Seedtime and Harvest (The Apple Tree Saga Book 5) Read online

  So Sam Trigg’s poultry came to Stant and Linn took over Sam’s contract, supplying a hundred dozen eggs every week to the dealer in Baxtry. Jack took the eggs to Scampton Halt every Monday morning and promptly at the end of each month Linn received the dealer’s cheque.

  ‘You’ll soon be a millionaire,’ Charlie teased, ‘if you go on the way you’re going now.’

  ‘With my corn-merchant’s bills as high as they are? ‒ That’s not likely!’ Linn said.

  But still, all in all, she was pleased with herself. The farm was successful, in its small way; her father was happy, having plenty to do; and fortune seemed to be on their side.

  ‘I see you’ve got yourselves a van,’ Fleming, at the garage, remarked to Charlie. ‘How much did you pay for it?’

  ‘We paid as much as it was worth.’

  ‘If only you’d come to me first, I could have fixed you up with a van through a cousin of mine out Froham way.’

  ‘The way I see it,’ Charlie said, ‘it’s better not to shop on your own doorstep.’

  ‘Is that why you don’t get your petrol here?’

  ‘Jack fills her up in Mingleton when he takes my wife to the market there.’

  ‘That farm of yours must be doing well if you can afford to run a van.’

  ‘It’s not doing badly,’ Charlie said.

  Summer was dry and warm that year and before long they were cutting their oats, using Sam Trigg’s horses and mowing-machine. Robert, of course, was too busy with the harvest at Piggotts to do much at home, but Charlie, in every spare moment he had, was out in the eight-acre field with Jack, fussing over the two horses or tinkering with the old rusty mower. Although the harvest was a tiny one, the excitement of it got into him and he could think of nothing else.

  ‘It takes me back to the old days, working on my father’s farm. Funny the way it gets hold of you. I suppose you could say it’s in the blood.’

  The field of oats was a magnet to him. He would hurry out after breakfast, ‘just to set up a shock or two’, and would make himself late going to work. Linn was always scolding him. She would follow him out to the field and take the cornsheaves from his hands.

  ‘You know what Fleming is about time. Why provoke him and make matters worse? You only make trouble for yourself.’

  And sure enough, at the garage, Fleming would be waiting at the door.

  ‘That’s the third time you’ve been late this week.’

  ‘So long as the work gets done just the same, what does it matter?’ Charlie said, quoting Clew at Herrick Cross.

  But Frank Fleming was not like Clew. It annoyed him that Charlie came in late.

  ‘You think you can do as you damn well please, just ’cos you’ve got a farm of your own. You think it makes you cock of the walk.’

  ‘You waste more time grumbling at me than I ever waste by coming in late.’

  And Charlie would walk past him, into the garage repair-shop, where Jerry Jackson stood listening.

  ‘It properly gets up Fleming’s nose, that little farm of yours, doesn’t it? He just can’t seem to leave it alone.’

  ‘He’s glad enough,’ Charlie said, ‘to get his eggs and butter cheap.’

  The weather continued fine and warm and on the third Sunday in September the oats were carted from the field and stacked at one end of the barn, where the roof was soundest and they would be dry. Charlie and Robert helped with the carting and it was finished by mid-afternoon. Jack, Charlie noticed, was rather quiet: quieter even than usual; and when the last load had been got in, he went and sat on the bench in the yard.

  ‘You feeling all right?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I’m in a bit of a swither, that’s all.’

  ‘Seems you’ve been overdoing things.’

  ‘I’m feeling the heat,’ Jack said. ‘I’m just going to sit and cool off and maybe smoke a quiet pipe.’

  But although he took his pipe from his pocket and sat with it in his hands for a while, he made no attempt to fill it and light it and seemed, Charlie thought, watching him, to have gone into a kind of trance, staring fixedly at the ground as though trying to remember something.

  ‘You sure you’re all right?’ Charlie said.

  ‘I’ve already told you, I’m right as rain.’ Jack looked up at him irritably. ‘You taking that horse and cart back to Trigg?’

