by S. C. Howe
Bit by bit, he put money aside for a better plough and a reaper for next year’s cereal harvest. And it was on an afternoon in February of 1920 that he walked into Roger Deerman in Kidderminster town centre. It was one of those late amber afternoons, after a morning of silver frost. Tom had been leaning over the stall of a market trader discussing cereal prices and had swung round to carry on his way when he walked straight into Deerman.
‘Oops!’ said Deerman. ‘I think you owe me a beer for that.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh come on Fielder, don’t be a spoil sport. Anyway I have a suggestion to put to you.’
‘What?’
‘A business proposition.’
‘I was going to have a pint at the Market Arms,’ Tom said. ‘You can tell me there if you want.’
A look of disdain flickered over Deerman’s face. ‘If we must.’
They walked into the warm but dark interior of the public house, which was close to the entrance of the market. Deerman pushed towards the bar and, before Tom could get there, ordered two pints of bitter. Bringing them to the table by the door, he looked at Tom and gave a thin smile.
‘I’m surprised little bro isn’t with you.’
‘It doesn’t take two of us to look up the prices of a plough.’
‘So he leaves all those choices to you, does he?’
‘What was your business proposal?’
‘I have some contacts, and I am sure if I had a few words in a few ears, I could secure you an agreement with a wholesaler or two.’
‘And why would you want to do that?’
Deerman sat back in mock surprise. ‘To be civil. Anyway, I can see you have drive and that should be encouraged. So why don’t you allow me to help you and the younger sprog. We don’t want talent like yours going to waste.’
Tom hesitated. Solid outlets for the market gardening produced next year would be helpful; at present, he only had a season-at-a-time agreement with a few shops.
‘You’ll be doing John a favour,’ Deerman was saying. ‘When you have these agreements up and running, he’ll be so grateful, mark my word.’
Tom eyed him suspiciously. ‘But what’s in this for you?’
‘Seeing the younger sib’s venture succeed, you finding your métier. I can be a nice person you know, when I want to be. I want to get you a leg up.’
Tom ignored the double meaning and thought it over. The middleman side of the farm was their weakest point and, if they could get a secure deal, then it would make selling the produce so much easier. ‘I am serious about making the farm a success.’
‘I can see that,’ said Deerman leaning towards him as though about to reveal a confidence. ‘And you’re speaking to someone who admires that sort of push. That’s the attitude that’ll make Britain great again. Enterprise and guts; and you have it in good measure, Fielder.’
There was nothing to lose by playing along with Deerman’s game, and it might actually lead to a few permanent deals with the middlemen. Perhaps they had to go out and take life by the throat occasionally and shake it.
‘So what do you say?’ Deerman asked, patting Tom’s arm with a surprisingly strong hand.
‘All right. But I want Joss to come along too.’
Deerman gave an empty smile. ‘Always the loyal one, eh?’
The next morning, Deerman walked nonchalantly down the track to the farmhouse in the pouring January rain. Tom looked up from doing the accounts as Joss was making notes from a farm manual. Getting up, he opened the door and Deerman strode in.
‘Have you discussed my plan?’ he asked Tom.
‘Yes, we’ve discussed it Roger,’ said Joss standing back against the range.
‘Well?’
Tom glanced over to Joss, then back at Deerman. ‘Joss would rather keep things on a more informal basis,’ he said.
‘That really is rather stupid, bro. Tom seems to think you need a reliable middleman.’
Tom fidgeted awkwardly. ‘It would be a safer alternative than what we did last year.’
Joss looked at him, his face expressionless. ‘If you want to go and speak to some wholesalers Tom, that’s fine with me.’
Deerman smiled, patted Tom on the shoulder. Tom recoiled.
‘Do I get offered a cup of tea?’ he asked, clearly piqued.
Tom moved over to the boiling kettle on the range and poured it into the large earthenware pot, conscious that Deerman was watching him. Looking over to Joss he frowned as Joss was staring out of the window, apparently disinterested.
For the next quarter of an hour or so Deerman talked at them, explaining who his contacts were, why it was important to have a stable middleman, especially as Tom had told him of their plans to go into market gardening. When he finally went quiet, Joss rose.
