Dark Harvest by Amy Myers Page A

ten shillings. It’s up again. Thirty-six shillings for the ton of best, and thirty-four for the kitchen. I don’t know what things are coming to.’
    Nor did he. Reluctantly Laurence counted out the required one pound notes, wondering if he would ever get used to this paper money forced upon them by war. He was tempted to tell the coalman to take the coal away again, but decided discretion was the better part of valour: if the village persisted in stealing his lumps of coal, he had at least some moral right for turning a blind eye. Nevertheless his conscience remained troubled. Before the war the path of right had been comparatively clearly marked; nowadays it was becoming increasingly overgrown.
    But he had no right to be vexed over such trifles as coal and newspapers beside the problems being faced by many of his parishioners. Three had gone in the village already. Quite apart from the personal tragedy, there was the financial aspect. How could a widow support a large family on the meagre five shillings a week pension she would receive? Parish Relief was already stretched to breaking point, and he had to top it up from his own equally stretched income. Swinford-Browne, thegreatest tithe-payer on the Union committee, had vetoed any increase. Elizabeth had pointed out gently that Caroline’s scheme could produce valuable income for the needy. He could only agree, but he still fretted at Elizabeth’s frequent absences from home. He had understood that Caroline would do the running around and Elizabeth work in the Rectory. It seemed he was wrong. His wife was being constantly called out to the village for some emergency or other. At that moment she came through the study door in such high good humour that he felt ashamed of his annoyance.
    ‘I called in on Nanny Oates on the way back.’
    ‘And how is she?’ He put his arm round her and kissed her on the mouth, rather to her surprise. ‘When did I last tell you I love you, Elizabeth?’
    She smiled. ‘In bed?’ she asked daringly, for Laurence liked to separate the twenty-four hours into compartments and, passionate though he was, he seldom liked to be reminded of it during the day.
    ‘No,’ he answered gently.
    ‘Then it was at Christmas. I remember because—’
    ‘Far too long ago. Why have you not complained?’
    ‘Because I know you love me, Laurence.’
    ‘That’s true. I sometimes think—’ He broke off. ‘Tell me about Nanny Oates.’
    ‘You won’t believe it. She’s determined to help the war effort.’
    He broke into laughter. The idea of his once formidable nanny, now in her early eighties and rheumaticky, on the march against the Kaiser, bayonet at the ready, was irresistible.
    ‘Boadicea put it in her mind,’ Elizabeth was laughing too, ‘and it really isn’t a bad idea.’ All Nanny’s hens were named after English queens, but Boadicea being the earliest queen began the rota, and was always the favourite, closely followed by Berengaria. There had been six Boadiceas so far. ‘When the hens are laying she always gets far too many eggs and has to give them away. So she proposes to go round the village collecting other people’s spare eggs and sell them as well as her own from a stall outside her house.’
    Laurence looked at her, assuming she had seen the flaw in this plan. ‘If it’s good laying time then no one will need them.’
    ‘I didn’t like to dampen her enthusiasm by pointing it out.’
    ‘And she’s too old to take them into the town markets and shops. She needs a pair of young legs to run them into Tunbridge Wells. We could contact the National Poultry Organisation.’
    ‘You know she doesn’t hold with organisations.’ Their eyes met.
    ‘Fred!’ they exclaimed in unison.
     
    How different this Easter was to last year. Caroline loved Easter, particularly Easter morning. It had always been a Rectory tradition that the Hunneys would come to lunch. All five ofthem. Last year, however, the Swinford-Brownes had cast