The passage was in darkness, and Tom did not see, but felt, the side door swing open, with a damp drench of wind from the yard. There was a grey mist in the passage. The next minute a white stick-like thing flew out of it, suddenly like the wind, and then bumped into Tom, with the unexpected contact of warm flesh against his hands, and “Oo-er,” in Harry’s voice.
“Harry....”
“Oh, that’s you, Tom? Lemme git up and fetch some cloathes.”
“But where’s those as you went out in?”
“I dunno. I’ll tell you afterwards, but I’m coald, and I want my supper.”
The slow, facile anger of his type went tingling into Tom’s speech and hands.
“Supper! I’m hemmed if you git so much as a bite. Tell me this wunst where you left your cloathes or I’ll knock your head off, surelye.”
He laid violent hands on Harry, who was, however, far too slippery to hold. He was free in a minute and dashed into the outer kitchen, slamming the door after him.
When Tom came in he was sitting tailor-fashion on the table, gnawing the top of a cottage loaf. The elder brother could not help laughing at him, he looked such a queer goblin creature.
“Doan’t be vrothered, Tom,” whined Harry, taking advantage of his relenting—“it’s your last night at home.”
Tom winced—they were always throwing it at him, his “last night.”
“Lucky fur you as it is—and unlucky fur me—and unlucky fur Worge if this is the way you’re going on when I’m a-gone. Where’ve you bin?”
“Only over to Bucksteep, Tom.”
“But wot have you done wud your clothes?”
“Mus’ Archie’s got ’em.”
“Wot d’you mean? Spik the truth.”
“It’s Bible truth. Willie and Peter Sinden and Bob Pix and me thought as how we’d bathe by moonlight in Bucksteep pond, and Mus’ Archie’s hoame on leave, and he wur walking wud his young woman in the paddock, and he sawed us, and took all our cloathes whiles we wur in the water. He thought as how he’d got us then, and that we couldn’t git away wudout our cloathes. But he’s found he’s wrong, fur we climbed up the far bank into Throws Wood, and ran hoame.”
“You mean to tell me as you’ve come in your skin all the way from Bucksteep?”
Harry nodded, and laughed at some Puckish memory.
“Well, all I wonder is as you wurn’t took and put in gaol—you would have been if policeman had met you—and you’ll catch your death of cold.”
He pulled off his coat and most ungently bundled Harry into it. Then another idea struck him. He groaned, and scratched his head.
“I must write to Mus’ Archie this wunst.”
“Why, Tom?”
“To git your clothes back. We can’t afford to lose a good suit of clothes.”
He turned wearily to the cupboard, and took out a penny ink-bottle, a pen, and some cheap writing-paper.
“Tom—he’ll know it wur me if you write.”
“I can’t help that—we must git your clothes back.”
“But they were only old cloathes.”
“Adone-do, Harry. We can’t afford to lose so much as an old shirt. Oh, you’re vrothering me to madness wud your doings.”
He began to scrawl in his slow, round hand. He was no letter-writer, and found it difficult to put his request into words. He also wanted to plead for Harry, to explain a little of his own hard case, and ask that the matter might be allowed to stop at the scare and scolding Harry had received, for “I am joining up to-morrow, and it is very hard to leave them all like this, from your obedient servant Thomas Beatup.”
Harry watched him, bobbing over the sheet, every now and then passing his tongue over his lips in the agony of composition. Then suddenly he slid towards him across the table and put his arm round his neck.
Tom shook him off.
“Git away.”
“I’m sorry I’m such a hemmed curse to you, Tom.”
“You’re a hemmed curse indeed. I ask you to be a man in my plaace, and you’re no more than a tedious liddle child.”
A sudden sense of the hopelessness of it all came over him—the net in which he struggled, in which he was being dragged away from those he could help and love. He dropped his head in his hands. Harry stood for a moment awestruck beside him, a grotesque figure with Tom’s coat hanging over his bare thighs. Then he turned and crept away to bed.
The clock struck nine, and Tom lifted his head. He was utterly weary, but he knew that if he did not take his letter over to Bucksteep to-night he would not have time in the morning. There was no good leaving it to other hands to deliver, for he felt that his mother would resent its humble tone, and perhaps send instead an angry demand which, by rousing Mus’ Archie’s rage, might end by landing Harry before the Senlac Bench. So he put on his father’s driving coat, which hung in the passage and smelt of manure and stale spirits, and let himself out into the soft, throbbing darkness, lit only by a few dim stars of the Plough.
Bucksteep Manor was the smaller kind of country-house, smuggled away from the cross-roads in a larch plantation, with a tennis lawn at the back, and a more open view swinging over a copsed valley to Rushlake Green. It had once been a farmhouse, but a wing had been added in modern style, and inside, the low raftering had been swept away, so that when Tom stood in the dimly-lighted hall, which had once been the kitchen, he could look up to a ceiling dizzily high to his sag-roofed experience.
The Lambs were the aristocracy of Dallington, a neighbourhood strikingly empty of “society” in the country-house sense. They had themselves been yeoman farmers a couple of generations back, and the present squire still interested himself shamefacedly in Bucksteep’s hundred acres. The Beatups had but little truck with the Manor; precarious yeomen, no rents or dues demanded intercourse, and Mus’ Beatup had often been heard to say that some folks were no better than other folks, for all their airs and acres.
Tom had given his letter to a rustling parlourmaid, and stood meekly waiting for an answer, his large bovine eyes blinking with sleepiness. From an adjoining room came the throaty music of a gramophone, playing:
“When we wind up the Watch on the Rhine
Everything will be Potsdam fine....”
There was girls’ laughter, too—probably Miss Marian Lamb and Mus’ Archie’s intended—and every now and then he heard Mrs. Lamb’s voice go rocketing up. He did not feel envious of all this jollity, neither did it grate upon him; he just stood and waited under the shaded lamps of the hall, and had nearly fallen asleep on his legs when suddenly the door opened, with a flood of light and noise, and shut again behind Mus’ Archie.
“Good evening, Beatup. Sorry to have kept you waiting. I couldn’t make this out at first—had no idea your young brother was one of the culprits to-night, or I shouldn’t have played that trick on ’em.”
