The Inheritance of Solomon Farthing

by Mary Paulson-Ellis

  Asked the question they all wanted the answer to.

  ‘What will you be betting today, sir? How about those Woodbines none of us seem able to get our hands on?’

  Ralph frowned as Hawes took advantage of the lucky man’s intervention to turn away. ‘Let’s keep them for a big game, shall we, Fortune.’

  ‘When might that be, then, sir?’

  All the men looked forward to a big game. It was when the real treasure appeared. For a moment Ralph’s eyes shone pale in the grey light, a kind of absence at their centre.

  ‘When we get the orders,’ he said.

  ‘What if we never get the orders, sir?’

  ‘Then you lot will never get the chance to win.’

  Fortune smiled at that, offered up his makeshift bowl again. Ralph rummaged in his pocket for a penny to toss in, then hesitated, drew out something else instead. A regimental cap badge belonging to a member of the London Scottish, a tiny lion at its centre raising its paw. Also the motto:

  Strike Sure.

  The men jostled to see the shiny little thing lying in Second Lieutenant Svenson’s palm. A cap badge was proper treasure, could be bartered for all sorts.

  Walker whistled. ‘That’s a beauty.’

  Jackdaw jiggled on the spot. ‘I’d like a shot at it.’

  Just like his namesake, Jackdaw loved to collect shiny things. But the older men were frowning now, Bertie Fortune and Archie Methven, eyes fixed on the tiny treasure as though they recognized it from somewhere but couldn’t understand how it had arrived here.

  ‘Where’s it from?’ asked Promise.

  Second Lieutenant Svenson did not belong to the London Scottish as far as they knew. Methven glanced at Fortune, the two men looking at each other for a moment before Bertie turned to the young officer.

  ‘Yes, sir. Where did you get it?’

  Ralph didn’t reply, blinked twice at the section’s lucky man. ‘Fancy it, do you, Fortune? Could buy a lot of stuff with this.’

  It was Percy Flint who interrupted. ‘Who cares where it comes from. Let’s get on with the game.’

  Ralph was the one who was smiling now, staring back at Bertie Fortune with his strange eyes as though daring him to ask again.

  ‘I’ll bet it if Hawes plays,’ he said.

  Fortune flicked his gaze to where Hawes stood at the periphery of the group, half in, half out of the circle, hands still thrust deep in his pockets.

  ‘I’m not sure the sergeant wants to play this time, sir.’

  ‘Afraid he’ll have to wield the knife?’ said Ralph.

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘I know a coward when I see one, Fortune.’ Ralph flipped the silver cap badge from one finger to the next. ‘Even if I haven’t fired my gun.’

  ‘Let’s see it, then.’

  James Hawes spoke so quietly that none of the men were sure they’d heard at first. They shifted as the temporary sergeant pushed forward to see what the second lieutenant held in his palm. Fortune put a hand on Hawes’s sleeve as though to restrain him.

  ‘No need, James . . .’

  But Hawes shook him off, a rough gesture. All of them saw how the temporary sergeant’s neck coloured a deep raw crimson as he stared down at the little cap badge. There was silence, nothing but the scritch and coo of the remaining chickens to remind the men of what they were betting for. Then Hawes withdrew his fist from his pocket, held it out towards Ralph.

  ‘I’ll play then,’ he said. ‘For this.’

  Opened his fingers to reveal a tarnished coin in the centre of his palm. A sixpence. A tanner. Something cheap in return for something precious – not a good deal. The men all stared at the dirty sixpence in Hawes’s hand. Then they looked at the second lieutenant to see what he might do. Ralph hesitated, curled his fingers around the cap badge as though he had not really meant to offer it after all. Hawes spoke again, voice low.

  ‘I said, I’ll play.’

  ‘I heard you.’

  Ralph pushed a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of his fluster. He hesitated, then tossed the cap badge into the upturned helmet as though it was nothing, where it landed with a soft cling. The men breathed, began to disperse. Hawes rolled his sleeves up his thick arms. A cap badge for a tanner. It wasn’t a good return. But Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson never could resist a bet.

