‘Dammit, man,’ Sutton said, ‘weren’t you ever a boy yourself?’ And when the bailiff continued to grumble, showing his skin still stained by the raddle, Sutton said pleasantly: ‘Maybe you’re feeling your age these days and think it’s time you retired?’
Oakley was silenced by this covert threat, for Sutton paid better wages than any other farmer in the district, and Oakley, in his early sixties, had no wish to retire yet.
When he was not at the vicarage, having lessons with the vicar, Jim spent all his time on the farm, watching the work going on in the fields and, if allowed, joining in. But Philip’s favourite activities were those of the young gentleman: shooting, fishing and riding to hounds. He soon became bored with talking to the ‘yawnies’ on the farm and would try to coax or challenge Jim into some more adventurous exploit. The two boys were much indulged and were given plenty of money to spend; they had the best rods and guns and two good ponies of their own to ride; and, for the most part, they enjoyed a great deal of freedom.
In winter Philip lived for the hunting. He could think and talk of nothing else. And one morning at the end of the season, when the last meet should have taken place, the boy, on being woken by Alice and told that there was a hard ground frost, burst into a storm of tears. Alice stood laughing at him, teasing him for being a cry-baby, and Philip, flying into a rage, seized the pitcher of hot water she had brought into his room and emptied most of it over her. His father threatened to thrash him for this but Alice, who was not much hurt, pleaded so gently on his behalf that he escaped with a telling-off.
Later that same day there was a partial thaw and Philip, still in a state of disappointment, persuaded the groom, Charlie Clements, to let him and Jim take their ponies out for an afternoon ride around the valley.
‘All right, Master Philip, but no trotting or cantering, mind. Just a gentle walk, that’s all. The frost is only thawing on top, and the ground’s still stone-hard down below.’
‘I know that, I’m not a fool,’ Philip said peevishly.
By an odd stroke of fate, however, as the two boys rode slowly through the beechwoods, a fox emerged from the undergrowth and moved off in front of them and Philip instinctively gave chase. Just as instinctively Jim went after him and when the fox broke from the wood, making across open pasture, the two boys followed at a trot that soon became a canter.
At the lower end of the pasture there was a deep dry ditch and the fox went down into this ditch, ran along it a little way, then leapt out at the other side and began crossing the ploughland beyond. Philip was highly excited by now and leapt his pony straight over the ditch. It was a very easy jump but the ploughland on the other side, lying as it did in the shade, was still iron-hard with frost, and the pony, jarring his forefeet on it, stumbled, checked, stumbled again, and finally fell onto his knees, with Philip sprawling over his neck. Jim, leaping the ditch behind him, was barely able to avoid a collision, and such was the check to his own pony that he was thrown right over its head. The pony then ran off but soon slowed down to a walk which, to Jim’s great distress, showed him lame in the near foreleg. Philip’s pony was lame in both legs and it was a sad, silent procession that made its way back to the stables.
So Philip got a thrashing after all and so did Jim, and as their offence this time had been a serious one, Sutton had little mercy on them.
‘Lord, he fairly lammed into me!’ Philip said, in great misery. ‘And he said if Beau’s legs are not better in a week I shall get another leathering then.’
‘Yes, he said the same to me.’
The boys could not sit down all day and even walking was difficult; but worse than this, for Jim at least, was the terrible feeling of guilt and shame. His pony, Sandboy, was suffering and he had caused it, needlessly. Worse, too, than Sutton’s anger was Charlie Clements’s quiet distress and the patient, restrained, perplexed manner in which he reproached the two boys.
‘I dunno how you could do such a thing, after what I said to you. Those two ponies, they’re such trusting brutes ‒ they’d go through hell and high water for you. And that’s just what’s happening now ‒ they’re going through hell, the pair of them, and all on account of your selfishness.’
‘They will get better, though, won’t they?’ Jim said, in a voice he could only just control. ‘They won’t be in pain much longer, will they, now that we’re looking after them?’
‘ “We?” ’ Charlie said sardonically.
‘Yes, I want to help,’ Jim said.
