The Blood-Dimmed Tide

by Rennie Airth

  He’d used the time to write out a report in his notebook of the work that would have to be done at Hobday’s Farm, over Rogate way, where he’d been earlier that morning. One of the chimneys on the farmhouse had come down since his last visit, smashing the roof tiles beneath it and leaving a hole as big as your head which went straight down to the room below, where the floor had been damaged. The repairs would have to be done before the next rains came, which might be any day now - the spell of fine October weather they’d been enjoying for the past few days couldn’t last - and if the owners didn’t want a deteriorating property on their hands, they’d better do something about it quick.

  Such, at any rate, was the news that Sam eventually gave to Mr Cuthbertson after he was shown into his office, a pleasant, airy room that looked out over the old Market Square onto St Ann’s Hill. Mr Cuthbertson had rubbed his chin.

  ‘Oh, they won’t be pleased to hear this.’ He’d caught Sam’s eye and they’d both chuckled. ‘They do so hate paying out money.’

  The banks, he meant. The ones that owned so many pieces of property hereabouts now. The terrible slump in prices in 1929 had led to foreclosures left and right. Sam himself had been among the victims. He’d owned a small farm, part of what had once been a large estate just the other side of Easeborne, bought when he’d come back from the war. With the help of a loan from the bank, of course. Well, that had gone.

  But he’d been luckier than most. It had been Mr Cuthbertson, of Tally and Cuthbertson, a firm of estate agents in Midhurst specializing in farming land, who’d been charged with handling the business and in spite of the painful circumstances, which had ended with Sam and his family having to move out bag and baggage, all their belongings piled onto a cart drawn up in the yard, and which by rights ought to have turned them into enemies, they’d somehow managed to hit it off and Sam had departed with Mr Cuthbertson’s offer of a job in his pocket.

  What he was paid to do now was keep an eye on the farms in the district which the firm had on its books. Farms that were for sale, but attracting no buyers, not in present conditions. The Depression had bitten deep into the country and farmers had suffered along with everyone else. It was a matter of hanging on if you could and hoping for better times. Sam spent his days driving from one property to another, inspecting buildings for any damage and keeping an eye out for undesirable trespassers, gypsies in the main, and moving them along where necessary.

  Mr Cuthbertson called him ‘our factor’ when he introduced him to clients. “This is our factor, Mr Watkin.’ It made Sam chuckle. He’d been a lot of things in his time: farmworker, stable lad, a boxer in a fairground booth for one whole summer; and a poacher on the side. He’d even been an officer, to his eternal wonder. Having somehow survived two years in the trenches, he’d still been alive and kicking when the powers-that-be began their policy of promoting from the ranks. Lo and behold, Sam Watkin had found himself a second lieutenant! A ‘temporary gentleman’, as the saying was then. The phrase still brought a smile of derision to his lips.

  After the war he’d considered emigrating to Canada, or perhaps Australia, but Ada Witherspoon, daughter of the landlord at the Dog and Duck in Elsted, had said, ‘Well, you can go where you want, Sam Watkin, but don’t expect to find me waiting here when you get back.’ So they’d ended up buying a farm instead, and now he was a factor, and if you asked Sam what he thought about life he’d have said there was no sense to it that he could see, none at all. It was just one darned thing after another.

  The business of the roof had been quickly settled. Mr Cuthbertson had told Sam to get hold of a workman if he needed one, but to see to the repairs himself. There was no point in calling in a firm of contractors. They’d only charge the earth.

  There being little else for them to talk about that day, Sam had soon been on the move again, returning to his van, which was parked in the square below. He’d bought it second hand from the Post Office a few years back and painted it dark green, a colour he liked. It was perfect for rattling around in, and for hauling the tools and other odd bits and pieces he needed for his work.

  Perfect for Sally, too, his old labrador, who went everywhere with him. The thump of her tail on the van’s floor had greeted him when he’d climbed in behind the wheel. Sal liked to lie in the back, curled up on her blanket, snoozing; waiting till it was time for a walk. Or, better still, a snack. Greediest dog alive, Sam always said.

