The Inheritance of Solomon Farthing

by Mary Paulson-Ellis

  They had agreed on the lang ten, Scotch Mist, as Alfred Walker called it. The first to catch the ten would be the winner – not a ten, but the ten dictated by the trump. As many rounds as they needed, Methven keeping the score. Two points for the queen. Three for the king. Four for the ace. Ten for the ten. And the knave as the prize that would beat them all. It would keep them busy the whole day until one man swept everything, or they ran out of things to bet and tallied the score. If there was no conclusion today, they would pick up again tomorrow. The game could be played continuously as long as the accountant dictated that it should. Or the bells pealed in the village. At least that was what Godfrey Farthing hoped.

  He watched now as the men dipped into their pockets, deciding what to put in first or what to withhold. They might start with the trivial, but Godfrey knew that the game would end with each man gambling the most precious things he had. Six army buttons that went blue with the gas. An ace of spades from an incomplete pack. A needle. Some thread. A packet of Kitchener’s Last. Once there had even been a plum cake, bid for by those left after Beach was gone. It had been made by the boy’s mother, wrapped in newspaper to keep it moist.

  Now that’s really something.

  Packed tight in a tin.

  It arrived after Beach was dead, but before his mother got the letter. They bet and Stone won, carved out small slices of the cake and served it back to them with the ration of tea. None of them had felt it was the wrong thing to do. Beach was gone, but they could still enjoy the taste of sugar in his place.

  The game began at 11 a.m., George Stone leading off. The old sweat and the eldest hand, put in one of the walnuts from the basket in the kitchen, then placed his first card in the centre of the playing area for all to see. Godfrey could sense it the moment the card went down – that thick air of anticipation that comes with winner takes all.

  The men played in silence at first, nothing but the slap and scuff of cards, sawdust rising as they tossed their first bets in:

  A matchstick;

  A centime;

  An old stub of candle.

  As though the items being offered were only so much chiff chaff for all concerned. Outside the rain was falling again, cold seeping through the barn’s wide door. From his position beyond the playing circle, half in the gloom, Godfrey could see the intensity of each man’s gaze, adding it all up. Who might have a run of luck. Who a bad hand. Whose treasure could be won. And whose might be lost. But soon enough he also saw what he had been hoping for – that softening of the men’s bodies as they began to relax. A shoulder eased here. A leg stretched there. A casual scratch at a forearm or the back of a neck. He could feel it in himself, too, uncertainty slipping from him like a greatcoat lifted from his shoulders after two weeks in a trench, no longer soldiers, but young men again, at play.

  After three rounds, twelve noon been and gone, the comments began. Along with the jokes and the insults, the sly digs and the laughs. The men traded them across the circle, each one flying as fast as the cards.

  ‘Bloody chicken feed,’ said Stone when Jackdaw threw in a farthing. ‘No use to anyone.’

  ‘What, like that wrinkled fodder?’ called Bertie Fortune. ‘Walnuts for dinner again.’

  The men all pretended to groan, but Godfrey knew they didn’t mean it. The walnuts were like everything else he had come across in this Eden – treasure of an unexpected kind.

  It took Alfred Walker to offer something all the men thought was proper gold – the wishbone from the first night’s chicken, tossed in with a grin to see where it might land. Must have bartered it with Bertie Fortune, Godfrey thought when he saw the little bone, wondered what for. He looked towards his lucky man sitting on the far side of the circle pulling at the corner of his moustache, received a slow wink in reply.

  The men jeered when they saw Walker’s offering.

  ‘Starvation corner, mate,’ said George Stone.

  ‘White flag already,’ laughed Flint.

  ‘Thinks he’s a dog, can win with a bone,’ joked Jackdaw.

  But Godfrey knew that Walker had made a good trade. He’d dug enough lucky charms out of dead men’s pockets to understand that everybody carried something to protect themselves from the bullets if they could, had his own hidden in the straw of his mattress, in the attic room he shared with Ralph.