‘I reckon you’ve done enough,’ Charlie said, but at the sight of Jim’s face he relented. ‘All right. You can help. So long as you do just what I say.’
‘Much better leave it to Charlie,’ said Philip. ‘He’s a marvel at doctoring horses, aren’t you, Charlie, old man?’
Philip was never much troubled with guilt. He blamed his misfortunes on bad luck. If only there hadn’t been a frost that day … Or if only that fox hadn’t come along … Anyway, if he had done wrong, he had been thrashed, hadn’t he, so surely that was the end of it?
‘It doesn’t help Beau and Sandboy,’ Jim said.
‘Neither does your long face,’ said Philip.
When Jim was not in the stables, helping to change the coldwater bandages on Sandboy’s sprained foot and Beau’s sprained knees, he was out searching the hedgerows, picking the fresh, succulent greenstuff just beginning to grow there. Both ponies were fond of coltsfoot and cow parsley and with these, in a day or two, Jim was able to tempt them to eat. In a week they were much improved; in two weeks they were themselves again.
‘Thank goodness for that!’ Philip said. ‘The stable’s been like a morgue lately.’
For him the incident was over and the only question that troubled his mind was how long would it be before Beau could be ridden again. For Jim, however, it was different; what had happened to the two ponies still weighed heavily on him, and when, not long afterwards, Philip suggested some prank that had a flavour of mischief in it, Jim refused to take part.
‘What’s the matter with you,’ Philip asked, ‘acting so pi’ all of a sudden?’
‘I don’t like getting into trouble.’
‘You mean you don’t like getting thrashed.’
‘It’s not only the thrashing itself. We did wrong, laming Sandboy and Beau like that, and we deserved every stroke we got. But I don’t like doing wrong. It makes me feel bad inside. And I intend to make sure that I don’t get into trouble again.’
Philip jeered at him over this.
‘Jim’s a goody-two-shoes these days,’ he said to Mrs Abelard. ‘He never wants to do anything in case it gets him into trouble. It’s only because he got thrashed that time. It’s made a coward out of him.’
‘That’s not cowardly. That’s common sense. It’s all very well for you, Master Philip, you’re the master’s own son. But Jim’s only a poor boy who’s got to make his way in the world. That means watching his “p”s and “q”s, and keeping on the right side of people, especially his elders and betters. So you just leave him be, Master Philip, and don’t go calling him nasty names.’
‘Oh, I might have guessed that you’d stick up for him!’ Philip said. ‘Housekeeper’s pet, isn’t he? But he’d better watch his “p”s and “q”s keeping on the right side of me as well, because I shall be master here one day and that’s something he seems to forget!’
Jim was inclined to laugh at this.
‘What will you do? Turn me out?’
‘I could do if I wanted! I could get you turned out this very minute if I went to my father and asked him to do it. You wouldn’t care for that, would you, going back to being a drover?’
‘No. But there are worse things.’
‘Such as what?’ Philip, asked.
‘Well,’ Jim said, deliberately, and although he was still amused at the turn the conversation had taken, his answer was made in all earnestness, ‘I’d rather be a drover any day than stop in a place where I wasn’t wanted.’
‘There,
Master Philip!’ Mrs Abelard said. ‘I hope you’re satisfied with that, because I reckon we’ve had enough talk about turning people out of the house. And all of it blowing up like a storm just because Jim won’t go out with you.’
‘I never said I wouldn’t go out with him, Abby. I said I wouldn’t do anything that landed us in trouble again.’
‘Shooting rabbits won’t land us in trouble!’ Philip said scornfully.
‘Well, so long as it’s only rabbits,’ Jim said.
‘It wouldn’t be anything else, would it? Not now the breeding season’s begun?’
With this assurance from Philip, Jim went willingly enough to shoot rabbits in the plantation just behind the old farm-house. But again they were dogged by the ‘bad luck’ that always seemed to put temptation in Philip’s way and as they were returning home, each with a brace of rabbits in his satchel, they came upon a hen pheasant sitting on her nest in the undergrowth. For a moment the two boys stood looking at her and although they were only some twelve feet away, she continued to sit, quite motionless, her red eyes fixed in a bright, hard stare. Jim could sense that Philip, beside him, was itching to get a shot at her, and he moved to take hold of Philip’s arm.
