Seedtime and Harvest (The Apple Tree Saga Book 5)

by Mary E. Pearce

  Seedtime and Harvest

  The Apple Tree Saga Book 5

  Mary E. Pearce

  Copyright © 2018 The Estate of Mary E. Pearce

  This edition first published 2018 by Wyndham Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1980

  www.wyndhambooks.com/mary-e-pearce

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Cover artwork images: © Period Images / Simon Bratt (Shutterstock)

  Cover design: © Wyndham Media Ltd

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  The Apple Tree Saga

  from Wyndham Books

  Apple Tree Lean Down

  Jack Mercybright

  The Sorrowing Wind

  The Land Endures

  Seedtime and Harvest

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Preview: Cast a Long Shadow by Mary E. Pearce

  Preview: Wyndham Books

  Chapter One

  Five roads met at Herrick Cross, and Clew Wilson’s garage, standing on a strategic corner, commanded a view of all five. Above the repair-shop, somewhat shabby but clear enough, was a large sign in green and white: ‘Herrick Cross Garage; proprietor C.L.E. Wilson; repairs to all makes of motors; agricultural repairs a speciality.’

  The front wall of the garage was a popular place for advertising local events and a large poster, hand-printed, had recently been pasted over the rest. Clew’s assistant, Charlie Truscott, wiping his hands on a piece of rag, stood reading the poster for the third or fourth time. ‘On Saturday, September 13th, at 8 o/c in the Village Hall at Herrick St John, Dancing to the music of Mr Gray’s gramophone. Everyone welcome. Tickets 1/6.’ Now and then, as Charlie stood, constantly wiping his hands on the rag, he would glance along the empty main road, shimmering in the afternoon heat.

  Clew came to the garage door and stood smoking a cigarette. He nodded towards a Fordson tractor, standing nearby, newly repaired.

  ‘Is that old man Lawn’s?’

  ‘Ah. That’s it.’

  ‘When’re you taking it down to him?’

  ‘In a minute,’ Charlie said. ‘I’m just reading about the dance.’

  ‘Decided whether you’re going yet?’

  ‘No, not yet. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I shall go, I daresay. Bloody Norah will see to that.’ Bloody Norah was Clew’s wife. They were devoted, he and she, but always called each other names. Charlie, who lodged with them, knew it was nothing more than a joke. ‘There’ll be plenty of girls there,’ Clew remarked. ‘That should suit you, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Whatever they say about me,’ Charlie said, ‘it’s mostly lies.’

  ‘It’s high time you settled down. Found yourself a decent wife. We’ll need your room when the nipper comes.’

  Charlie Truscott was thirty-five. At nineteen he had gone to the war. He had fought in Gallipoli; then in France; and when he got home in 1919, his girl had married another man. No more commitments after that. ‘Love them all ‒ but not too much!’; that had been his motto since then; and so far no one had changed his mind.

  ‘What’re you watching for?’ Clew asked, as Charlie kept glancing towards the main road.

  ‘I’m not watching for anything. What’s there to see at this time of day?’

  ‘You’ll know that poster by heart pretty soon. You’ve read it often enough, by God!’

  Clew went back to work in the repair-shop, tinkering with his own little van. There were two lorries in for repair, but Charlie had said he would deal with them. For all his easy, unhurried manner, Charlie did most of the work in the garage, and Clew himself was the first to admit it.

  ‘Charlie’s a glutton for work,’ he would say. ‘But it’s no good trying to hurry him. He’s got to do it in his own time.’ Along the main road from the Lincton direction, a group of boys were coming home from the school at Ryerley. At Herrick Cross they separated, two of them going towards Herrick Granville and three towards Herrick St John. One boy, alone, swinging his satchel by a broken strap, turned down Horse Lane towards Herrick Green, and when he had vanished round the bend, Charlie threw down his oily-rag and went to the door to call to Clew.

  ‘I’m taking that tractor to Bellhouse now.’

  ‘About bloody time!’ Clew called back.

  Charlie, on the tractor, soon caught up with the boy in Horse Lane. He stopped and offered him a lift, and the boy rode on the step behind him, looking out over the fields where rooks were feeding on the stubble and where, here and there, ploughing had started, filling the air with the smell of moist earth. The boy’s name was Robert Mercybright. He was almost eleven years old. Charlie turned and glanced at him.

  ‘Harvest’s nearly over at Bellhouse, I hear?’

  ‘There’s only the barley to be got in. Granddad said they were carting today.’

  ‘How is your granddad nowadays?’

  ‘Pretty fit, considering.’

  ‘Not too much trouble with his leg?’

  ‘I reckon it hurts him sometimes, but he never says so. You know what he is.’

  ‘It doesn’t stop him working, I know that. I saw him a week ago, harvesting, up in that field above the brook. He can still show the young chaps a thing or two, bad leg or no.’ Charlie, rounding a bend in the road, slowed down and came to a halt. A cock-pheasant was crossing in front of them, and they watched it squeeze through a gap in the hedge, to join its mate in the stubble-field. Then Charlie drove on again, down through Hurley’s watersplash, and up the steep hill on the other side.