  The men played for another hour non-stop, as outside the light arced across the horizon. Like the little sun rising then falling again on the grandfather clock in his mother’s parlour back home. What would become of the clock if he did not return to claim it? thought Godfrey. He glanced at his wristwatch, remembered his father sitting at the head of the table with his teacup, the watch laid on a side plate as though it was a piece of shortbread rather than the last gift from his parents Godfrey would ever receive. When he’d left the house the following morning, Godfrey had never imagined he would ever return to those uninspiring fields where the middle of England seeped into the east. A place he had only wished to get away from, grasping war when it came with both his soft hands. But now, whenever he stood beneath that circle of trees and looked out across the empty fields towards the river, he realized he had returned to the landscape of his youth with barely a second thought.

  ‘Bets in for the last round before lunch.’

  Archie Methven called for order as the final game of the morning began. This time Percy Flint threw in his reel of pink thread. Jackdaw a button from an officer’s coat polished to a shine. Bertie Fortune had a postcard with a picture of a church’s leaning spire.

  ‘Where’s that?’ said Hawes.

  ‘Albert,’ replied the lucky man lifting his eyes to Godfrey, before looking away. ‘Bloody disaster that was.’

  George Stone rolled yet another walnut towards the centre of the playing circle, while Walker offered a small square of chocolate, only nibbled at one end.

  ‘Mice got to it,’ he said when the men protested.

  ‘Rat, more like,’ mumbled Flint.

  It was then that Promise tossed a silver shilling into the ring, the coin landing with a plink amongst the other treasure. The A4 boy’s winnings from a game of chicken, for which the real prize never had been paid.

  Godfrey was aware of a sudden silence amongst the men as they stared at the silver coin, before retreating again behind their cards. He glanced towards Promise across the ring, but the fair A4 boy was watching Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson, as though to see what the officer might proffer in reply. It was Bertie Fortune who made the suggestion.

  ‘You could match it, sir. Silver for silver. Let it all balance out.’

  Ralph was very still for a moment, his strange eyes fixed on the playing area scattered with all its little treasures. Even Godfrey felt the heat in his boots, wondered if he was finally going to get a glimpse of the prize Fortune had mentioned, the one that had created all the fuss. But then Ralph gave a slight smile, laid down a Woodbine, and the game began once more.

  The cards were dealt, laid one on top of the other, points won and lost, until the end of the round came and the shilling was lost to Alfred Walker, who laughed and tossed it in celebration.

  ‘Heads I win. Tails I win again.’

  The men all laughing, too. Except Ralph, whose blank face belied the cold in his eyes. Godfrey glanced again at his wristwatch, 1 p.m. and counting, indicated to Archie Methven to end the game there.

  ‘All done,’ said the accountant gathering in the cards, before sliding the pack into his top pocket.

  And the men disbursed, a sudden lightness in their step.

  Lunch was a round of tackety biscuits and tea brewed in the ancient kettle, half a boiled egg each, shells peeled by Promise in a basin of water so icy it coloured his fingers blue. Stone must have a secret store of them, thought Godfrey, hoarding till the last. The men stood and stretched as they waited to be served, gathered in the yard with their hands tucked under armpits to keep warm, breath clouding about their heads. The rain had ceased, the two remaining chicken
s flittering and flapping in the dust of the grain store, black eyes gleaming amongst the sag of blankets strung on makeshift ropes to air.

  When the food came out, Godfrey watched Ralph as he sat alone in a corner of the yard, tea in one hand, biscuit in the other, crouched on the stump of wood they used for a chopping block. The game could have a balancing effect, that was what Godfrey had discovered, first one man on top, then another, in a constant ebb and flow. But Godfrey had seen the way his second looked at Promise’s shilling, knew he must take care. Ralph had a way of calculating the odds that was ruthless and precise, a man who played only for himself.

  Stone ended the meal with a flourish, a dish of something they had not seen for months. Fruit stewed and slippery in a huge stoneware bowl stirred in with what looked like syrup, the single tin of Lyle’s from the cellar come into its own, as though the old sweat knew somehow that the end would soon be here. The men thrust forwards with their mess tins clattering to be first. Promise followed with one of the precious cans of Nestlé’s Condensed, each man adding a swirl to his portion of dessert.

  ‘Hey up!’ said Alfred Walker, taking the tin of milk first. ‘This is better than Tickler.’

