Seedtime and Harvest (The Apple Tree Saga Book 5)

by Mary E. Pearce

  When Linn got home at eleven o’clock that night, her father was getting ready for bed. He was lighting his candle at the lamp and Linn, in a sudden fit of mischief, bent over it and blew out the flame, laughing at him like a naughty child. ‘How’s Robert? Is he in bed?’

  ‘Of course he’s in bed. He has been for hours.’

  Jack, as he lit his candle again, glanced at her in a questioning way, sensing the mood of excitement in her. She answered the glance by reaching up and planting a kiss on his bearded face. Then she went to hang up her coat. ‘You know Charlie Truscott, don’t you, Dad?’

  ‘Everyone knows him. Why, what’s he done?’

  ‘He’s asked me to go to the dance with him. Have I been foolish? ‒ I said yes!’

  ‘Go by all means. Why shouldn’t you go? Going to a dance is no great to-do.’

  ‘You don’t think, at my age, I’m cheapening myself?’

  ‘Be prepared for gossip, that’s all. Charlie’s a good enough chap in his way, but he’s got a bit of a name where women are concerned, and you’ve got to take more care than most, if you mind what people say about you.’

  ‘Yes. I know. And I do mind.’

  Her son was illegitimate. She had made no secret of the fact since coming to live at Herrick Green, and she took it for granted that Charlie Truscott, like everyone else, knew the truth about her and her boy. She had borne the sly glances for nearly twelve years, in the many places where she had lived, and a certain hardness had grown in her. She had not looked at another man since Robert’s father, blind and in pain, had died on the day of his baby’s birth. But now, Charlie Truscott. ‒ What about him? She felt a pang of anxiety.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said I’d go. What do you think? I do wish you’d say.’

  ‘Go and be damned to it,’ Jack said. Limping, he walked towards the stairs. ‘You’ve had little fun in your life all these years. Go and enjoy yourself while you can.’

  Yes. And why not? Where was the harm? It was only a dance, after all, and she had given Charlie her word. Her earlier mood began to return and she stood for a while in a happy trance, listening to her father’s step on the stairs and the little quiet sounds above as he entered the bedroom he shared with her son. Then the clock on the mantelpiece chimed, reminding her that it was late. She lit her candle and turned out the lamp; made sure the door was properly bolted; and went up to bed.

  Saturday night was fine and warm. The village hall at Herrick St John was already crowded to the doors when Charlie and Linn arrived there, and a few young men stood about outside. They all knew Charlie and spoke to him, and Linn was aware, as she mounted the steps, that they were looking her up and down.

  ‘Not much room for dancing, Charlie, if that’s what you’ve come for,’ one of them said, ‘but the moon is shining round the back!’

  Charlie ignored them. He might have been deaf. His hand rested lightly on her arm as he guided her into the crowded hall. Inside, where a gramophone played an old waltz, more than forty dancing couples moved with difficulty about the floor, hot and perspiring under the lamps. People had come from everywhere and many were gathered at the trestle table where three or four shiny-faced women were kept busy selling drinks.

  ‘It’s a bit of a squeeze,’ Charlie said. He took her coat and hung it up, jostling to reach the row of pegs. Together they edged on to the floor and he smiled at her, drawing her into his arms. ‘Take your partners for the sardine shuffle …’

  ‘I haven’t danced for years,’ Linn said. ‘Not since the war, when I was a nurse, and they held a dance at the hospital, to celebrate Armistice Night. I’m out of practice, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it again.’

  ‘I’m old-fashioned, too. If they play a foxtrot I shall be lost.’

  ‘I’ll soon teach you,’ Charlie said.

  Charlie was very neatly dressed in a dark blue suit and striped blue tie. His shirt was spotless, his white collar crisp and his light brown hair, bleached fair at the temples, was smoothed down with a lick of grease.

  ‘I bet I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘You’re thinking I’m tidily dressed for a change.’

  ‘My thoughts were not so rude as that.’

  ‘What were your thoughts?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I ought to say.’