  Up on the rise in the land, Godfrey Farthing looked out across a thousand walnut shells scattered beneath the ring of trees. The shells were black and decomposed, like the bones of a thousand men. Godfrey had walked into the circle that first time before he realized, felt them crunch beneath his boots.

  He crouched and picked a half-shell from the ground, found his fingers stained as though with ink.

  Dear Mother and Father . . .

  Slid it into his pocket next to the one that was still whole.

  The farmhouse had been deserted when they first arrived. No farmer with a fatal wound in his chest. No wife in a sticky puddle of her own warm blood. Instead there had been a stone floor swept clean, a scrubbed table, knives in the drawer. In the corner of the kitchen Godfrey had found a basket full of walnuts, dribbled his hand amongst them before sliding one into his pocket, wondered how they had survived.

  The rain pitter pattered through the naked branches above Godfrey’s head. He tilted his face to feel the drops cold on his cheeks, opened his mouth wide to catch a few. It was a game he used to play when he was a boy, counting how many he could capture, one frozen sting on his tongue after another, the taste of being alive. He dropped his head again, glanced at his wristwatch, hair covered in a maze of tiny silver beads. Four twenty-three p.m. and the skies beginning to turn. The watch-strap was damp, still felt odd against his skin, a gift from his father that last time he’d been home.

  ‘Don’t forget to wind it,’ the old man had said as Godfrey first strapped it on. ‘Hopefully it will keep time.’

  Neither of them had mentioned the kind of time Godfrey might need to measure – counting down the minutes until he blew the whistle and sent all his boys scrabbling to their deaths. Like most fathers and sons, nothing that mattered was ever spoken between them. But now, as Godfrey saw how the circlet of gold glinted in what remained of the light, he remembered the care with which his father had showed him how to wind the grandfather clock when he was young, and realized that perhaps his father had spoken after all.

  Across the silent space there was a sudden movement, something flitting across Godfrey’s vision like a chicken disappearing into the barn. At once he stilled, his body alert to every possibility, everything shaded, the afternoon mist closing in. But it was nothing more than a rabbit foraging for its supper, as the men in the yard would be foraging for theirs. Godfrey smiled, leaned his hand against the trunk of the nearest tree. He would not tell Ralph that he had seen a living creature this close to the farmhouse. Second Lieutenant Svenson would bring his revolver and shoot up the whole countryside in pursuit of the game. He had been waiting for months to fire it in anything other than training. Wanted to return home clad in the blood of the enemy, rather than the ever-present mud.

  Godfrey stirred at the decomposing matter on the ground with his boot, thought of all those soldiers sifted into the loam. The chickens would have forgotten already that there was one less of them than there had been an hour before; returned to their pecking and their preening, their squabbling after any leftover seed. They were the perfect creatures for war, Godfrey thought. Small brains. Dealt with what was in front of them rather than anything that was past. Probably didn’t contemplate the future either – roast, boiled, stewed or fried. George Stone had done every variation over the last couple of weeks, then tossed the bones into the pot for stock. Life had a way of going on despite what men did to it. There was something pleasing in that.

  Godfrey took a last glance across the circle of trees wondering if it might be better to live the life of a chicken than to be a man at war. Then he saw it again, that movement in the undergrowth, and realized it wa
s not a rabbit at all, but a boy, standing silent on the opposite edge of the trees. The boy was wearing a uniform, but he appeared too young for battle. Godfrey raised a hand by way of salute, but the boy did not respond. Then Godfrey blinked and when he looked again the boy was gone.

  Down at the farmhouse they had played for an hour, a yard full of men breathless from the chase, mud and chicken shit smeared across their breeches and their boots. George Stone had already gone inside to start the preparations for that night’s supper. Jackdaw was on his arse in the mud, Alfred Walker laughing and offering a hand to haul him up. James Hawes stood to one side, his hands on his knees, panting in an attempt to get some breath into his lungs. Percy Flint brushed at a smear of dirt on the shirt he had washed only the day before.

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  Arthur Promise stood by the pump with a yellow chicken cradled in his arms. He was the winner this time.

  In the entrance to the barn, protected from the rain, Archie Methven made a note in his little book as Bertie Fortune itemized the winnings. A couple of pennies. Three hand-rolled tabs. A walnut from Stone. The tanner from Hawes. Also that little silver cap badge with a lion raising its paw.

