Читать книгу The Wind that Shakes the Barley - James William Barke - Страница 9

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Provost William Fergusson of Doonholm knew that in William Burns he had a good man. But now that his gardens had been laid out around his new house and everything under the guidance and hard labour of William Burns had been put in order, he knew that he would be unable to keep him much longer in his service.

He looked at him across the table, saw that he was greying and ageing, and looked from him out at the window where grey autumnal rain wept from grey skies.

“And what have you in mind, Burns?”

“Well, Mr. Fergusson, your policies are in good order now. There is nothing that a good handyman cannot keep in order. Besides, things are getting a bit tight for me in Alloway. My family is growing: I could well do with a bigger place. I was wondering, Mr. Fergusson, if you would care to give me any advice about the possibility of settling into a small farm?”

“Farms are not so easy come by, Burns; but I agree you couldn’t do better. You will appreciate that the stocking of a farm requires a bit of capital. You have thought of that?”

“Yes... If I could get rid of my holding at Alloway I would have some ready money at my disposal. But before I could do that I would need to see my way about another place.”

Fergusson looked from the gaunt face to the weeping rain outside. There was Mount Oliphant, an unprofitable moor of a place. The lease would be vacant come Martinmas and it might be a while before he got a suitable tenant. It would be a difficult place for Burns to make good in, but on the other hand he had his own interests to think of and the place would soon be a wilderness without a tenant.

“You know Mount Oliphant, Burns? It’s a good farm: a man like you would have no difficulty in turning good siller on it. There’s a rough seventy acres of ground there; and it’s good ground for the money.”

“And what money would Mr. Fergusson be thinking of?”

“Oh, we winna quarrel about the money, Burns—a matter maybe of £50 per annum—or maybe £45. From an outsider I’d be asking £10 more.”

Fifty pounds was a lot of money. Every week, before they tasted a bowl of brose, he would need to find twenty shillings to pay away in bare rent. Twenty shillings was a lot of money.

“It’s rather more nor I bargained on, Mr. Fergusson; and there will be the stocking of the farm and maybe I won’t win free of my garden in time.”

“Well ... think it over, Burns. There’s no need to rush a thing like this, though I must warn you there is no time to lose either. There have been Carrick men after me already, and scarce a market day passes in Ayr but I have enquiries for just such a place. The lease becomes vacant on the eleventh of November. As for stocking the place: well, I wouldna see an industrious man like you, Burns, handicapped at the onset. I think that the loan, say, of £100 might be arranged.”

William Burns rose to his feet.

“You have been a kind master to me, Mr. Fergusson; and I promise you that if you can see your way to do me this favour I will not disappoint you as a tenant.”

“I hae little fear of that, Burns. You are a man who deserves to get on. I’ve nae doubt that your industry and application will repay itself. Take a look at the ground and let me have your mind on it. If we can come to terms I’ll give you a twelve years’ lease, with a break at the first six should you rue your bargain.”

William Burns thanked his employer and went out into the rain. Unmindful of it he strode home with a strange triumphal light in his sunken eyes.

At long last he was winning free from the thraldom of service. At long last, and in the forty-fourth year of his life, he was about to fulfil the ambition he had seen dwindling on his father’s hands. He was about to become a farmer in his own undisputed right.

He discussed the matter with Agnes and she too was delighted for Alloway had become a bourach of a place. She would be glad of a house with its barn and outhouse where there would be room to move about and not be eternally cluttered up within the confines of the cottage.

So William despite the rain threw the saddle on the pony and plodded up the hill to Mount Oliphant lying on the rising moors two miles to the south-east.

But he had already made up his mind, standing at the end of Provost Fergusson’s table, his feet uncomfortable on the luxury of a carpet strip, that Mount Oliphant must be his.

No other way would he come into possession of a farm. The Provost though a worthy man drove a hard bargain. William knew that he would not advance him the fortune of a hundred pounds to stock another man’s land.

Even when he rode into the quagmire of a court with the water running in brown rivulets from the dung midden; and the rotting barn door swinging on its twisted hinges: even as he surveyed the poor rachle of buildings he knew no misgiving.

Andra Kerr the out-going tenant was bent and twisted with toil and the spirit to live was low within him. He had given the best of his blood and bone to the seventy wet sour acres of Mount Oliphant. He had torn the moss from the clay and turned it over into fallow rigs. He had laboured early and late and withal he was going out a poorer man than when he came in.

He had no interest in William Burns and William had little in him.

“You can see all there is to see, Mr. Burns. You canna hide anything on a bare place like this.”

Beyond that he would say little.

Mrs. Kerr, heating her worn-out frame at the ingle, did not rise from her chair to greet him. Slowly she turned her head on her scrawny neck and looked at him. The embers of life had long died in her eyes. She had not enough interest left in her to feel pity for William Burns; but in a dull disinterested way she felt he was a poor man to be taking up the burden they were letting drop from their hands.

William saw little of this and guessed less. He noted that the house was stone-built; that the thatch was in good repair and the floor reasonably free from dampness. There was altogether more room about the place and already in his mind he had changed the atmosphere of death and decay into one of life and hope.

The grey rain swept in from the sea and came sweeping up the moors in endless drifts. He could not see the grey surging of waters along the Ayrshire coast and the hills of Arran were hidden far in the grey mist.

He thanked Andra Kerr solemnly, mounted the steaming pony and slipped and slithered his way down the long slow hill to Alloway.

Nothing mattered but that he would soon take possession of seventy acres and that they would be his to plough and sow and reap as, with the blessing of God, he willed.