  ‘We’ll run over to Coyne’s Farm now,’ he’d told her, as they set off. ‘Could be we’ll have a spot of lunch when we get there.’

  But another delay had been in the offing.

  Soon after he’d turned off the Petersfield road, in the direction of Elsted, he’d run into some roadworks. A gang of men was engaged in widening a stretch of the paved surface, a job that must have begun in the last few days, since they hadn’t been there the last time Sam had come this way. The crew were at their lunch break when he arrived, sitting in a line on the bank, leaving one of their number to direct traffic. The patch of road where they were working had been narrowed to the width of a single vehicle and this fellow was controlling the flow from both directions, using red and green flags to warn approaching traffic.

  Sam had eyed him with some interest, and given the signal to proceed, had drawn up beside the shabby figure.

  ‘What, ho, Eddie!’ he’d exclaimed.

  ‘Crikey!’ A bristly face had peered in at him through the opened window. ‘Is that you, Sam?’

  Eddie Noyes was the chap’s name and the last time Sam had seen him he’d been lying face up on a stretcher with the front of his tunic soaked with blood and his eyes wide with shock. At Wipers, it had been. Eddie had got his ticket home that day. He hadn’t returned to the battalion.

  ‘What are you doing over this way?’ The reason Sam had asked was because he knew Eddie came from another part of Sussex - from Hove, down on the coast, if he remembered right - but as soon as he spoke he’d wished he hadn’t. It was obvious, after all, what a bloke was doing when you caught him in workmen’s clothes with a two-day stubble on his chin waving flags on the edge of a public highway. He was taking any job he could find. Things were that hard still.

  But Eddie hadn’t been ashamed to talk about it. (This was after Sam had pulled to the side of the road and sat down with him on the bank, one of Eddie’s mates having volunteered to direct the traffic.) He’d lost his position as a salesman for a paper-manufacturing company the previous year - the firm had gone bust - and hadn’t been able to find another. Just odd jobs from time to time, this stint with the road gang being one of them.

  He was still living in Hove, he said, taking care of his old mum and his sister, who had lost her husband in the war. Money was short - Eddie had shrugged - but they managed. His only problem with this job he had now was he couldn’t get home at night - it was just too far - so he was having to bunk with some of the other men in the shed they’d put up to house their equipment. He had grinned then. ‘It takes me back, Sam, I can tell you. I’ve known shellholes more salubrious.’

  Sam’s first impulse had been to put his hand in his pocket, but he’d checked himself. You couldn’t offer money to a chap who’d won the Military Medal. Who wasn’t more than an inch or two over five feet, but would stand up to anyone.

  ‘You must come and have a meal with us, Eddie. Just let me warn Ada first. She’ll want to put a spread on for you.’

  He’d wished he could have offered him a bed, too, but for one thing they were living over at Halfway Bridge now, on the other side of Midhurst, which wouldn’t suit Eddie at all, and for another there simply wasn’t room in their cottage, what with the kids growing up and Ada having gone into the business of making frocks for friends and neighbours, turning what passed for their parlour into a sewing room filled with patterns and tailor’s dummies.

  But the image of Eddie lying wedged with the other men like sardines on the floor of a builder’s shed bothered him - it didn’t seem right - and even before he�
��d reached Coyne’s Farm he’d come up with a solution.

  ‘See what I mean, Sal? This would suit Eddie down to the ground. It’d be warm and dry and there’s plenty of hay to make a bed with.’

  Standing in the cavernous barn, Sam held forth to an audience of one. A sociable chap by nature, he found the solitude of his working days something of a burden and had fallen into the habit of treating Sally as his confidante.

  ‘No problem with fresh water, either. There’s that tap in the yard outside. I tell you, this place is made for him.’