‘I must be getting back to the glasshouses,’ he said.
Deerman got to his feet. ‘So I shall expect you at the Blanforth, that’s my club in Worcester, at two p.m. tomorrow,’ he addressed Tom. ‘You do know of the Blanforth, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
Joss opened the door and Deerman strode out. Out of nowhere, Roger, the drake, bowled over, his webbed feet slapping on the wet cobbles, and made to battle with the back of Deerman’s ankles, pulling the cloth of his trousers as far as it would go.
‘Get this damn duck off, will you!’ Deerman snapped. ‘Why one earth you want these things wandering around is beyond me.’
‘They keep pests away,’ said Joss, and walked over to the glasshouses.
In truth, Deerman had been watching Tom visiting Kidderminster on several occasions. Fielder was a man of routine and it had been easy to be in place to see him, to see how easily he talked to the other dealers in the market, watch how he talked with rough-looking types at the bar of the Market Arms. Deerman’s need to see Fielder irritated him; he was uncertain of what was leading him on. But it was a need, and it wasn’t all sexual either, which bothered him. It was true that he contacts with men who could put Tom in touch with the wholesalers at the big markets. He wanted Fielder’s gratitude. But then what? There was something unassailable and solid about Fielder, especially when he was out on his own. But just to have his gratitude might suffice, for the time being. It would give Deerman an excuse to visit the farm, to check up on how the middlemen were behaving. But then he would see Fielder laughing with the men drinking with him at the bar and Deerman’s insides would tighten and he would feel that need all over again, only stronger.
The Blanforth was as Tom expected; a large suite of rooms on a first floor, with groups of leather, deep winged chairs. A chandelier hung overhead, sparkling rainbow colours, through which skeins of cigar smoke drifted.
Deerman got to his feet as Tom entered the room, and waved his hand at a chair opposite him. Tom sat, discretely trying to pull the seat obliquely so he wasn’t so obviously close to Deerman.
‘Punctual, as I thought,’ Deerman announced. ‘Always coming in on time, eh Fielder?’ Clicking his fingers at a waiter, they were soon served whiskies. ‘No beers in here, I’m afraid.’
Tom gave a short smile. Looked around for the others.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I told them two-fifteen. I didn’t want you arriving after they did. Looks so unprofessional.’
‘I’m always on time.’
‘I bet you are,’ Deerman murmured.
Tom shifted in the chair, looked around the vast, empty room.
‘So,’ said Deerman, ‘Joss tells me you’re going into cabbages. Or is it Brussels sprouts?’
‘Both actually.’
‘Ohh,’ Deerman was appraising him with mock admiration while he lit a fat cigar.
‘The soft fruits in the summer are probably going to be our most lucrative crops, and that’s where the access to a railway is so important,’ Tom continued.
‘Yes, nothing beats firm, plump fruit, does it.’
Tom felt a shiver of anger but bit it down. The conversation dried up.
‘Are you go
ing to expand your farm?’ Deerman asked at last.
Tom shrugged. ‘If it’s what Joss wants to do–’
‘Oh I see, you have to obtain his permission, do you? Thought this equality thing was a bit far-fetched.’
‘That’s not what I meant. We will expand if it suits both of us.’
Deerman gave him a patronising nod. ‘Ahh, here are the others!’
Two older men walked towards them. They shook hands with Deerman, then with Tom. Their greeting was pleasant, kind even. They talked easily for an hour or more and Deerman sat, appraising, leaning back in his armchair as Tom spoke confidently and with ease to these middlemen. Watched as he talked unselfconsciously about margins and possible losses, the fallbacks they would implement if one crop failed. The older of the two men nodded, seeing a businessman in Tom, as he had hoped. They talked to him about acreage by the hundreds, of getting managers, of renting more land before buying it, of having collateral to put up against loans, of percentage interest and annual rates, of running the whole show from an office and spending most of their day dealing with paperwork, and of dealing with banks and stocks and shares. ‘It was the way forward,’ one of the men was saying.’ Getting your hands dirty was becoming a thing of the past for businessmen. Farming should be like an industry: profit, that’s what mattered now.’ They could guarantee markets in Worcester and Birmingham in the wholesale markets for the summer fruit crops and for vegetable crops that would ripen throughout the year. All the time Deerman watched Tom carefully, watched his pleasant face become animated as he explained his plans, the beaming pleasure as he shook hands with the middlemen as they rose to go. In many ways, Deerman preferred the anxious, unsure Fielder.