“It doan’t matter, sir. Harry desarved it. It’s only as we can’t afford to lose the clothes.”
“No, no, of course not. Come with me and pick his out of the pile, and you can take them home.”
“Thank you, Mus’ Archie.”
He followed young Lamb into a little gun-room opening on the hall, and was able to pick out Harry’s rather bobtail toilet from a muddle of Sinden and Pix raiment.
“That’s all, is it? Wan’t anything to wrap ’em in?”
“No, sir, it aun’t worth it. Thank you kindly for letting me have the things.”
“There was never any question of you not having them. I’ve no right to keep ’em. So you’re joining up to-morrow?”
He was in uniform, but without his belt. Somehow to Tom he seemed a burlier, browner man than the young squire whom before the war he used to see out hunting, or shooting, or driving girls in his car.
“Yes, I’m joining up, as they say.”
“You don’t seem over-pleased about it.”
“I aun’t, particular.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you it’s the grandest job on earth, and that all the chaps out there are having the time of their lives. It wouldn’t be true, though I expect the Tribunal told you so.”
“Yessir; they said as if they were only ten years younger they’d all be in it.”
“Of course they did. Well, I’ve been out there, and I’ve seen.... But never mind; you’ll find that out for yourself, Beatup. However, I’ll say this much—it isn’t a nice job, or a grand job, or even a good job; but it’s a job that’s got to be done, and when it’s done we’ll like to think that Sussex chaps helped do it.”
Tom’s heart warmed a little towards Mus’ Archie. He was making him feel as he had felt when Bill Putland said, “We’re all eighteenth Sussex hereabouts.”
“It aun’t the going as un vrother me, if it wurn’t fur leaving Worge. I’m fretted as the plaace ull land at the auctioneer’s if I’m long away. You see, I’ve always done most of the work, in my head as well as wud my hands. Faather, he aun’t a healthy man, and the others aun’t much help nuther. There’s only Harry lik to be any use, and he’s such an unaccountable limb of wickedness—for ever at his tricks—to-night’s only one of them.”
“Perhaps he’ll pull himself together and work for Worge when he sees you’ve gone to fight for it.”
This was new light on the matter for Tom. Hitherto he had always thought of himself as deserting Worge in its hour of need—it had never occurred to him that his going was the going of a champion, not of a traitor.
“Maybe it’s as you say, Mus’ Archie. Leastways, we’ll hope so.”
They were in the hall again now, and the gramophone was singing in its spooky voice. “You called me Baby Doll a year ago.” Tom slowly turned the handle of the front door, sidling out on to the step.
“Thank you for the clothes, Mus’ Archie. I’ll try and talk some sense into Harry before I go.”
“Good night, Beatup, and good luck to you. I expect I’ll see some more of you in the near future. All the chaps round here seem to be drafted into the eighteenth. Bill Putland will be in our little crowd, and Jerry Sumption—there’ll be quite a Dallington set at Waterheel.”
“I hope I’ll be with you, Mus’ Archie.”
“I hope you will, Beatup. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
The door shut, and he was out in the drive, where the larches swung against the moon.
Archie Lamb went back into the drawing-room, and put a new record on the gramophone.
“Queer chap, Beatup,” he said to his mother. “I don’t know how he’ll shape. He looks strong and steady, but I should say about as smart as a mangold-wurzel.”
Tom swung along the dim road, where the shadows ran before him. The new-risen moon looked over the hedge, an amber disc just past the full, swimming against the wind from Satanstown. In the heart of the wind seemed still to beat the pulse of those far-off guns, the ghost of their day-long thunder. Over and over in his mind Tom turned his new thought—that he was going to fight for Worge.
In a quarter of an hour he had come to Sunday Street. He could see the moonlight lying like frost on the southward slope of the roofs, and the windows of the Bethel were ghostly with it, as they stared away to the marshes. The Bethel alone seemed awake in the little huddle of sleeping cottages—it had a strange look of watchfulness and waiting, its gaunt Georgian windows never had that comfortable blinking air of the cottage lattices.... Tom did not like the Bethel at night.
He looked across the road to the Horselunges, where Mr. Sumption lived. A crack of light showed under the blind of the minister’s room, and Tom’s heart gave a little thump of self-reproach, for he had not till then thought of saying good-bye to him. He had not seen much of Mr. Sumption lately, and had been too much absorbed in his own concerns to think of him, but now he made up his mind to call and say good-bye; it was past ten o’clock and he was very tired and sleepy, nevertheless he walked up to the door of the Horselunges and knocked.
Mrs. Hubble was in bed, as the hour demanded, so the door was opened by her lodger.
“Hello, Tom. Anything the matter? Do they want me at Worge?”
Mr. Sumption was always childishly eager for some demand on his pastoral ministrations, a demand which was seldom made, as he had a disruptive bedside manner and the funds of his chapel did not admit of the doles which made sick Dallington people endure the consolations of the Church.
“No, thank you, they doan’t. I’ve just come to say good-bye.”
The minister’s forehead clouded—
“Oh, you’ve remembered me at last, have you? Thought it just as well not to forget old friends before you go off to make new ones. Come in.”
Tom, who had expected this greeting, followed Mr. Sumption upstairs into the room which he called his study, but which had few points of difference from any cottage living-room in Sunday Street. There was a frayed carpet with a lot of dirt trodden into it, and a sun-sucked wall-paper adhering as closely as possible to walls complicate of beams and bulges. A solitary book-shelf supported Jessica’s First Prayer, Edwin’s Trial or The Little Christian Witness, and kindred works, cheek-by-jowl with Burton’s Four Last Things and a cage of white mice. There was another cage hanging in the window, containing a broken-winged thrush which the pastor, after the failure of many anathemas, had bought from one of those mysterious gangs of small boys which prowl round villages. An old, old cat sat before the empty grate, too decrepit to make more than one attempt a day on the thrush or the mice, and now purring wheezily in the intervals of scratching a cankered ear.
On the table was a wild, unwieldy parcel, from whose bursting sides the contents were already beginning to ooze forth.
“I’m packing a parcel for Jerry,” said the minister. “I’d just finished when you knocked.”
“It looks as if it was coming undone,” said Tom.
