by Evie Grace
Catherine danced with Emily all the way to the farmyard where the men unloaded the cart onto the rick. As soon as the hops had been picked, they would thresh the grain ready for milling.
Ma, Catherine and Drusilla prepared food in the farmhouse kitchen. Emily and Matty carried it to the long tables that Pa had had set out in the meadow behind the house. There were barrels of strong beer from which everyone helped themselves, and quite quickly, the conversation became loud and the mood merry.
Before the band struck up once more, Pa stood on the table and raised his tankard.
‘A toast,’ he shouted.
‘Speech, speech,’ chanted the workers.
‘Let’s have none of your speechifying this year, Thomas,’ Ma sighed, but Catherine could see the pride in her eyes. Whatever Pa had done he had done right, because the yields of grain were higher than the year before, and the one before that.
‘A toast to the King. Long may he reign over us,’ he said.
‘To the “Sailor King”.’ The crowd applauded.
‘And a toast to you all. Don’t spend your wages all at once!’
‘To us.’
‘May you pay us what we’re owed,’ a high-pitched voice called out.
‘Don’t I always do that, Jervis?’ Pa said with good humour.
‘Hear, hear,’ someone else shouted out, one of the Irish. ‘Thomas Rook is a generous man with his shillings and beer. That’s why we come back to Overshill every summer.’
‘And I’m very grateful for that.’ Pa glanced along the table to where John was standing up. ‘Wait.’ John sat back down again, rocking the bench. ‘There’s plenty of time for singing and dancing. I haven’t finished yet.’ There was a barely suppressed groan from the members of the band who were fidgeting to pick up their instruments and start playing.
Pa straightened his back and raised his tankard for a third time.
‘Lastly, let us raise a toast to the new machine. May she thresh fast and furious.’
Silence fell. Catherine shivered at the slight chill in the air as the sun’s rays crept away from the table. She’d heard her father talking animatedly about this new miracle machine that would halve the manpower required to thresh the harvest. But she’d also heard other men mumbling these past two weeks about how it would be the end of their livelihoods, and she wondered why her father had even brought it up.
Matty stood up with the setting sun like a halo around his head. Jervis moved close behind him.
‘Go on, speak,’ he muttered.
Matty, emboldened by the drink, and the support of some of the other young men, wiped his palms on his trousers.
‘Sir, I will not toast the machine,’ he said.
‘Sit down and shut your mouth,’ George said sharply. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. He’s had a mite too much beer.’
Catherine wondered why Matty had been put up for the argument. Perhaps it was because the other labourers perceived that Pa would listen if it came from one of his favourites. Or perhaps this was how he really felt, although she found it hard to imagine him going against her pa so openly. This was another side of Matty altogether.
‘Never mind. I was a young man once,’ Pa said. ‘Let him have his say.’
‘It’s flailing and winnowing that keeps us in work for the winter, sir.’ Matty’s eyes flashed with a boldness that Catherine hadn’t seen in him before, not even when they had been at school. He’d cheeked Old Faggy often enough, but when she’d turned on him, he’d run away, or blushed and lowered his eyes, knowing he’d been in the wrong. Now, he was speaking against her father in front of everyone, convinced that he was in the right. ‘How will we provide for our families then?’
‘There’ll still be plenty of work for all,’ Pa said. ‘The machine needs men to keep it going, not just farm workers, but wheelwrights and blacksmiths too. I’m not blind. I can see how people struggle, living hand to mouth, and that’s why I want to do my bit to embrace new methods of farming. By using machines, I can bring more bread to the table. No one need starve ever again.’
‘What’s the use of more bread if no one can afford to buy it?’ Matty said sullenly.
‘There’ll be other work. You’ll soon see that there’s nothing to fear.’
‘What about the danger in it?’ Jervis joined in. ‘I’ve heard of a farmer upcountry who got his hand caught in the drum. They tried to stop the horse, but it panicked and tried to get away. It smashed his hand to atoms it did, and he died the next day from the shock of it.’
‘It’s just a rumour spread by those who are afraid of change. The machine is completely safe. I’ll prove it to you. We’ll have it running tomorrow morning. Everyone is welcome. In the meantime, let’s eat, drink and be merry.’