‘We’ll get something in writing to you in the next few days,’ said the older man to Tom. ‘You’re certainly the sort of client we want.’
‘Well, that was certainly a success,’ said Deerman as they watched them go. ‘How about we go and celebrate somewhere?’
Tom hesitated.
‘Go on Fielder. I think you owe me, don’t you?’
‘I have to get the six o’clock back to Heathend,’ Tom looked towards the door.
‘Oh don’t worry, I can drop you back.’
‘Really–’
‘Fielder, don’t be ungrateful.’
Deerman led them out and into a hotel a few buildings up the main street. It was a grand triple-storeyed building of an elegant Georgian design.
‘What can I get you?’ Tom asked, pausing by the bar.
‘Oh, double scotch and soda.’ Deerman walked towards a table and chairs against an internal door.
Tom bought the drinks and tried not to register his surprise at the exorbitant prices.
‘Cheers,’ said Deerman as he took the drink. Tom drank his beer awkwardly, his eyes searching around the quiet expanse of the hotel lounge.
‘Oh come, come,’ said Deerman, leaning back in the large leather chair. ‘We can’t have you slurping that working-class swill.’ Snapping his fingers at a waiter, he ordered two double whiskies and soda.
Tom took the glass of strong amber-coloured whiskey and sipped, tried not to wince. Deerman snapped his fingers for more, this time whispering with the waiter who reappeared with two pints of bitter. Giving it to Tom, he arched his eyebrows in encouragement as Tom took long slugs of the cooling beer and his mind started to cloud. He tried talking but mashed his words. Deerman smirked. Tom tried again but slurred. Looking at Deerman, he frowned. Deerman smiled back and proffered another drink. Tom stared at the drink and then took it; Deerman gave an encouraging look. The cafe at Beauterre came back to Tom. The warmth, the heat, Joss’s eyes looking into his. It was hot. Felt wonderfully relaxed. Tom reached out and pushed the fair hair from his forehead. ‘Joss,’ he whispered.
Deerman smiled, without pleasure.
The room was spinning now but Tom took more of the fire drink being offered and felt himself sway, knocked back large slugs of cooling beer. Felt hands helping him up.
Come on,’ whispered Deerman pulling him out into a dark corridor behind. ‘I know what you want.’
Tom fell against him. Deerman pushed him back against the wall, started kissing him, open-mouthed. Tom raked his fingers through Deerman’s soft hair, ran his hand down his thigh, up again.
‘That’s right. Come on,’ Deerman whispered.
Tom froze but the bleary sensation in his head was increasing, he felt himself swimming in this sensuality, began kissing Deerman deeply, as though trying to get to the back of his throat. Deerman kissed him back, slowly, cradling the back of his head with his hand.
‘Gosh, you are big,’ he murmured, cupping the other hand around Tom’s groin, squeezing, so Tom took a ragged breath in. ‘They say quiet waters run deep...I think we need a little help with that.’
Tom felt himself spinning, a deep throbbing, centred only around his erection, as though that was all that mattered now. The next, he was being helped into a room that was bare except for a newly made bed with clean, pressed white sheets. A woman walked in followed by three younger ones. The older woman started undoing his jacket, her dark hair was drawn up with oiled ringlets curling either side of her powdered cheeks. Her low-cut dress was trimmed with imitation fur. They helped Tom off with his jacket. The woman stood before him, her scarlet lips parted, and ran her hand underneath his shirt, then stroked his face with painted fingernails.