“So it does”—and Mr. Sumption glanced deprecatingly at his handiwork. “If only I had some sealing-wax ... but the shop’s shut.”
“It’ll be open to-morrow,” said Tom, and pictured Thyrza pulling up the blind and dusting the salmon-tins in the window ... long after he had gone to catch the early train from Hailsham.
“Well, to-morrow’s time enough, as I can’t post it before then. It ud be a pity for anything to get lost. There’s three shillings’ worth of things in that parcel.”
“Have you had any more letters from Jerry?”
“Yes, I had one yesterday”—no need to tell Tom there had been no others—“He wants chocolate and cigarettes, and I put in a tin of cocoa besides, and some little squares to make soup of. He’ll be unaccountable pleased.”
“How’s he gitting on?”
“Valiant. He likes being along of the other lads. The only thing that worrits him is your sister.”
“My sister?”
“Yes, your sister Ivy. Seemingly she never answered a postcard he wrote her ten days back, and you knows he’s unaccountable set on Ivy.”
“It aun’t no use, Mus’ Sumption. Ivy’s got no thought for him, I’m certain sure, and he’s only wasting time over her.”
The minister’s comely face darkened, and he cracked his fingers once or twice.
“It’s a pity, a lamentable pity. That boy of mine’s crazy on Ivy Beatup. Are you sure she doesn’t care about him, Tom?”
“Well, who knows wot a gal thinks? I can only put two and two together. But seemingly if she’d cared she’d have answered his postcard.”
“Could you put in a word for him?”
Young Beatup shook his head—
“I woan’t meddle. If Ivy doan’t care I can’t maake her, and I reckon mother’s unaccountable set against it too.”
He had said the wrong thing. Mr. Sumption’s eyes became like burning pits. He swung his hands up and cracked them like a pistol.
“Set against it, is she? Set against my Jerry? Maybe he isn’t good enough for her—a clergyman’s son for a farmer’s daughter.”
“I never said naun of that,” mumbled Tom uneasily, remembering his mother’s reference to “gipsy muck.”
“It’s I as might be set against it,” continued the minister. “I tell you that boy’s been bred and cut above your sister. I never sent him to a board school along of farmers’ children—I taught him myself, everything I learned at college. He’d know as much I do if he hadn’t forgotten it. Yet I’m not proud; I know the boy wants your sister Ivy and ull do something silly if he can’t get her, so when he writes to me, ‘Where’s Ivy? Find out why she didn’t answer my postcard, and tell her I’ll go mad if she doesn’t take some notice of me’—why, then, I do my best—and get told my son’s not good enough for your father’s daughter.”
“I never told you any such thing,” said Tom doggedly, “but I woan’t spik to Ivy. She knows her own business best. If I were you I’d tell Jerry straight as no good ull come of his going after her. She doan’t want him—I’m certain sure of that.”
The pastor’s wrath had died down into something more piteous.
“I daresay you’re right, Tom, and maybe I did wrong to speak like that. After all, I was only a blacksmith till the Lord called me away.... I pray that He may not require my boasting of me.”
“Well, I’m unaccountable sorry about Ivy being lik that, but I thought it better to spik plain.”
Mr. Sumption sat down rather heavily at the table.
“O Lord, how shall I tell Jerry? If I tell him he’ll do something wild, sure as he’s Jerry Sumption.”
“Doan’t tell him. He’ll find out for himself soon enough.”
Mr. Sumption groaned.
“Tom Beatup,” he said slowly, “I reckon you think I’m a faithless, unprofitable steward so to set my heart on human flesh and blood. But you’ll understand a bit of what I feel ... some day, when you’re the father of a son.”
The pale morning ray came slanting over the sky from Harebeating towards the last stars. Slowly the trees and hedges loomed out against the trembling yellow pools of the dawn. Colours woke in the fields, soft hazy greens, and blues and greys that ran together like smoke ... ponds began to gleam among the spinneys, discs of mirrored sky, that from lustreless white became glassy yellow, then kindled from glass to fire, then smouldered from fire to rust.
Tom saw the window square light up and frame the familiar picture of a life’s mornings—the oasthouse, the lombardy poplar topping the barn, the little patch of distant fields seen between the oast and the jutting farmhouse gable. The bed was pulled up close to the window, to allow of the door being opened, and he could lie on his side and look straight out at the loved common things which perhaps he might never see just so again.
It all looked very quiet, and rather cold, and the early sunless light gave it a peculiar lifelessness, as if it was something painted, or cut in cardboard. Even Tom was conscious of its cold, dreamlike quality; he always said that “the yard looked corpsy at break o’ day.” Then the distant view of little fields suddenly swam into golden light, as a long finger of sunlight stroked the barn-roofs, then stabbed in at the window, throwing a shaft of dancing golden motes across the room. Tom rose, climbed out of bed over Zacky, and in about three square feet of floor space shaved and dressed. Then he went downstairs, unlocked the house door and stole out to his last morning’s work.
No one was about; it was not till more than an hour later that the two antique farm-hands, Elphick and Juglery, came up from Worge Cottages. By that time Tom had milked the cows, mixed the chicken food, and driven the horses down to Forges field. He gave the two unskilled labourers their orders for the day as if he expected to be there to see them carried out. By that time Ivy was hunting for eggs, and Mrs. Beatup was struggling with the kitchen fire, while Mus’ Beatup, in practical, unlearned mood, had gone to the Sunk field to inspect the ewes.
As Ivy came out of the hen-house and crossed the yard, cheery, healthy, blowsy, with eggs in a bowl, Tom had a sudden thought of giving her Mr. Sumption’s message. But he held his tongue. He had meant what he said when he told the minister he was not going to meddle. He had long been convinced of the fact that his sister knew her own business; besides, Jerry ... that lousy gipsy chap.... Pastor might say he was getting on valiant, but all Dallington knew that he had been given seven days C.B. within a week of his joining.
So, with nothing for Ivy but a nod, Tom went in to breakfast. Time was short, but the breakfast was still in a rudimentary state. Mrs. Beatup fought with the kitchen fire among whorls of smoke, while Nell, coughing pathetically, laid the table. Harry in a fit of brotherly love was cleaning Tom’s best boots ready for his journey to Lewes—no one ever went to Lewes in any but Sunday clothes.
