The fields lie cheek-by-jowl with the station, and a group of high
elms, in which dwells a colony of rooks, throws its ample shade over
the "down" platform.
From the cornfield that marches side by side with the station there
comes the cheerful music of the reaper and the sound of the voices of
the harvesters, old men, some women and more children--for half of the
field has been reaped and is being gathered and gleaned. They are so
near that the engine-driver of the "local" train exchanges gossip with
them in the intervals of oiling his engine. They talk of the crops and
the bad weather there has been and the change that has come with
September, and the news of boys who are fighting or have fallen....
A dozen youths march, two by two, on to the "up" platform. They are in
civilian dress, but behind them walks a sergeant who ejaculates
"left--left--left" like the flick of a whip. They are the latest
trickle from this countryside to the great whirlpool, most of them mere
boys. They have the self-consciousness of obscure country youths who
have suddenly been thrust into the public eye and are aware that all
glances are turned critically upon their awkward movements. They
shamble along with a grotesque caricature of a dare-devil swagger, and
laugh loud and vacantly to show how much they are at ease with
themselves and the world. It is hollow gaiety and suggests the
animation of a trout with a hook in its throat.
The booking-clerk, lounging at the door of the booking-office, passes a
half-contemptuous remark upon them to a companion.
"Wait till they come for you, Jimmy," says the other. "You won't find
it so funny then."
Jimmy's face falls at the reminder, for he is nearly ripe for the great
harvest, and the reaper will soon come his way....
A few people drift in from outside as the time for the departure of the
London train approaches. Among them, a young woman, hot and flushed
and carrying a country basket, is greeted by an acquaintance with
surprise.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm going to London--just as I am---a telegram from Tom--he's got
leave from the front--isn't it glorious--and all so
unexpected--couldn't change, or even drop my basket--the messenger met
me in the street--hadn't a moment to lose to catch the train." ...
A little group brushes by her with far other emotions. A stalwart
soldier, a bronzed, good-looking fellow, with three stripes, who has
evidently seen much service, is returning from leave. His wife, neatly
dressed and with head down, wheels a perambulator beside him. Inside
the perambulator is a child of three years or so. Two other children,
of perhaps five and six, walk with the soldier, each clasping a hand.
The little procession passes in silence to the end of the platform,
full of that misery which seeks to be alone with itself....
Over the wooden bridge that connects the two platforms comes a solitary
soldier, laden with his belongings. He has come in from some other
village by the local train. He flings himself down on the form and
stares gloomily at the elms and the cornfield and the sunshine. A
comfortable-looking, elderly man, who has a copy of the _London Corn
Circular_ in his hand, turns to him with that amiable desire to be
friendly which elderly people have in the presence of soldiers.
"And how long have you been out at the war, sonny?" he asks, much as he
might ask how long holiday he had had.
"I'm sick of the bloody war," says the soldier, without even turning
his head.
The comfortable, elderly man collapses into silence and the _Corn
Circular_....
A young officer who has been driven up in a dog-cart comes on to the
platform accompanied by a dog with tongue lolling from its mouth and
with the large, brown, affectionate eyes of the Airedale.
The train thunders in, and the officer opens a carriage door. The dog
tries to enter with his master.
"No, no, old chap," says the latter, gently patting him and pulling him
back. "Go home. They don't want you where I'm going."
The dog stands for a moment on the platform, panting and gazing at his
master as if hoping that he will relent. Then he turns and trots away,
throwing occasional glances back on the off-chance of a whistle of
recall....
The moment has come for the separation of the little family at the end
of the platform. The soldier leans from the carriage window and his
wife clings about his neck. The two children stand by the
perambulator. They are brave little girls and remember that they have
not to cry. The train begins to move and the woman unclasps herself,
leaving her husband at the window, smiling his hardest and throwing
kisses to the children. The train gathers speed and takes a curve and
the soldier has vanished. The mother turns to the perambulator and
seeks to hide her face as she hurries with her little charges along the
platform and through the gate. The two little girls stifle their sobs
in their aprons, but the child in the carriage knows nothing of public
behaviour. He knows in that dim way that is the affliction of
childhood that something terrible is happening, and as the forlorn
little group hurries by to escape into the lane hard by where grief can
have its fill he rends the air with his sobs and cries of "Poor dada,
poor dada!"
Poor little mite, he is beginning his apprenticeship to this rough,
insane world betimes....
And now the platform is empty, and the only sound of life is the whirr
of the reaping machine and the voices from the harvest field. Through
the meadow that leads to the village the dog is slowly trotting home,
still casting occasional glances backwards on the chance....