by S. C. Howe
‘Fresh air’ll do you good,’ said the one, as Barratt stared unblinking at the side of his face.
‘Get him a cab,’ said the other but Barratt wandered off. Everything was blurred, unreal; he was walking though some bendy, dream world. Then suddenly people were closing in on him, tighter, like a slip knot. Barratt backed against a wall, then seeing the enemy, he charged, revolver outstretched. Man against man. A last-ditch stand. Every man for himself now, lads!
Hours later, Barratt woke in the dark of a police cell.
Jasper the horse had settled into life at Heathend seamlessly. The chickens, all forty of them, scratched and flapped in the meadow and started producing eggs by the boxful. Tom had read up on the mash to give them and everyday laboured in the outhouse with buckets, vegetable scraps, oat mash, grit and pails of water. He cleaned them out by strict routine, and moved the coops in the way the textbooks suggested. Then he started building a midden in the furthest corner of the courtyard using the diagrams in Stephens’ book. Joss had assisted him, patiently holding timbers while Tom sat astride them bolting them together, and slowly the farmyard grew into life. Jasper was a willing horse to the plough. Joss had cleaned up and oiled the old plough they had bought from the market, and then led the horse quietly as Tom pushed the plough into the fallow land on the other side of the small stream. It was surprising what hard physical work thrusting the plough into and along the rows was; after half an acre, even Tom was forced to call a halt as daylight faded into evening. Only when he was sitting in the tin bath in front of the range, did he, at last, let his aching body relax into the water. It was as though he was being snapped at the heels by the need to work, by the fear of failure in the farm. It drove him on until this evening when he had called for Joss’s help as he stood dizzy with fatigue and Joss had ably fed the chickens and talked of making a wheeled, hand-drawn cart so he could take over that job. Inside, Tom had felt a shudder of uncertainty, but said nothing. Now, letting the hot water run over him from the jug held by Joss who sat on a higher wooden stool, he looked up.
‘I’m not much good at delegating, am I?’ he said.
‘Nope,’ Joss said simply. ‘And I’ve realised I can do more than I thought if I adapt things. Like the feed cart I’m going to put together for the chickens.’
‘I’m worried about this farm not working. You do know the Ministry of Agriculture intervene–’
‘Balls to the Min of Ag.’
‘But if we get turned off, we might not be able to live together.’
Joss stopped pouring the water. ‘What are you talking about? No-one can turn us off this – we own it. We’re together for good. It’s as simple as that.’
‘We may need to take some help on,’ Tom said, signalling him to pour the water over him again.
‘If we need to, we need to.’
‘It’s a case of we need to employ some casual labour to make the farm productive, but we can’t afford to pay anyone until we are productive.’
‘I’m sure that makes sense to you, but all I know is half-killing yourself with work isn’t going to help anyone,’ said Joss.
Tom was soaping his chest. Joss gave an appreciative lopsided grin. The renewed physical work was creating more muscle.
‘Seriously Tom, you need to stop pushing yourself so much,’ he said. ‘It really doesn’t matter if it takes a day or so longer to plough the fallow.’
Tom considered then nodded his wet head. ‘Yes, you’re right.’
The next morning was one of those beautifully sunny days on the verge of spring when the sun was warm enough to sit out on the stone bench on the sunlit side of the farmhouse that faced the courtyard.
Tom had a board propped on his knees, was going through bills and accounts in a new ledger. The sun was marvellous, and, for a second, he put the papers down, closed his eyes and tilted his face up to feel the sun caress his skin. Then the next moment came a long, gentle kiss on his lips, and, opening his eyes, he saw Joss stooping down, holding a mug of tea to one side. Tom took hold of him around the neck. Joss put the mug to one side and, straddling him, they kissed. It was only when Joss’s side started to cramp, that he got to his feet. Sitting by Tom, he put an arm around his shoulders and drew him in. ‘And no more worrying about the Min of Ag, or any of that stuff. I’m starting to realise I can do more than I thought and over the next few months we’ll get everything up and running, so no more worrying.’
Joss looked at the papers Tom had been studying. ‘I can sort through all this.’