  Charlie and Robert exchanged a glance. Charlie gave a little nod and Robert climbed into the cart. Charlie opened the gate for him and closed it when the boy had passed through. He turned and walked back across the yard. Jack was still sitting on the bench, but now he was leaning against the wall, with one hand pressed against his chest. Sweat was pouring from his face and neck, and the front of his shirt was wet with it. He was breathing heavily through his nose. Charlie hurried across to the pump and filled a dipper from the trough. He took it and held it for Jack to drink, and when the old man had recovered himself, he helped him to sit up straight again.

  ‘How many turns have you had like this?’

  ‘One or two. It’s the heat, that’s all.’

  ‘The heat wouldn’t give you a pain in your chest.’

  ‘Who said anything about a pain?’

  ‘I’m not simple,’ Charlie said.

  ‘That’s just a touch of wind,’ Jack said. He rubbed at his chest with his knucklebones. ‘It’s passing off again now.’ Certainly he was looking better. The colour was coming back to his face and he was breathing more normally. Charlie picked up his pipe from the ground and gave it to him. ‘You should see the doctor,’ he said.

  ‘Just ’cos I’ve got a touch of wind? A dose of bicarb’ll soon fix that.’ Jack began filling his pipe. Soon he was puffing away at it. ‘You don’t have to stand guard over me. I’m as fit as a flea now.’

  ‘I’m just taking a rest,’ Charlie said. He sat down and lit a cigarette.

  ‘I suppose you’ll go blabbing to Linn in a minute.’

  ‘It’s only right she should know.’

  ‘She fusses enough as it is. A fine how-d’you-do we shall have if she gets it into her head I’m sick.’

  ‘It’s no good expecting me to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with husbands. They can never keep nothing from their wives.’

  Linn came out of the house and found them sitting smoking together. With her hands on her hips, she stood laughing at them.

  ‘Is this how the work gets done?’ she asked.

  ‘Your dad’s not feeling too good,’ Charlie said. ‘He’s had a bit of a funny turn.’

  Linn’s laughter gave way to a frown.

  ‘What sort of funny turn?’

  ‘I came over twiddly,’ Jack said. ‘It’s a warm day for the time of year.’

  ‘He had a pain in his chest,’ Charlie said. ‘He says it’s happened a few times before.’

  ‘Father?’ she said anxiously. ‘What’ve you been keeping from me?’

  ‘Here we go! We’re in for it now! I told you how it’d be!’ Jack said.

  ‘Can’t I get any sense out of you?’

  ‘I’ll tell you this much! ‒ I ent dying yet!’

  ‘If you’ve got a pain in your chest, you should go and see the doctor.’

  ‘There’s nothing much wrong with me, except that I’m getting on in years, and the doctors can’t do nothing for that.’

  ‘You should see him all the same.’

  ‘Yes, well, maybe I will. ‒ When I’ve got nothing else to do!’ Jack got up and knocked out his pipe. ‘Right now I’m going to milk the cows.’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch them,’ Charlie said.

  Jack went off into the byre. Charlie went to bring in the cows and Linn went with him as far as the gate.

  ‘Is it his heart, do you think?’

  ‘He says it was just a touch of wind.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’ Linn asked.

  ‘Well,’ Charlie said, and gave a shrug. He did not want her to be too much alarmed.

  At
that moment Robert returned.

  ‘How’s Granddad? Is he all right?’

  ‘Right as rain, or so he says. But your mother’s worried it may be his heart.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he see a doctor, then?’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ Charlie said.

  Jack appeared at the cowshed door and called across the yard to them.

  ‘I thought you was bringing in the cows?’

  ‘Just coming!’ Charlie replied. He looked at Linn and Robert and grinned. ‘Plenty of life in him yet!’ he said.

  The next morning, after much prodding from Linn, Jack went to see the doctor in Scampton, and that evening, at supper-time, Charlie and Robert heard the result.

  ‘Seems it’s my heart, the doctor says. The pump’s not working as well as it should.’

  ‘I reckon you knew that,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Maybe I did. It ent a very surprising thing in a man who’s passed his three-score-and-ten.’

  ‘Not too much exertion, then?’

  ‘Nor too little, neither,’ Jack said.

