‘Well, the last thing we need this weekend is some kind of sickness going round. Honestly, if it’s not one girl, it’s another,’ she muttered as she moved away to count the baskets in the back of the cart. ‘Now Ellen,’ she said briskly, ‘don’t forget them pickles in the pantry to go with the nammet or to send Lottie up the orchard for some apples.’ She lifted the flap of one of the baskets and looked inside before refastening it. ‘An’ don’t wait to be called; get down there early, all right?’ She shook her head. ‘Why on God’s earth Thomas has to start the harvest on market day, I’ll never know.’
‘Aye, Ma Strong,’ Ellen answered and with a despairing sigh, raised her eyebrows at Annie, as she watched Hannah climb up onto the cart.
Wasting no time, Robert flicked the reins and as the cartwheels crackled across the cobbles, the team of men carrying their freshly sharpened scythes clomped down the lane towards Bottom Field and peace once again descended over the yard.
Dawn that morning was a muted affair, with a thin veil of cloud across the sky to the east, but no one seemed to mind the cool start and once the first stand of wheat was cut, the men, working in pairs, swiftly fell into a steady rhythm opening out the field borders. With their first task quickly complete, they stood admiring their initial efforts and inhaling the air already thick with wheat doust. Feeling the specks settling uncomfortably in the back of his throat – but knowing that he had several days of such discomfort ahead of him and that his father would think it far too early to stop for a drink – George swallowed hard several times instead and didn’t even bother to suggest it. Then, forming a line to work up the field in a row, Thomas directed his sons back to work in the reaping of the field proper, with the two hired hands behind them wielding sickles to gather a sheaf, bind it and stack the stooks; proof that at last another year’s harvest was finally under way.
*
When the men trudged back from the field that first evening, dusk was already luring brimstones to the lanterns in the yard and few words were exchanged as, exhausted, they carried their scythes and strickles back to the barn.
‘Hey, you two, come an’ see this,’ Mary heard Annie’s voice calling back into the kitchen. Catching Ellen’s eye, she put down what she was doing and went to the doorway to follow Annie’s apparently transfixed gaze to the far corner of the yard.
‘Who on earth…?’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake; ’tis only young Francis Troke,’ Ellen announced, arriving behind her and giving the distinct impression that she was embarrassed by the sight of him.
In the fading half-light, she strained her eyes wider. Stripped to the waist, Francis Troke was dousing himself with water from the pump.
‘Don’t remember seein’ him around before,’ she replied, thinking it unlikely she would have forgotten such looks.
‘I heard Martha telling Ma Strong that he’s been working for a big house somewhere,’ Ellen remarked, ‘but that since they don’t want him right now, he’s come back home for a while.’
‘Well their loss is our gain,’ she heard Annie answering and when she shot a glance in her direction, it was to see that she was tilting her head in appreciative fashion.
‘But… what’s he doing?’ she asked, her question causing Annie to erupt into laughter.
It was Ellen, though, who answered.
‘Well I would have thought ʼtis obvious; he’s washing.’
‘Oh, I think he’s doing rather more than that, Ellen, least, for me he is!’ Annie was quick to respond.
‘Me too,’ she heard herself agreeing and then felt her cheeks colouring with the shame of it. While it might be true, it was hardly a thing to go admitting to.
‘Honestly! The two of you are disgraceful,’ Ellen was admonishing, ‘and I’m particular surprised at you, Mary,’ she added, before hastening back inside.
Her words though, barely pierced Mary’s captivation. She’d never given much thought to men’s bodies before – after all, she only knew George’s – and so she was astonished to find that the word that came to mind, was beautiful.
‘That is quite something.’ Beside her she could see Annie’s lips forming into an approving smile.
‘Aye,’ she found herself absently agreeing.
‘Course, really we ought look away.’
‘Aye, we should.’
It didn’t escape her notice, though, that neither of them moved.
‘Mind you, he knows exactly what he’s doing.’
‘Truthfully?’