“Oh, is that you, Tom? I hope as you aun’t in a hurry. This fire’s bewitched. Nell, give your brother a cut off the loaf. You’d better git started, Tom, or you’ll lose your train.”
So Tom’s last breakfast at Worge was eaten in confusion and mess, the family dropping in one by one for cuts off the loaf or helpings of cold bacon spotted with large blisters of grease. Last of all the breakfast arrived, in the shape of the tea-pot, and a special boiled egg for Tom. He was not able to do more than gulp down the egg and scald himself with the tea. Then it was time to go. He had already tied up a few little things in a handkerchief—a razor, a piece of soap, an old frosted Christmas card which for some obscure reason he treasured—so there was nothing to do but to say good-bye and beat it for Hailsham, a good seven miles.
Mus’ Beatup put down his tea-cup and looked solemn.
“Well, good-bye, my lad. I reckon you’ve got to go. Everyone’s off to fight now, seemingly, so I suppose you must do wot others do. Not that I think so much of this war as some folks seem to—it’s bin going on nigh two years now, and I can’t see as we’re any of us a penny the better off. Howsumdever....”
“He’s going to stop it,” said Nell, her face pink.
“Ho, is he? Well, I’ve no objection. Maybe I’ll write you a letter, Tom, when Maudie calves.”
“I’d be much obliged if you would, faather, and tell me how the wheat does this year, and them new oats by the Street.”
“Good-bye, Tom,” said Harry. “I shall miss you unaccountable.”
“And I’ll miss you, too,” said Zacky, “but there’ll be more room in the bed.”
Tom kissed them sheepishly all round, then walked out of the door without a word.
He was in the yard, when he heard footsteps creaking after him, and turned round to see his mother.
“Wait a bit, Tom,” she panted; “I’ll go wud you to the geate.”
He was surprised, but it did not strike him to say so. They walked down the drive together almost in silence, the boy hanging his head. Mrs. Beatup sniffed and choked repeatedly.
“Doan’t go near those Germans, Tom,” she said, when they came to a standstill. “If you do, you’ll be killed for certain sure.”
“I’ll go where I’m put, surelye,” said Tom gloomily.
“Well, be careful, that’s all. Kip well behind the other lads, and doan’t go popping your head over walls or meddling wud cannons. And kip your feet dry, Tom, and doan’t git into temptation.”
“I promise, mother,” he mumbled against her neck, and they kissed each other many times before she let him go.
The Rifle Volunteer looked down from his sign, where he stood in the grey uniform and mutton-chop whiskers of an earlier dispensation, and stared at the stocky, shambling little figure that trudged its unwilling way to sacrifice—past Worge Cottages, stewing in the sunshine like pippins, past Egypt Farm (which Bill Putland would leave later and more conveniently in his father’s dog-cart), past the shop, with a glance half shy, half beseeching, at the drawn blinds, past the willow pond, out of Sunday Street, into the long yellow road that led to the unsought, undesired adventure.
MRS. BEATUP’S tears ran down her face as she hurried back up the drive, but she wiped them vigorously away with her apron, and had nothing but her red eyes to show when she entered the kitchen. Everyone had gone, except Ivy and Nell. The former had not finished her hearty breakfast, the latter was packing her books for school, and some sort of a wrangle was going on between them. Mrs. Beatup heard Nell call Ivy “vulgar” just as she came into the room. Ivy laughed, truly a vulgar performance with her mouth full.
“Now, you two gals, doan’t you start quarrelling just when you brother’s a-gone; maybe fur ever.”
“We aun’t quarrelling,” said Ivy. “I’ve told her she’s sweet on parson, that’s all.”
“All!” sniffed Nell. “Maybe you think it’s nothing to have your vulgar mind making out my—my friendship with Mr. Poullett-Smith’s the same as yours with—with—anyone that ull let you make sheep’s eyes at him.”
“Nell!” cried her mother. “For shaum!”
“Well, I don’t care”—the younger girl’s anger had been roused by many coarse flicks—“everyone talks about Ivy’s goings-on.”
“I doan’t care if they do,” said Ivy cavernously in her tea-cup. “Reckon it’s cos they’re jealous of me gitting the boys.”
“Well, Ivy,” said Mrs. Beatup, “I doan’t hold wud your goings-on, nuther; but anyway you’re useful.”
“I’m earning money, though,” said Nell; “at least I shall be when my third year’s up.”
“And how soon ull that be, I’d lik to know? There you go, out all day, when you might be helping us at home, and not a penny to show fur it.”
“Mother, I’ve told you again and again—why won’t you understand?—I’m being given lessons in exchange for those I give myself, and——”
“Lessons! A girl turned seventeen! I call it lamentable. I’d a-done wud my schooling at twelve.”
“But you know I have to pass an exam....”
“I doan’t see no ‘have’ in it. Better kip at hoame and help me wud the cooking. Out all day and bring home no money! I doan’t call that——”
“Well, I’m off,” said Ivy, getting up and wiping her mouth. “You two are lik a couple of barndoor cocks, walking round and round each other. I’ve summat better to do—I’ve the passage to scrub”—and she took her sacking apron off the nail.
“Where’s Zacky?” asked Mrs. Beatup. “Has he started for school?”
“Yes, he’s gone wud the Sindens.”
“And Harry?”
Ivy laughed. “Oh, Harry’s along of faather, in the Sunk field—unaccountable good and hard-working to-day, because Tom’s a-gone; seemingly, he’d sooner please him now he aun’t here to see than when he was here fretting his heart out over Harry’s lazy bones.”
“Well, I’m glad as someone remembers my poor boy’s gone, and is lik to be killed.”
Mrs. Beatup’s tears burst out afresh, but Ivy comforted her with a kiss and a clap and a few cheery words, and soon had her interested in the various bootstains on the passage-floor. “Cow-dung, that’s faather; and horse-dung, that’s Tom; and sheep-dung, that’s Juglery; and that miry clay’s jest Zacky spannelling....”
