Читать книгу The Four Roads - Sheila Kaye-Smith - Страница 9

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It was quite dark before Tom was able to slip out to see to one or two odd jobs that wanted doing in the barns. He felt himself obliged to stay in the kitchen while his father was there, for though there had not been more than a few occasions when surliness had blazed into assault, he knew that it was always just possible that his father might become violent, especially as his mother always went the worst way—with tears, reproaches, arguments and lamentations. What would happen when he was no longer at hand to watch over her he did not like to think. It was all part of the load of anxiety and love which was settling down on him.

If he had been a free man he would probably have felt quite ready for the change ahead of him. Though his imagination had scarcely taken hold of the war, and though the harrow and the plough, with the thick sucking earth on his boots, and the drip of rain or stew of sunshine on waiting fields, had absorbed most of the boyish spirit of adventure which might have sent him questing out of stuffier circumstances—though his was the country heart, which is the last heart for warfare—in spite of all, he might have gone gaily to the new life, with its wider reach and freedom, if he had not known that his departure meant the crumbling of that little corner of England which was his, which his arm had built and his back supported.

He knew that Worge leaned on him, for he felt the weight of it even in his dreams. It was four years now since he had put his shoulder against it; he was only just twenty, but he knew that if four years ago he had not made up his mind to save the farm, his father would have drunk, and the rest of the family muddled, the place into the auction market, and the Beatups would now be scattered into towns or soaking their humble-pie in beer on smallholdings. He had done nothing very wonderful. The place was small and no more wanted a giant to hold it up than a giant to knock it down. He had merely worked while others slacked, thought while others slept, remembered while others forgot. But, without any thrill of pride or adventure, he knew that he had tided Worge through its bad hour, and that the same little upheld it now. He was the real farmer, though he had to be careful not to let his headship be seen. His father had not explained things clearly to the tribunal—explaining things clearly was not a quality of Tom’s either—he had been far too anxious to preserve his own importance, which might have suffered had he said, “My son runs the farm while I’m drinking at the pub.”

The others were not even as much good as his father. In the intervals of drinking, which in spite of Mrs. Beatup’s three-in-five calculation were often quite respectable, he was both hard-working and resourceful, though of late his brain had grown spongier and threatened a final rot. But the rest of the family had no upstanding moments. Ivy was strong and comparatively willing, but Tom did not believe in girls as farm-hands and never thought of Ivy even milking the cows. She and her mother looked after the chickens and did the housework, that was all. Nell was out all day and busy working in the evenings for her examination; Zacky was still at school, and Harry was a rover—the comrade of other farmers’ younger sons in ratting and sparrow-hunting, in visiting fairs, in trespassing for birds’ eggs, or sometimes solitary in strange obedience to the call of distant wood or village green. Yet Harry was Tom’s one hope—a last, forlorn one.

Tom was waiting for him now. He wanted to speak to his young brother alone, not in the dim lath-smelling bedroom where Zacky would be a third. Harry did not generally stop out late, though he had occasionally roamed all night—hunger and fear of a beating (another of Tom’s quasi-paternal tasks) usually brought him home just in time to satisfy one and escape the other.

Tom looked into the cowshed—one of the cows had shown ailing signs that day, but she seemed well enough now, with her large head lolling against the stall, her eyes soft and untroubled in the brown glow of his lantern. He would not see the calf which had caused him so much half-proud anxiety; he wondered what would become of them both if it should be born on one of Father’s “bad nights.” Then he went into the stable, where the three farm-horses—the sorrel, the brown, and the bay—stood stamping and chumbling, with the cold miasmic air like a mist above the straw. Then he went back into the yard—saw that the hen-house door was fast, that old Nimrod the watch-dog had his bone and his water and a good length of chain. It was very cold, there was a faint smell of rime on the motionless air, and the stars were like spluttering candles in the frost-black sky. These April days and nights were unaccountable tricky, he told himself. That noon the very heart of the manure-heap had melted in the sun, and now it was hardening again—his boot hardly sank into the stuff as he trod it with his heel. Some of it ought to be carted to-morrow and put round the apple-trees....