  ‘Did he say you could still drive the van?’

  ‘He said I could do what I damn well please ‒’

  ‘I’m sure he never said that!’ Linn said.

  ‘‒ But not too much of it at one time.’

  ‘He said you should rest every afternoon.’

  ‘He said to me, being a poor old man, that I warnt to be nagged by my womenfolk.’

  ‘Oh, what a fibber you are!’ Linn said.

  ‘He also said ‒ and these was the doctor’s very words ‒ that I warnt to be kept waiting for my fittles.’

  ‘Lies! All lies!’ Linn exclaimed. Now that her father had been to the doctor and the verdict had been reassuring, relief had done much to lighten her spirits and she was full of teasing laughter. ‘You’re nothing but an old humbug!’ she said. ‘I can see there’s nothing much wrong withhold.’

  But although her fears had been allayed, she still worried about the old man, and spoke to Charlie about him that night.

  ‘I do hope Dad will be sensible. I’m afraid of his overdoing things.’

  ‘Jack’s no fool,’ Charlie said. ‘He’ll look after himself all right and I can help out with the heavy jobs.’

  ‘You’ve got your own work to think about.’

  ‘I can easily fit things in.’

  There was not much Jack could not do. He took his afternoon rest every day, if only to keep the peace with Linn, but in almost every other respect he carried on with his work as before.

  ‘I ent an invalid,’ he would say. ‘I’ve just had a bit of a warning, to remind me that I’m getting old.’ And once, looking at Charlie, he said: ‘There’s no need for you to creep about, doing my jobs behind my back. I’ll soon ask when I need your help.’

  But Charlie never waited to be asked. He was always up at five o’ clock, out in the yard, feeding the stock, and he always made sure that any heavy lifting work was done before he left the farm. Robert, too, helped as much as he could, before going off to his work at Piggotts.

  ‘How bad is Granddad, do you think? Mother’s been dropping hints to me that I ought to come back and work at home.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, I’m sure,’ Charlie said.

  ‘You don’t think the farm is too much for him?’

  ‘Dr Reeves doesn’t think it is. I spoke to him the other day when he called at the garage for petrol and he said there’s no reason why your granddad shouldn’t keep on working for years.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ Robert said. ‘Mother had me worried at first.’

  ‘He’s got to take it easy, that’s all, and it’s up to us to see that he does.’

  Chapter Nine

  That winter was very wet. Rain fell for weeks on end and the steep farm track ran like a stream. Early in the new year gales ripped half the tiles from the barn roof and one of the old sheds collapsed.

  ‘There’ll be no lack of jobs for me to do when the weather lets up,’ Charlie said.

  At the garage in Scampton, rain got into the oil-sump, so that oil and water overflowed, flooding the whole of the garage yard and running into the roadway. Charlie and the other men were kept busy all day with brooms, trying to prevent the oil and water from flooding into the repair-shop, and Frank Fleming ran to and fro, almost beside himself with rage. Because of the bad state of the yard, motorists were keeping away and he was losing petrol sales, and then, to complete his misery, the village policeman called on him, threatening him with a summons for fouling the road and causing danger to passing traffic.

  Fleming’s bad temper lasted for days. Even when the yard had been cleared and work was back to normal again he still found fault with everything and one of his chief grievances was the repair-shop stove.

  ‘If you was to do some work for a change, you wouldn’t have time to feel cold!’ he would say, and he grudged every can of coke that was burnt. ‘If you had to buy that coke yourselves, you wouldn’t be so free with it!’

  One day George Cressy, arriving at the garage soaked to the skin, stood by the stove drying himself. Fleming came in and saw him there.

  ‘I thought you Red Indians was supposed to be tough! But you’re as much of a molly-coddle as them two palefaces there!’

  George Cressy looked at him, his face impassive, his eyes like grey ice.

  ‘You don’t believe I’m an Indian?’

  ‘Do I hell!’ Fleming said.

  ‘One of these days I’ll prove it to you.’

  ‘You needn’t bother!’ Fleming said.