Nell put on her hat and coat and started for school. A neat, shabby little figure, with her town hat pulled down over her soft hair, she walked quickly between dust-powdered hedges to Brownbread Street, panting a little, because she was an?mic, and also because she was still a trifle indignant. Nell did not view life and the War as her family viewed them. Her different education had made them not quite such matters of bread-and-cheese. She alone at Worge had felt the humiliation—as distinct from the inconvenience—of Tom’s conscription. She had always despised him because he did not volunteer during the early stages of the War, and when the Conscription Act came into force she despised him still more for his appeal to the Tribunal. She felt that she could never think proudly of him, knowing how unwillingly he had gone, knowing that he cared for nothing except leaving Worge, that he never thought of the great cause of righteousness he was to fight for, or understood the mighty issues of his unwilling warfare.
The rest of the family were all of a block. To her mother the War was merely a matter of prices and scarcities, to her father it was drink restrictions and the closing of public-houses, to Ivy it was picture postcards and boys in khaki, to Harry the unwilling performance of tasks which would otherwise have been done by more efficient hands, to Zacky the obscure man?uvres of a gang of small boys whose imaginations had been touched by militarism. To Nell alone belonged the fret and anxiety of the times, the shock of bad news, the struggle of ineffectual small labours to win her a place in the great woe.
To-day she was early for school, as she had meant to be, for at the church she stopped and sat down in the porch. St. Wilfred’s, Brownbread Street, was only a chapel-of-ease under the mother church of Dallington. It was new-built of sandstone, an unfortunate symbol of that Rock against which the gates of hell shall not prevail. The interior, glimpsed through the open door, was dim and medi?val, the first effect due to the deep tones of the stained-glass windows, where the saints wore robes of crimson and sapphire and passional violet, and the latter to the several dark oil paintings, and the thick gilt tracery of the screen, through which the altar showed richly coloured, with one winking red light before it.
The curate-in-charge of Brownbread Street was of medi?val tendencies, and did his best, both in service and sermon, to transport his congregation from the woodbine-age to the age of pilgrimages and monasteries, with the result that, with unmedi?val licence, they sought illicit and heretical refreshment in Georgian Bethels and Victorian Tabernacles, where they could sing good Moody and Sankey tunes, instead of treacherous Gregorians and wobbling Plainsong.
But Nell loved the low, soft, creeping tones of Gregory’s mode, loved the dimness, the mystery, the faint echo of Sarum ... and if in her love was a personal element which she denied, the church was not less a refuge from the coarse frustrations of her everyday life, such as the Forge was to Mr. Sumption and the Shop had been to Tom.
To-day the priest was at the altar, saying the Last Gospel. Nell could just see him from where she sat. He would be out in a couple of minutes. She watched him glide off into the shadows, then she rose and walked down to the little wicket-gate, where the path from the porch met the path from the vestry. There was more colour in her cheeks than usual.
Now and then she looked anxiously across the road at the schoolhouse clock, where the large hand was creeping swiftly towards the hour. From the clock her eyes slewed round to the vestry door. At last the handle shook, and out came Mr. Poullett-Smith, walking hurriedly, with his cassock flapping round his legs. He did not seem to see Nell till he had nearly walked into her.
“Oh—er—good morning, Miss Beatup. I beg your pardon.”
“Good morning, Mr. Poullett-Smith. I—I wanted to tell you I’m so sorry I haven’t finished that book you lent me. I’m afraid I’ve kept it a terrible time.”
Her words came with a rush, blurred faintly in the last of a Sussex accent, and her eyes were fixed on his face with an almost childish eagerness which he could scarcely fail to notice.
“Oh, please don’t trouble. Keep the book as long as you like—the Sermons of St. Gregory, isn’t it?”
“Yes—I think they’re wonderful,” breathed Nell, hoping he would never know how difficult she found them to understand.
“They are indeed, and so stimulating.”
The Rev. Henry Poullett-Smith was a tall man, with a long nose, a slight stoop, and a waxy brownish skin that made him look like one of his own altar candles. As he spoke to Nell, he kept on glancing up the street, and when a girl on a bicycle came round the corner, he moved a few steps out into the road and took off his hat.
“Good morning, Miss Lamb.”
Marian Lamb, who was in Red Cross uniform, jumped off her bicycle and shook hands with him before she shook hands with Nell Beatup.
“On your way to the hospital, I see.”
“Yes. I’m on morning duty this week.”
“Do you prefer that to the afternoons?”
“Not in summer. I do in winter, though.”
Nell felt ignored and insulted. She made no effort to join in this sprightly dialogue. There was something in the curate’s manner towards the other girl which seemed to stab her through with a sense of her inferiority, with memories of the coarse, muddling life of Worge to which she belonged. It was not that he showed more courtesy, but he seemed to show more freedom ... he was more at his ease with one of his own class.
Her cheeks burned. Of course she was not his equal. He might talk to her and lend her books, but he did it only out of kindness; probably looked upon it as a superior form of parish relief—doled the books as he doled blankets.... She shrugged away, and the movement made him at once turn to her with a remark:
“Have you been over the hospital, Miss Beatup?”
“No—I’ve never had time ... and I must hurry off now. Good morning!”
Even as she spoke she noticed that her voice was thick and drawly, unlike Miss Lamb’s sharp, clear tones. She gripped her satchel and hurried across the road to the schoolhouse.
During the next few days the most remarkable sight at Worge was Harry’s industriousness. For nearly a week he rose at five, fed the pigs and helped with the milking, and during the whole day he was available for carting, digging, dunging, or anything else he had formerly fled from. He helped Elphick spray the young fuggles down by Forges and the Sunk Field, he took a cartload of roots over to Three Cups Corner, he groomed the horses and plaited their manes, he compelled Zacky with threats of personal violence to spend Saturday afternoon scaring birds from the gooseberries, instead of, with six other little boys, carrying out an enveloping movement on Punnetts Town, with three-ha’pence to spend on sweets in the captured citadel. On the occasion of Mus’ Beatup’s next lapse, he stalled the cows and doctored the mare, and also, with much foresight, took off and hid his father’s boots, which prevented both his going to bed in them and his throwing them at his wife.