  Strike Sure.

  Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson came to stand by the barn door, dirt all across his brow, colour high as he stared at the array of treasures lined along the helmet’s upturned rim.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Fortune. ‘Better luck next time.’

  Ralph flushed, pushed hair from his forehead. Then before Bertie Fortune could protest, he scooped the little bets into his hands.

  ‘I’ll do the honours this time, shall I?’

  Sauntered across to where Promise stood beaming by the pump with a yellow chicken beneath his arm. Ralph held out the winnings for Promise to take. The A4 boy hesitated, then reached out to claim his prize. The chicken struggled and flapped as Promise picked each little object from Ralph’s hand, stuffed them one by one into his trouser pocket. Until he came to the silver cap badge. Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson closed his fingers over that particular treasure, slid the badge into his own pocket instead.

  Promise hesitated, suddenly confused. Jackdaw came over to stand next to his friend.

  ‘Hey. He won that fair and square, didn’t he.’

  Ralph smiled, slouched a little in front of the two other lads.

  ‘I changed my mind.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  Jackdaw was annoyed, but Promise was silent, the yellow chicken squawking and pecking at his sleeve. Bertie Fortune came over.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘He won’t pay his debt,’ said Jackdaw, gesturing to the second lieutenant.

  Fortune flicked a warning glance towards the darker A4 boy. Then he turned towards Ralph.

  ‘You sure about this, sir? You did offer it.’

  Ralph gazed at the section’s lucky man, a faint scent of citrus hanging in the air.

  ‘Quite sure, Fortune. Thank you.’

  ‘Got to pay our debts, sir.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ralph dipped his head. ‘How about this instead?’

  He leaned towards Promise and tucked a silver shilling into the top pocket of the A4 boy’s tunic, buttoned the thing down. Promise blushed a furious pink. Jackdaw protested.

  ‘Hang on . . .’

  Bertie Fortune took his hands from his pockets.

  ‘Sir . . .’

  But Ralph ignored them all, grabbed the chicken from Promise’s arms, then stepped back, holding the creature aloft by its neck.

  ‘Right, then, men,’ he called. ‘Who wants to slit its throat this time?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Alfred Walker, always ready to play with the knife, darted over to retrieve it from George Stone where he stood at the farmhouse door waiting to see how the game might end.

  ‘What about the cap badge?’

  Jackdaw’s voice was querulous, like a child’s.

  ‘Get on with it, can’t you, whoever’s doing it,’ said Flint. ‘Bloody freezing out here.’

  Ralph ignored them both. ‘I think Hawes should do it this time. He hasn’t done us the honour yet.’

  The men turned to where James Hawes was standing in the entrance to the barn, breath regained, holding his red book against his chest. They all saw how his fingers tipple tappled against the book’s cover. Bertie Fortune stepped towards Ralph.

  ‘I think we should sort the debt first, sir,’ he said in a low voice.

  But Ralph waved him away. ‘That’s done, Fortune. I’ve paid Promise something else instead. Now it’s Hawes’s turn.’

  ‘Wait . . .’

  Jackdaw pushed forwards, but Archie Methven moved to stand in front of him.

  ‘I’ll do it, sir.’

  The section’s accountant, offering to clear Hawes’s debt.

  ‘No.’ Ralph dismissed Methven, as he did the rest. ‘Hawes will do it. After all, he’s the expert. Aren’t you, Hawes?’

  No one spoke as the two men fixed eyes across the yard. The young officer grinned and squeezed at the chicken’s neck. The chicken flapped and struggled, scaly feet scrabbling against the air.

  ‘Don’t make the poor thing wait any longer, Hawes,’ Ralph called. ‘Wouldn’t want it to suffer.’

  The men all stared at Hawes. To be afraid of blood was one thing. To disobey a direct order from an officer was a capital offence. There was silence for a moment, then a sudden blur across the yard, the knife grabbed from Alfred Walker’s hand, a flash of silver. One swift slice and the chicken’s head was severed from its body, blood spurting high to splash all over the second lieutenant. On his shirt. On his face. In his hair. All its sticky warmth.

