A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  He looked up. The sun was shining through the thinning mist, not hot yet but bright. Don’t write to me again, ever, he had told her in his next letter home.

  The hedge dipped and Harry could see the fields widening out into moorland; it wouldn’t be long now. Yes, life was easier with just his friends. But sometimes, in the strangest of places, he would still remember that laugh as he had swung her round beneath the tree.

  The sun had a glimmering of warmth at last and the hedge was clearly visible growing out of the high-banked stone; full of grass with honeysuckle climbing all over the hawthorn. When the sun was high the honeysuckle’s scent would begin to fill the lane and by the time they returned it would be at its strongest. The track dwindled to a narrow strip of baked earth which wound round the flattened granite boulders lying amongst the heather. There were trees over to the right, about half a mile away.

  ‘Head for that, m’boy.’ His father was awake now and pointing. ‘We’ll follow the stream until we come to the pool. You remember it, don’t you?’

  Harry nodded but he didn’t. The pony was sweating now but at the scent of water his stride sharpened and soon they were alongside the coursing stream which frothed white as it mounted and swerved round the jutting rocks. The pony pulled against the rein, eager to drink, but Harry urged him onwards until they reached the pool, oily in its stillness. And then he remembered how his father had beaten Hannah when he had heard of the incident in the dormitory. She must learn not to be a nuisance, he had told Harry when he had asked why.

  It was cold standing up to his knees in the pool but so far his waders had kept out the water. The only wetness came from the dripping line as he drew it back to cast again. His father had given him a fly line that would float throughout its entire length saying that later he would graduate to one with a sinking tip, but privately Harry had cringed at the thought of more days like this. ‘Let’s try it again then, Harry.’ His father stood with his legs apart, his tweed hat pulled down over his eyes. ‘Remember, it’s all a matter of timing. A good forward cast is entirely dependent on a good back cast. I want to see you straighten out fully behind and bend the rod tip backwards.’

  Harry gripped the rod and moved it up. The sun was playing on the water and ripples ran out from his legs.

  ‘No, no. Start horizontally over the water, boy. Don’t you remember a thing I say? Use only the forearm until you reach about eleven o’clock, then a final flick of the wrist and back the line goes.’

  Harry did as his father said, wishing that it was lunch-time. They had already been in the water nearly an hour; the sun was high and hot.

  ‘Right, pause there to let the line straighten out. Go on, turn and watch the line.’ His voice was impatient, his hat pulled down over his eyes to keep out the glare as he turned to his son. Harry did so but felt his feet shift on the bottom of the pool and for a moment thought he was going over. He hated water; he could barely swim and the thought of those boots filling and holding him under so that water gushed into his mouth and nose made him sweat.

  His father’s voice was sharp, his hand outstretched. ‘Keep still, you fool. You’ll see off the trout with all this confounded disturbance.’

  Harry took deep breaths and wiped his forehead with his arm. Oh Christ, the old man was getting angry. There was a high bank on the other side with ferns and stunted trees stretching away. It looked cool and dark and quiet. All around, the moor stretched endlessly beneath the heat-hazed sky. To the north the Atlantic would be crashing against the coast bringing a cold wind to the shore; but it wasn’t reaching inland today, damn it. He watched his father looking out anxiously over the pool, checking for ripples, for signs of disturbance from Harry’s boots. Come on, for heaven’s sake, Harry breathed, through lips tightened with tension. His father held up his own rod and turned back to Harry.

  ‘Flex the tip backwards and then forwards again down and through to the original position.’

  Harry heard the irritation and the more he was told the more mistakes he made. His father sighed and Harry’s face set.

  ‘But you didn’t hold the line behind the butt ring like I told you, you stupid boy. Bring it down here.’ His voice was hard, a muscle tightened in his cheek and Harry watched as his father brought his own rod back and then forwards again, grasping the line with his left hand and pulling it down towards his trouser pocket. His movements were so controlled, so vicious. ‘Speeding up the back cast allows the line to shoot back behind more quickly. You took the rod too far back – the line wasn’t damn well straight. Now let’s do that again.’