It would have been well if this virtuous state could have lasted till the hay harvest. This was early, for there was a spell of heat in May, and the fields were soon parched. The air was full of the smell of ripe hayseed, of the baking glumes of the oats, of the hot, sickly stew of elderflower and meadowsweet. Along the Four Roads eddies of dust flew from under the wheels and caked the grass and fennel-heads beside the way, and in the ruts of the little lanes the bennet and rest-barrow sprouted, with the thick-stalked sprawly pignut, and ragged robin. Unfortunately, all this scent and heat made Harry remember a wood over by Cade Street, where he had once lain and watched the moon rise rusty beyond Lobden’s House. It was unfortunate that he had such a memory, for it had more than once been his undoing. Somewhere under Harry’s skin, mixed with the sluggish currents of his country blood, was a strain of poetry and imagination. He cared nothing for books, nothing for beauty, nothing for music (except, perhaps, when they sang “Diadem” in the Bethel at dusk), and yet every now and then something would pull him from the earth he toiled on—a thing he was unaware of three weeks out of the four, seeing only the sods cleaving together—something would call him from meadow-hills that swept up their broomy cones to the sky, an adventure would call from the Four Roads, a longing would call from the moon ... and off he would go to Stunts Green, to Starnash, Oxbottom’s Town, or Burnt Kitchen—just as, after a sober week, Mus’ Beatup would go off to the Rifle Volunteer.
His promise to Tom had made him resist the cruder temptations of ratting Sindens or bird’s-nesting Kadwells; but now it seemed to pull the other way. His brother was the only person he was in any degree afraid of, and he was safe at Waterheel, no longer his father’s vicar, waiting with barnyard discipline for the truant’s return.
So Harry went off to that wood at Cade Street, and spent the night there, in a hollow tree, watching the big yellow stars shuddering above the ash-boughs like candles in the wind, and sleeping with his head in a soft mush of last year’s leaves, that sent him back with his cheeks all smeary, and his hair caked with leaf-mast.
That was the day of the haycutting, when Mus’ Beatup and Juglery and Elphick sweated with bent backs in the field. Worge possessed a horse-rake, but the cutting had all to be done by hand, and the men’s backs ached and scorched in the sun, and their sweat dropped on their scythes. This labour, as was only natural, started in Mus’ Beatup a fearful thirst, and that night was “one of his bad nights”—one of the worst, in fact, for he threw the candlestick at his wife as well as his boots, and would not let her come to bed, so that she had to sleep with Ivy and Nell.
Harry felt rather ashamed, and tried hard to atone the next day by working himself sick. Mrs. Beatup and Ivy helped too, since haymaking was the one kind of field work which the women did not feel it derogatory to perform. Ivy was a whacking girl, nearly as good as a man; but Mus’ Beatup would never have dreamed of asking her to help fill Tom’s empty place. If town girls thought so little of themselves as to enrol for farm work, that was no concern of his, but he was hemmed if he’d have his wife and daughter meddling with anything beyond the fowl-house, and as for employing other women whose dignity mattered less to him—and, apparently, to themselves—he’d sooner Worge went to the auctioneer’s, just to teach the government a lesson.
So Worge muddled through its haymaking, and then the shearing; and Harry was sometimes idle and sometimes industrious, and Mus’ Beatup was sometimes drunk and sometimes sober. The oats in the Street Field and the field at the back of the Rifle Volunteer were slowly parching to the colour of dust, though thick green shadows rippled in them, and told how far off still the harvest was. They were spring-sown potato-oats, chosen by Tom on account of their vigorous constitution, though otherwise not very well suited to the clays of Sunday Street. He had manured them at their sowing with rape-cake, nursed their first sproutings, and now in every letter enquired after their progress. “Keep an eye on them, dear father, for the Lord’s sake, and do not let them stand after they’re ripe, or they will shed there seeds for certain sure, being potatos.”
Tom had been some weeks now at Waterheel in the Midlands, a private in the Sussex Regiment, with an elaborate and mystifying address, which his family found the greatest difficulty in cramming into the envelope. They did not write to him as often as he wrote to them, in spite of the fact that they were six to one. But then they were not far from home, dreaming of the old fields, longing for the old faces.
On the whole though, Tom was happy enough. He found his new life strange, but not totally uncongenial. A comfortable want of imagination made it possible for him to put Worge out of mind, now that it was also out of sight, and he was among lads of his own age, old acquaintances some of them—Kadwell of Stilliands Tower, and two Viners from Satanstown, Bill Putland, Jerry Sumption. There was Mus’ Archie, too, with a nod and a kind word now and then to intensify that “feeling of Sussex chaps” which was not quite such an uncommon one now; and there was Mus’ Dixon, Mus’ Archie’s elder brother, who had lived in London and written for the papers before the War, and now used his sword to cut the leaves of books—so his orderly said—yet was a brave man none the less, and a good officer, though he hated the life as much as his brother loved it.
The family at Worge were surprised to find that Tom’s best pal was Bill Putland. In Sunday Street he had had very little to do with the Squire’s cheeky chauffeur, and there had always been a gnawing rivalry between Egypt and Worge. But now that they had joined up together, and been drafted into the same company, sharing the same awkwardness and fumblings, a friendship sprang up between them, and thrived in the atmosphere of their common life. Putland was a much smarter recruit than Beatup, but this did not cause ill-feeling, for Bill did much to help Tom, passing on to him the tips he picked up so much more quickly than his friend, with the result that Tom got through the mangold-wurzel stage sooner than Mus’ Archie had expected. Tom on his side was humbly conscious of Bill’s superiority. “He’s been bred up different from us,” he wrote home to Worge. “You can see that by the way he talks and everything, and he’s a sharper chap than me by a long chalk. But he’s unaccountable good-hearted, and he helps me with my leathers after he’s done his own, for he’s a sight quicker than me.”
Tom more often asked for news than he gave it. After all, life at Waterheel Camp did not consist of much besides drills and route-marchings, with relaxations at the Y.M.C.A. hut, and occasional visits to the town. No one at Worge would care to hear the daily doings of such a life, and still less were they likely to understand it. He was uneasily conscious of what his father would say about these things at the Rifle Volunteer. “Took my boy away from his honest work, and all they do is to keep him forming fours and traipsing about the country and playing dominoes at the Y.M.C.A. That’s wot the Governmunt spends our money on,” etc., etc. And Tom was now soldier enough to resent any criticism of the Army from outside it.
