The Stone Book Quartet by Alan Garner

corn, one above the other, on Leah’s Hill. At the hedgeside, by the bottom field, was a space where Faddock Allman sat in summer, breaking stone to make road Hints.
    Faddock Allman folded the sacks on the ground and swung himself down to them. He rubbed his arms. ‘By heck, youth,’ he said, ‘it’s a thin wind aback of Polly Norbury’s.’
    ‘Must I go fetch you a brew?’ said Robert.
    ‘Only if the Missis has put the kettle on,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘And get me hammers.’
    Robert ran with the brew and Wicked Winnie the few yards to home. The kettle was on the fire, and Uncle Charlie was sitting by it, cleaning his rifle.
    ‘Now then, Dick-Richard,’ he said to Robert.
    It was Uncle Charlie’s last day of leave. His kitbag and equipment stood smart in a corner. Uncle Charlie was always smart. He shaved morning and night and smelt of soap and had his hair cut every week. He was a lance corporal in the army and wore a stripe on his sleeve. He was so clean he looked as though he washed with donkey-stone.
    But his rifle was cleaner. He cleaned his rifle all the time, rubbing linseed into the wood and line oil on the metal. Father said Uncle Charlie took his rifle to bed with him.
    ‘Now then, Dick-Richard, what are you at?’ said Uncle Charlie.
    ‘Is there a brew for Mister Allman?’ said Robert.
    ‘It’ll be a bad day when there isn’t,’ said Uncle Charlie.
    ‘I’ll get it.’
    ‘I’ll fetch his hammers,’ said Robert.
    He ran into the end room of the house. It was full of old things — bolts of dirty silk, tools, grease, iron, nails, screws, grain for the hens and hammers for cutting stone. Father let Faddock Allman use the hammers because they were good for nothing else, but he wouldn’t let him have them for his own. They had to come back each night. Father kept everything, even string.
    Uncle Charlie had put the cocoa and sugar on the table and filled the brew can with tea.
    ‘Come on, Dick-Richard,’ he said. ‘Let’s be having you.’
    He slung his rifle on his shoulder, picked up the brew can and went out. Robert ran after him with Wicked Winnie and the hammers.
    Men and women were gathering at Leah’s Hill. Ozzie Leah had brought a load for the day; scythes, whetstones, bantspinners, rakes, food and drink. The fields were too steep for the self-binder to reap on. He was going to have the corn cut by hand. And the only men skilled to scythe together in a team were Ozzie and Young Ollie Leah and Uncle Charlie.
    Robert had never seen Leah’s Hill sown. It was always pasture. But, with the war, even the rough meadows were ploughed now.
    ‘Eh up, Starie Chelevek,’ Uncle Charlie said to Faddock Allman. ‘Here’s your brew,’ He poured tea out of the can, using the lid as a cup.
    Faddock Allman shuffled round on his sack and took the cup. He drank, sucked his lips and held out the lid for more. ‘That’s the ticket,’ he said.
    ‘Mark time on this,’ said Uncle Charlie, ‘and then we’ll see if we can’t fetch you a drop of Ozzie’s stagger-juice.’
    Faddock Allman laughed.
    ‘And cop hold of this for us,’ said Uncle Charlie. He rattled the bolt of his rifle, opened it, checked that the breech was empty, took off the magazine, put the gun together again and handed it to Faddock Allman.
    Faddock Allman shouldered the rifle, saluted, and put it down on the sacking and covered it against dust.
    ‘All in!’ shouted Ozzie Leah.
    The three men took their scythes and a whetstone each and sharpened the blades, two strokes below the edge, one above. The metal rang like swords and bells.
    ‘Here’s your hammers, Mister Allman,’ said Robert.
    ‘Wait on,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘I’ve not finished me brew.’
    The men stood in a line, at the field edge, facing the hill, Ozzie on the outside, and began their swing. It was a slow swing, scythes and men like a big clock, back and to, back and to, against the hill they walked. They walked and swung, hips forward, letting the