Tom explained the accounts system and Joss nodded at intervals. Tom sat back in the seat and his head started to nod. He jerked awake.
‘Doze in the sun, if you want to,’ Joss said.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I need to work.’
‘Why?’
Tom thought. ‘You know,’ he said lamely at last.
‘No, I don’t know.’
Tom smiled briefly. ‘I can’t sleep knowing you’re working.’
‘I wish you would.’
Tom went into the house and brought out two cushions, and putting them on the floor, slid down and leaned against Joss’s legs. Within seconds, his eyes were shut and he was asleep, Nico edged his way on to his lap. Joss quietly worked through the accounts and, as Tom started to come to, he nudged him.
‘Here, look, all done,’ Joss said, holding the accounts book out. There were two, albeit rather carelessly arranged columns of figures.
Tom refocused onto the over-bright page in the sun, and nodded. ‘Spot on. Thanks.’
Joss looked down at him, stroked his socked foot against Tom’s thigh. ‘It may take some time to realise it, but you will eventually have to accept that we can do what we want here.’
Tom considered that, then leaned back and shut his eyes. Joss was surprised, and just a little disappointed, when, moments later, he heard Tom snoring softly into his chest.
The next day was even warmer. After the early morning chores, Tom dug the flowerbed by the old stone bench by the door and then forked the soil so it fell in fine granules. Tilth it was called. It was good to feel its fineness as it trickled through his rough fingers, silky, only just moist. He thought of the centuries of kitchen waste that had probably been slopped out here to produce this dark brown, chocolatey soil. He raked it. It was comforting to see soil ordered, to see footprints remain rather than drown in water and mud. He drilled lines with a stick and the soil held either side, like the furrows from a miniature plough. He sprinkled the seed, making sure there would be no bald sections or areas choked with tiny dots which may have grown into life. First, he sowed sweet peas, then hollyhocks, lastly foxgloves, all in neat and ordered well-spaced rows. He covered the tiny furrows over gently, sprinkled them with water, thought of the coming months. Imagined the foxgloves pushing up their big, leafy bunches; the sweet peas, slender, like young men; the hollyhocks thrusting through the ground, bold and certain. He could hardly wait to see the first seedlings break through the soil, as though in some ancient conception, see the furrows hinted with green. Stepping back, he smiled at his work then pegged the seed wrappers to the appropriate rows.
The afternoon was almost hot. Hot enough for shirtsleeves. They ploughed the fallow field and harrowed it. The rough, string-like grass gave easily to the plough and the same soft, velvety soil drew back, crumbling in the wake of the ploughshare, like granular foam. He would sow the oat seed tomorrow and their future would emerge in tiny, light green blades over this dark brown earth, an earth that had surprised him as he was expecting thin, pink sandstone soil he had first seen at the farm. The surrounding countryside looked skeletal, twigs and branches looked rain-grey and dried-out, with only a slight swelling of green buds to suggest new life was coming. It was like looking through a blue filter without a leaf or wisp of summer haze to deflect the sunlight. The fields stretched out with the grass glinting in the distance; the distance was clear, as though the last traces of cold and har
dship were gently evaporating. They led Jasper to the pasture by the stream, let him loose and laughed as he whinnied and bucked like a colt. The afternoon sun shone peach-like on Joss’s face, picked out the lighter strands of his fair hair. Tom pulled him up to him, unbuttoned Joss’s baggy and non-too clean shirt, and pushed his hand in around his waist. Joss cradled the back of Tom’s head, kissed him, kneading his hair. Unfastening Joss’s belt buckle, Tom eased his trousers down, and pushed him down against the hedge and climbed onto him. ‘Got you!’ Tom grinned as Joss lay, relaxed and unselfconscious. Tom carefully removed Joss’s shirt until he lay naked in the sun. Tom swallowed and his own clothes seemed a cheat. Undressing carelessly, he did not take his eyes off Joss’s face. Joss kneaded the muscles in Tom’s chest above him, then felt his deep shoulders and his mouth went dry – his own urgent arousal mirrored perfectly by Tom’s, so then there was only desire, the certainly of sex, the intense need of the act. Their lovemaking was so easy, so tender in that afternoon sun, feeling the warmth on skin, feeling the sweat flowing gently down to the small of the back. Their mounting rhythm so attuned to the other...and afterwards, holding the other, until the chill of the incipient evening made them reach for their clothes.