In other quarters though, it appeared he was not so reticent. After a while his family discovered that Thyrza Honey was hearing from him pretty regularly. Moreover, one day Mrs. Beatup, buying candles, found Thyrza wearing a regimental button mounted as a brooch, and was told it was a gift from Tom.
“He’s sweet on her,” said Ivy, when the news was told.
“Him—he’s just a bit of a boy,” said his mother.
“The Army maakes men unaccountable sudden.”
“Well, anyway, she’s four years older than he is, and wot he can see in her is more’n I can say.”
“She’s got a bit o’ money though,” said Mus’ Beatup. “I shan’t put a spoke in his wheel if he wants to marry her.”
“Him marry! Wot are you thinking of, Ned? He’s only a bit of a boy, as I’ve told you. Besides, she aun’t got no looks; she’s just a plain dump of a woman, and a boy liks a pretty faace.”
“Mrs. Honey’s middling pretty,” said Ivy, “with colour and teeth and all.”
“You’ve got queer notions of pretty. Why, only yesterday Mrs. Sinden wur saying to me as she can’t think wot Sam Honey ever saw in Thyrza Shearne. And you can’t git naun out of her, she’s slow as a cow, and she looks at you lik a cow chewing the cud....”
Nell broke in—
“You’re all taking it for granted that Mrs. Honey would have Tom if she was given the chance. Maybe he’d be quite safe even if he asked her.”
“Nonsense, my girl,” cried Mus’ Beatup. “A woman ud taake any man as wur fool enough to ask her; if a woman’s unwed you may reckon she’s never been asked.”
Ivy laughed loudly at this, and Nell turned crimson.
“Women aren’t going quite so cheap as you think.”
“Oh, aun’t they!—when it’s bin proved as there’s twice as many of ’em as there’s men. I tell you, when there’s a glut of turnips, the price goes down.”
“There aren’t twice as many women as men. Miss Goldsack was saying only the other day that——”
“And I tell you it’s bin proved as there are, and when the War’s over there’ll be more still, and they’ll be going about weeping and hollering and praying to the men to taake them.”
“They won’t. They’ll have something better to do. This War’s teaching women to work, and——”
“Work! I wudn’t give a mouldy onion fur women’s work....”
And so on, and so on.
Thyrza herself was a little surprised to hear so often from Tom, and the brooch was a piece of daring she had never expected. It is true that from time to time she sent him presents of chocolate and cigarettes, but his letters were much more than an acknowledgment of these. They were not love-letters, but Thyrza knew that they contained more confidences than those he sent to Worge—she was familiar with all the common round of his day, from rêveille to lights-out. He told her about the men he liked and those he didn’t, about his drills and fatigues, about his food and Cookie’s queer notions of a stew—Thyrza knew what was an “army biscuit,” a “choky,” a “gor’ blimey,” and the number of stripes worn respectively by “God Almighty,” “swank” and “goat.” Scarcely a week passed without one of those thin yellowish envelopes, with the red triangle in the corner, slipping under the shop door—addressed in smeary, indelible pencil, and smelling of woodbines.
She noticed a growing assurance in his style—partly due, perhaps, to the friendliness of her replies, partly, no doubt, to the growing manhood in him. She had always looked on Tom as a kind, slow chap, with very little to say for himself, and not too much thinking going on either, but with an unaccountable good heart. Now she realised that the Army was smartening him up, giving him confidence, enlarging his ideas. Thyrza was only a countrywoman herself, born within ten miles of where she lived now, but she did not fail to notice or to respect this growth in Tom. “He’s gitting new ideas in his head, and he’s waking up a bit. I shan’t lik him the less for being readier wud his tongue, surelye.”
One of the new ideas which got into Tom’s head at Waterheel was the desirability—indeed, the urgency—of having a “girl.” All the chaps had girls—Bill Putland wrote to Polly Sinden at Little Worge, though he had taken very little notice of her while he was at home; Jerry Sumption wrote half-threatening, half-appealing scrawls to Ivy Beatup; Kadwell and Viner had sweethearts at the Foul Mile and the Trulilows—every evening at the Y.M.C.A. a hundred indelible pencils travelled to and fro from tongue to paper in the service of that god who campaigns with the god of war, and occasionally snatches his victories. There was also the need to receive letters—a need which Tom had never felt before, but now ached in his breast, when at post-time he saw other men walk away tearing envelopes, while he stood empty-handed. Thyrza wrote more often and more fully than his mother, and he would answer quickly, to make her write again. So closer and closer between them was drawn that link of smudged envelopes and ruled note-paper, with their formalities of “Your letter received quite safe,” and “Hoping this finds you well, as it leaves me at present”—till the chain was forged which should bind them for ever.
Thyrza pondered this in her heart. She was used to much indefinite courtship, most of it just before lamp-time in her own little shop, with the prelude of a “penn’orth of bull’s-eyes for the children” or “a packet of Player’s, please.” She had also been definitely courted once or twice in her short widowhood—by Bourner of the Forge, a widower with five sturdy children, and Hearsfield of Mystole. She was a type of girl who, while appealing little to her fellow-women, who “never cud see naun in Thyrza Honey,” yet had a definite attraction for men, by reason of that same softness and slowness for which her own sex despised her. She had no particular wish to marry again, and at the same time no particular objection. Her first marriage had not been so happy as to make her anxious to repeat it, but it had also lacked those elements of degradation which make a woman shrink from trusting herself a second time to a master. There was too much business and too much gossip in her life for her to feel her loneliness as a widow, and yet she sometimes craved for the little child which had died at birth two years ago—she “cud do wud a child,” she sometimes said.
Tom Beatup attracted her strongly. He was much her own type—slow, ruminative and patient as the beasts he tended—yet she saw him as a being altogether more helpless than herself, one less able to think and plan, one whom she could “manage” tenderly. He was not so practical as she, and more in need of affection, of which he got less. Thyrza sometimes pictured his round dark head upon her breast, her arm about him, holding him there in the crook of it, both lover and child....
