Читать книгу Downland Echoes - Victor L. Whitechurch - Страница 6

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They were never called by that name, of course, but they were the “bloods” of the village, all the same. The “lady from Lunnon” who wrote country-life sketches spoke of them as “hobbledehoys,” but then she never knew anything about them at all. Had she lived in the village for five years and been a discerning person she would have confessed to an utter ignorance of the life around her, but as she only came down for occasional week-ends she thought the “copy” based on her observations perfect.

The “bloods” were pure natives and purely agricultural, of ages varying from seventeen to the early twenties. Weekdays they toiled on the land in various capacities, Sundays they paraded in groups and glory of ready-made best clothes. Weekday evenings they also paraded in groups, but not in best clothes. Wealthier “bloods” possessed bicycles and went further afield.

Sunday, naturally, was the great day for them. To be in the height of fashion was to sport a large-linked silver watch chain with silver ornaments thereto affixed and a big buttonhole. Sometimes the ruling fashion demanded two buttonholes, one on either side of the coat. Bowler hats were also accessories of the leading “bloods,” worn well on the back of the head, showing carefully oiled hair.

The customary greeting when arrayed in Sunday habiliments and enjoying idle hours was “How be?” That is how they saluted each other. The opposite sex, when passing, were generally greeted with loud coughs—and seemed to understand.

Just outside the church door was a great Sunday evening meeting-place. They assembled an hour or so before service and had many subtle jokes among themselves. As worshippers began to arrive remarks were passed, generally intended to be overheard especially when it was the case with maidens.

“I wish I had a hat wi’ daisies in it!”

“I sh’d like a green parrasole to kip the rain off!”

And Mary Blake and Rose Padge, who respectively possessed the objects in question, would nudge each other violently, and giggle, and look over their shoulders, and then stick up their heads in assumed indignation as they entered the church, making mental notes, nevertheless, that a daisy-trimmed hat and a green parasol had been excellent attractions.

Then would appear Tom Moorcock, one of their fraternity, who had detached himself from his own sex only recently to walk out with Kitty Walters. Up the churchyard path he came, awkward in gait and red of face, Kitty walking demurely by his side. He knew the ordeal before him, having helped many a time to inflict it on others. A loud “Haw, haw, haw” as they appeared, followed by a general chorus of “How be, Tom?” to which he returned a reluctant “How be?” accompanied with a ghastly attempt at a smile followed by a side-glance at Kitty to see how she received the ejaculation, “I sh’d loike a purty gal wi’ a blue dress to taäke ma to church,” and escaping into the sacred edifice with a pointed reference to “puttin’ up th’ banns” ringing in his ear, while Kitty admonished him to “taäke your hat off, Tom, can’t ’ee?”

But he need not have feared. Kitty Walters had no intention of deserting him, having already remarked to a bosom friend, “I doän’t mind un a-walkin’ out wi’ me”—which was, in local phraseology, superlative satisfaction at having him attached to her. And, could he have known it, the remark on “puttin’ up the banns” was not at all distasteful to her mind, though, of course, she knew that “walkin’ out” was one of those preliminary stages which, though lasting even for a year or two, might always be terminated any day by either party, and did not necessarily lead to proposal of marriage.

The “ting-tang” bell began to ring five minutes before the time of service. Paäson came out of his private gate from his Vicarage garden and crossed over to the church. A silence fell upon the group. He nodded a “good-evening” to them and received sundry hat touches in return. They were always respectful, if taciturn, in his presence. He, having mastered to a certain extent the ignorance of rural psychology which he possessed when he first came into the village, knew better than to say to them, “Coming to church, lads?” and passed on.

To a stranger it would have appeared that they did not intend to go to church. But within a minute of the hour they went in—altogether, some of them giggling.

Not silently. Their nailed boots clattered loudly on the tiles as they made their way to the back of the building, grinning at friends in pews, and huddled themselves in a body into seats with much scraping of feet and whispering.

But it was not scorn of the sacred building that made them behave like this. They would not own it, but, in reality, the “bloods” were shy!

Paäson heard them tumbling into church, and smiled at a recollection. Years before, when he was new to the parish and country life, the “bloods” had suddenly, and without apparent reason, deserted the church on Sunday evenings. The back of the building was empty. Moreover, he soon learned that they had betaken themselves in a body to the chapel. And there they went for several weeks in succession.