  The next morning George arrived with terrible burn-marks on his face: two horizontal lines on his forehead and two on each cheek: deeply scored, an ugly red, stretching and puckering the skin.

  ‘Good God!’ Jerry exclaimed. ‘Whatever have you done to yourself?’

  ‘I burnt myself with a hot poker, that’s what I done,’ George said, and looked around, pleased with himself, as the three other men stared at him. ‘In front of the mirror, at home last night, after my mum and dad was in bed.’

  ‘Christ!’ Charlie said, wincing, appalled. ‘What made you do a thing like that?’

  ‘I wanted to test myself,’ George said. ‘There ent many men around here who could burn themselves on the face like that and never once cry out with the pain.’

  Fleming eyed him in contempt.

  ‘Only an Indian, I suppose?’

  ‘You couldn’t do it. I’m damned sure of that.’

  ‘Too bloody right, I couldn’t, by God! I’m not tenpence short, my lad!’ Fleming flung away from him and began to slide back the big garage door. ‘You get a broom and sweep this floor and not so much of your stupid chat! And don’t go near my wife and boy with that bloody horrible face of yours or I promise you I’ll break your neck!’

  A little while later, sweeping the floor, George picked up some old nuts and bolts and put them into his trousers pocket. Fleming happened to see him do it. He made George turn them out again.

  ‘I won’t have you thieving things from here. You can put them nuts and bolts in the box. Either that or pay for them.’

  ‘How much’ll you charge him,’ Charlie asked, ‘just for a few old nuts and bolts?’

  ‘There’s too many things disappearing from here and I aim to stop it,’ Fleming said.

  ‘What sort of things?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘There’s a couple of spanners gone for a start. And a couple of cans of oil. Somebody’s had ’em. They can’t have walked.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mean me,’ Charlie said.

  ‘You do your own repairs, don’t you, on that little old van of yours? You certainly never bring it in here. You must need a few odds and ends in the way of tools and oil and that.’

  ‘What things I need I can buy for myself.’

  ‘You always seem pretty flush, I must say, and that’s another funny thing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m often skint myself,’
Fleming said, ‘but you never seem to have trouble that way.’

  ‘It must be the good wages I get.’

  ‘Ah, and the rest!’ Fleming said. ‘I know how it is with all you chaps when you take the money for petrol out there. “A bob for me and a bob for the boss!” That’s your motto, isn’t it?’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it. Is that how it was with you yourself when you worked for Sutton’s in Mingleton? Is that how you managed to raise the wind to set up in business on your own?’

  ‘You want to watch out!’ Fleming said, red in the face. ‘I could have you under the clock for saying things like that to me!’

  ‘You started it, not me.’

  ‘Supposing you get on with your work?’

  ‘That’s all I ask,’ Charlie said.

  That afternoon he was sent out to a car that had broken down on Glib Hill. When he got back at three o’clock, Jerry was alone in the repair-shop, sitting by the stove, drinking his tea. He pointed to something on the floor and Charlie saw that it was a pound note, dirty and much blackened with grease.

  ‘One of Fleming’s little tricks?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s marked it with a cross, just to make sure we’re properly copped, if we should happen to pocket it.’

  ‘He must be crackers,’ Charlie said, ‘if he thinks we’d pinch his rotten pound.’

  Jerry shrugged.

  ‘He tried it on the last chap we had. He was daft and fell for it.’

  Charlie stooped and picked up the note. He looked at it for a moment or two, then folded it into a narrow spill. Dirty and blackened as it was, it was now unrecognizable, and he laid it down in front of the stove.’

  ‘If he can play tricks, so can I.’

  A little while later, when they were both working together, George Cressy came in with his broom and shovel. ‘All right if I sweep in here?’

  ‘What, again? That’s the third time today. All right, if you insist.’

  At half-past four Fleming came back from his tea-break. The lights were on in the repair-shop and outside it was almost dark. He stood inside the door for a while, feeling in his pockets for cigarettes, and then came forward into the light. In another moment he was at the stove and was lighting his cigarette with the spill. He dashed out the flame on the toe of his boot and dropped the spill on the floor again. Warming himself at the stove, he watched George Cressy sweeping the floor.