They walked back to the bench. As they sat, they looked out across the fields and up onto the terrace where the heath began and a darker, wilder world lay. The chalk-like impression of the moon hung in the sky. They remembered the old intimacy of the trench-nights, of the closeness beneath blankets, the illusion of safety. Now it was real.
‘Thank you for coming over,’ Mrs Barratt said confidentially. ‘Charles will be so pleased to see you.’
Joss and Tom stood in the porchway of a smart Edwardian house. They were big places, but curiously alike, red brick with white-painted sash windows and monkey puzzle or spruce trees in neat lawns at the front. Barratt stood up as they walked into a front sitting room. Joss stared. Barratt had a painful bruise around his left eye, which had gone green and mauve, like agate, and had several stitches to his chin. He was pale and his hand trembled.
He tried to smile. ‘I’ve made a bit of an arse of myself,’ he said.
‘You look ill,’ Joss said.
Barratt shrugged. ‘I’ve lost my job and I’ve had to give up the place I was renting.’
‘Come and stay with us,’ Tom said.
Barratt gave him a kind smile. ‘Thanks Fielder, but I don’t think I’m the bucolic type.’
‘The offer’s there,’ Joss said.
Barratt flicked away the idea and then seemed to lose interest. ‘Life’s quiet, isn’t it?’ he said at last. ‘Didn’t think I would ever say that, but there it is.’
From the hall came the sound of a tea trolley. ‘Here we go,’ he said, ‘death by teacups.’
They all got to their feet as Mrs Barratt entered to the room. She signed for them to sit down, almost impatiently, parked the contraption and went out without a word.
‘I miss the men in the line, much more than I thought,’ Barratt continued. ‘It was always, “all right, Sir?”, however bloody things were. There was always that feeling things would get better.’
‘It’ll come back, Sir,’ Tom said, handing him a cup and saucer, which predictably clattered as Barratt took it.
‘Please stop calling me “Sir”,’ Barratt said. ‘It makes me sound like a bloody school master!’
There was an uncomfortable laugh from Joss.
‘Do you know I even make up scenarios about meeting some of the old company,’ Barratt continued. ‘Hearing how they’re getting on, what they’re all doing. But then I think, apart from one or two survivors, all the rest are gone. Then I think what the bloody hell was it all for. What did it achieve? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That’s the worst bit.’ Barratt tried to light a cigarette with an ornate lighter on the table, which did not work. Throwing it to one side, he felt in his pocket for a box of matches.
‘What would you like to do?’ Joss asked.
Barratt peered up, looked momentarily as though he had forgotten they were there. ‘Oh I don’t know...,’ he said. ‘Go and sell matches on street corners with the rest, I suppose.’
The next morning, Barratt waited for the train. It had been easy giving his parents the slip. He had packed two changes of clothes in his kit bag and left a note in an envelope on the hall table. Once settled, he would write and explain why: why he drank, why he could not face them, or their well-meaning friends, why he had to keep on running. As there was no-one on the platform, he pulled out his hip flask and took several long swigs. Then he sat back, feeling its false calm, and watched through the gloom for the train to take him away. On board the train, he felt people watching, as though they knew about the hip flask in his inner pocket. He tried to avoid their eyes, felt a sudden intense shame. Then he straightened himself. Who the hell were they anyway? While I was out there, where were you? What were you doing? Reading about it?
