A Man of his Time. Alan Sillitoe
itself from a line of wheat, reaching a safe hedge in seconds. ‘Another lucky one.’
‘I’ll get my gun,’ Burton said.
Thomas in the garden was loading weeds into the wooden barrow whose iron supports Burton had beaten out in the forge. Oliver was up the slope winding a bucket from the well, and on wondering where Oswald was Burton saw him in the yard chopping the day’s firewood.
Mary Ann and Ivy came into the field with a cauldron of boiled bacon and a tray of newly baked loaves, odours reminding him of hunger, after the slice of bread and fat bacon for breakfast at six. But rabbits were fleeing in all directions, and he wanted one for their supper, so went upstairs and pulled the shotgun and cartridges from their hiding-place under the bed. Pointing the barrel downwards he opened the window to let in a summer breeze.
The gun came from an auction and cost three guineas, a light breech-loading firearm worth twenty now. Mary Ann grumbled at having such a weapon in the house, but never turned down a rabbit or a couple of pigeons for the pot. Like most women she disliked the plucking and gutting, so got him to do it. It was easy work: draw off the skin, open it up, pull out the stomach (careful not to burst it because of the fearful stink), cut off the head, then give the carcase a good wash before the butchering.
Farmhands were eating by the hedge, and Burton positioned himself in the far corner of the field, took a stone from his trouser pocket picked up on his way through the garden, and hurled it over the limit of uncut wheat.
Waiting on one knee, he fired, and missed. Another pair took their chance, one pausing to cuff itself, too confident at clear land ahead. He squeezed the trigger on the one that ran – more sporting that way – and bowled it over.
A cartridge still in the breech, he laid the gun down gently and launched himself at the half-alive rabbit. The butcher or poultry shop would charge a shilling, and this one was free – well-fed on the choicest grass – bar the price of the cartridge.
The blade of a hand against its neck dropped it dead at his feet. ‘This’ll make us a good dinner,’ he said in the house, the rabbit swinging from his hand. ‘It’s the third this year.’
Soft Emily ran to Mary Ann’s skirt, tears pumping as she stroked the fur. ‘Dad killed you, poor little thing. I’d like one of these for a cat!’
‘Stop your blawting.’ He rolled a cigarette, and descended into the cool pantry to tie the two back legs with a piece of twine, and put a pan under its head to catch blood. He took a slab of smoked bacon from its hook, and a large round loaf out of the panchion, and laid them on the kitchen table. ‘Mary Ann, cut me something to eat.’
By afternoon the hay field was flat and sweet-smelling, men and horses gone, crows daggering their beaks among the stalks. He scythed around the edges not reached by the combine harvester. The girls would husk and boil it in the outhouse copper, to mix with whatever else there was for the pigs.
He advanced with a wide swing of the arms through each uneven path. Nothing escaped the gleaning blade sharpened with a stick of carborundum to as fine an edge as the razor he shaved with. From a gap in the hedge Emily watched the stern reaper she had always known him to be in her dreams, till she could bear the spectacle no longer and stood behind the nearest bush to hide.
Florence opened the gate and crossed a corner of the field. He worked rhythmically, as if never to stop, forward to the privet then back to sweep what had not been in his track, thoughtless endeavour fuelled by the slow advance of his feet till the job was done. He noted her parasol, light gloves, and anxious smile. ‘What are you doing, so far out of your way?’
‘I get fed up being in that pub all day. They let me out for a walk.’
He laid down the scythe. ‘That was good of them.’
‘One of the customers said Farmer Taylor was haymaking so I thought I might see you.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
She smelled his sweat, and he took in the scent of fresh lavender when she came into his arms. ‘Careful what you do,’ he said. ‘There might be somebody about.’
She stood away. ‘I love you.’
There was no answer to that. His look would tell any fine woman that he wanted her, and if they fell in with it, as they sometimes did, they must know what they were doing. If they didn’t, and as time went on there was something about it they didn’t like, it was nothing to do with him. ‘Go across the Cherry Orchard, and I’ll see you by Robin’s Wood. Take the back lane.’
‘Don’t be long, my love. I haven’t got much time.’
You won’t need it, he thought, the way I feel. Emily on the other side of the hedge picked at a cornflower as Burton strode to the house. ‘There’s some wheat to collect around the field,’ he told Mary Ann. ‘Get the girls to husk it. They know what to do.’
‘I’ll do it myself, as soon as I’ve cleaned these pans.’
‘Don’t leave it too long, in case there’s rain. What did Taylor give you for cooking the men’s dinner?’
‘Half-a-crown.’
‘He’s a mean sort.’
‘He paid for the bacon and bread.’
‘So he should. I’m going back into the field for a bit.’
‘Is Emily out there?’
‘Not as I know.’
‘That’s where she said she’d be. Tell her to come in. I don’t want her wandering near the railway line.’
‘I’ll see she don’t.’
In the garden he pushed her towards the house. ‘Your mother wants you.’
He followed the concealed way by the far edge of the cornfield, along a track overgrown with nettles and brambles, but in spring a bridle lane of Queen Anne’s Lace. At the uneven expanse of the Cherry Orchard he wondered whether cherries had ever grown there, but didn’t know, for it was now a large patch of scrubland, too open for what he had in mind, hoping not to be seen, taking care to cross only a corner. You were never alone, and he wished for the shotgun to frighten away the birds he felt were watching him.
Avoiding the worst humps and hollows, the features of Minnie Dyslin came to mind from so many years ago. How many, he didn’t care to reckon, but he’d been twenty-one and in his heyday, yet at forty-eight he didn’t feel much older than when Minnie told him she was having his child. He wondered what the boy was doing and what he looked like. At twenty-five he would be older than Oliver, and Minnie more than fifty. He didn’t know why he should think of her after so many years.
Florence was just inside the wood, because she didn’t want to be seen either. He pointed to the parasol. ‘Fold that thing up.’
She followed. ‘Perhaps there are children about.’
‘There aren’t. I’d have heard them. Or seen them. We’ll be all right.’ Through the glade a streamlet flowed. As a boy he had filled his belly with its clear water. He helped her across, preventing the branches of a bush from springing in her face. In a space of greensward he drew her close for a kiss. ‘Here’s a place.’ When this way with his gun, out for plump wood pigeons or collared doves, he had imagined leading a woman to it. ‘Only the birds will see us.’
She clasped him. ‘I don’t know why I keep on seeing you.’
‘If you don’t, I don’t. Why should you know?’
‘I love you,’ she said. ‘That’s the trouble.’
‘You have to know what you want, and if you get it, then there isn’t any trouble.’
‘I had to see you.’
‘I’m glad you did. Let’s lie here.’
‘There’s no one else in my life.’
A