  ‘Go on, I’m tough, I can take it,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I was thinking,’ Linn said, ‘that you look more yourself in your overalls.’

  Charlie gave a little grimace. There was disappointment in his eyes. He had taken great care in dressing that night.

  ‘Overalls!’ he echoed wryly. ‘Maybe I should’ve come in them!’

  ‘You’re not hurt by my saying that?’

  ‘Get away! I told you ‒ I’m tough.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. And I only meant ‒’

  ‘Yes, what did you mean?’

  The dance ended. They stood and clapped.

  ‘‒ That I liked you best in your working-clothes.’

  ‘So long as you like me, that’s all right. It’ll do to be going on with, anyway.’

  Charlie was a man who believed in making the best of things. He was a born optimist and it showed in the upward curve of his mouth and the laughter-lines about his eyes. He had a smile that spread and spread, until his whole face was creased with it, and when he laughed his listeners, whether they shared the joke or not, found themselves laughing with him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ said the voice of the Master of Ceremonies. ‘The next dance, by special request, is that old favourite, The Evergreen Waltz!’

  The new record was put on and the gramophone gave a sad sigh. There was applause from the audience. Mike Gray had forgotten to wind it up. The omission was soon rectified and the strains of Evergreen filled the hall. The dancing was not so restricted now because some of the couples had gone to sit out.

  ‘That’s better,’ Charlie said. ‘Now perhaps we can really dance.’ And as they glided together he said: ‘You’re not so out of practice after all.’

  ‘It all comes back when you hear the tunes.’

  ‘Like riding a bicycle, as they say.’

  ‘I’ve never ridden one in my life.’

  ‘Never ridden a bicycle? I don’t believe it!’ Charlie said.

  ‘Is it such a terrible thing?’

  ‘It’s a calamity!’ Charlie said.

  ‘What nonsense we’re talking!’ Linn exclaimed. ‘How can I dance properly when you keep making me laugh all the time?’

  But she was happy, laughing with him, and he, whenever he looked at her, was filled with a sense of discovery. She was never like this at the Fox and Cubs. There she had always been rather reserved and he had been attracted by that, but tonight she was gay and full of fun, and this was unexpected bonus indeed.

  ‘Why don’t you dance with some of the other women here?’

  ‘Are there any others?’ Charlie said.

  He could not take his eyes off her.

  A little while later, having found a seat for her, he went to the table to buy drinks. While he stood waiting his turn, a man named Easton spoke to him, shoving an elbow in his ribs. Charlie knew him well by sight. He was the Herrick chimney-sweep.

  ‘You’re enjoying yourself all right!’ Easton jerked his thumb towards Linn, who sat by the window, fanning herself. ‘You know how to pick ’em. I will say that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Charlie said. The man was drunk.

  ‘Jack Mercybright’s daughter, ent she? Works at the Fox and Cubs at night? You shouldn’t have too much trouble there. You know what they say about barmaids.’ Easton leant forward, smelling of drink, and put his mouth to Charlie’s ear. ‘And she’s got a kid at home … One on account, as the saying is … One whose dad never paid the bill …’

  ‘Look,’ Charlie said, in a quiet voice, aware of the people standing nearby, ‘supposing you just shut your mouth?’ Easton looked at him in surprise.

 
‘I just thought I’d let you know.’

  ‘You needn’t bother,’ Charlie said. ‘I already know what I need to know.’

  ‘Is that a fact? I might’ve guessed!’ Easton grinned from ear to ear. ‘You never was one for wasting time.’

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Charlie said.

  When he returned to Linn with the drinks, his face was still brightly flushed and his eyes still glittered angrily.

  ‘What’s the matter? Why are you cross?’

  ‘Something somebody said to me.’

  ‘Was it Bert Easton?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, never mind.’

  But Linn could guess what Easton had said. She had lived with such sneers for one third of her life. They followed her wherever she went and she had become inured to them. Drinking her glass of lemonade, she looked at Charlie, drinking his beer.

  ‘You know Robert is illegitimate?’

  ‘Yes. I know. It’s nothing to me.’