It started raining. The early spring landscape turned grey and watery, as though nothing was substantial. Life was like that now, like a limbering up to something. It seemed impossible that this was how the rest of his life would go on. The reality seemed to be the trenches, obscene as it was to admit it. Out there, the minutes – by being in the balance between life and death – seemed vital: there for the living. Even the quiet times had seemed more real. There were always people with him. There was something extraordinary about it, as he imagined it would be on a sinking ship: one’s life focussed into concentrated moments. He got up as they slowed down for Kidderminster. He knew exactly where to find Briggs. Walking down the long hill from the station into the town centre, between the tall, sooty buildings to Worcester Cross, he felt a skip of dread in his stomach. He walked faster. The air smelled thick with carpet flights, smelled of wet wool, but was oddly dry and rasping. He could see the horses stamping in the cabstand in front of the retail market, could visualise Briggs by the town hall in a dishevelled uniform. But as he walked up, he saw the steps were bare.
“Lo again,’ said a voice from the doorway. Barratt swung round. The scruffy lieutenant stepped out.
‘Ah Briggs, I was hoping to find you again.’
‘My name’s Sykes.’
‘Oh.’
Barratt looked at him more closely; saw how he was pale with cold. ‘Here, have a swig,’ he said, handing him his hip flask. Sykes took several long draughts then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Why were you standing in here?’
‘It was raining.’ It had stopped raining over half an hour ago but this seemed explanation enough. ‘I suppose I can come out now,’ he added, peering myopically into the watery sunlight. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
Barratt shrugged. ‘Filling in time, like the rest of us,’ guessed Sykes. ‘Well, I’ll join you. It’s no life walking around on your own.’
And so they walked on. Barratt nudged him as they passed the old library. ‘There’s one of my men,’ he said, pointing. ‘Fielder.’ Tom was walking quickly towards a seed merchants’ looking preoccupied. ‘I won’t bother him now though. Looks engrossed with something.’
CHAPTER NINE
It was time to get some hand tools Tom decided. As he passed the cattle pens of the livestock market, he kept looking toward the library building, walked around it so he could see the Schools of Art and Sciences. Somewhere inside was the museum he had been meaning to visit, but he had to make the farm purchases. In fact, seeing the cattle pens, he realised he should discuss getting a small dairy herd with Joss. Why had they not thought about that? Even if a few cows would initially provide for their own needs, they should get started. But then Joss couldn’t milk them, with his back the way it was. And had he time, on top of all the other farming commitments? Perhaps sheep were a better idea. Get some hardy varieties. First things first, he needed slashers, billhooks and scythes. He rushed through the crowds to a hardware shop that sold smaller farm implements and bought these tools, then two hoes and two
seed broadcasters. Standing by the heap in the shop’s entrance, he wondered how he was going to get them back to Heathend. It was about a mile uphill to the station and a tram was clearly out of the question, but somehow he would have to manage. He covered a short distance, lost hold and the tools clattered to the ground.
‘Well, if it isn’t my old friend Fielder!’ came a nasal twang. Tom’s stomach clenched. The next moment Roger Deerman, still in his major’s uniform, was stooping by his side, helping him to pick the tools up.
‘Where are you trying to head?’ Deerman asked, his eyes running up and down Tom’s body as though undressing him in his mind.
‘To the railway station.’
‘Rather a long way, isn’t it?’
‘Not too far.’ Tom kept his head down; wished Deerman would go away.
‘I’ll give you a hand.’
‘It’s all right,’ Tom said hurriedly, looking up. ‘I’ll manage.’
‘I’m going your way, Fielder.’
Before Tom could reply, Deerman had picked up several tools and was striding towards the open bay of the market. He was talking but Tom was too confused to take in what he was saying. Instead, he noticed how Deerman concentrated on the damp, greasy pavements, not putting a foot wrong. Everything about him had that fine control. Control was obviously the key to getting through this confusion. They passed a cafe near the station.
‘We’ll stop for refreshment,’ Deerman said.
‘No. I can’t stop.’
Deerman smiled. ‘Don’t worry Fielder, I’m not about to seduce you,’ he whispered. ‘And stop being so ungrateful,’ he added in a low, assertive tone.
Was he? Did he come over that way? Tom hesitated then followed him in.
Deerman sat opposite Tom. His fine chiselled features twitched into a smile. His hair flopped forward and he pushed it out of the way with a practised flourish. Tom’s eyes kept going back to the red tabs on his shoulders.
‘You’re still in the army?’
