by S. C. Howe
‘I never learnt to ride.’
Joss sat back in the armchair and stretched. ‘It’s so good to have you back. Really good. I left you to sleep in – you rather slumped last night.’
‘I didn’t realise I was so knackered.’
For a second Joss looked serious. ‘And there’s no need for you to do a thing for as long as you want.’
Tom cleared his throat. ‘If we’re serious about the farm we need to start thinking about getting things rolling, you know. We might still manage a crop by next year if we get cracking.’
Joss looked at him, his mind blank. Just getting to where they were now had seemed the whole point. They had survived. They had bought a farm. They had arrived.
‘I think we need to discuss what we can actually do with the limitations we have,’ Tom was saying.
Pardon? Limitations...Wasn’t just being here enough? Joss thought.
Tom noticed the look on Joss’s face and thought he was merely mystified at the farming process.
‘A grain crop for the next summer should really be sown in the autumn,’ he explained patiently. ‘But if the ground thaws in the next few weeks, we might be lucky and get one in in time for next harvest... I mean, you are thinking about a cereal crop on some parts of the farm, aren’t you?’ It struck Tom then that they had not actually discussed what type of farming they were going to take up. He looked at Joss directly. ‘What are your thoughts on crops and stock?’
Joss fidgeted. ‘I thought we could discuss that together. ‘
‘Yes...’
‘Well, I suppose my ‘limitations’ mean I won’t be looking at heavy manual work – my back seems to be permanently buggered and I can’t repair my foot, so I had better look at the things I can do which means lighter work, perhaps chickens, or something.’
Tom nodded. ‘Horticulture even.’
‘What?’
‘Market gardening.’
‘What, messing around with flowers and fruit while you do the serious stuff?’
‘Joss...there’s nothing ‘messing around’ about either of those two things – in fact that’s probably where the money is. Wheat is a probable no-no because of the low prices before the war, but we need to sow an oat crop for the horses. This is only a relatively small farm so we need to maximize what we have.’
And I thought we could relax, Joss thought. ‘I can see you’ve been reading your Henry Stephens,’ he said, and there was an edge of sarcasm to his voice.
So why didn’t you? Tom thought. You had enough time, but then he said, as if to offset the thought, ‘I can see there was a huge amount of work to do with the renovations.’
They sat in silence for a minute or so, and then Tom kicked Joss’s good foot playfully. ‘I must sound like a real bore...What’s been done to this farm in six months is breath-taking. I had no idea it was going to be so transformed, look so good–’
‘And it’s the worst time of year for looking at anything,’ Joss interrupted. ‘But yes, it’s been very busy. Nearly all of the money from the sale of your house went on it – I did write this in the letters.’
‘Yes, I know... I’m surprised it didn’t cost more.’
‘It’s not a case what you or I did, but what we’ve done. Just look at what we’ve pulled off, Tom.’
Tom grinned. ‘I know.’
They spent the rest of the day discussing what their farm was going to comprise. Mixed, but with an emphasis on market gardening, for example, strawberries, tomatoes, egg production. It seemed the most sensible and most inclusive for Joss, and the fact there was a railway halt at the top of the track with the train going to Worcester in one direction and to Birmingham in the other, meant these crops could be easily transported. Joss could lead a plough, or a cart, while Tom drove them; for every heavy, physical job was a complementary and essential lighter one that Joss could do.
They talked on as the sun set and night drew in. They decided first on getting coops on wheels with a stock of chickens. Tom had read that if chickens were fed throughout the winter in a protected coop, they would carry on laying. So, it was decided that’s what they would do. Joss still had something left in the float to buy the coops and, by the late evening, he was fired up enough to take the milk train into Worcester and get delivery of coops and chickens arranged, but Tom had held up a beer bottle with a knowing leer. An hour and a half later, they were lying in front of the kitchen range laughing and quietly belching.
‘So where do we start?’ Joss said as they sat at the table in the kitchen the next morning. His head throbbed and his eyes were stinging.