  He looked at her: a long, straight look, letting her see how little he cared; and Linn looked back, without reserve, letting him see that she trusted him. They were cut off from the crowd in the hall; its noise seemed distant, dreamlike, unreal. The dancers shuffled about the floor; records were changed on the gramophone; the MC gave out the name of the tune. Linn drank the last of her lemonade and set aside the empty glass. She waited while Charlie drank his beer, then she got up and touched his arm.

  ‘Come and teach me to foxtrot,’ she said.

  At a quarter to ten Clew Wilson arrived with his wife Norah.

  ‘Don’t tell me I’m late. I know we are. It took her an hour to find my studs.’ Clew had his hand on Charlie’s arm and was looking towards the refreshment table. ‘Never mind the dancing. I’m dying of thirst. Come on, I’ll let you buy me a drink.’

  But Charlie and Linn were about to leave and Charlie was trying to find her coat.

  ‘Leaving?’ Clew said. ‘Don’t talk so daft! The evening hasn’t hardly begun.’

  ‘It is rather early, I know,’ Linn said, ‘but really I think I’ve danced enough.’

  ‘Me too,’ Charlie said. ‘I could do with a breath of fresh air.’

  He had found Linn’s coat at last and was holding it for her to put on. Clew was watching him like an owl.

  ‘Well, if you must, you must, I suppose! But don’t stop too long at Hedley Sharp’s stile.’

  Norah gave Clew a kick on the ankle and he turned to her in injured surprise.

  ‘All I meant was, there’s a heavy dew falling tonight. I wouldn’t want them to catch a chill.’

  ‘We know what you meant,’ Norah said.

  ‘I’ll say goodnight to you, then,’ Charlie said.

  ‘I’ll say the same,’ Clew said with a wink.

  Outside, as they left the lights of the hall behind, Charlie took hold of Linn’s arm, guiding her first few halting steps into the darkness of the lane. But after a while, when he knew she could see, he dropped his hand to his side again.

  ‘You don’t want to take too much notice of Clew. He’s all right. He’s a good friend to me.’

  ‘You lodge with them, I believe?’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ Charlie said. ‘They’ve got a baby on the way. When that arrives ‒ next April some time ‒ I shall have to find somewhere else.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s always rooms to be got somewhere. Or I might get a place of my own, who knows? A lot can happen between now and next April.’

  The night was very warm and still, and as they walked along the lane they could hear the ripping and tearing sound of cattle grazing in the field, just the other side of the hedge.

  ‘There’s a lot of good beef in that field. I wouldn’t mind a ha’penny for every pound Hedley Sharp makes when he sells them at the Fatstock Show.’

  Charlie, although he could not see the cattle in question, knew exactly what they were. Visiting all the farms as he did, doing repairs on farm vehicles, he saw a great deal of what went on in the fields and, being himself a farmer’s son, he remembered everything he saw.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ Linn said, ‘and about your life on your father’s farm.’

  ‘What is there to tell?’ he said.

  And, the way he told it, it was little enough. His father had farmed at Hardingley, on the other side of Worcestershire. During the war things had been good and his father, keeping abreast of the times, had spent his money on modern improvements.

  ‘When I came home after the war, he’d got tractors and balers and I-don’t-know-what, so I went on an engineering course to learn about maintenance and repairs. By the time I’d finished that the slump had begun and farming was going downhill. My father went bankrupt in ’24 and the shock of it made him pretty ill. Farming was finished for me after that so I answered an advert for a motor-mechanic and that’s how I come to be working for Clew.’

  Charlie gave a self-conscious laugh.

  ‘Not much of a story, is it? There’s hundreds like me, who could tell that same tale.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it any less sad.’

  ‘It was sad for my father, certainly. He never got over losing his farm and he died in the winter of ’26.’

  ‘Haven’t you any family at all?’

  ‘Two married sisters in Canada and a cousin farming in New South Wales. Otherwise I’m all alone.’

  ‘You’ve never thought of working on a farm again?’

  ‘What, as a labourer? No, not me! You won’t catch me on a farm again, not in a hundred thousand years!’