Amid the cheering, Catherine thought she heard someone, Jervis maybe, say, ‘While we can.’
As more beer flowed, the mood lightened. The band picked up their instruments and began to play. Jervis and Stephen sang at the tops of their voices with Drusilla looking on.
‘Drusilla has taken a fancy to Jervis,’ Emily observed as she and Catherine were dancing on the stubble with some of the other village girls. ‘And Stephen has his eyes on you.’
Matty and Stephen paused the music for a moment while they propped their father up against the back wall of the barn so he could continue playing his accordion. Stephen caught Catherine’s eye and smiled. She smiled back out of politeness, hardly thinking of Stephen at all. Matty and her father wanted the same thing, prosperity for everyone, but they had different ideas of how to go about it.
The dancers began to tire. The lyrics to the songs became coarser. As they started to sing about a modest maid of Kent who didn’t know what kissing meant, Catherine and Emily took themselves off to see if Margaret had produced her piglets.
‘I can’t see any,’ Emily said as the sow snuffled around in the straw.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ said Catherine as another noise caught her attention: a giggle and the deep tones of her brother’s voice.
‘Who’s that?’ Emily whispered.
‘It’s John and another.’ Catherine caught her friend’s hand. ‘This way.’ They crept past the open door to the barn where she caught sight of the silhouette of a couple against the moonlight, wrapped in each other’s arms. ‘It’s Mary.’
‘One of the sisters from Sinderberry Farm? What are they doing in there?’
‘What comes naturally.’
‘What’s that? What do you mean?’
Catherine smiled. She had seen the boar and the sows together so she knew all about it, more than poor Emily who’d led a sheltered life at the mill.
‘Hush. They’ve been courting for ages.’ If she’d feared that they would disturb the lovers, she needn’t have worried. She felt a sudden flood of emotion in her breast, a sadness and yearning, and a hope that she would one day fall in love, but with whom? She knew that Ma had plans for her, which didn’t seem fair when John appeared to be free to choose whomever he pleased – as long as she was a farmer’s daughter from a line of fertile stock, and she was modest, clean and respectable.
The morning after the harvest supper, Catherine fed the chickens and plucked the young cockerel that Pa had despatched earlier. The tabby cat watched as she put the feathers in a bag and took the bird indoors to the pantry where it would sit until Drusilla was ready to add it to the stew-pot for supper. The maid was upstairs emptying the slops and airing the beds. Ma was in the kitchen rubbing cold cream made from lard, wax and oil of lavender into her hands.
‘Look how my skin suffers,’ she moaned. ‘I don’t suppose that Squire Temple’s wife has to endure the effects of bodily labour like I do.’
‘Where is John?’ Catherine asked, ignoring her mother’s complaint.
‘He’s on his way. Can’t you hear the sound of his big feet on the stairs?’
Catherine looked towards the doorway where John appeared.
‘You look well for someone who was completely pickled last n
ight. Where did you get to?’ she said with a wicked smile as he took a whole loaf of bread from the pantry.
‘I’m not telling you,’ he said with a grin.
‘I seen you in the barn with Mary.’
‘Your mind must ha’ been playing tricks on you.’ John’s cheeks grew pink as he tried to deny it. ‘Or it was Jervis having his way with Drusilla.’
‘I hope he wasn’t interfering with our maid,’ Ma said. ‘I’ll be having a word with her.’
‘I seen you clear as anything,’ Catherine repeated.
‘I’ll shut you in with the hens tonight if you aren’t careful,’ John said lightly.
‘You wouldn’t dare. Pa wouldn’t let you.’ Catherine giggled, but she was a little fearful that her brother might carry out his threat. When she was younger he had tipped her up and dangled her over the horses’ trough, dunking her head in the ice-cold water when she had refused to tell him where she’d hidden his shoes.
‘Stop your teasing and leave the poor lad alone. Don’t put him off,’ Ma interrupted gleefully. ‘It’s taken him an age to get this far, but now I have high expectations that there will soon be an announcement.’