From the material point of view, the match was not a good one; but Thyrza was comfortably off, and her miniature trade was brisk. They were both too unsophisticated to make a barrier of her little stock of worldly goods—he had his pay, so his independence would not suffer, and she would have a separation allowance into the bargain. He was a slow wooer, and the tides of his boldness had never risen again to the level of that sticky kiss he had given her hand as she served the bull’s-eyes—but she was sure of him, and, being Thyrza, “slow as a cow,” had no objection to waiting.
Another woman in Sunday Street was being courted from the Waterheel Y.M.C.A., but she did not fill her part as comfortably as Thyrza. Not that Ivy Beatup had much real concern for Jerry Sumption’s passion, beating against her indifference as a wave beats and breaks against a rock. Her chief trouble was that Jerry now threw out hints of an approaching leave, and though she had no objection to his mingling rage and tenderness on paper, she disliked the thought of having to confront them mingled in his gipsy face.
The minister’s son was one of Ivy’s mistakes—she made mistakes occasionally, as she would herself acknowledge with a good-humoured grin. But they were never very serious. And, as the saying is, she knew how to take care of herself. Unfortunately, Jerry had given her more than ordinary trouble. After some years of standoffishness and suspicion—for Mrs. Beatup had never liked her children to play with the gipsy woman’s son—Ivy and Jerry had somehow been thrown together during his last holiday from Erith, and she had good-naturedly allowed him to kiss her and take her to Senlac Fair, as she would have allowed any decent lad on leave. It was unlucky that what had been to her no more than a bit of fun should be for Jerry the tinder to set his body and soul alight. Ivy, more buxom than beautiful, and, with her apple-face and her barley-straw hair, typical of those gaujos his mother’s people had always distrusted, somehow became his earth and sky. He loved her, and went after her as the tide after the moon.
Ivy tried to detach him by the various means known to her experience. For a long time she ignored his letters and postcards. Then when these continued to pour upon her, she sent a cold, careless reply, which had the contrary effect of making his furnace seven times hotter; so that her next letter was warmed unconsciously by the flame of his, and she saw that instead of having shaken him off, she had gone a step further in his company.
No doubt the best thing to do was to tell him to his face that she would not have him. He would not be the first chap she had told this, but Ivy had an unaccountable shrinking from repeating the process with Jerry. There was in him a subtle essence, a mystifying quality—perhaps it was no more than the power of a sharper life and death—which made him different from the other lads she knew, and struck terror into her country soul. He was the first man she had been ever so little afraid of. Ivy had the least imagination of all the Beatups. That spark which sent Nell to the church, and Harry to the woods, which made Tom feel more than roots and clay in the earth on which he trod, and Zacky sometimes almost think himself a British army corps, even that little spark had never flickered up in Ivy’s honest heart. Her world was made of things she could taste and see and hear and smell and handle, and very good things she found them. She resented the presence in her life of something which responded to none of these tests. Jerry’s love for her was “queer,” just as Jerry himself was “queer,” and Ivy did not like “queer” things.
When the long-dreaded leave came at last, it took her by surprise. She had not heard from Jerry for a week, and one morning, having run to the pillar-box at the throws, with some letters for her soldier friends, on her return she met Mr. Sumption, waving his arms and cracking his joints and shouting to her even from beyond earshot, that Jerry was coming home that evening.
“A letter came this morning. Maybe you’ve got one too?”
Ivy shook her head, and Mr. Sumption tried to disguise his pleasure at being the only one to hear.
“He’s a good boy, Jerry—never forgets his father. But he wants to see you though, Ivy. Maybe you’d come and have supper with us this evening?”
“I’m unaccountable sorry, but I’m going up to Senlac town.”
“That’s a pity. Perhaps you’ll come another day?”
“If I’ve time, Mus’ Sumption—but I’m justabout vrothered these days wud the harvesters here. Thank you kindly though, all the same.”
She had been sidling away as she spoke, and now walked off with a brisk “Good mornun.” She was sorry to have to disappoint Mr. Sumption, whom she liked and pitied; but there was no good letting him think she had any use for Jerry.
Before going home she ran down the drive to Little Worge, and told Polly Sinden she was at all costs and risks to come with her to Senlac that evening.
For the rest of the day she was less her cheery, placid self than usual, and the evening in Senlac town was not the treat it might have been. All the time she was haunted by a sense of Jerry’s nearness—perhaps he had come as far as Lewes by now, perhaps he was already in Sunday Street, perhaps in Senlac itself. What a fool she had been to tell Mr. Sumption where she was going! Her heart was troubled—another of those “queer” aspects of the situation which she so disliked. Generally when she wanted to get rid of a boy, she did not have feelings like these. All through the soft August twilight, when she and Polly Sinden, in the clumsy finery of country girls, strolled arm-in-arm up and down the Upper Lake and the Lower Lake—those two lakes of blood which an old, old war had made, giving the town its bloody name—and even afterwards, when having by arts known to themselves acquired two soldiers, they sat in the picture palace with a khaki arm round each tumbled muslin waist, even then the terror lingered, haunting, tearing, elusive as a dead leaf on the wind. Ivy looked nervously into the shadows of the little picture-hall, thinking she saw Jerry’s face, angry and swarthy, with eyes like the Forge at night.... Suppose he had come after her to Senlac ... he certainly would if he was home in time. Then came a picture of a girl who was “done in” by her lover. Ivy could stand it no more, and rising to her feet, plunged out over the people’s knees.
“That plaace is lik an oven,” she said to the Anzac corporal who followed her out.... “No, thank you. I’ll go home wud Polly.”
Polly was a little annoyed that Ivy should have broken up the party so soon; but it certainly was very hot—both the girls’ faces were spotted with sweat and their gowns were sticking to their shoulders. Besides, it would be as well not to get too thick with this Australian chap now Bill Putland was writing so regularly.... Miss Sinden and Miss Beatup dismissed their escort, and, after the proper number of “Good-by-ees,” shouted across longer and longer darkness-muffled distances, they trudged off homewards on the North Trade.
When Ivy reached the farm, she was told that Jerry Sumption had called about eight o’clock—on his way from the station, without even going first to leave his kit-bag at the Horselunges—and that Mrs. Beatup had had an unaccountable to-do to git shut of him.