Читать книгу Farmer's Glory - A. G. Street - Страница 9

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Of the agricultural labourer of that epoch I can write only with affection and respect; with affection for his kindliness and courtesy to his neighbours, and with respect for his inviolable adherence to his duty by the soil. Not for wages, nor to please his employer, but because the land was a sacred thing to him, and any neglect was deemed a sin. Possibly the fact that he had no other interest had a good deal to do with this, and another factor was a proper personal pride in his own reputation as a craftsman. I remember once that we finished making a wheat rick on a very windy evening. Granted, when the last sheaf was put in place, it wasn’t a very tidy-looking roof, as the wind was nearly strong enough to blow the men off the rick. Still, it was good enough to serve. As often happens, the wind dropped about eight o’clock. My father and I had gone home, but the rick-maker paid some of his mates to stay with him till ten o’clock that evening, pull the roof off and rebuild it more to his liking. ‘I wadn gwaine to ’ave no one say as ’ow Bill Toomer built a roof like ’ee wur,’ he said to me the next morning when I asked him about it.

A shepherd at lambing times would leave his cottage and live as a bachelor in the shepherd’s house in the field for a month, never going home for one night. And one such I knew, who always shamed me in that at six o’clock each morning I would always find him freshly shaved, whereas I, with every convenience at home, often had a stubble on my chin.

The labourer hated to see any product of the land spoiled, and would go out of his way to stop it, regardless of any consequent effect on his own comfort and well-being. And in extreme age when they were past work, this interest and concern for the welfare of crops and stock in the neighbourhood still persisted. As an instance of this, let me tell you the story of Samuel Goodridge.

Sedgebury Wallop is a Wiltshire village on the banks of the river Avon. It is almost untouched by modern improvements, and, save for one eyesore in the shape of a garage, it presents to the passing motorist the same picturesque serenity as to the passenger in the stage coach of years ago.

Its inhabitants are primarily, nay almost solely, interested in agricultural problems. The farms run from the rolling downs above the village to the water meadows below.

At any season of the year these meadows seem to be the home of abiding peace. In summer one gets peeps of a lush, verdant green between the silvery foliage of poplar and willow. Should one meander gently through them (no other pace is fitting), one finds that they are occupied chiefly by herds of gentle, placid cows and their attendant dairymen, with, here and there, a fisherman or water-keeper.

In winter the scene is changed. Both fishermen and cows have migrated to warmer, drier quarters. A rushing torrent takes the place of that tranquil stream of summer days, and practically the only inhabitant is the drowner, undoubtedly a very important person. He it is who manages the irrigation of the water meadows so that the following spring there shall be early grass for the cows. From October to January you will find him, one to every half mile or so of stream, cleaning out ditches, and regulating the water so as to get an even supply to every yard of the meadows. Considerable rivalry obtains between drowner and drowner, for they are craftsmen of high degree, and woe betide any foolish person who does not accord to these experts their due meed of deference and respect.

Now Samuel Goodridge was a drowner. He had lived at Sedgebury Wallop all his life. He started his career on leaving school as a bird starver at two shillings and sixpence weekly, and had graduated through various stages to the position of head labourer at Willow Grove Farm. He was an expert hedger and thatcher, but his chief claim to local fame was that his ‘medders’ had a bit of grass ten days earlier than any others in the district. In short, he was the king of drowners in that locality.

He relinquished this position very reluctantly, when compelled by the physical infirmities of seventy years of age, to one Bill Yates, a young upstart of but fifty summers. Farmer Wright let him stay on in his cottage rent free, and as his wife was also qualified for the old age pension, and he’d put by a bit of money, he settled down in comparative comfort as a local pundit in drowning matters.

Poor Bill Yates had a sorry time. Whatever he did in the ‘medders’ was wrong, and Sam’ll missed no chance of telling him so. He used to toil on his two sticks up to the Red Lion on Saturday nights, and hold forth on the poor state of Willow Grove meadows.

‘Poorish show o’ grass in Big Maid this spring,’ he would declaim to the company in the tap-room. ‘Zum volk wun’t learn nothin’. Putten stops in main carriages! Thee bist a b——y vooil, Bill Yates. Why dussent get off thee tail water, like I telled ’ee?’

‘Oh, gie Bill a rest, Granfer,’ someone would say. ‘Thee bissent doin’ t’maids now. Let ’ee ’ave a show.’ ‘Show!’ Granfer would snort. ‘Where’s ’is show o’ grass?’ This sort of thing went on, week after week, and Bill Yates was on the point of giving up his job, when, fortunately for him, the British Army intervened.

A General Danvers bought Willow Grove Farm that spring, and came to live there. He was sixty years old, very precise, spruce in appearance, and as upright as a bolt. He looked on the farm and the village as a hopeless muddle, and he brought the full force of his military training to his rural problems. To do him justice, he recognized the etiquette and customs of the countryside where possible, and also the obligations which devolved on him as the owner of Willow Grove.