  ‘How’s your mother nowadays?’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine.’

  ‘How’d she enjoy her holiday? Did she go away somewhere?’

  ‘No, she was busy making jam.’

  ‘I suppose she’ll be back at work this evening? Up at the Fox and Cubs, I mean, pulling pints for thirsty chaps? I’ll maybe pop in. I’m thirsty enough. It’s been pretty warm again today.’

  Chatting to the boy, Charlie drove on, round the last of the snaky bends to where the road ran straight for a change. Here, the fields on either side belonged to Bellhouse Farm, and
the men and women working in them paused to wave to the man and the boy churring along the narrow road.

  ‘Is your granddad among that lot?’

  ‘No, he’ll be up in the barley-field.’

  ‘Where d’you think I’ll find Mr Lawn?’

  ‘Same place, most likely,’ Robert said.

  Soon they came to a small cottage, set back a little from the road. Charlie stopped to let the boy down, glancing all the time towards the cottage, but seeing no sign of movement inside. He spoke above the noise of the tractor and Robert, one hand on the garden-gate, turned back again to hear what he said.

  Linn Mercybright, in the kitchen, saw her son arrive on the tractor and busied herself preparing his tea. She swirled hot water round in the pot, emptied it into the ashes in the hearth, and took the tea-caddy down from the shelf. The tractor still churred at the garden-gate and whenever she glanced out of the window, taking care not to be seen, she smiled to herself, secretly, wondering what the man and the boy could find to talk about all this time.

  At last the tractor drove away. She turned to the table, busily, and when Robert came into the house, the first thing she saw was his school-satchel, dangling from its broken strap.

  ‘There! You’ve broken that strap again! I do wish you’d take more care of it. These things cost money. They don’t grow on trees.’

  ‘I can soon mend it,’ Robert said.

  ‘I’ve boiled you a nice fresh egg for your tea, so don’t be too long about washing your hands.’

  ‘Can I take it out to the fields?’

  ‘No, you must sit and eat properly.’

  She cut two pieces of bread and butter and laid them on the boy’s plate. He came and sat down and she poured out his tea.

  ‘Who was that who gave you a lift?’

  But she knew well enough who it was. There was no mistaking Charlie Truscott, clad in his dark blue overalls, with his cap well down on one side of his head. Charlie was known for miles around; she had often seen him driving about the Herrick lanes; and sometimes at the Fox and Cubs she had served him with drinks and cigarettes.

  ‘It was Charlie Truscott,’ Robert said. ‘He was bringing Mr Lawn’s tractor back.’

  ‘He seemed to have plenty to say to you, throbbing away outside the gate.’

  ‘He wanted to know if you could dance.’

  ‘Dance?’ Linn repeated. She gave a quick laugh. ‘And what business is it of his, whether I can dance or not? Whatever made him ask such a thing?’

  But she knew quite well why Charlie had asked. She had seen the posters everywhere and knew all about the Saturday dance that was being held at Herrick St John. It was to be a great event. Everyone was talking about it.

  Holding her teacup between her hands, she blew into the hot tea. There was a certain warmth in her face, and her son, as he ate his soft-boiled egg, looked at her in some surprise. He was as dark as she was fair. He favoured his dead father in looks; the father he had never known; and his brown eyes, looking at her, were Tom’s eyes all over again: deep and dark, with a serious gaze that could be quite disturbing to her at times.

  ‘Can you dance, Mother?’ he asked. It was a thing unheard of to him. His mother rarely went anywhere. She would never have worked at The Fox and Cubs if it hadn’t been that money was short and it was the only work to be had. ‘Can you dance?’ he asked again.

  ‘Never you mind!’ Linn exclaimed. ‘Just get on and eat your tea. But don’t bolt it down or you’ll make yourself ill.’

  Robert certainly ate very fast. He wanted to get out to the harvest-field. The last of the egg went into his mouth and the empty eggshell was turned upside down.

  ‘Have you got any homework to do?’

  ‘Only a bit. I can do it in bed.’

  ‘Oh, very well, off you go. You can take your granddad’s fourses to him.’

  When Robert had left the house, Linn cleared the tea-things and washed them up. By then it was five o’clock and she went upstairs to change her dress, ready for her evening at the Fox and Cubs.

  She took the short cut across the fields. The pub was deserted when she went in but Fred Oakes could be heard in the cellar and three crates of bottled beer were already stacked on the bar. She hung up her coat and hat and busied herself, unloading the bottles, placing them on the shelves below. Fred came up the cellar steps and dropped another two crates on the floor.

  ‘Did you have a good holiday?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. It made a nice change.’

  ‘People were asking where you were. One or two in particular.’

  ‘That was kind of them, I’m sure.’ Linn did not ask who the people were. ‘It’s always nice to be missed,’ she said.