‘It won’t be for a while,’ John said. ‘There’s too much to be doing on the farm.’
‘If you leave it too long, she’ll walk out with somebody else,’ Ma said.
‘Pa says there’s no hurry while he’s fit and well.’ John began to demolish the loaf, slicing it into hunks and spreading them with butter and jam. ‘I don’t want to put a noose around my neck before I have to.’
‘Is that how Pa describes his marriage?’ Ma said sharply.
‘No, not exactly. I reckon he was talking of getting hitched in general, not in particular.’
‘Well, Mary’s a good match and you’d be a fool to let her go.’
John started to eat a piece of bread and took the rest outside with him, just as someone rapped at the front door.
‘Aren’t you going?’ Ma said pointedly.
‘Of course.’ Catherine hurried out to the hallway and opened the door to find the Reverend Browning, dressed in a gentleman’s attire and a shirt with a collar, on the doorstep. He poked the end of his silver-topped cane just inside the door as if he feared she might close it on him.
‘Good morning. I should like to speak to Mr Rook,’ he lisped.
‘Let me take you to him,’ Catherine said.
‘Allow me,’ Ma said from behind her. ‘Good morning, vicar. It’s a pleasure to welcome you into our home.’
‘Good day, Mrs Rook. I must speak with Mr Rook immediately,’ he insisted.
Ma showed him through to the yard where Pa was shouting at John, Matty and George as they set up the threshing machine so there was enough room to manoeuvre the horses. Catherine followed, eager to listen to what the vicar had to say.
‘Can’t this wait until the next vestry?’ Pa grumbled. ‘That’s the place to discuss parish matters.’
‘It is a matter of urgency.’ The Reverend Browning nodded towards the machine. ‘Naturally, I should hate to interrupt the course of progress, but I have to express my disgust at the orgy of drunkenness and lechery that went on last night. The people of Overshill are debauched and depraved. They have been allowed to stray for far too long.’
‘The harvest supper’s always a riotous occasion. People like to keep their spirits up with a good song and dance,’ Pa said, one eyebrow raised.
‘I would like to think that, as a churchwarden and respectable member of society, you would know better than to encourage them. Last night there were goings-on in the churchyard, and this morning there is graffiti chalked on the door of the church.’
‘I’ll send someone over to scrub it clean. Don’t worry, vicar. It’s high jinks, that’s all,’ Pa said impatiently. ‘George, fetch the horses.’
‘I intend to bring the harvest celebration into the church next year to promote the virtues of sobriety and high moral standards.’
‘I don’t like the sound of it.’ Pa rubbed his chin.
‘I trust I can count on your support.’
The sound of hooves clattering at speed along the road towards the farm broke into their conversation. Squire Temple and his bailiff swung into the yard on their horses, much finer creatures than the pair of carthorses that George was bringing out of the stables to power the threshing machine.
‘We will take a vote on it at the next meeting,’ the vicar said before the squire greeted him and Pa, and introduced him to the bailiff who oversaw the home farm on the squire’s estate and collected rent from the tenants.
Squire Temple was wearing a hat, coat, breeches and long leather boots. He sat on his sway-backed horse, leaning back in the saddle, with his toes sticking forwards and downwards and his hands held high. In his forties, he had a reputation for hunting, drinking and getting involved in local politics. He and Pa had a mutual respect for each other because of their interest in farming and custodianship of the land.
Pa called John to his side. John doffed an imaginary hat.
‘Good morning, Master Rook.’ The squire smiled. ‘I’ve come to see what this machine can do. According to your father, every farmer will have one by the end of the year.’
‘Indeed, sir. That’s what he believes,’ John said, nodding.
‘And do you believe it too?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Do you agree with everything your father says?’ the squire asked with a hint of challenge in his tone.
‘Yes, sir. Almost. Except for his decision to plant barley instead of peas on the long acre next year.’ John was referring to one of the strips of land to the south of the farmhouse. ‘I’ve told him he shouldn’t put all his eggs in one basket.’
‘The squire doesn’t want to hear about our bickering,’ Pa said quickly. ‘I haven’t settled on barley yet, but there’s a growing market for it. The brewers at Faversham can’t get enow.’