‘Course he does,’ Annie said with a laugh, ‘but as far as I’m concerned, anyone with a body like that is welcome to show it about for my entertainment. I ain’t ever seen muscle in so many places!’
‘He’s certainly eye-catching,’ she agreed. ‘Not many men got such golden hair.’
‘And don’t he know it! Look at him; barely out of swaddling but all the maids in the village throwing themselves at his feet, our own Tabitha among them.’
‘Truly?’ So not only had she never noticed Martha’s son before but neither had she noticed Tabitha swooning over him. She shook her head.
‘You ain’t seen her mooning about the yard, then, acting like she been robbed of every grain of sense? And it ain’t like she started out with much!’
‘Goodness.’
‘’Tis a shame it’s growing dark so quick…’
‘Aye, although maybe it’s just as well, since surely it’s better our husbands don’t come out of the barn and catch us like this,’ she pointed out, aware that her pulse was racing far too fast for comfort and that her cheeks felt as though she’d been sitting too close to the fire. But even as she said it, she knew that she didn’t really want to look away and was pretty certain that she had never before experienced the disturbing effect he seemed to be having on her.
‘Aye, that mid be true enough,’ Annie seemed to agree, ushering her inside and closing the door behind them.
*
The following morning, well ahead of the others assembling for the start of another day of reaping, George went in through the kitchen door and, taking in the fact that Ellen was alone in the scullery, hovered awkwardly before eventually asking,
‘Did Ma bring back a County Chronicle for Pa yesterday?’
‘She did, yes,’ Ellen replied without looking up from what she was doing. ‘An’ I read the news to him straight after supper, same as always.’
‘I didn’t stay for supper,’ he started to say, knowing that she was going to be less than amenable to the request he was about to make. ‘I went on home.’
‘I know.’
‘So, I was wondering whether you’d look to see if there was anything…’ he tried to adopt a contrite expression, imagining as he did so, though that he was failing by a good measure, ‘about anything.’
‘There’s always summat about summat; wouldn’t be much of a newspaper otherwise.’
‘Please, Ellen. I wouldn’t trouble you if it weren’t important,’ he reasoned and watched as she walked past him into the kitchen to fetch a tablecloth from the dresser.
‘Important to you, maybe but you know how I feel about all that… business.’
‘Aye an’ I’d read it for myself if I could but well, you got the better of me there; you had a pa who thought you should be able to read…’ he wheedled, his eyes following her hands as they spread the cloth across the table in readiness for the breakfast things.
‘He taught us to read because he believed in the value of us bein’ able to see the Lord’s words for ourselves, not so as to read the sort of things written of in the Chronicle.’
‘Aye but it ain’t like I’m askin’ you to agree with what you read to me,’ he countered and followed behind as she went back through to the scullery.
‘Oh, very well, then,’ he heard her agree with a resigned sigh. ‘Reach me down that dish from the top shelf to save me fetching a stool and I’ll go an’ pick it out of the fire basket.’
Moments later, sitting beside her a
t the table, he held himself stiffly against his impatience and watched as she brushed a layer of sawdust and bark from the paper and then smoothed her hand across the folds.
‘Was there much of note?’ he couldn’t resist asking.
‘Well that’s not what’s of interest to your pa, so I paid scant heed but I did notice this,’ she said, turning the paper over and running her finger down to a paragraph outlined by an imposing border.
‘An’ what is it?’ he asked, leaning across.
‘It says, Whereas in the small hours of yesterday the premises of Mr Foote in the parish of Mershe were unlawfully entered by a Person or Persons unknown at this time and a Thrashing Machine was feloniously broken and destroyed; this is to serve notice that a reward of Ten Pounds is hereby offered to any person supplying such Particulars as will lead to the Conviction of the Offender or Offenders.’
‘Ten pounds will loosen a tongue and no mistake,’ George remarked, thinking it a low and cunning move to offer a reward.
‘Shouldn’t be need of a reward for an honest person to come forward and tell what they know.’