‘Are you shy?’ she whispered. ‘Need a little help?’ She was gently massaging his crotch. ‘You’re a big boy,’ she breathed. ‘Make many a lady very ‘appy.’ They took his shirt off; there was an intake of breath from close by. The older woman’s cheap perfume made him gag for a moment; it was the smell of no man’s land. She plunged his head into her soft, voluptuous breasts as the other women loosened his belt and slid his trousers and his underclothes from him. Then there were women’s soft hands on him. He stood in the room, lit only by the firelight from a blazing log fire, which reflected off his chest hair – the dark hair that ran funnel-like from his chest in a line to his crotch – and off the hairs on his legs, too drunk with sensation and lust to care. Hands caressed his back, his chest, rolled something gently onto his erection. Lips kissed his back and neck. Hands explored the shoulder blades and the strong valley between. Guilt was out of him and it was as though everything was focussed on his erection as feminine fingers explored him.
‘I think the man’s more than ready for it,’ came a nasal voice. ‘And I worried that the drink may have had a softening effect!’
Soft laughter as they led him to the clean, wide bed. Tom closed his eyes; let them lead him. There was the sound of a person lying down, and then he was being lowered, hands fondling his back. Then hands grasped around his waist and he lowered deliciously into soft warm flesh and began a rhythmical motion, moaning quietly as the sensation mounted, increasing, intensifying as though he was going to burst through his tip. The door clicked shut and footsteps receded but still he moved. Soft hands gripped his hips and he let out a sigh; it was as though the tip of himself was finding the kernel of love. Going deeper and increasing his pace, moving harder, concentrating on himself, searching, swollen, needing. The room was hot, the fire was roaring, sweat trickled down his back, his chest, down his thighs.
The hands tightened around his buttocks; he felt himself thrusting towards bursting point. Closing his eyes, he rode further, further in, felt his body iron-taut as the fingers gripped his hips, guiding him, helping him. Then his body clenched unbearably, felt it would shatter. Then let go and he jerked in spasms, his mouth in a soundless scream as he exploded out of himself, molten, refashioned. Destroyed.
The next, he collapsed into the soft flesh beneath him, the last orgasmic pulses flickering out of him. Snapping his eyes open, he stared into the pillow then his gaze slid to the supine form beneath, legs still open. He snatched a breath; his face contorted.
‘Me name’s Patsy, not Joss or Jess, or whatever you shouted.’
Tom
’s expression was one of agony as he stared deeper into the pillow.
‘My, you are a big boy!’ she said, trying to manoeuvre from beneath him. ‘Lucky whatever her name is that’s all I can say... ‘Ere, mind shifting off me now, would you?’
The woman eased herself up, expertly disengaging from Tom, and, slipping off the sheath, tied a knot in it and threw it over the room into the fire. It sizzled wildly. She pulled on her underclothes, refastened her camisole, getting ready for her next client.
‘How much do I owe you?’ Tom asked his voice barely audible.
‘Oh that’s all taken care of,’ she said, her young face old with experience. ‘Your friend paid in advance. Cheeky bugger insisted you had a French letter, said he didn’t want you catching nothing! Paid for all them sheets and stuff too. Anyway, love, you take your time.’
She padded over to the mirror on the wall, spat on a handkerchief and rubbed at her face a few times, then brushed out her hair and re-pinned it. By the time she had closed the door, Tom knew she had forgotten about him. Pulling himself up, he reached over for his shirt and wiped himself down. Then slumping down, wept into the damp pillow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tom felt his stomach heave as he lay front-down back on the bed. He had never felt so alone in his life. This aftermath was worse than anything he could have imagined, like waking up and having to sit with yourself absolutely sober when you are a drunk and the crutch of alcohol has been snatched away. Now he wanted this woman to come back, tell him he was all right, but she had gone and he lay mute, unwanted. The door opened quietly then clicked shut; a bolt was drawn. Roger Deerman stood in a dark corner of the lamp-lit room and watched, his face intense, sweating but not triumphant. Quietly he undressed, and his mouth went dry. He had insisted the sheets should be new, white and freshly pressed. He had ordered that, and the use of the room, in advance for at least two hours – he had booked two just in case Fielder turned out to be enthusiastic. He had paid extra for the new white cotton sheets and pillowcases, and for the fire in the grate. This was going to be a sexual and sensual luxury; something he could remember above and beyond his usual predictable conquests.