Early in his career as a landowner he met Granfer, and told him to carry on in his cottage rent free. Granfer thanked him grudgingly, but in the privacy of his cottage gave voice to his real opinion of the General. ‘ ’Ee be a meddler, ’ee be. Mark wot I says, ’ee be gwaine t’upset Willer Grove. ’Ee spoke I fair, an’ gied I the cottage, but I bain’t ’appy in me mind.’

Granfer was right. The General was a meddler. He purchased tractors and other weird implements. He fenced and cross-fenced. He put in a water supply to the farm, and also to every cottage. Incidentally, it was over this that he and Granfer first came to argument.

The General decided that each cottage must pay the sum of one shilling per annum for water. Granfer objected. ‘Dang ’is new-fangled water supply,’ he said. ‘I got me pump. ’E’ll do fer I.’ The General went to see him. ‘Haw!’ he said, twirling his moustache, ‘what’s all this nonsense about the water charge, Goodridge?’ ‘ ’Tain’t nonsense,’ said Granfer. ‘God Almighty never intended fer a man to pay fer water.’ ‘Perhaps he didn’t,’ replied the General, ‘but God Almighty never brought it to you in a tap. You’ll pay a shilling a year, and don’t be such an old fool.’ And away he went, twirling his moustache. ‘Alright,’ mumbled Granfer to himself, ‘I pays, but I bain’t quite ’appy in me mind. ’E’s one o’ they volk as can’t be telled nothin’.’

In the Autumn the General turned his attention to poultry. He bought new and wonderful fowl houses. One afternoon Granfer plodded by the farm, and stopped to rest against the low wall of the yard, from which point he could get a view of his beloved ‘medders’. Down in the Alder Plot, a low pasture near the meadows, he saw the General supervising the erection of a number of fowl houses. ‘That wun’t do,’ said Granfer to himself, and opening the gate with difficulty, he toddled slowly down to the scene of operations.

‘Be you recknin’ to keep vowls down yer in winter time, zur?’ he asked the General.

‘Of course, Goodridge, these are winter houses.’

’Twun’t do,’ said Granfer. ‘I tell ’ee fer why. Thee’t be flooded out, two year out o’ dree.’

‘Nonsense!’ said the General. ‘I’ve had new hatch gates put in, and with a little foresight the water can be regulated quite easily.’

‘Reggylated be danged,’ snorted Granfer. ‘I be a-tellin’ ’ee. Thee’t be flooded. Vive and forty year I looked atter they ’atches, an’ when the water comes awver the overfall at Bickton Mill, t’Alder Plot’s swimmin’ dree voot deep. You ’ook they ’ouses out o’ yer to drier groun’.’

‘Well, it isn’t your worry, Goodridge. I’ve gone carefully into the matter, and decided that the water can be regulated without much difficulty.’

‘Gone into the matter, ’ave ’ee? Well! I an’t gone into no matters. I don’t need to. I do know, an’ thee dussent. Thee do wot I tells ’ee.’

‘Rubbish,’ said the General, and turned away to give some instructions to his foreman, muttering something about silly old fools and anachronisms. Unfortunately, Granfer, usually hard of hearing, heard this. It was the last straw.

‘Silly owd vooil, be I?’ he screeched. ‘Nackernism too. Wot be you? I’ll tell ’ee. A b——y vooil, thee bist. Furriner too. Thee keep hens down yer, an’ they’ll ha’ to turn into ducks, er drown. General thee bist. Well, all I says is thank God we got a Navy. Thee’t want ’em, too, to rescue they vowls come winter.’

‘Look at yer, General,’ he went on, ‘I gies ’ee a week’s notice come Saturday. I bain’t gwaine t’ave no landlord, wot calls I a nackernism.’ And away the old fellow stumped, leaving the men grinning and the General speechless with annoyance and astonishment.

‘What had I better do about his leaving the cottage?’ said he to his wife, to whom he related the incident at tea. ‘Independent old fool! Do you think he means to go?’

‘ ’Fraid so, dear,’ said his better half, who knew more about rural problems than her husband. ‘You see, you’ve hurt his pride by not taking his advice. He’ll never forgive you.’

‘Well, what’ll I do, dear? These villagers beat me. They’re more trouble than an army corps.’

‘You’ve got a lot to learn about them yet, dear. Go and see young Bartram. He’s got an empty cottage in the village now that he’s milking by machinery. Tell him the whole story. Not that he won’t have heard it all in detail by now. He’s probably chuckling over it. Still, he’ll enjoy hearing it from you. Then ask him to let Granfer the cottage for eighteen pence a week, and make an arrangement for you to pay the difference.’