Paäson was puzzled. While conscious in his own mind that everyone has a right to attend the place of worship of his choice, he wanted to know why? It occurred to him to state the case to a brother cleric who had had many years’ experience of the peculiar ways of village life. To him he went.

“Have you said anything to them about it?” asked the wise old clergyman.

“No—not a word.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else in your parish about it, or shown in any way that you’re upset?”

“No.”

The other man rubbed his hands and smiled.

“Good!” he ejaculated, “you’re all right, then. They’re only trying it on with you—that’s all. If they knew they’d annoyed you they’d boast of having ‘got the better o’ Paäson,’ and probably you’d never have much influence with them. But you just keep quiet and you’ll find they’ll all come back in a few weeks.”

And they did.

Such was the way of the “bloods.” But it would be difficult to trace the psychology that led to it. Once there was a sudden “strike.” Michaelmas came round and, without exception, all the “bloods” in the village refused to be “hired on” for the year by the farmers. They gave no reason, they asked for no advance of wages, they made no complaints, they took no notice of remonstrances. They simply struck work and paraded the village in idle groups for weeks. No one ever knew why. It is a question whether they knew the reason themselves.

On week-day evenings the “bloods” assembled after work. There were favourite corners. Sometimes o’ dark nights they congregated like moths outside the village shop, making remarks at the going-in and coming-out of customers, flattening their noses against the window to ascertain what was being purchased.

At other times, also on dark nights, there was never a trace of them. But they were there—rubbing shoulders against a wall round the corner, hidden behind trees. An occasional guffaw betrayed them—a sudden stampede of heavy feet going “up street” told of their whereabouts.

And, in the silence, they observed all things. No one could venture abroad unnoticed. Movements were carefully noted and discussed in undertones. There was always a sense of secrecy about the “bloods.”

Occasionally there was a bit of harmless horse-play. A gate would be removed from its hinges and flung in the ditch; a newly painted fence would be daubed over with tar; flowers would mysteriously disappear from gardens. These were deeds of daring—rarely found out. There was a certain honour among them, and the blank ignorance of “I dunno” was generally forthcoming in reply to individual inquiries.

The “bloods” rarely “went to pub.” Outdoor assemblies suited them best. And they hung together—coming together and going together. In the eternal round of village life no novelty, sacred or secular, lasted long. A miniature rifle club drew them, at first, in all their numbers. The second year the “bloods” fought shy of it and it had to be closed down. Paäson’s Bible-class shared the same fate.

The “bloods” played no organised games. True, there was a cricket club, but the Captain had a rare job to get a team together in the few desultory matches of the season, and the “bloods” rarely helped him. In the winter they might occasionally kick a football about the play-close—all against all—but they never attempted to form themselves into a club, and resented the attempts of Paäson and others who tried to do so.

Final detachment from the “bloods” came about either by advancing into the twenties or the putting up of the banns. Fred Moorcock and Kitty Walters stepped awkwardly into Paäson’s study—the parish clerk was away from home that Saturday night, or they never would have ventured to call at the Vicarage. Kitty Walters led the way and the conversation.

“Well, Fred?” asked Paäson, a slightly puzzled look on his face.

To which Kitty replied,

“Please, sir, we wants our banns put up to-morrow marnin’.”

Paäson offered his congratulations, dipped his pen in the ink to take down their full Christian names, hesitated, looked puzzled again, and then said,

“Are you going to marry her, Fred?”

Fred hugged his hat more closely to his knees, beamed amiably, and replied,

“Ess, sir, I be.”

“But,” said Paäson, turning to Kitty, “I thought you’ve been ‘walking out’ with Tom?”

Kitty blushed slightly.

“So I were, sir,” she admitted.

“I—er—I don’t quite understand,” said Paäson. “What will your brother say, Fred?”

To which Fred expounded his chivalry. It was a long speech, but he got through it.

“ ’Tis like this, sir. Tom’s bin a-walkin’ out wi’ Kitty this two year, and now he’s throwed her over for Jane Bidmead. I told un he were a fool, but he ’ood have his own waäy. And I didn’t see as Kitty should be disappointed, so I asks her if she’d have I instead—and she says she ’ool.”

“Dear me,” exclaimed Paäson; “that’s rather a strange proceeding. What have you to say to it, Kitty?”

Kitty glanced at her Fred.

“I doän’t mind un,” she said calmly.

Whereupon the “bloods” knew Fred Moorcock as one of their fraternity no longer.