He led them over the furrows, pointing out here a patch of pale brown loam pied by broken flints and streaked with yellow clay; there an area of fawn sand ending in a saucer-like bowl, once a dewpond when the land had been pasture before the war. Then the dewpond had been but a hollow overgrown with reeds and surrounded by thorns: a dumping place for dead animals. Now the deep plough had torn up the clay fretted by layers of wheat straw and streaked with a black compost amidst the bones of sheep and bullocks, fractured and decayed, breaking down into lime and phosphate to feed once more the thin mother-soil.
“The deep ploughing will bring in air and light, you see. This soil was enfeebled—sick. I used to feel when I was walking here that it was crying for help.”
She was drawn to him by his strange expression, and moved to take his hand, but he preferred to walk back alone.
“He’s been writing rather late at night,” she explained to Uncle John.
“Ah.” He had seen a look of his dead son on Phillip’s face. He was disturbed; but concealed his apprehension.
“It looks to me to be a capital job of work, Lucy.”
They followed down the borstal. Only the ragged hedges remained of the former aspect of poverty; but to Lucy they werebeautiful with their grey of traveller’s joy, clusters of blackberries among the red haws of the thorns and the brighter vermilion hips of the dog-rose. To John there was pleasure in the sight of a covey of partridges flying over to the ploughed work, not because he was a shooting man, he had long given that up, but partridges brought the land alive again.
*
Outside the farmhouse stood a horse and trap. An aged man sat beside the driver’s seat, his son waited in the lane. In the aged man’s hand was a bill. He wore broadcloth, with a hard square hat above a fringe of white whiskers surrounding an otherwise shaven face.
Mr. Johnson had a long memory, unspoiled by any fiddle-faddle connected with the arts. His mind was the land, seen from an agricultural implement dealer’s world. The name Maddison meant to him money lost when he had had to accept, when Phillip’s grandfather had died towards the end of the last century, 10/- in the £ for steam ploughing, and threshing. Now he wanted his bill settled.
Phillip looked at the bill. Ninety pounds! It was a shock. With horses it was reckoned that the cost per acre was 5/-. The son spoke.
“Can you let feyther hev your cheque for fifty p’un’, sir? Us’v got thik coal bill vor meet, and then there be the men’s wages——”
“I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Johnson, but a cheque I’m expecting from London hasn’t arrived yet. Can you wait until Saturday? It ought to be here by then.”
“How about fifty pun now, sir? Otherwise feyther will hev to take thik tackle to once.”
Several farmers had gone bankrupt in the district that Michaelmas , and Mr. Johnson was much worried by bad debts.
“Yew promised cash, zur.”
“I ought to have inquired about the cost. However, you’ll be paid all right. I’ll telephone tomorrow to my agent in London, as soon as he gets to his office, Mr. Johnson.”
There was the advance of £ 25 due for the Donkin novel.
Anders said that he was about to write to him to say that Hollins didn’t want to see the novel, since they were not proposing to take up the option. Had he done anything more on The Water Wanderer ? “That’s the book that will sell, you know.”
Phillip telephoned Mr. Johnson. The contractor replied that he was sorry, but he would have to take his tackle away, and he couldn’t do any more ploughing without something on account.
“Why not ask the Boys,” said Lucy. “Shall I ring up Tim?”
“No, please don’t. I simply couldn’t ask them for money now they’re hard up themselves.”
“But you helped Pa by giving him a cheque for the rates, remember?”
Mr. Copleston had written a brief letter to Phillip asking for £ 15/7/6, beginning, ‘Needs must when
“The deep ploughing will bring in air and light, you see. This soil was enfeebled—sick. I used to feel when I was walking here that it was crying for help.”
She was drawn to him by his strange expression, and moved to take his hand, but he preferred to walk back alone.
“He’s been writing rather late at night,” she explained to Uncle John.
“Ah.” He had seen a look of his dead son on Phillip’s face. He was disturbed; but concealed his apprehension.
“It looks to me to be a capital job of work, Lucy.”
They followed down the borstal. Only the ragged hedges remained of the former aspect of poverty; but to Lucy they werebeautiful with their grey of traveller’s joy, clusters of blackberries among the red haws of the thorns and the brighter vermilion hips of the dog-rose. To John there was pleasure in the sight of a covey of partridges flying over to the ploughed work, not because he was a shooting man, he had long given that up, but partridges brought the land alive again.
*
Outside the farmhouse stood a horse and trap. An aged man sat beside the driver’s seat, his son waited in the lane. In the aged man’s hand was a bill. He wore broadcloth, with a hard square hat above a fringe of white whiskers surrounding an otherwise shaven face.
Mr. Johnson had a long memory, unspoiled by any fiddle-faddle connected with the arts. His mind was the land, seen from an agricultural implement dealer’s world. The name Maddison meant to him money lost when he had had to accept, when Phillip’s grandfather had died towards the end of the last century, 10/- in the £ for steam ploughing, and threshing. Now he wanted his bill settled.
Phillip looked at the bill. Ninety pounds! It was a shock. With horses it was reckoned that the cost per acre was 5/-. The son spoke.
“Can you let feyther hev your cheque for fifty p’un’, sir? Us’v got thik coal bill vor meet, and then there be the men’s wages——”
“I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Johnson, but a cheque I’m expecting from London hasn’t arrived yet. Can you wait until Saturday? It ought to be here by then.”
“How about fifty pun now, sir? Otherwise feyther will hev to take thik tackle to once.”
Several farmers had gone bankrupt in the district that Michaelmas , and Mr. Johnson was much worried by bad debts.
“Yew promised cash, zur.”
“I ought to have inquired about the cost. However, you’ll be paid all right. I’ll telephone tomorrow to my agent in London, as soon as he gets to his office, Mr. Johnson.”
There was the advance of £ 25 due for the Donkin novel.
Anders said that he was about to write to him to say that Hollins didn’t want to see the novel, since they were not proposing to take up the option. Had he done anything more on The Water Wanderer ? “That’s the book that will sell, you know.”
Phillip telephoned Mr. Johnson. The contractor replied that he was sorry, but he would have to take his tackle away, and he couldn’t do any more ploughing without something on account.
“Why not ask the Boys,” said Lucy. “Shall I ring up Tim?”
“No, please don’t. I simply couldn’t ask them for money now they’re hard up themselves.”
“But you helped Pa by giving him a cheque for the rates, remember?”
Mr. Copleston had written a brief letter to Phillip asking for £ 15/7/6, beginning, ‘Needs must when
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