‘No, you can’t! You mustn’t!’ he said, speaking with quiet vehemence. ‘Can’t you see she’s on her nest?’
Philip, with an excited laugh, pulled himself free of Jim’s grasp and went on his way. As he went he stumbled, however, ‒ on purpose, it seemed to Jim ‒ and the noise frightened the pheasant into flight. She rose explosively, with a loud cry, and went whirring off between the trees. In the same instant Philip swung round, unbreaking his gun, which was already loaded, and bringing it swiftly to his shoulder. He was a very good shot and brought the pheasant down at once. There was a thump as it hit the ground; a flutter of feathers in the air; and Philip, with a satisfied grunt, went forward to pick up his prize.
But the pheasant, shot at such close range, was badly damaged. Philip held it up by the legs, turning it this way and that, his flushed face expressing triumph equally mixed with disgust. Then, as Jim came up, he said: ‘Look at her! She’s all shot to bits! I should’ve counted up to five.’
‘What does it matter?’ Jim said coldly. ‘You couldn’t have taken it home, anyway, or you would have got a leathering.’
‘I know that! D’you think me a fool? I’d have sold it to Manders at the inn. He’s paid me a florin for a pheasant before, but he won’t look at a bird full of lead.’
‘And just for the chance of a florin,’ Jim said, ‘you shot a bird sitting on her nest!’
‘She wasn’t sitting. She got up.’
‘You put her up on purpose,’ Jim said.
‘So what if I did? It’s no business of yours! And if you hadn’t kept so close to me I should’ve taken more careful aim and got her without damaging her. As it is, she’s no use at all. Food for magpies! That’s all she is!’
They were near the edge of the wood and Philip, going to the fence, hurled the dead pheasant over into the pasture beyond. He wiped his bloodstained hand on his jacket and turned back towards the woodland path. Jim, in silence, followed him.
The incident did not end there, however, for the pheasant was picked up by one of the farm boys, Peter Gray, when he was sent to bring in the cows. Peter hid the bird inside his jacket, but the bailiff, noticing the bulge, asked to see what was causing it and, on discovering the pheasant, accused Peter of having shot it. The taking of game by the farm-hands was a serious matter at any time and almost certainly meant dismissal; but this offence, in the breeding season, so incensed John Sutton that he threatened to send for the parish constable with a view to bringing a charge. Peter Gray, very upset, protested that it was all a mistake and his story was convincing enough to give Sutton pause. He left Peter in his office and went in search of Philip and Jim.
‘Have you been out shooting today?’
‘Yes, father,’ Philip said.
‘Did you shoot a hen pheasant in the plantation or the pasture nearby?’
‘No, father. Just rabbits, that’s all. Abby will tell you. I gave them to her.’
Sutton now questioned Jim.
‘Did you shoot a pheasant by any chance?’
‘Jim wasn’t there!’ Philip said. ‘He didn’t go with me, did you, Jim?’
‘I’d sooner Jim spoke for himself,’ Sutton said, in forbidding tones, and his gaze remained fixed on Jim’s face. ‘Well, I am waiting for your answer, boy.’
‘I was in the wood,’ Jim said.
‘And were you with Philip or were you not?’
‘Well,’ Jim said evasively.
‘Peter Gray has just been found with a dead hen pheasant in his possession. I was going to send for the constable but Peter says he found the pheasant lying in the woodside pasture. Now, Jim, I ask you again ‒ did you shoot a pheasant today?’
‘No. I did not.’
‘Did Philip shoot one?’
‘Yes,’ Jim said.
‘What became of it?’ Sutton asked.
‘He threw it over into the pasture.’
‘All right, Jim, you may go. Philip, come with me to the office. You can hear what I say to Peter Gray and afterwards, when he’s gone back to work, you can bring me the cane.’
After this second thrashing, Philip came storming into the kitchen to vent his fury on Jim, who was talking to Mrs Abelard.