  The muscle still twitched, the voice grated and Harry held his breath. This time he did it in tune with his father and the noise of the reel and the birds as they wheeled high above them sounded too loud in the midday heat. He knew the trembling had begun but it was not yet visible and for that he was grateful. Water ran down Harry’s hand, soaking his cuff and sleeve as far as his elbow. He worked the rod forward then back again and his wrist was chafed with each movement but he did not dare to stop. Again and again he cast until he saw the muscle relax. He heard the voice loosen and knew that at last he had satisfied his father who was looking over the pool again.

  ‘Won’t get many trout rising today, Harry, so we’ll use the wet flies. The nymph will do nicely.’ He waded from the water and Harry started to follow, his boots grating on the stones, his line reeled in and caught in his hand close to the rod.

  ‘Stay there, boy. You’ll only stir up the water.’ His father’s voice was harsh again, and Harry flushed.

  God, he wished he’d waited and gone up to Scotland with Arthur. He’d never been shooting but at least it wasn’t like being on parade. His father had said he could not afford to send him. He clenched his hands hard on the rod and watched as his father brought out two flies from his bag and eased himself back into the water coming close up to Harry.

  ‘The nymph is usually reliable. The trout will think it’s natural food if you work it in the water and make it seem alive.’ His father’s voice was relaxed now as though there had never been anger or tension. His breathing was heavy, his head bent over the end of the line, and Harry could smell the stale smoke on his breath. He moved and watched as a water-boatman skimmed across the surface. There was a ripple on the water and the boatman was gone. Was that a trout, he thought, but said nothing because it would mean changing to a dry fly and the morning would be endless. His stomach was empty. Breakfast had been early so that they could have the whole day on the moor. He was hungry now that the trembling had gone.

  ‘There you go then. I’m moving a bit downstream to get out of your way. Want to go back with both my eyes, don’t I?’ His father laughed and Harry did too, dutifully. He cast again and there was a faint plop as the fly hit the surface and sank. He moved the rod occasionally; it was made from split cane brought from China and was his father’s second best.

  ‘So how is school these days, Harry?’ His father was speaking quietly, though whether fish had ears was doubtful, Harry thought, and all the earlier shouting would have alerted them anyway.

  ‘Fine, thank you, Father.’ He was casting again. So far there had been no tug on his line, thank God. He dreaded a catch, the lashing fish at the end of the line, the hook which tore from the mouth of the fish. And then the gasping limpness.

  He did not move the rod, just let the line lie as it was, tugged only by the water but not like food the fish would enjoy.

  ‘Been doing much sport then?’ His father was half-turned from him, his shoulders rounded as he handled his rod. His strength was evident from the broadness of his back, the bulge of muscle either side of his spine.

  Harry replied, ‘Cricket this term and we’ve been doing a lot of paper chases. I was the hare, you know, and beat the lot of them. First time it’s been done this year.’

  His father laughed. ‘Not bad at all.’

  It had been bloody good, thought Harry. The bag which dug into his shoulder as he set off at the edge of
the copse had scarcely held him up at all, and by the time he was over by the meadows fringing the village much of the paper had gone. There’d been no wind so it had lain where it had fallen.

  ‘Everything was against me,’ he called across to his father. ‘No wind, you see. They could get a good track on me.’ He saw his father nod.

  He’d finally skirted round the bottom wood and then he’d heard them as they sighted him and he’d run until he thought he could breathe no more. The air was pumping in and out like a knife and the ground was uneven so, once, he fell. He had thought they would be on him then but somehow he had risen, looking behind as he did so, and, although they’d been close, there was still a chance. Something like terror had gripped him then. Terror and excitement combined. They were so many and so nearly on him. He turned and ran, not seeing the woods or the bridge that he pounded over. Not seeing the boys grouped at the edge of the school playing fields cheering him in. Not stopping until he reached the finishing post and the sports master had caught him by the arm and slapped him on the back.

  ‘Has young Arthur been notching up the runs again then?’ his father called across.