  The army’s standard jam. Walker poured out his share of the Nestlé’s, then licked the lip of the tin before handing it to Jackdaw. Flint looked disgusted.

  ‘You dirty bugger.’

  But then Jackdaw did the same, passing it to Flint next so that the married conscript had to take his medicine or forego the treat. The moment Godfrey took a spoonful of the mixture he knew that Stone had added something illicit. Brandy, a low note of France’s best, smuggled in from somewhere unknown.

  After lunch, Godfrey left the men to play once more, forded the pond and walked some way towards the fold in the land instead. Everything was shaded, the afternoon mist closing in, shadows gathering beneath the hedgerows. Godfrey longed to head to the walnut grove so that he could stand amongst the silent trees. But he did not want to leave the farmyard and the men for the time it would take him to walk there and back. He looked across the fields towards the river hidden in the distance, wondered if the enemy were watching him, too.

  In his pocket Godfrey touched Ralph’s dice, turning them once, then twice. Zero hour was supposed to be dawn the next morning, attack as soon as the sun edged above the line. But Godfrey Farthing had already decided to let that moment pass, a gamble of his own, nothing written in his service diary but Rain, Rain, Rain, one day after the next, until the bells pealed.

  On the hill, there was the sudden movement of a creature in the distance. A rabbit, Godfrey thought, leaping over one of Alec’s simple loops of wire. Or a hare, perhaps, springing from its shallow form to frolic in the twilight, fur turning to white with the cold. But once again it was a boy, standing at the edge of the grove watching Godfrey from afar. Beach, this time, perhaps.

  I’ll be seeing you, then.

  Waving to Godfrey from wherever he had ended.

  Godfrey raised his hand as though to wave back, two soldiers saluting each other across the battlefield. Found the boy already gone.

  Back in the barn Godfrey could tell at once that things had changed. Stone was out, had retired to the kitchen to prepare supper. Jackdaw out, too, no more shiny bits and bobs to play. Bertie Fortune had declined to continue, saving his treasure for later, no doubt, Godfrey thought. Or for barter with whoever might win.

  ‘Quit while you’re ahead.’

  That was what the lucky man said, scraping together his small collection of winnings and refusing to play again. The men didn’t mind. Bertie Fortune was Bertie Fortune, never would give it all away.

  The paraffin lamp had been lit for the first time, all the men’s faces cast in and out of shadow as they dipped back and forth. Percy Flint wanted to continue, but no one would sub him and he did not seem to have any further trinkets he was willing to bet for himself. He sat on the furthest edge of the circle, watching the rest of the action with a scowl. Alec had counted himself in for the end, but Hawes had not, glancing at Godfrey for a moment from across the field of play, no more small screws of tobacco to toss into the ring. Hawes had kept the game going all day with a seemingly endless supply, all wrapped in thin scraps of paper, some sort of print on both sides. All finished now.

  ‘What about that book instead?’ Alfred Walker joked.

  But Hawes just ignored him. They all knew their temporary sergeant would never let Old Mortality go.

  Godfrey’s second sat in a casual slouch on the far side of the playing area with a whole pile of stuff laid before him. One day of the game and already Second Lieutenant Svenson had taken everyone else’s treasure, thought Godfrey, made it his own.

  ‘Final bet’s in before supper,’ called Methven, his face flushed like them all at the end that was near. ‘Whoever wants to play.’

  Ralph hesitated for a moment, flicked his eyes towards Flint who sat in the shadow at the edge of the circle, then leaned forwards and nudged Flint’s spool of thread towards the centre of the playing area, all the men watching it unravel as it rolled across the flags. Promise shifted in his seat, card held tight against his chest as though he knew he had something worth playing, but wasn’t certain whether to stick or fold. Godfrey’s heart skipped with its one two beat at what might be about to happen, the last round of the day turning into a battle between his second and the fair A4 boy. It was funny how these things worked out.

  Ralph nodded towards Promise. ‘Your turn. If you dare.’

  Promise’s face was like chalk in the gloom compared to the other men, theirs all blotched and high.

  ‘I don’t have anything else to bet with,’ he said, refusing to look at the second.