Tom sat opposite, drinking water. ‘Digging and stuff... Hard work.’
Joss leaned with his hand propped against his cheek and grinned. And they carried on doing nothing.
The farmhouse, in spite of its stone-flagged floors and moderately high ceilings, was warm, even womb-like, and they maintained the fire in the range day and night, as well as a fire in the bedroom grate overnight, which kept until late the following morning. Never again were they going to be cold, or, for that matter, hungry. For nearly two weeks, they had prepared large meals, read books (not farming manuals) and gone for winter walks over their land, pointing out what would go where, and which field should produce what. They had agreed on the number of coops (four) and in the spring, would have had a glasshouse or two delivered, where Joss could start producing salad crops, such as lettuce and tomatoes. But for now, in the early January days after Christmas, the air smoked with cold when you spoke out of doors and daylight was ridiculously short, and colour seemed washed out of the natural world and could only be found indoors. In the first few days of the New Year – 1919 – they preferred to sit in the cavernous armchairs and read or talk, go to bed late and get up late. It was their due, and by this comforting routine, they seemed to be giving civilian society a rebuff. And so the days drifted into this comforting routine of doing very little. They found childish glee in bathing in the large tin tub in the kitchen, luxuriating in what would have seemed an impossible dream in a funk hole in the trenches. The scars from the physical wounds and abrasions were fading, the mass of marks from lice and fleabites had disappeared and they could feel the strength returning to their bodies. But Joss could not forget the pain in his back, which became so intense, like a flicker of lightning; it brought bile into his mouth and made him shiver violently. Sometimes when he went to get out of a seat or push up from crouching by a cupboard he had to will himself back onto his feet, often hauling himself up by catching hold of a shelf or door. The pain was a constant in his life, as light belonged to the day and dark belonged to night. There had been a few nights when the all-encompassing agony of nerves in his spine and legs, together with the sickening, drilling pain in his neck, had made him creep quietly downstairs and sit in the darkness. And then he would hear Tom padding down the stairs, muffled up in the standard plaid dressing gown, and, wordlessly, he would sit Joss down on the settle by the range, put his feet up on a stool, wrap a blanket around his shoulders and make him a compound in a hot drink, which always eased the pain. Then he would slide in beside him and drape the blanket over them, as they had in the trenches, and the compound would take effect. Joss never asked what was in it, and Tom never told him, but it worked and, within an hour, he was lying by Tom’s side in their bed, snuggled against him and he would sleep, and sleep without the fear of pain or its bitter reality.
Tom had awoken on his birthday – January 5th – to a glacial glow coming through the heavily curtained windows. Joss was not in bed and, as he sat up slowly, Tom heard him working in the kitchen. It sounded like an industrial event was going on below. He jumped out of the warm, warm bed, padded over to the chamber pot and urinated happily.
‘Tom, don’t come down!’ Joss called up the staircase. ‘We’re bringing a surprise up.’
Tom padded over to the washstand, brushed his teeth, brushed his hair and gladly went back into the cavernous bed. Next, the door skittered open and in walke
d Nico holding a homemade flag with ‘Tom’s birthday – hurrah!’ painted on it, trotting up to Tom who sat up in the bed, laughing. Nico dropped the flag on the bed and held out his paw. Tom shook it. Joss struggled in with a large tray adorned with the brown teapot and cups and saucers instead of their usual earthenware mugs.
‘Thought we’d be a bit upmarket,’ he said, trying to steady the tray, but it slumped sideways as he misjudged it with his injured hand. ‘For you,’ he said holding out a poured cup of tea, not seeming to notice what had just happened. Tom had corrected the tray from underneath the bedclothes. He sat smiling with real happiness at the gesture.