  It was Coyne’s Farm being so near to where Eddie and his mates were working that had put the idea into his head. The turn-off to the farm was only half a mile further on, though in fact Sam never went that way himself, the muddy track having fallen into disrepair since the place was abandoned. Not wishing to risk the suspension of his old van on it, he would stop some way short of the turning at a spot where the paved road was crossed by an ancient footpath that led over a low saddle in the wooded ridge behind Coyne’s Farm into the valley where it was situated.

  This path - it was called Wood Way, and according to the guide books dated from before Roman times - ran as straight as an arrow down one slope of the valley and up the other side before vanishing in the rolling contours of the South Downs, which rose only a short way off to fill the horizon.

  It marked the boundary of Coyne’s Farm, and to get there all you had to do was walk down the path until you came to a gap in the hedgerow beside it, slip through that, cross an apple orchard and a kitchen garden, and - hey presto - there you were in the cobbled yard behind the house, with the barn not thirty paces away at the other end of it. Eddie’s barn!

  Sam had timed his walk. It had taken him twelve minutes on the dot from where his van was parked, and on the way a further thought had occurred to him. Just a bit past the gap in the hedge a fork off the main path led across the adjoining fields to a small village, more of a hamlet really, called Oak Green, where Eddie could buy whatever provisions he might need. Not that Ada wouldn’t see to it that he’d have most of what he wanted.

  By the time Sam reached the yard he’d made up his mind to speak to Mr Cuthbertson on Eddie’s behalf. It wouldn’t be right to do it behind his back - just move Eddie in without saying anything. But he didn’t think his employer would have any objections to his scheme.

  Coyne’s Farm was a choice property - one of the best on his books, Mr Cuthbertson always said. Being right on the edge of the Downs, it was fine sheep-rearing land and had been profitably worked until a couple of years back when the owner had died. Having no sons to take over from him - his two boys had been killed in the war - he’d left the farm to a nephew of his wife’s, but this bloke, who owned a dairy farm outside Petersfield, was only interested in selling the place, which was why it was on the market.

  Mr Cuthbertson had told Sam that he expected to get a good price for it one day, once things had picked up again, and that the present owner had already turned down a couple of prospective purchasers on his advice because their offers had been too low. The opportunity of having a reliable man on the spot, in residence so to speak, would not be one he would turn down.

  The barn stood at one end of the yard and at right angles to the house, which was built of patterned brick in a style popular in the region. A lofty wooden structure, it had been used as a storeroom when the farm was abandoned and its doors were kept padlocked as a deterrent against intruders who might otherwise be tempted to rifle its contents.

  Sam had a key to the padlock, and having drawn the bolt, he’d flung both doors wide, flooding the dark interior with light, displaying the stacks of hurdles used for temporary fencing, essential for sheep-raising, which lined both sides of the building for most of its length. Where they ended, towards the rear of the barn, the empty space was filled with a variety of objects, including furniture from the house, draped with canvas to protect it from rain coming through the roof, and an assortment of farm implements stored in crates and wicker baskets. At the very back, in one corner, an old pony trap stood with its shafts upraised like the arms of a soldier surrendering.

  It was to the opposite corner that Sam had made his way and where he’d spent some minutes clearing an area of the earth floor. Seizing hold now of a pitchfork that was sticking out of a wicker basket, he began raking together the old hay that was still scattered about underfoot and pushing it into a mound.

  ‘See, this’ll be his bed,’ he told Sal, who’d accompanied him into the barn and was watching his activities with mild interest. ‘Eddie’s bound to have a bedroll with him if he’s sleeping rough, and this’ll do for a mattress underneath.’

  During the months of his stewardship he’d explored the stored treasures of the barn and he remembered having seen one or two articles that might come in handy now. Finished with the pitchfork, he went in search of them and presently returned dragging an old Victorian washstand behind him with an enamel jug and basin balanced precariously on its marble top. A second expedition netted a pair of oil lamps which Sam examined and found to be in good working order.

  Then a further idea occurred to him and he turned to a large mahogany wardrobe which stood nearby draped in canvas. He’d looked inside it once, he recalled, and unless memory deceived him ... Pushing back the folds of canvas from the doors, Sam tugged them open.

