The Stone Book Quartet

by Alan Garner

  ‘Never think I’m against you,’ said Joseph. ‘I’ve got to carry me own sledge at the forge.’

  ‘And you shall,’ said Grandfather. ‘Stone and you, you’d never marry: I’ve seen it, Joseph. And, Joseph, we do us best, but you’re a granny reardun, think on, and a granny reardun you’ll be. So you get prenticed, and a roof over you, and meat in you, and drink. You’re like to have to look to yourself sooner than most in this world. Hey!’ he shouted to Damper Latham. ‘My grandson! See at him! He’s going for a generous, ingenious hammerman!’

  ‘He’s never!’ said Damper Latham. ‘Woa back!’ he said to the horses.

  ‘He is that! Prenticed to little Jump James! What do you think?’

  ‘His Indentures’ll need some wetting,’ said Damper Latham. ‘Shall I be invited?’

  ‘I’ll go see Jump tonight,’ said Grandfather. ‘Then it’ll be all round the anvil tomorrow and a new barrel from The Bull’s Head. Now what’ve you fetched me?’ He looked into the cart. ‘Gorgeous,’ he said. ‘Beautiful. Oh, that’s the ticket for soup! Let’s be having it.’

  He unfastened the sides. Joseph tried to help him, but Grandfather wouldn’t let him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not my grandson. I’m not having his touch spoilt with raunging.’

  Damper winked. ‘Give us a tune, youth,’ he said, and passed the E-Flat cornet to Joseph.

  ‘You’d best keep her,’ he said. ‘She’s a good un, but she’s an old un, and she’ll need looking after now and again to keep her sweet. What do you say, Robert?’

  ‘Oh, he’s the only best tinsmith already,’ said Grandfather. ‘He’ll be learning Jump a thing or two.’

  Joseph held the cornet, the brass metal.

  ‘You mean it?’ he said to Damper Latham.

  Damper Latham winked, but differently. There was a sparkle, and he just waved his hand.

  Joseph went to the wood and sat in a beech tree root. Grandfather and Damper Latham began to unload the white dimension stone. Joseph sat above them, and played.

  The men banged the stones off, and sang.

  ‘Oh, can you wash a soldier’s shirt?

  And can you wash it clean?

  Oh, can you wash a soldier’s shirt,

  And hang it on the green?’

  Joseph played it over and over, faster and faster, descants and triple-tonguing. It was the great song of the Hough, and it never tired.

  Damper Latham clapped his cart to, and drove off, beating time still with his curled whip, in the air. Joseph strode down the wood, loose-legged, and playing, and jigged on the road. He stopped only to polish the shining cornet on the edge of his sleeve; his own cornet, soprano E-Flat.

  ‘Oh, can you wash a soldier’s shirt?

  And can you wash it clean?

  Oh, can you wash a soldier’s shirt…’

  He heard the crake, crake of the broken spring on the bassinet. Mother was coming down the slope of the road by Long Croft field, taking Charlie home for his tea.

  ‘… And hang it on the green?’

  Joseph ran. ‘See at it! See at it!’ he cried. ‘See at it! Me own! And I’m to be a prenticed smith!’

  He always pushed Charlie down Long Croft and under the wood. Charlie liked the speed and rattle of it and the wind in the holes in the bassinet hood.

  Joseph set off, full belt, one-handed, playing the cornet with the other. The spring that Grandfather could hold only with rope made the wheels veer to the left. Joseph and Charlie swerved down the hill.

  ‘Oh, can you wash a soldier’s shirt?

  And can you wash it clean?

  Oh, can you wash a soldier’s shirt,

  And hang it on the green?’

  Grandfather took off his cap and whirled it around his head as they passed.

  ‘Who-whoop! Wo-whoop! Wo-o-o-o!’

  ‘Who-whoop! Wo-whoop! Wo-o-o-o!’ Joseph answered. The roped spring grated and bounced. Joseph ran on.

  ‘Never mind, Charlie. Wait while I get me sledge. You’ll see! I’ll mend your bassinet!’

  ‘Who-whoop! Wo-whoop! Wo-o-o-o!’

  Charlie laughed. Under the earth, the forge bloomed. Comet and weathercock, the sun shone, music, turning to the wind.

  THE AIMER GATE

  Robert took Wicked Winnie off the wall and oiled her.