‘I see! Just because I want to keep fowls on my own land, I’ve got to go to all this bother. Why the——’

‘Hush, dear! I know exactly how you feel, but there’s no help for it. You can’t let Granfer’s temper cost him five shillings a week till he dies. What would you say if he tried to tell you how to manage a regiment? But don’t arrange for him to pay less than eighteen pence, or he’ll smell a rat at once. I was brought up in a Wiltshire village, and I know these people.’

The General, strong man though he was, bowed to the mightier force, and carried out his wife’s instructions, thus enabling Granfer to glare triumphantly at him from the garden of his new cottage.

Granfer having won the first round, the second definitely was the General’s. The Clerk of the Weather proved to be on the side of the Army, and ordained two dry years.

During this time many things happened. Granfer’s wife died, and his daughter Mary and her husband came to live with him. Granfer himself became more and more crippled, and also more crotchety, whilst the General’s fowls throve amazingly. Scandals and other topics engaged the interest of the village, and Granfer’s flood prophecy was forgotten. But Granfer remembered.

The third summer after the quarrel was an absolute drought. Apart from occasional half-hearted showers, there was no rain from early May to well on in October. The machinery of Granfer’s gnarled and twisted body was nearly worn out, and the persistent absence of rain was breaking down his indomitable spirit also. During harvest he took to his bed, and got gradually weaker as the weeks passed by. Doctor Graham told his daughter that the old man could not possibly last much longer, and the general opinion in the village was that Granfer would not see another Christmas.

And the last week in October the long drought broke. Warm south-westerly winds lashed the rain incessantly against Granfer’s window, day after day. Doctor Graham, who called twice a week to see him, was amazed to find the old fellow decidedly stronger. ‘This weather seems to suit you, Granfer,’ he said one morning. ‘It do,’ replied Granfer. ‘We’ve had a dry time, an’ now ’tis a levellin’ up. We be due fer a mort o’ rain, and it be cummen, thanks be. How be the glass, Doctor?’

‘Pretty low and still dropping. Looks as if we shall get another gale to-night. Ah, well, I must be on my rounds. Good morning, Granfer, you’re doing fine.’ And down the rickety stairs the doctor clattered, while Granfer lay back on his pillows and listened to the rain.

That night the weather broke all records, both for wind and rain. Trees, chiefly elms, were uprooted by the dozen. The mud wall of one cottage in the village collapsed, Farmer Bartram’s windmill was blown down, and untold damage was done to thatch and buildings.

Next morning after breakfast Granfer struggled out of bed. Mary, surprised to hear the noise, ran upstairs to find the old chap getting into his clothes. ‘Feyther!’ she cried. ‘Whatever be you a doin’? You get back to bed.’

‘Thee find me boots,’ ordered Granfer. ‘I be gwaine out. ’Tis come at last.’

‘What be come?’

‘T’water, ye vooil. Cassn’t yer thic rumblen? ’Tis awver Bickton Mill, I tell ’ee. ’Elp I downstairs, an’ get me boots.’

‘But you mustn’t, Feyther. Doctor said as ’ow——’

‘Dang the girl! I tell ’ee I be gwaine out. Zummut’s up. Come on, oot?’

Unwillingly Mary obeyed, and Granfer toiled downstairs, and struggled into his boots. ‘Now, ’elp I on wie me cwoat, an’ gie I me sticks.’ Mary did so, and Granfer tottered outside for the first time for eight weeks.

He toiled slowly up the lane with difficulty. When he reached his favourite spot by the farmyard wall, he looked down on the Alder Plot. It was a scene of devastation. Some fowl houses were floating in the flood, and most of the remainder were leaning drunkenly at all angles. Dead and drowning fowls were being swept away, and in the midst of the maelstrom, he spied the General and his gardener trying to rescue some of the hens.

Granfer gazed on the scene for a few moments in silent satisfaction. Presently he saw Bill Yates and another man hurrying towards him.

‘Hoy!’ he yelled, waving one of his sticks in triumph. ‘I telled un, I telled un. Wot about it now? B——y owd vooil! Look at they hens. I knowed I wor right. Ho! Ho! Ho! Nackernism I be. Hoy! General!’

Here he turned and waved his stick at the General. Suddenly he stumbled, and fell to the ground. When Bill Yates and his companion reached him they thought he was dead.

‘Poor wold feller,’ murmured Bill. ‘ ’Twer too much fer un. He be gone, zur, I’m thinking.’ This last to the General, who by that time had joined them.

They carried him gently down the lane to his cottage, and laid him on the sofa in the front room. As they looked at his withered old figure on the couch, his eyes opened. His gaze wandered vacantly round the room, but lighted up as he recognized the General. ‘ ’Tis a pity about they hens, General,’ he mumbled, ‘but I wor right. I be ’appier now in me mind.’

And then he died.

As the desire to be proved right in one’s prophecies is one of the strongest forces in human nature, it would seem fairly certain that Granfer died ’appy’.