  Yes, there it was!

  The gleam of a mirror shone in the dark recesses of the cupboard. Formerly attached to the inside of one of the doors, it now stood loose, propped against the back. Sam hauled it out and bore it in triumph over to where he’d prepared Eddie’s bed. He leaned it against the wall beside the washstand.

  ‘He’s got to be able to comb his hair in the morning,’ he said to Sal, by way of explanation. ‘All the comforts of home. That’s our motto.’

  Pleased with the outcome of his efforts, Sam examined his own reflection in the looking glass, grinning at the way the cracked surface distorted his homely features, giving an extra twist to the broken nose he’d had these past twenty years, a souvenir of his days as a fairground mauler.

  One thing was certain: Ada hadn’t married him for his looks.

  ‘You’re no oil painting, Sam Watkin.’ She’d told him that often enough. ‘But you’re a good bloke.’

  Sam didn’t know if he was a good bloke or not, but he felt warmed by the thought of what he was doing for Eddie, who’d looked older than his years when they’d sat together on the bank a little while back. Just worn out. As though life had been grinding him down.

  Christ, times were hard.

  ‘There, now. That’s better.’

  Sam lit his pipe and leaned back with a sigh. Their lunch had been unusually delayed that day. But the cheese sandwiches Ada had packed for him had gone down a treat, while the bit of cold sausage and biscuit he’d set aside for Sal had been equally well received. She was stretched out on the ground beside him now, fast asleep, muzzle twitching, chasing rabbits in her dreams.

  Even when he’d finished with the barn, he’d still had his regular tour of inspection of the house and outbuildings to make and it had been close to three o’clock before they’d quit the yard and walked up the hillside to the wooded ridge behind the farm. Struggling up the slippery slope, Sam had chuckled to see what heavy weather his companion was making of the climb.

  ‘That’s what comes of overeating, my girl.’ Fat as butter she was.

  Once they got to the top the going had become easier. Here the ground underfoot was cushioned by generations of fallen leaves, the still air rich with the stored scents of summer. Sam had paused to admire the dust motes dancing in shafts of sunlight piercing the canopy of foliage overhead. He loved the woods. They took him back to his boyhood, a time of innocence, in his mind, before the war, when the world had seemed different. To his poaching days, which even now seemed blameless, when he’d been a lad working on a farm up near Redford, and would slip away of an evening into the twilit forest.

  Brushing throug
h a stand of ferns, they had roused a cock pheasant, the sudden frenzied beating of its wings making them both start. Sally’s excited barking had shattered the deep silence of the trees.

  The place where they’d finally settled, under a tall beech at the edge of the wood, was a favourite spot of his. From here he could see the whole valley spread out before him backed by the deep folds of the Downs, whose grassy crests still glowed with the fading light of afternoon.

  ‘The blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs.’

  Sam was fond of quoting Kipling’s line, which he’d first heard from his eldest, Rose, who’d learned it herself at school. Now, whenever his eye fell on the broad green hillocks he thought how like giant sea creatures they were.

  It wasn’t only the farm buildings he had to watch out for. Mr Cuthbertson wanted him to keep an eye on the land as well and from where he was sitting he was able to cast his gaze over a wide area, westwards in the direction of Elsted and east as far as the red roofs of Oak Green.

  That day the valley seemed deserted. The only figure he spotted was that of a lone man and he was some distance off, on the bare crest of the ridge opposite, gazing up at the sky through a pair of binoculars.

  Sam shifted his own gaze to the stream that ran down the centre of the valley, searching for telltale wisps of smoke, any signs of a camp fire in the straggling line of willows and tangled bushes that marked the course of the waterway. Not surprisingly, the empty farms had become a magnet for tramps and Mr Cuthbertson had told him to keep them away as far as possible and at all events to make sure they didn’t try to take up residence in any of the buildings.

  He had a point, too. Once the weather turned chilly and they began to light fires for warmth and not simply for cooking there was the danger they would set fire inadvertently to whatever barn or stall they’d taken shelter in.