‘When’s the threshing going to start?’ Squire Temple said, changing the subject. ‘I don’t have all day.’
‘It won’t be long, sir,’ Pa said, glancing past him, to where Mr Nobbs, Mary’s father and tenant of Sinderberry Farm, was rapidly approaching. Behind him, the young Carters were making slow progress, helping their mother along the lane. ‘John, go and help Ma Carter.’
John, perhaps fearing a confrontation, didn’t wait to be bidden twice.
‘Good morning, Ed,’ Pa said, shaking his hand. ‘I knew your curiosity would get the better of you. How is your wife?’
‘She is well, thank you, but don’t try to soft-soap me.’ Mr Nobbs was an ebullient character with red cheeks and roughened hands to match. His head was bald and shone in the sunshine, yet wiry curls sprang from the back of his neck and chin. He was taller and broader than Pa.
‘You’ve heard that Mary is walking out with my son,’ Pa said.
‘Who hasn’t? It’s all over the village and has bin for some considerable time. I’d appreciate it if you’d make it clear where his duties lie. I expect him to do right by her very soon. I don’t like the idea of a long drawn-out courtship, not for one of my daughters. It’s best that these things are settled so there can be no wrongtakes.’
‘They’re young yet.’
‘Mary is twenty-two. There’s nothing I’d like more than to see her walk down the aisle with the son of one of East Kent’s finest farmers, but by Christmas, or not at all. Send the lad over to me this week,’ Mr Nobbs went on.
‘I’ll speak to him on the matter,’ Pa said.
Other people were arriving, some of the labourers turning up with their flails as though they were expecting the machine to fail. Ma Carter was among them, having struggled the short distance from the cottage to watch, two of her little ones bringing a chair for her. She sat down, her hair straggling from beneath her bonnet, her face pale and pillow-like, and her eyes bulging rather like a toad’s, Catherine thought, feeling sorry for her.
The vicar, who had remained to se
e the machine, went to speak to her to see if there was anything his wife could bring her to make life a little easier.
‘If Mrs Browning was able to bring me good health, that would be all I would ask of her,’ she said, ‘but failing that, a loaf of bread and a fat hen for the pot would help put some food in the little ones’ bellies.’
‘I shall see what I can do. Let me remind you, Mrs Carter, that a prayer to God and attendance at the church will bring you much comfort. It seems that as you can get yourself to Wanstall Farm, it wouldn’t be much of an effort for you to walk to church on a Sunday morning, especially if you gave yourself plenty of time to get there. It’s my belief that many of these ailments among the poor could be prevented if they only took some fresh air, and opened their minds to the Lord. An hour listening to one of my sermons can do wonders for a person’s health.’
‘He thinks himself a doctor as well as a clergyman,’ Catherine said. ‘Listening to one of his sermons for an hour feels like a leety death.’
‘Shh,’ said Ma Rook. ‘You mustn’t talk lightly of dying like that. It comes to us all too soon.’
‘But he is so dull.’
‘It is a vicar’s calling to be dull,’ Ma asserted. ‘That way nobody can be accused of going to church for entertainment.’
Mr White the wheelwright was a guest of honour, and present, Catherine suspected, in case the machine should require emergency repairs. Emily joined her, and the crowd swelled to about fifty people. Some stood on upturned buckets and ladders that they’d brought with them for a better view.
‘Let’s see this miracle of engineering,’ said Mr Nobbs.
‘It doesn’t look much,’ someone else observed as they gazed at the wood and metal monster with its belts and pulleys.
A pair of horses were harnessed, standing patiently for work to begin. George Carter was at the lead horse’s head. When Pa nodded, George made a clicking sound in his throat and the horses stepped forwards, their movement powering the drive shaft that sent the spinning drum and straw rollers into motion with a great shaking and shuddering. For a moment, the machine stopped abruptly with a jerk and the crowd held their breath. George urged the horses on and gradually the machine squealed and grated into action. Pa clambered onto the top to untie the first sheaf and feed it into the drum, which gobbled it up in an instant.
