had been happening Mr. Dibben’s calf had been sold. Mr. Dibben had been greatly disappointed that he could not see Mr. Morley anywhere in the ring of buyers round the auctioneer’s box. He did not mean to run up the price of his calf unduly, but if he could have watched Mr. Morley during the sale he could have put in a judicious bid or two, just to make sure that his animal was not absolutely given away. Four pounds would be a fair price, he thought, anything over that a good price, and anything under seventy-five shillings a bad one. But he could not see Mr. Morley. He wasn’t there. There were only the usual calf buyers, who were, of course, in league with each other.

In due course Number 123 was hustled along towards the ring, and pushed into the middle of it by a boy, who shouted, “Number 123, sir.” Mr. Dibben had told the auctioneer all about the calf’s wonderful mother, but he did not expatiate on this half enough in Mr. Dibben’s opinion, and only said: “Now then, gentlemen. Number 123, from Mr. Dibben. Comes from a good milker, I’m told. Pretty colour too. Ought to be weaned. Who starts me at a fiver?”

“Ah, sixty’s bid, thank you. Sixty-one, two, five, all over the place.”

Rapidly the price mounted to seventy-three shillings, from which point it crept onwards very slowly. At seventy-nine shillings the calf was knocked down to Mr. Morley of Fernditch. While this was satisfactory Mr. Dibben reckoned that Mr. Morley was an artful dog not to have shown up himself, and his respect for that astute gentleman was still further increased. Still, seventy-nine shillings wasn’t bad, so he went off to pick up Katenemily, feeling well content with his day’s work.

Meantime, Mr. Morley was not having a very successful afternoon at snooker. He was not in form with the cue that day, his luck was atrocious, and by three-thirty he was five shillings and sixpence down. However, he paid up cheerfully, and on his way to the hotel yard to get his car he passed his friend the auctioneer, who informed him that he was now the owner of calf Number 123 at the price of seventy-nine shillings.

“Good Lord!” said Mr. Morley to himself. “I forgot all about the dam’ thing. What’ll I do? The carrier’ll be gone, I know.”

“Ted,” he said aloud to the ostler, as he paid for the garaging of the car. “Got an old bag anywhere about?”

Mr. Morley was usually generous in the matter of Christmas boxes, so Ted found him a piece of sacking.

“That’ll do fine,” said Mr. Morley. “Good-day, Ted,” and he drove out of the yard to the market.

He got his delivery ticket from the auctioneer’s box near the calf shed, and, with the help of the man in charge, shrouded Number 123’s hindquarters in the sacking. Together they heaved the calf into the back of the car, and after thanking the man Mr. Morley piloted his car carefully out of the market into the main street.

Then, and not till then, he remembered that his wife was in Winchbury, and that he’d promised to pick her up outside the Regal Theatre.

“My God!” he said to himself. “I dam’ near went straight off home. What about that calf though? Missus won’t stand for that. Wish I’d never seen the blame thing.”

But the calf lay quietly in the bottom of the car, apparently asleep. He pulled up, covered the animal with a rug, and then drove on to the theatre, where he arrived just as his wife came out on to the pavement with a friend. Mr. Morley swept off his hat with a flourish and opened the car door. Wishing good-bye to her friend the unsuspecting Mrs. Morley got in, and they set out for home.

Mr. Morley was charming to his wife as they drove through Winchbury. He inquired about her day’s doings, asked whether it had been a good film, and was amiability itself. So pleasant was he that his wife became suspicious, as such courteous behaviour was unusual after the storm and stress of market day. She glanced round at the back seat, but there was nothing on it save her husband’s stick and her own parcels. Still, she wondered.

As they left Winchbury behind them the calf woke up, and began to try to struggle to its feet out of the covering rug. Mr. Morley sensed this, so he talked hard to his wife, and wore the look of a spaniel puppy, who knows that he has transgressed but doesn’t think his sin has been discovered.

Presently there was a loud flump in the back of the car, and Mrs. Morley turned her head to see the calf struggling to its feet, while round it, like an invalid’s shawl, was the best travelling rug.

She was furious. Of all things, a calf! Mr. Morley tried to explain, but it was no good; his wife was really angry, and she would listen to no excuses.

“The idea! A calf! You could have got someone to take it home for half-a-crown.”

“But, my dear, we’ll be home in ten minutes. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. Anything will do for your wife apparently. You can spend money on billiards, but won’t pay a shilling or two to take your wife home decently. What did you lose at billiards to-day?”

Mr. Morley thought of the five shillings and sixpence lost at snooker, and was silent. Perhaps it was a bit thick, but still, the calf was doing no harm. What a little thing to make such a fuss about!