  And yet, as Linn knew, Charlie could not keep away from the land. Driving about on garage affairs, if he saw a man at work in a field, he had to stop and talk to him and often it led to his giving a hand. Once, when her father had been grubbing up an old hedge, Charlie had stopped for over an hour and had helped to uproot six damson trees. ‘The earth fairly flew!’ her father said. ‘You could see he’s no stranger to mattock and spade!’

  ‘No, farm-work is over for me,’ Charlie said. ‘I like to have a few bob to spend.’ He jingled the coins in his trousers pocket. ‘Mechanics get pretty good pay. At least I can put a bit by every week, which is more than many poor devils can do these days.’

  Now and again he glanced at Linn’s face. Did she think him boastful, he wondered, talking about the money he earned? Did she think he was out to impress? It was difficult to tell: he could see her but dimly by the light of the stars; and although she listened attentively, she said very little in reply.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said with regret, as they took the fork into Bellhouse Lane, and then, when they came within sight of the cottage: ‘I see there’s a light in your window still. I suppose your dad’s waiting up for you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s sure to be. He never goes to bed until I get home. Will you come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘You sure it’s no trouble at this time of night?’

  ‘I shall be having one, anyway.’

  While Linn made the tea, Charlie and her father sat and talked, one on either side of the hearth, her father smoking his old briar pipe, Charlie smoking a cigarette. They talked of the changes taking place on all the farms in the neighbourhood: how Mr Lawn of Bellhouse was putting more land down to grass and developing his dairy herd, and how Mr Pointer of Daylong was going over to poultry and geese. Farmers now would do anything, just to keep the privilege of starving to death on their own bit of land.

  ‘That chap at Raisewood is stocking his land with pheasants and such and letting the shoot to a syndicate. It’s the only way he can make it pay.’

  ‘You can’t call it farming, though, can you, by God?’

  ‘Better than having the bailiffs in ‒’

  ‘Ah, better than hanging hisself in his barn …’

  Linn, having given them their tea, sat at the table drinking her own. She had no part in this talk of theirs and, lis
tening to them, she smiled to herself, amused at the way they left her out. She might not have been in the room for all the notice they took of her. They were intent on their own talk and never even glanced her way.

  But Charlie was aware of her all the same. He never for an instant forgot she was there. Somehow he even divined her thoughts, sensing that she was well pleased by the way he gossiped with the old man, and that she was happy to be ignored.

  He was aware of the kitchen, too: its cheerfulness and homeliness: everything in it lovingly cared for; clean as a pin and shining bright, in spite of the poverty obvious there. The kitchen told him a lot about Linn. It was like an open book and in it he read her character.

  The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven.

  ‘Glory be! Is that the time? I’m keeping you people out of your beds.’

  He picked up his mug and drank his tea. Linn offered him more but he shook his head.

  ‘No, thanks, it’s time I was gone. But that was the best tea I’ve had in years. Norah’s no good at making tea. She never bothers to warm the pot.’

  ‘Now you know where to come,’ Linn said, ‘whenever you want a decent cup.’

  There was no archness in her tone. The smile she gave him was friendly, not coy.

  ‘Supposing I take you up on that?’ Charlie said on his way to the door.

  ‘You must try and make it a Sunday,’ she said. ‘I’m always free on Sunday nights.’

  ‘Sunday. Right. We’ll make it a date.’

  ‘Thank you for taking me to the dance. I really enjoyed it. It made such a change.’

  ‘I’m glad you were able to come,’ Charlie said. ‘Good night to you both. Be seeing you!’

  A smile and a wave and he was gone. Linn closed the door and bolted it. Jack got up stiffly and knocked out his pipe.

  ‘I’ll say this for Charlie Truscott. ‒ When he says he’s going he damn well goes. He don’t stand on the step for hours, too frightened to take the plunge.’

  ‘I wonder if he will come again …’

  ‘I daresay he will. He said he would.’

  ‘You don’t mind him popping in?’

  ‘It’s all-as-one if I mind or not. It won’t be me he’ll be coming to see.’