‘I’ve arranged an excursion today,’ Joss said. ‘If it’s what you’d like.’ Then he explained how they could take the train to Worcester, have a look around the bookshops, eat at The Cock’s Comb (a 14th-century hostelry by the River Severn) and look around anything Tom would like to see. Tom had smiled at him, knew the bookshop idea was for him alone (Joss was not the bookish type) and the ‘anything’ was probably alluding to historical things, although, in truth, Joss would have been far happier sitting in said hostelry (Joss was no academic).
‘How about we go and see about the chicken coops?’ Tom said. Joss hesitated then said, ‘Really? On your birthday? Are you sure?’
‘I had been waiting for you to suggest it.’
‘And I was waiting for you say you wanted to go.’
Downstairs, a breakfast feast was laid out. Well-done sausages lay on a skillet, fried eggs brightened a black frying pan on the range, and bacon sizzled with sliced mushrooms in another. Tom’s mouth watered outrageously. Joss pulled out a kitchen chair. Tom sat, and the feast began. They ate with gusto. Ate and ate, and at last, laid back in the farmhouse chairs, blowing out their cheeks. Out in the line, rations had kept them restrained, and when eating in front of others back in England, they had felt it their duty not to show how ravenous they actually were. Tom had sometimes bought food he had seen in the next shop after such meals, and gorged on chocolate or bread, in fact anything to fill the seemingly gaping mouth of hunger. Like cold and mud, they almost became used to hunger, but never quite. So now, this feast felt almost debauched, but this thought they brushed aside – it was kicking over the last trace, or so it seemed. The only trouble was that their stomachs, used to so much less, now physically hurt.
‘Blimey, that was good!’ Tom murmured, trying to quieten a belch.
Joss smiled at him broadly. ‘Almost felt a bit naughty didn’t it!’ He was eyeing Tom with interest.
Tom considered. ‘We’ll miss the train.
‘Balls to the train!’
‘You’re on!’
Later that afternoon, they sat sprawled in chairs in front of the range.
‘Did you mind missing Worcester?’ Joss asked.
‘What do you think?’
Joss grinned, rudely. ‘It was astounding.’
‘It usually is.’
‘D’you fancy another session?’
Tom got to his feet and pulled Joss up. ‘As I said, what do you think?’
Their lives began to get a routine. They made a point of getting out of bed by 8.30 a.m. and retiring before midnight. They knew they would have to get the hours back further but, for now, there was no rush. We can do it gradually. Over time. We have time. That eased their minds. However some nights were just plain bad. That’s when the memories came back, swooping into dreams, making nightmares. And, as the one chattered, shouted and sweated in terror nightmares, the other would draw them to, hold them and gently wake them out of the panic-ridden sleep. Would hold them, smooth their hair from their face, and whisper it was over. The other would come to, realise it was a nightmare. Then sleep would come peacefully to both. Neither needed to say anything – they knew, and that was enough.
They went to an agricultural supplier’s in Kidderminster a few days later. Chicken coops on wheels had been ordered (four) and then they went to a livestock merchant who agreed to bring up 40 hens and several cocks by train. An arrangement was made to collect them at the halt. The only outward sign of their front-line life, apart from Joss’s obvious limp, was the thing they called ‘sausage eye’ – they had become so used to looking sideways and up, that every little thing seemed to register, and a small bird, for example, a stray bit of litter whipped up by a wind, could bring them to their knees. Sausage eye. It was something they could not get used to. Nor the effect of a sudden loud noise, which would make them duck sharply. The occasional odd look from civilians did not worry them; it showed how completely soldiers and civilians were divorced from the other. In fact, Tom caught himself thinking, well, at least I was out there, but immediately felt tainted within. It wasn’t a badge of honour; it was a tragedy.
Only Mr and Mrs Deerman visited in those early days. There was another double bed in the spare bedroom. It was a good solid bed with highly serviceable blankets and linen. It would be useful if either needed to keep apart because of colds or flu, but primarily it was for show. To be seen by those who might want to look and be mollified and no-one would have to lie. Joss had also said from the outset that they needed flannel pyjamas, ‘Otherwise we’d never get any sleep’, he had said, winking at Tom.