  Harry nodded. ‘Rather. He’s deadly with a bat, you know, Father.’ He was with all sports but had not been able to catch Harry on that chase even though he’d been one of the front runners. The golden boy had been beaten, just for once. How blond he was, Harry thought as he shifted his grip on the rod – a kite was wheeling on an air current high above the pool – almost as blond as Uncle Simon.

  ‘It was a shame about Uncle Simon, wasn’t it, Father?’

  His father turned and looked at him, his brown eyes narrowed against the sun. ‘Yes, but it’s a marvellous thing to lay down your life for your country, isn’t it? Why, just think. If it lasts a few more years you will be in it, Harry.’

  ‘But it won’t, surely? It’s nearly over, isn’t it?’ Harry reeled in slightly. All the papers said that it was over. The Boers were on the run.

  His father cast once again, then reeled in his line. ‘Be a while yet, so there’s a chance.’ He looked at his son. ‘Bring your line in now, Harry, and let’s have some lunch.’ They waded carefully to the bank, then drew their galoshes off. Cook had packed up hard-boiled eggs, ham pie and sandwiches, and Harry went down to the water and pulled up the bottle of wine which he had wedged in shallow water to cool.

  His father sat back against a stunted oak, its dry lichen brushing off on to his jacket. ‘I can remember the day war was declared.’ He wiped his mouth with the corner of the napkin which he had tucked into his collar. ‘I was walking back from the office to the Underground.’ He paused. ‘It was cold, you know, I had my coat on and it was only mid-October. Anyway you could hear the paper sellers shouting it out from the corners. Ultimatum by Kruger. Declaration of war. Damned cheek. A bunch of ruffians turning against us. They don’t know what’s good for them, that’s the trouble.’ He ate more of the ham pie, then took a sip of wine.

  ‘But they beat us for a while, didn’t they, Father, and I can remember the Headmaster telling us it would be over in three months. That week in December was a shock. Everything seemed to stop. Methuen, Gatacre and even Buller were defeated in that week. Those Boers must have known how to fight.’

  The pie was rather dry, he thought, but the egg was moist. He poured himself some wine and looked across at his father. They had been drilled harder in the school Rifle Volunteer Corps during that week, the one called Black Week.

  ‘Dirty fighters though, skulking about in those velds in their tatty clothes. They’re not gentlemen, you know, Harry, and we’ve got them on the run now, my boy; thank God, because the buses are never on time with these old nags drawing them. The army took the best ones for the war, you know, but we shouldn’t complain, it’s all in a good cause. These ruffians have to learn they can’t just toss the British to one side because they feel like being independent. They need us to civilise them, you know. Give ’em a few of our laws, a bit of our discipline. They need to know their place.’ He paused as he searched in his jacket pocket, finally finding his cigarette case. ‘Mark you, so do these damn Liberals shouting their support. It’s treason, boy. They deserve to be shot. Like that fool Gladstone forever rambling on about Home Rule for Ireland. He tried to give away parts of the Empire. It was a disgrace. Freedom, my foot, the man was an idiot, and it’s a great relief to me that he’s finally dead.’

  He tossed over his cigarette case to Harry who was surprised. His father had never offered him one before. He undid the catch. It was silver and was engraved inside the lid. John Watson, from his father. He took one and leant forward as his father lit it. He drew in his breath and he felt the heat on his tongue but he did not choke on the smoke because he and Arthur had tried behind the cricket pavilion several times.

  ‘Throw them back then,’ his father said, but he was smiling. He lit his own and removed his cap. ‘Hot now, eh?’ He took off his jacket, the black armband puckered where it was stitched to the tweed, and removed his tie, rolling up his sleeves, leaving his cigarette in his mouth while he did so, squinting his eyes half-shut against the smoke which was rising in an upright stream in the windless air. In this clear light Harry could see that the right side of his moustache and hair was stained yellow from the nicotine.

  ‘I had a word with my cousin at the Club when he came down to London last week,’ his father said, flicking his ash to one side, and Harry waited, feeling his shoulders tense. He took a sip of wine, then balanced the glass on his knee and removed his jacket, also with its armband, while he listened. ‘He’s going to speak to the adjutant of the Household Cavalry and after that there’ll be no doubt about your future.’