‘Damned dirty, filthy sneak, telling tales on me like that! You got me six lashes! Hard ones too! But that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t blame me for what you got. If you’d spoken up in the first place instead of telling that stupid lie ‒’
‘Oh, you never tell lies, of course! You never do any wrong at all!’
‘Peter Gray could’ve lost his place on account of that pheasant of yours. He might even have gone to gaol. Somebody had to speak up for him and if only you’d had a bit of sense ‒’
‘That’s not why you told on me! You did it to get me a thrashing, that’s all! You’ve always been jealous of me from the start because I am my father’s son and you’re nothing but a little turd that somebody left on our doorstep!’
Philip went out again, slamming the door, and Mrs Abelard looked at Jim.
‘Master Philip’s a fine one to talk about your being jealous,’ she said, ‘when the boot is on the other foot.’
‘Is it?’ Jim said in surprise. ‘But why should Philip be jealous of me? I haven’t got anything he wants.’
‘Just as well,’ Mrs Abelard said, ‘or he’d have it off you like a shot.’
‘Why would he?’
‘Because he’s spoilt.’
‘I don’t think I am jealous of Philip,’ Jim said, still considering the matter.
‘Well, now, and what if you were? It wouldn’t hardly be very surprising, seeing Master Philip’s got so much and you’re a poor boy with nothing at all.’
‘Poor?’ Jim said, surprised again. ‘I wouldn’t say I was poor, Abby. I’d say I was very lucky indeed.’
‘Yes, so you are, Master Jim, and I’d be the first to tell you so, if you needed telling which you don’t. After what you’d been used to, to come and live in this fine new house, with a good, kind man looking after you, giving you everything you want! Oh, yes, you are lucky indeed! But what sort of life will you have later on? That’s the question that vexes me.’
‘I’m going to work on the farm,’ Jim said.
‘Yes, I know,’ Mrs Abelard said. ‘But it seems all wrong to me, somehow, when you’re being raised as you are now, and learning to live like a gentleman, that you should later be expected to work like a labourer on the land.’
‘But I want to work on the land, Abby. I want it more badly than anything else. And I’m not a gentleman, as you know, nor shall I ever be, come what may.’
‘No, Master Jim,’ Mrs Abelard said. ‘You’re neither flesh nor fowl nor good red herring and that’s why I feel sorry for you. Still, you’ll be all right, I dar
esay, for you’ve got a good headpiece on you and you know how to make the most of yourself. But you need to watch out for Master Philip, especially now you’re both getting older, because he’ll always do you down if he can. It’s not that he’s a wicked lad but he’s got to come first in everything. So mind what I say and watch out for yourself and that way you won’t ever come to no harm. Understand me, Master Jim?’
Jim nodded.
‘I shall watch out for myself, Abby. You may be quite sure of that.’
Chapter Three
Mrs Abelard was not the only one to worry about Jim’s future; the vicar, Mr Bannister, was also concerned; and one day in the summer of 1847 he mentioned the matter to John Sutton.
‘Jim’s future?’ Sutton said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he’s being brought up with your own son, and yet he is not your own son. May I ask ‒ forgive me ‒ but do you intend to make Jim equal with Philip later on?’
‘Good God, no! Certainly not! Jim is going to work on the farm. Work is his portion, he knows that quite well. He’ll make a good bailiff one day ‒ better than Oakley, I suspect ‒ and a not-too-distant day at that.’
‘Ah, yes. Very suitable.’
‘And yet you’re still worried. Now why is that? Has he not been behaving himself?’
‘Oh, yes. He behaves very well.’
‘Does he work at his lessons?’
‘Yes, indeed. In fact that is perhaps the problem. He is doing almost too well. Quite remarkable, really, for a boy of his beginnings. He was, as you know, almost completely illiterate when he first came to me, but now he not only reads and writes but has made such good progress with his Latin that he has actually caught up with Philip. Then, again, in mathematics ‒’
‘Are you trying to tell me that Jim is a better scholar than Philip?’
The Two Farms: A moving family saga set in a Victorian farming community Page 3