Harry was very late. He would go into the corn-chamber and do some accounts. He was clumsy with his figures, and they kept him there twisting and scratching his head till nearly ten o’clock, when he heard a footfall, would-be stealthy, on the stones.

He rose quickly and ran round the yard to the backdoor just as a shadow melted up against it.

“Here—you!” cried Tom surlily, for he was tired and muddled with his sums—“doan’t you think to go slithering in quiet lik that, you good-fur-naun.”

“I’ll come in when I like,” grumbled Harry. “You aun’t maaster here.”

“Well, I’m the bigger chap, anyways, so mind your manners. Where’ve you bin?”

“Only down to Puddledock.”

“Puddledock aun’t sich a valiant plaace as you shud spend half a day there. You’ve bin up to no good, I reckon. A fine chap you’ll be to mind Worge when I’m gone.”

“You’re going, then?”

Harry’s voice was anxious, for he was fond of Tom, though he resented his interference with his liberties.

“Yes—I’m going ... join up in a fortnight. Come in, Harry; I want to spik to you.”

“I want my supper.”

“You’ll have your supper, though you doan’t desarve it, you spannelling beggar. I’ll come and sit along of you; we must talk business, you and I.”

“About Worge?”

“Yes.”

They were in the kitchen now, dark except for some gleeds of fire. The rest of the family had gone to bed, but the broken supper was still on the table—the hacked, hardening loaf, and the remains of the bacon and cabbage under floating scabs of grease. Tom lit the lamp and Harry sat down, hungry and uncritical. The two boys were curiously alike, short and sturdy, with broad sunburnt faces, grey eyes, big mouths, and small, defiant noses. Harry’s coat was covered with clay all down one side, and the sleeve was torn—Tom was too heavy-hearted for more scolding, just noted drearily a new item of expenditure. The younger brother saw the elder’s cast-down looks:

“I’m unaccountable sorry, Tom,” he said sheepishly.

“Cos of wot? Cos I’m going or cos you aun’t worth your bed and keep?”

“Cos of both.”

“Well, there’s naun to do about one, but a sight to do about t’other. Harry, you’ll have to mind Worge when I’m agone.”

“Wot can I do?”

“You can work instead of roaming, and you can see to things when faather’s bad—see as there aun’t naun foolish done or jobs disremembered. Elphick and Juglery have only half a head between them. Before I go I’ll tell you all I’ve had in my head about the hay in Bucksteep field, and the oats agaunst the Street and them fuggles down by the Sunk. And you’ll have to kip it all in your head saum as I’ve kipped it in mine, and see as things come out straight by harvest. D’you understand?”

“Yes, Tom.”

“And there’s Maudie’s calf due next month, and a brood of them Orpingtons, and I’d meant to buy a boar at Lewes Fair and kip him for service. You’ll never have the sense to do it. You mun stop your ratting and your roving, or Worge ull be at the auctioneer’s. Faather’s a valiant clever chap when he’s sober, and book-larned too, but the men are two old turnup-heads, and Zacky’s scarce more’n a child, and the gals are gals—so it’s up to you, Harry, as they say, to kip the plaace going.”

Harry groaned——

“Why wudn’t they let you stay?”

“Because they didn’t see no sense in kipping an a man on farm-work when there wur plenty about to do his job. They doan’t understand how things are, and when you coame to think of it, it’s a shaum as I can’t go wud a free heart.”

“Do you want to go?”

“I dunno. I aun’t got the chance of knowing, wud all this vrothering me. But I’d go easier if I cud think the plaace wouldn’t fall to pieces as soon as I left it, and that if I’m killed....”

He stopped. Strangely enough, he had never thought of being killed till now.