  Harry smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you, Father,’ he murmured, but he thought of the Volunteer Rifles, thought how tedious he found it all, and wondered how he could bear the Army for every minute of every day. But on the other hand how could he not, for he knew that it was all his father had ever considered a suitable career for his eldest son, his only son.

  Arthur was going to university, Oxford of course, but Classics held no appeal for him either. It was mining that did, but he dared not tell his father that for he knew the answer. It would be, ‘To work in a tin mine is not what you’ve been educated for.’ He could imagine the fuss it would cause, and it wouldn’t help that it was his mother’s family mine.

  Damn the tin slump. He’d be willing to bet that if there’d been the chance of money it would be a different story. He ground out the stub of his cigarette in the grass, close-cropped by the sheep which grazed on the thin scrub. He could smell the charred earth, the blackened tobacco as he looked at his father whose cap was tipped over his face as he breathed evenly, his head down on his chest. He was asleep. Harry loosened the knot on his black tie, undid the top stud and lay back with his hands beneath his head, glad that the mourning period for Simon would not last for ever. He had a grand tweed tie he wanted to try. He watched a bird circling high above him. Sam, Eliza’s husband, had promised a trip to the mine for tomorrow. Hannah would be coming too. He looked at the bird again, breathing in the warm air. There was something about the mine which made him feel alive. Was it the scale of it, the smallness of men against the earth? Or was it in the blood, like his grey eyes which were those of his mother’s family, mine-owners for generations? He laughed quietly at himself. What did it matter what it was? It would never happen. He’d be prancing about in fancy dress and polished boots for the rest of his life and the mine would just fade away.

  The sun was flickering through the branches of the tree, the bird was gone, and it was quiet in the midday heat. He sat, his eyes heavy, and it was some while before he heard his father stir.

  ‘Come on then, Harry. We haven’t caught anything yet. Stuff the plates back in the basket and let’s get back to it. There are clouds coming in from the north.’

  There was a breeze and the water seemed colder as Harry waded back in and, although he again stood with a still rod, ther
e was, after all, a jerk on Harry’s line and his father gripped his arm. ‘Play it in, boy.’

  And so he did, the rod alive in his hands, but he could not see the fish and he would not think of it either. His father stood close, his own rod still out, the water still snatching at the line as the wind freshened further and then his line, too, jerked. In they came, and Harry could see them now, the two small fish twitching and drowning in the air.

  ‘Get the basket, Harry,’ roared his father, his pale, long-nailed hand reaching for the thrashing body, and Harry backed up to the bank and pulled the fish basket over to the edge, nearer to his father.

  He grasped his small brown trout, feeling the cold, wet, struggling life, dragging it off the hook, not looking as he did so and then he threw it towards the basket. He wiped his hand down his shirt. ‘Damned messy business,’ he muttered to himself and his voice was shaking. His father was wading towards him, his face lit with a smile.

  ‘Mine is half a pound at least. How about yours?’ Harry looked down. His had missed the basket and lay gasping and flaccid on the bank and he could not move to touch it. His father answered for him looking towards the fish. ‘Not bad, quarter of a pound, I should say, but they’re small down here so that’s a good catch.’

  Harry stood aside wanting him to reach the bank first. The pony was cropping grass nearby and he could hear the tearing of the grass and the clink of the bit as it chewed around it. A string of green slime hung from the corner of his mouth. He would not look at the fish but from the corner of his eye he saw his father lift a rock which he had levered from the bank and bring it down, crushing the fish’s head before he threw it in the basket. He saw the leather strap being pulled tight, heard the creak of the wicker as it was buckled, and then watched the tilt of his father’s head as he looked out over the moor towards the north. Saw him check his watch, cupping it in his hand, pulling his face into a frown. Harry breathed deeply; he would look at all this and forget the thrashing body he had felt in his hand. He wiped cold water on his face and felt the wind, fresher still. The branches were moving and the pony’s mane was lifting.