  Ralph stretched his feet towards the playing area as though it was a fire to keep him warm. ‘You can’t play if you don’t bet.’

  ‘I know the rules.’

  Promise’s reply was sharp, but Ralph just nudged at the reel of pink cotton with the tip of his boot.

  ‘You’ve a Housewife, haven’t you,’ he said. ‘That would do it.’

  ‘What d’you want that for?’ Jackdaw was agitated, unable to keep still.

  ‘Like a crow,’ said Flint without looking at the darker A4 boy. ‘Always cawing.’

  Alfred Walker laughed then, a nervous release of tension. Godfrey watched as Jackdaw turned towards Promise, dark eyes shining for a moment in the glow from the paraffin lamp, as though warning his friend not to proceed. But Promise was staring at the second lieutenant, a boy only a few months older than he was, spots still on his jaw.

  Ralph smiled his lazy smile. ‘What’s it to be, Promise? Play or fold.’

  But Promise would not fold. Instead he held on to his cards the same way Hawes held his book with the red woven cover. Ralph shrugged, made as though to gather all his remaining treasure from the ground. Then Promise scrambled up, went over to his pack and pulled the Housewife from the pocket on the outside, brought it back to the playing circle and tossed it down.

  ‘Have it if you want it. I don’t care.’

  Flint grinned. Methven’s voice cut low through the tension.

  ‘Play your cards.’

  And the final round began.

  Promise played his card first, body stiff with anticipation, kept his eyes low and hesitated for a moment, before darting his hand out and throwing the thing down. An ace. The ace of trumps. Godfrey’s body washed with instant relief as a sigh rippled through the group of men. Promise’s card would take some beating. The A4 boy might yet prevail. They all turned towards Ralph now, waited to see what he held in his hand. Godfrey’s second took his time, rolled his head back on his neck so they could all hear the crick of his vertebrae.

  ‘Good shot, Promise,’ he said. ‘But wide.’

  His strange eyes were pinned on the A4 boy, unwavering in the gloom. All the men saw how Promise tried to stare back, then flinched beneath his lieutenant’s gaze. There was a sudden prickle of tension amongst the men, bodies alert.
Godfrey saw the raw flush on Promise’s neck, the twitch in Jackdaw’s hand. Then Ralph grinned, laid down his card. A ten. The ten. The ten of trumps. Ralph was the winner once more.

  The men began to speak in urgent whispers, a huddle here, others there, Archie Methven, the accountant, adding up the final reckoning now the game was done. Godfrey watched Ralph gather in the men’s prizes:

  Hawes’s tobacco.

  Walker’s wishbone.

  Flint’s reel of pink cotton.

  Amongst other things.

  Also Promise’s housewife filled with needles and pins. A dirty thing. An ordinary thing. Not something normally counted as treasure. He couldn’t understand why Ralph had suggested Promise bet it, felt a thread of anxiety thrum inside at the idea that the game was not all it seemed. Then his second bent forwards, flipped the canvas strip open, and Godfrey Farthing understood.

  There on the playing circle, lit by the glow of the paraffin lamp, were two hearts stitched together in pink thread. Entwined with two initials. Jackdaw and Promise bright amongst the needles, everything they were to each other laid out for all the men to see.

  There was a heavy silence in the barn, the stink of the paraffin lamp suddenly overwhelming, the dark void beneath the roof pressing down. Relations between two men of the kind displayed here were a punishable offence. Two years inside for indecent behaviour. Hard labour. Or worse. Something Captain Godfrey Farthing could not ignore if another man complained. He felt blood thumping in his ears suddenly at the thought of what might be coming, that ache in his chest. Then came a voice from the shadows.

  ‘I haven’t had my turn yet.’

  Ralph’s face was suddenly flushed with the fumes from the paraffin lamp.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he said.

  The men all twisted to peer towards the far edge of the circle, Alec the new recruit, counted in for the final game, not counted out yet, staring back. Also his dog. Godfrey saw how the dog’s eyes glinted like small mirrors in amongst the gloom. Sweat prickled beneath his tunic then at the possibility of a different ending, no longer the second lieutenant holding all the cards. Ralph must have felt it too for he crouched forwards, razor spots vivid.