  Flint swore.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Jackdaw squealed. Alfred Walker laughed in disbelief. James Hawes turned and retched into a pile of dirty straw. The knife clattered to the base of the pump as Promise dropped it and stepped away. Then they all watched in silence as the chicken ran its last and most frantic dance across the mud, before it fell, too.

  The rain came on stronger as Godfrey turned for home, the spitter spatter of a thousand droplets decorating his uniform with a thousand dark spots. When he got back he would take the half-walnut shell from his pocket and set it to sail on the flooded pond, he thought, see where the water took it. Then he would remove his dirty boots, sit again at the table in the parlour and begin once more.

  Dear Mother and Father . . .

  Look out through the rain to where roses would bloom next summer if the war would let them, sweet perfume in his nostrils, a bowl of them on the parlour table, heads dipped towards the stain.

  He was almost back in the yard when the boy appeared again, ambling towards him down that muddy lane this time. The boy was fair, hair bright amongst the grey. He was carrying a pack almost as big as himself, a rifle slung across his chest, though he was only sixteen, by the looks of him, perhaps not even that. At his feet there was a small dog, some sort of terrier with a rough coat and mud on its paws. Godfrey felt his body suddenly hot beneath his tunic. What soldier brings a dog to war? he thought.

  He closed his eyes, heard the raindrops dripping from the eaves, the tick of his wristwatch suddenly loud. But when he opened them again the boy was still there, standing three feet in front now, eyes grey like Beach’s had been on that final morning. The boy saluted, held out an envelope.

  ‘Sir.’

  Godfrey stared at the small rectangle of paper. He knew at once what it was. The end had come at last.

  1995

  Methven

  It was the year they separated the men from the boys. Lined them in front of the coaches, grinning and prodding with rifle butts as the women pressed around. Thomas Methven had never expected to see that again in his lifetime. Yet here it was, two days’ drive across the continent to a land somewhere on the fringes of Europe, stuffed now with men holding guns. He could have been one of them, Methven thought as he watched the drama unfold on t
he small television set in his kitchen. A pensioner driven to his death from a suburb of Srebrenica, in a minibus belonging to a neighbour, helped on board by a Dutchman wearing a blue cap and a rifle only ever pointed down.

  He pressed mute on the television remote, looked away towards the remains of his breakfast. Marmalade. Flora. A single teacup and a half-pint of milk. The ordinary things. Also a shoebox, the last item waiting to be unpacked. The box was a simple thing, with a lid that had been taped up years before as though there was nothing dangerous inside. The tape had lost all its stick, left a silvery residue on Methven’s hands as he peeled what remained away. Like those house moths his wife used to wage war on when they got amongst the jumpers, turned to dust with a single rub of finger against thumb.

  Two weeks after they had burned Thomas Methven’s wife in the furnace at Mortonhall and he had started in the garage. Moved from there to the spare rooms. Then to the bookshelves, and the cupboards in the kitchen. After that the lounge. Then he had clambered into the attic with its bin bags and its cardboard cartons, thrown the lot through the hatch into the hall below. Two weeks of spreading their belongings like butter across the charity shops of Edinburgh to bring succour to the poor, no room for anything that reminded him of what was gone and could not be replaced. All that was left of Methven’s life would be ahead of him now – that was what he had decided. Not something to look back on with regret.

  He’d dug everything up because time was running out, a trickle of seconds and minutes passing through the hourglass as though they would never stop. He was old now, well over seventy, would be lucky to enjoy another twenty years. But he only had to remember his wife’s face nestled amongst the satin lining of her coffin to know that he might have a lot less time than that.

  Thomas Methven pushed back his chair now, put the marmalade in the fridge, followed by the margarine and the milk. Then he swept crumbs from the tabletop with his cuff, to clear a proper space. The shoebox had once contained a pair of new leather sandals in turquoise, the label still stuck to the outside. He remembered his wife wearing the shoes for her cousin’s wedding, turning on her heel before the mirror in the hall. She had smelled of sweet peas then, wore coral-shaded lipstick. The box was one of the things he had meant to sort through before she died, thought he would have time. Realized now it might already be too late.