His wife continued to make a fuss. She sat forward on the seat to get as far away from the calf as possible, for the animal had staggered to its feet, and now stood gazing at her, as it swayed drunkenly from side to side with the motion of the car. She drummed her hands on her knees in exasperation, and threw agonized glances over her shoulder at the calf.

Suddenly the rights of the other road traffic caused Mr. Morley to swerve the car, and to bring his large foot down onto the brake. The effect of this was to throw the calf’s head and shoulders over the back of Mrs. Morley’s seat, and in so doing, its long wet tongue caressed her neck and cheek.

Unfortunately Mr. Morley chuckled. Probably it would have seemed funny to most folk, but in the circumstances he should have had more sense. After all, he was indubitably the cause of all the trouble.

“That settles it, Walter,” said his wife, as she wiped her face, “I’ll never go to market with you again. You’ll have to get a Baby Austin Saloon now for Nancy and me. That’ll teach you, perhaps. I’m going to get out and walk home now. I won’t ride with you another minute. Stop!”

Mr. Morley drove steadily on.

“Stop, Walter. Do you hear me? Stop! I’ll walk home.”

Mr. Morley drove steadily on. Granted the Missus was in a temper, and granted she had some excuse. Still, he wasn’t going to let her get out. It wasn’t so much that he minded her walking home the remaining half mile or so; but one of his friends would be sure to come along and pick her up, and he’d never hear the last of it. He was sorry that he had laughed when the calf licked her neck, but, hang it, it was funny. But buying another car for her and Nancy wouldn’t be at all funny. Women, of course, could never see the funny side of anything. Still, he’d better smooth her down a bit.

“Don’t be silly, Missus,” he said. “We’ll be home in a minute or two. I’m sorry and all that, but, dash it, the calf ain’t doin’ any harm. Look, she’s laid down again now.”

As they drove through their village street Mr. Morley spied the Rector and Mrs. Guthrie walking towards them. “Ah,” he said, “I want a word with the Rector.”

“Don’t you dare,” hissed his wife.

One glance at her face, and Mr. Morley knew that he daren’t. This was serious; his wife wasn’t just fussing. Twenty-five years of married life had taught him to respect that look and tone of voice.

Of course it was serious. Mr. Morley, being a mere man, was much too thick to understand the reason for his wife’s agitation at the sight of the Rector and his lady, but the reason would have been patent to any lady of their acquaintance. The Rector had a son of about twenty-three, named Frank, and Mrs. Morley had a daughter of about eighteen, named Nancy. Frank Guthrie was tall and good-looking, and in Mrs. Motley’s opinion just that little bit different from a farmer’s son. Nancy was fair, undeniably pretty, and in Mrs. Morley’s opinion just that little bit different from the average farmer’s daughter. Whatever Frank may or may not have been, Mrs. Morley was right in her opinion of her daughter, for she was Nancy’s mother, and who should know these subtle things about a girl better than her mother? No more need be said. Was Mrs. Morley going to be caught by the Rector and his wife in the act of hauling calves from Winchbury market? No, a thousand times, no!

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed.

Then Fate took a hand. Some seven or eight cows belonging to a smallholder came suddenly out of a side lane, and forced Mr. Morley to pull in to the left-hand pavement, and to come to a halt by the side of Mr. and Mrs. Guthrie.

Both the gentlemen raised their hats, both the ladies bowed, and in the midst of these salutations the calf woke up, began to struggle to its feet, and emitted a loud hoarse, “Mawrr”. The Rector jumped as though he had heard the Last Trump; Mrs. Guthrie smiled with amused condescension; Mrs. Morley wished that the earth would open and swallow up everybody, calf included; and Mr. Morley, to his everlasting shame, chuckled aloud once more.

However, the road was now clear, so with, “Good-day, Rector. Can’t stop. The baby wants her tea,” he let in his clutch, and a few moments later pulled up at the door of his home.

Mrs. Morley descended in awful dignity. “Perhaps,” she said icily, “when you’ve finished with your animals, you’ll get my parcels brought in.”

“An’ that’s that,” muttered Mr. Morley to himself, as the front door closed with a bang. He drove round to the garage, and proceeded to shout loudly for Bill Gurd.

Bill arrived, and took charge of the calf, admiring its pretty colour and general appearance. “Anythin’ less than fower guineas, an’ her’s cheap,” he opined.

“I wonder!” said Mr. Morley to himself, as Bill disappeared with the calf. “What about that blamed Austin?”

The atmosphere of his home that evening was very strained and uncomfortable. Mrs. Morley scarcely spoke at all, and never to her husband. When they went up to bed he hoped that after a good night’s sleep, she would have cooled down. But although he slept like a top that night, his wife did not, for every ten minutes or so throughout that whole long night there floated up from the buildings the hoarse, disconsolate “Mawrr” of a hungry, unhappy calf.