  The sky was coming light. It was going to be a hot day, but now it was cold.

  Wicked Winnie was made of oak planks and the frame of a bassinet. Robert had mounted a swivel on the front wheels, and fixed a length of sashcord, so that he could steer her.

  He went down the path to the road, set himself, heeled along twice and put his feet on the bar. The wheels were fast on the hill, and Robert had to lean out at the bottom to take the corner into the lane and over the Moss. The Moss was flat, and when the cart stopped, Robert got off and walked, pulling her after him. He reached Faddock Allman’s cottage, and knocked.

  ‘Mister Allman!’

  ‘Who goes there?’ shouted Faddock Allman. ‘Friend or foe?’

  ‘Friend,’ said Robert.

  ‘Advance, Friend, and be recognised!’ said Faddock Allman.

  The cottage was on a piece of wet land by the road. Robert went in.

  Faddock Allman had swept the floor and tidied his bed. His brew can was by him, his cocoa powder and sugar in two twists-of paper.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ said Robert.

  ‘Ay,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Get on parade.’

  ‘You’ll need your jacket,’ said Robert. He helped Faddock Allman put it on. There was a ribbon fastened to the jacket with a safety pin, orange, blue and yellow and a medal hung at the end.

  Faddock Allman picked up his brew can, dropped the twists of cocoa and sugar inside, fitted the lid, took hold of the handle in his teeth, and swung across the floor on his arms and onto the seat of the cart. He put two sacks by him, one to sit on, one for his shoulders in case it rained, and wedged his brew against the side.

  ‘Reach us me Toby,’ he said.

  The pith helmet Faddock Allman always wore was on the bed. Robert gave it to him. It was high-topped, and covered with khaki cloth. Faddock Allman settled it on his head, eased the chinstrap, and was ready.

  Robert passed the sashcord over his neck and under his arms and pulled. Wicked Winnie sank her wheels in the ground, but when she came to the road proper she moved without sticking.

  ‘Retreat! Forward! Charge!’ shouted Faddock Allman.

  Robert left the Moss and went up the Hough, past his own house, to Leah’s Hill.

  There were two fields of corn, one above the other, on Leah’s Hill. At the hedgeside, by the bottom field, was a space where Faddock Allman sat in summer, breaking stone to make road Hints.

  Faddock Allman folded the sacks on the ground and swung himself down to them. He rubbed his arms. ‘By heck, youth,’ he said, ‘it’s a thin wind aback of Polly Norbury’s.’

  ‘Must I go fetch you a brew?’ said Robert.

  ‘Only if the Missis has put the kettle on,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘And get me hammers.’

  Robert ran with the brew and Wicked Winnie the few yards to home. The kettle was on the fire, and Uncle Charlie was sitting by it, cleaning his rifle.

  ‘Now then, Dick-Richard,’ he said to Robert.

  It was Uncle Charlie’s last day of leave. His kitbag and equipment stood smart in a corner. Uncle Charlie was always smart. He shaved morning and night and smelt of soap and had his hair cut every week. He was a lance corporal in the army and wore a stripe on his sleeve. He was so clean he looked as though he washed with donkey-stone.

  But his rifle was cleaner. He cleaned his rifle all the time, rubbing linseed into the wood and line oil on the metal. Father said Uncle Charlie took his rifle to bed with him.

  ‘Now then, Dick-Richard, what are you at?’ said Uncle Charlie.

  ‘Is there a brew for Mister Allman?’ said Robert.

  ‘It’ll be a bad day when there isn’t,’ said Uncle Charli
e.

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘I’ll fetch his hammers,’ said Robert.

  He ran into the end room of the house. It was full of old things — bolts of dirty silk, tools, grease, iron, nails, screws, grain for the hens and hammers for cutting stone. Father let Faddock Allman use the hammers because they were good for nothing else, but he wouldn’t let him have them for his own. They had to come back each night. Father kept everything, even string.

  Uncle Charlie had put the cocoa and sugar on the table and filled the brew can with tea.

  ‘Come on, Dick-Richard,’ he said. ‘Let’s be having you.’

  He slung his rifle on his shoulder, picked up the brew can and went out. Robert ran after him with Wicked Winnie and the hammers.