Not wanting to be responsible for starting one of Ellen’s zealous diversions, he made submissive noises.
‘No indeed. So what else is there then?’
‘Well, over here somewhere I do recall seeing a few lines, all pretty much in the same vein. Where are they, now?’ Bending her head low over the small and smudgy print, she ran her finger down the columns. ‘Fetch another candle over, would you? I can scarce see what I’m about, here.’ Bringing a second candle to place at her other side, George settled down again and waited. ‘Ah, here; this bit.’ She stabbed the paper with her forefinger.
‘What do it say?’ He could only coax her so much before she lost patience with him.
‘This one says, Micklehampton. A band of rioters pulled down outbuildings in the proximity of Micklehampton Union Workhouse on Thursday last and a troop of guards was sent to disperse them.’ When she turned to look at him, he was careful to make no comment. ‘Another says, On Monday last, a band of labourers assembled in the vicinity of Shepherd’s Dene Farm but dispersed quietly on being told that a…’ as she faltered, George watched her frown and then admit, ‘not rightly certain of this next word; de-tach-ment, would it be?’
‘Aye, a detachment, that could be right,’ George agreed, his interest stirred.
‘…a detachment of the 17th were en route from Winchester to maintain the peace.’
‘Aye, most likely they were.’
‘One more,’ Ellen announced, ‘and then I’m done giving voice to such malcontents.’
‘Is there anything from around here?’ he asked, anxious not to miss out on something involving anyone he knew.
‘I most certainly hope not,’ she announced, scanning the columns again. ‘Here, this is close enough, though. On Friday evening a barn and two hundred trusses of straw on the farm of Mr Gearey at Priorswell were burnt, it being only a fortnight since he had a store of faggots destroyed by similar means.’ At the mention of faggots, George burst into laughter. ‘Well I’m glad you find such wanton destruction amusing,’ Ellen said, snatching up the paper and screwing it into a ball.
‘Well, you got to admit,’ George replied, trying to straighten his face, ‘that even in the middle of the night, ʼtis hard to mistake a few bundles of faggots for two hundred trusses of straw, since I can’t believe anyone would risk life and limb to set light to a pile of firewood!’
‘No,’ Ellen agreed with a reluctant smile, ‘I suppose it do seem a bit daft, don’t it?’
*
By the time Saturday morning dawned lightly overcast again, the harvest had made good progress.
‘Well, I reckon to be done by four o’clock, if not afore,’ Thomas Strong announced after breakfast had been taken.
‘Then in that case, later, when they’ve finished nammet and we’ve cleared up afterwards, what say we all go down the field and lend a hand with the last of the sheaves?’ Ellen suggested to Mary and Lottie working alongside her.
‘I ain’t ever been part of a harvest before,’ Mary said. ‘It looks like real hard work.’
‘It is. But if I show you how to tie a sheaf, then we’ll at least feel as though we’ve done something towards it.’
‘Ain’t we done that here?’ she wanted to know. It certainly felt as though they had been working twice as hard as usual.
‘Course we have. But working in the field feels different, somehow. It’s hard to explain but come down with me later and you’ll see for yourself.’
‘An’ there was me thinking that work was work.’
But later that afternoon, at Ellen’s pressing, she accompanied the others down the lane towards Alder Field and the sound of singing. Seeing the others lifting the hems of their skirts she did likewise and followed them as they picked their way over the sharp stubble of Bottom Field – where the sheaves had long since been carted to the yardstack – to reach Alder Field, where it was straight away apparent that only a small patch of uncut wheat now remained. There, under the watchful eye of Thomas leaning on his scythe, Tom and Will were still reaping while the others were loading sheaves onto the cart, their singing loud and boisterous,
‘We cheated the parson, we’ll cheat him again;
For why should the vicar have one in ten?
One in ten! One in ten!
For why should the vicar have one in ten?’