  ‘Seen the poster about the dance?’

  ‘Goodness, yes, they’re everywhere!’

  One of the posters hung in the bar.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting the evening off next Saturday, eh?’

  ‘Oh, I shan’t be going to the dance.’

  ‘You’ll be the only one who’s not, then! There hasn’t been so much excitement in the place since that airship went over last March.’

  Soon the first customers came in: two labourers from Daylong Farm; and Linn drew two pints of old-and-mild.

  ‘You’re back from your holidays, then, I see? Blackpool, was it, or Ilfracombe?’

  ‘Neither,’ she said, ‘I stayed at home.’

  ‘Best place, too. Where else can you spit?’

  ‘Bill, he’s in a spitting mood,’ Abel, his mate, explained to Linn. ‘We’ll both be laid off this back-end. We’ve just heard the bloody news.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry!’ Linn exclaimed, but although her concern was real enough, it had its roots in her own affairs, for the same thing would happen at Bellhouse Farm and she knew that her father, aged seventy-two, might well be among the unlucky ones. ‘Oh, I am sorry, I really am!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bill Reed, wiping his mouth, ‘nobody wants us labouring chaps, once we’re over forty, like.’

  ‘Hark at him!’ Abel scoffed. ‘He’ll never see sixty-six again!’

  ‘Well, that’s over forty, ent it?’ Bill said.

  By seven there was a crowd in the bar, mostly men from the nearby farms. Then Clew Wilson came strolling in, with Charlie Truscott close behind, both of them straight from their work at the garage and still wearing their overalls, though Charlie, she noticed, had scrubbed his hands. Fred Oakes served them with their drinks and they stood a little way away, chatting together as they drank and smoked. Once Charlie Truscott met Linn’s eye and raised his glass, saluting her. Clew said something, quietly, and Charlie reddened to the ears.

  When they had both finished their drinks, Clew came to the bar again and put the two glasses in front of Linn.

  ‘Same again. Two of the best. The first one only lays the dust.’

  Watching her as she handled the beer-pump, he noticed the fairness of her skin and the play of light on her red-gold hair. Charlie was nobody’s fool, he thought. The girl had a special quality.

  ‘Charlie wants to know if you’ll go to the dance with him on Saturday night.’

  Linn did not answer immediately. Clew had taken her by surprise. She put his brimming glass on the bar and looked at him with a steady gaze. Charlie, she knew, was listening.

  ‘Why doesn’t he ask me himself?’

  ‘I dunno. I suppose he’s shy.’

  ‘Oh no I’m not!’ Charlie said. He came forward and stood at the bar. ‘Clew’s just having his little joke. I can manage my own affairs.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ Clew said, and, taking his drink, he walked away to join a few men at the skittle-board.

  Linn put Charlie’s glass on the bar and he stared for a while at its head of froth. Then at last he looked at her, and in spite of his reputation as a ladies’ man, she saw that he was unsure of himself.

  ‘Well? What about it? Will you come?’

  ‘I’m too old to go dancing,’ she said, ‘b
ut thank you for asking me, all the same.’

  ‘You and I are much of an age. If you’re too old, why, so am I.’

  ‘How do you know what age I am?’

  ‘Something young Robert told me once.’

  ‘Oh, that wretched boy of mine! Giving my secrets away like that!’

  Her laugh and the way she looked at him gave him back his confidence.

  ‘Well, what about this dance?’ he said. ‘Are you coming with me or not?’

  His eyes, very blue beneath their fair brows, looked at her searchingly, with a bright gleam, and his usual smile, absent till now, began spreading slowly over his face.

  ‘If you don’t come, I shan’t go at all, and you will have done me out of a treat.’

  ‘All right! I’ll come!’ She nodded and smiled. Suddenly she felt very young. ‘If I can get the time off ‒’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll soon fix Fred. He relies on me to look after his motor. He knows he’d better keep in with me.’ Charlie put a florin on the bar and she gave him his change. He pocketed it and picked up his drink.

  ‘I’ll call for you just before eight. It’ll only take ten minutes or so, walking from your place to Herrick St John.’

  ‘That means coming out of your way. Couldn’t I meet you at the hall?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Certainly not. I’m calling for you in the proper way.’

  Linn moved away to serve someone else and Charlie, leaning against the bar, watched her over the rim of his glass. After a moment Clew came back.

  ‘Did you fix it up with her?’

  ‘Yes, she’s coming,’ Charlie said.

  ‘They never say no to you, I suppose?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Well, we’d better get home to our supper, my lad, or we’ll have Bloody Norah on our tail.’

  ‘Right,’ Charlie said, and finished his beer.

  He put his empty glass on the bar and followed Clew out of the pub, giving Linn a wave as he went. After supper, he told himself, he would go back to the garage and tackle the work that was waiting for him. It would probably take until midnight, but that was no hardship to him. He often worked late at night, and with the Saturday dance in mind, he had plenty to think about.