  Men and women were gathering at Leah’s Hill. Ozzie Leah had brought a load for the day; scythes, whetstones, bantspinners, rakes, food and drink. The fields were too steep for the self-binder to reap on. He was going to have the corn cut by hand. And the only men skilled to scythe together in a team were Ozzie and Young Ollie Leah and Uncle Charlie.

  Robert had never seen Leah’s Hill sown. It was always pasture. But, with the war, even the rough meadows were ploughed now.

  ‘Eh up, Starie Chelevek,’ Uncle Charlie said to Faddock Allman. ‘Here’s your brew,’ He poured tea out of the can, using the lid as a cup.

  Faddock Allman shuffled round on his sack and took the cup. He drank, sucked his lips and held out the lid for more. ‘That’s the ticket,’ he said.

  ‘Mark time on this,’ said Uncle Charlie, ‘and then we’ll see if we can’t fetch you a drop of Ozzie’s stagger-juice.’

  Faddock Allman laughed.

  ‘And cop hold of this for us,’ said Uncle Charlie. He rattled the bolt of his rifle, opened it, checked that the breech was empty, took off the magazine, put the gun together again and handed it to Faddock Allman.

  Faddock Allman shouldered the rifle, saluted, and put it down on the sacking and covered it against dust.

  ‘All in!’ shouted Ozzie Leah.

  The three men took their scythes and a whetstone each and sharpened the blades, two strokes below the edge, one above. The metal rang like swords and bells.

  ‘Here’s your hammers, Mister Allman,’ said Robert.

  ‘Wait on,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘I’ve not finished me brew.’

  The men stood in a line, at the field edge, facing the hill, Ozzie on the outside, and began their swing. It was a slow swing, scythes and men like a big clock, back and to, back and to, against the hill they walked. They walked and swung, hips forward, letting the weight cut. It was as if they were walking in a yellow water before them. Each blade came up in time with each blade, at Ozzie’s march, for if they ever got out of time the blades would cut flesh and bone.

  Behind each man the corn swarf lay like silk in the light of poppies. And the women gathered the swarf by armfuls, spun bants of straw and tied in armfuls into sheaves, stacked sheaves into kivvers. Six sheaves stood to a kivver, and the kivvers must stand till the church bells had rung over them three times. Three weeks to harvest: but first was the getting.

  Faddock Allman had finished his brew and was sitting, his hands on his leg stumps, watching the men cut the hill.

  ‘You’ll be wanting stones, Mister Allman,’ said Robert.

  ‘Wait on, wait on,’ said Faddock Allman.

  The three men reached the corner by the gate to the top field, and pivoted in rhythm on the inside man, Young Ollie Leah. Their line was as straight as soldiers, and when Ozzie was abreast they moved forward along the hill.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ said Faddock Allman.

  ‘Whet!’ shouted Ozzie at the end of a blade swing, and the men stopped and sharpened up, two strokes below, one above; two and one, two and one, like a tune. And then they put the whetstones back in their pockets and began to cut again.

  ‘Right, youth,’ said Faddock Allman. I’ve been waiting to get at that devil all year.’

  ‘What?’ said Robert.

  ‘Where?’ said Robert.

  ‘Go up past them kivvers,’ said Faddock Allman, ‘and just inside top field, against the corn, you’ll see a little jackacre of land, by itself.’

  ‘I know,’ said Robert.

  ‘Ay, well, if you have a good feckazing in there, you’ll see the best stone for road flints there is in the Hough.’

  ‘Right, Mister Allman,’ said Robert, and pulled Wicked Winnie round into the field and up the hill. The ground between the kivvers was sharp stubble that put a polish on his boot soles. He kept slipping, and the stubble caught his knees.

  He reached the gate between the two fields. And beyond it there was a dip and a hump of green, with nettles and a few thistles going to seed. The patch was a bite out of the crop.

  Robert opened the gate and went in. The rough pasture hadn’t been ploughed and the meadow grass was thick. He could feel hardness ruckled under the ground, but he couldn’t reach it.

  He chopped with the edge of his heel irons at the biggest lump. He kept kicking. The grass came away in tufts, not strong enough to peel, but snagged with white roots. Robert chopped the roots until he reached sand. In the sand there was a corner of stone. He pulled at it but it didn’t move. He stamped on it but it didn’t break. He got his hand to it, and wrenched. The stone raggled like a tooth, enough to show between it and its own shape in the ground.