‘This is the best part of the whole harvest,’ Ellen shouted above the song’s rollicking chorus, indicating that they should join the row of village girls – their hair tied back in colourful scarves and their skirts engrained with dust – where she bent down to gather a handful of the loose cut wheat. ‘This makes a binder,’ she said, and showed her how to twist the stems together into a sort of rope. ‘Now, gather me up an armful.’ She glanced at the other women for some idea of how much to gather but as she bent down and scooped it up, the smooth stalks seemed to slip in all directions and slide back to the ground. Frowning at her clumsiness, she tried again, faring only slightly better.
‘Oh why ain’t I no good?’ she cried with a despairing laugh, wrestling with her armful of straw.
‘Just needs a bit of practice, that’s all. I wasn’t much good at it either when I first tried but after a while you get the hang of it. Look, watch me,’ she said, bending to gather the straw and then rest it against her body to tie it with the binder. ‘Take it over to that last stook there and we’ll do another.’
As Mary dragged the sheaf across the stubble to where Ellen had gestured, further over she could see Tom and Will standing up and straightening their backs to look at each other over the last remaining stand to be cut.
‘You do it,’ she heard Tom say to his brother. ‘I finished up… last year.’
Panting, Will nodded.
‘Fair enough then.’
Intrigued, she watched as Tom stretched himself upright and arching his chest, called hoarsely across, ‘Ellen! Will’s cuttin’ the sheaf for the doll,’ and as he stood back, a single sweep of his brother’s scythe felled the last stand and the workers encircling him rose up in a cheer.
Making a place for herself among them, she watched, fascinated, as gathering a handful of wheat and kneeling in the straw, Ellen bent, twisted and plaited the stems to produce the shape of the corn maiden peculiar to Summerleas. And when she seemed satisfied with it, she took the twine of Withywind trumpets that Annie was holding out to her and wove it through the stems. And then as Will scrambled to the top of the final cartload to place the doll on the last of the sheaves, another cheer rang out. With Robert coaxing the horse across the field, the laden cart began to rock its way over the stubble, making the small boys clinging precariously to the top laugh and shriek. Ellen was right, she mused, following wearily behind: there was certainly something about the harvest – and since all of that effort could hardly be described as fun, she was also right to say that it was hard to say why.
Up ahead, the dusty helpers were still singing,
‘Come, Roger and Nell,
Come, Simpkin and Bell,
Each lad with his lass hither come;
With singing and dancing,
And pleasure advancing,
To celebrate harvest home!’
With the song continuing through several verses, she saw the cart eventually turn into the yard and the villagers head in the opposite direction towards home. And then her eyes suddenly fell on a shirtless figure standing at the side of the lane, the curl of a smile on his lips. Francis Troke. Hastily she looked back down, a rush of embarrassment reddening her face as it became apparent that she was the object of his gaze. But when, several paces later, she dared herself to look back up, it was with a confusing mix of relief and disappointment that she found that he was no longer there.
*
‘Well,’ Tom said, leaning on George’s shoulder as they arrived back in the yard, ‘I’m grateful not to be doing that again for another year.’
‘Aye, me too,’ George agreed.
‘You’re a proper feeble pair.’ Together, they turned to see their father shaking his head. ‘Just try an’ picture what it was like for me, then. When I was your age, we harvested with a sickle. We had no scythes and I tell you now that being bent double for four an’ five days or more was real hard work.’
‘Aye but like you say,’ Tom replied with a wink that George didn’t miss, ‘we’re weaklings in comparison to the men in your day, Pa.’
Pretending to take a swipe at his eldest son, Thomas stood for a moment, his face thoughtful.
‘Well, howsoever you look at it, it pleases me greatly to see that the outcome’s the same either way and that by the fruits of our labours, tonight we can enjoy a right old randy knowing we’ve another harvest safely in.’
‘Aye, and that’s a lot more than can be said for many,’ George remarked to no one in particular as he father turned back towards the barn.
‘But just think how much more there’d be if those bent on lawlessness and destruction didn’t go about burning ricks,’ was his brother’s apparently idle observation.
A Country Marriage Page 19