On one afternoon when Tom was away at market, Mrs Deerman called.
‘How can you live like this?’ she asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Like this,’ she repeated, pointing to a few unwashed dishes and their used work clothes piled up on chairs. ‘And you don’t even have a bathroom.’
‘Most people don’t.’
‘You were brought up to expect these things.’
Joss stared at her, genuinely surprised. ‘And you think sitting in a filthy trench for over two years was high living, do you? No bathrooms out there, you know.’
‘You chose your rank, John.’
Joss went to move away, she grabbed his arm. ‘Did you ever think of the embarrassment you caused your father, or your uncle, even Roger? Do you ever think of other people’s feelings, John? Or is it only what you feel?’
Joss stepped back. ‘I don’t think that’s fair.’
Mrs Deerman reddened slightly, shook her head as though regretting what she had said.
‘Is that all you think I’m doing?’ said Joss. ‘Being perverse?’
‘No, I... But you could have been a higher rank in the medical core. Been a captain if you had put your mind to it.’
Joss looked at her, and something snapped. ‘Well, never mind, Mother, you have your heirs. You don’t need this spare.’
She looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Is that all you thought you were?’
Joss shrugged then staggered back as the harsh slap on his face made him lose his balance. Holding the burning area of his cheek, he starred at his mother in disbelief.
‘How dare you!’ she gasped, and walked over to the car, which seconds later was bumping up the track.
Joss sat on a stool, staring at the floor.
The next day, Mrs Deerman arrived early. Tom diplomatically left the room, after taking her coat and offering her a seat by the range.
‘I’ll stand, but thank you Thomas,’ she said patting his arm. He left the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Joss. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’
Joss drew her to him, hugged her, unable to say anything.
Mr Deerman walked in, took Joss aside.
‘I’m surprised at you, John,’ was all he said.
‘I’m sorry for what I said.’
‘We both worry about you, your mother particularly.’
Joss nodded. ‘You have nothing to worry over now, I can assure you.’
Mr Deerman gave his wife a brief look. She stood up and went outside.
‘I get what’s going on here,’ he said. ‘And what you are doing is...well–’
‘What?’
‘It’s against the law.’
‘What is?’
‘Don’t be obtuse. You kn
ow exactly what I mean.’
‘Funny, the last time I looked, killing was against the law.’
‘That was war.’
‘Oh, so that’s all right then.’
‘I haven’t come over here to argue with you, John. The way you two are living will attract the wrong attention... Just be more careful. Please.’
The way he said this made Joss look round.
‘Personally, I don’t care how you live here with Fielder,’ Mr Deerman said quietly. ‘But other people don’t think like that.’
‘Don’t you think that as we sweated it out over there, we should be allowed to live our own lives?’
‘Yes, I do. But don’t give anyone the chance to bring you down.’ Mr Deerman considered this new defensive side of his son, and sighed. Perhaps the difference was that now John had someone and something he cared about. ‘I don’t make the rules, none of us do. Discretion, that’s the key.’
Joss considered this, and nodded sadly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eating did seem to take a good deal of their time, which meant walking to the nearest village to get provisions. This took a half hour each way. Neither minded. There seemed enough time as the world was dormant, sleeping. At the village shop, John was known as ‘the Captain’ because of his accent, even though he explained patiently every time, that he was not, but people wanted to believe it, regardless. And it was here that the questions began.
‘How long was you out there then?’
‘Seen Passchendaele? The Somme? No? Well, that’s telling, ain’t it.’
‘The Marne then?’
‘Tell us the name of that one you fought before Fritz gave in?’
‘Was you ‘ungry?’
‘Cold?’
‘Frightened?’
Terrified.
Then they left off talking, and it was surprising how quickly interest dropped. Even so, Tom saw the same faces staring at them, trying to work out the personal connection between them. No-one was quite sure, and no-one asked.