  Robert tried to lift it straight out, but his hands wouldn’t grip and he fell over. He knelt and scooped the sandy earth away, digging along the stone.

  It was a properstone, worked and dressed, and he had hold of one corner. The sides went away from the squared corner and there was nothing for him to grip. The stone went back into the hill.

  Robert tugged sideways again. More space showed, and he felt the stone move. He scooped more sand. The stone was yellow white. Now it wagged but wouldn’t come. He felt each swing jolt, and had to stop for breath. The grip was going from his fingers; so he spat on his hands, rubbed them together and tugged straight.

  The stone sighed out, and he held it. It was a stone clear as a brick, but bigger.

  ‘What the heck?’ said Robert.

  Now that the hill was open he could reach inside. There was more stone, all the same yellow white, a lot of it cob-ends of rubble, but every piece true. They came more easily the more he got. If a big piece stuck he took the smaller pieces from around and beneath it. Wicked Winnie was soon filled and she was a weight.

  Robert held her at full stretch of the sashcord, using himself as a brake, and let her down the hill to Faddock Allman.

  ‘Whet!’ shouted Ozzie.

  Every step jarred, and he had to stab at the ground with his heels to hold Wicked Winnie from running away with him. He went down the cleared ground of the swarfs.

  Then he slipped. The stubble was too polished. Robert sat down hard and slid. Wicked Winnie was trying to pull him forwards, but he lay back, holding the sash-cord, lay back, pressing his shoulders against the hill, his heels furrowing. He didn’t want to be dragged face down through that stubble.

  Kivvers were all about him. Robert heaved at the sash cord and rolled his body to steer. And Wicked Winnie swung close but didn’t hit. The last kivver went by, and Robert, Wicked Winnie and the stones all landed in the quickthorn hedge.

  ‘Yon’s a grand lot,’ said Faddock Allman.

  ‘Whet!’ shouted Ozzie.

  Up and down the field Robert went. He had never had such a day. When he got stones for Faddock Allman he had to find them one by one, all sorts, in lanes and hedge cops and at the ends of fields, every kind and size. Now, though, it seemed the hill was giving them to him.

  ‘Is that enough, Mister Allman?’ said Robert. He had made a pile that would last till winter.

  ‘Is it heck as like!’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Raunge the beggars out!’ So Robert did.

  And the scythes went round the field, cutting a square spiral to the centre. The rows of kivvers grew under the
heat of the day.

  ‘Baggin!’ shouted Ozzie Leah.

  The field stopped. Men and women went to the shaded edge, where food and beer were kept. The scythes were sharpened and laid against trees.

  ‘Eh up, Starie Chelevek! Fancy a wet?’ Uncle Charlie had left the others and come down to be with Faddock Allman. He’d brought baggin of bread and onion and cheese and a stone bottle of beer, a full gallon. He crouched on one heel and swigged from the bottle. ‘And what have you been at, Dick-Richard,’ he said, ‘mauling guts out of jackacres?’

  ‘It’s all cut stone,’ said Robert, ‘same as a quarry bank!’

  ‘It is that,’ said Faddock Allman. He took the bottle from Uncle Charlie and drank. ‘See at it!’ He hit a finished, squared perfect block and it broke into rough road Hints. ‘Grand,’ said Faddock Allman.

  ‘What’s it doing there?’ said Robert.

  ‘Nowt,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Grand!’ He split another.

  ‘Are all jackacres cut stone?’ said Robert.

  ‘Happen,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Number One! Fire!’ He smashed a stone. ‘Number Two! Fire!’ He smashed another.

  Uncle Charlie uncovered his rifle and polished the stock. He smiled.

  ‘Number Three!’ shouted Faddock Allman.

  ‘Cease firing and get your baggin,’ said Uncle Charlie.

  ‘Cease firing! Scatter homeward!’ shouted Faddock Allman, and bit into an onion, and chewed. He laughed at Robert.

  ‘I was twitting you, youth,’ he said. ‘You see, I recollect as how, at one time of day, there was a house stood yonder. And I recollect as how, when they fetched it down, I did enjoy chucking cob-ends through windows.’

  ‘All in!’ shouted Ozzie.

  ‘It was good,’ said Faddock Allman, ‘chucking cob-ends.’ He pulled the peak of his helmet over his eyes. ‘Number Three! Fire! Number Four! Fire!’ He laughed at the rock.