GENTLEMEN AT ANDERBY
"Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of Harvest-home;
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter-storms begin...."
Mr. Coast, who filled the double rôle of schoolmaster and organist
at Anderby, attacked the opening hymn of the Harvest Thanksgiving
Service with such violence that he whirled the congregation along on
an avalanche of discordant sound. The efforts of Miss Taylor, who led
the lady sopranos in the choir, availed nothing, though she quavered
gallantly half a beat behind, hoping that her vocal energy might
counteract his instrumental zeal. But Mr. Coast did not care.
He had almost reached the limit of exasperation. In the most placid of
humours, he would have found it somewhat disconcerting to play harvest
hymns with a barley whisker tickling the back of his neck. Even if
Mrs. Willerby was rejoicing in the end of the strike, she might have
decorated the organ loft with greater discretion and less exuberance.
The scent of geraniums, which Coast abominated, was mingled with an
odour of rotting apples, damp prayer books and perspiring humanity from
the choir stalls below. Together they involved him in a nightmare of
discomfort.
"Wheat and tares therein are sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown...."
Precious little joy about it! A record of nothing but failure piled on
failure, humiliation on humiliation. Of course, knowing his luck, he
ought never to have expected the strike to be anything but a fiasco.
After he had taken all the trouble to get Hunting down from Manchester,
after he had gone himself night after night to sit in the beer-stifled
atmosphere of the _Flying Fox_, trying to drive a little common sense
into the bucolic obstinacy of those cursed villagers, wasn't it just
his luck that that fool Rossitur should come down and spoil things?
"Grant, O Lord of life, that we
Holy grain and pure may be...."
Oh, damn! He ought to have played _piano_ there! Well, as if it
mattered! As if anything mattered very much, when he could see
through the mirror that hung before him Mary Robson standing erect
and triumphant in the front pew. It was all very well for her to sing
hymns when the harvest was gathered in and the men were going back to
work next Monday, and her husband had kept well in spite of the gloomy
prognostications of the villagers. Well, she had scored again for the
twentieth time--and he had to sit on Mrs. Cox's best vegetable-marrow
and play the tunes for hymns that celebrated his defeat.
That fool Rossitur deserved smothering. He did really. Just when things
were going rather well, what business had he to come down and tell
the men that after the farmers had compromised by offering £3 a week
the strike had gone on long enough for economic purposes, and that its
protraction was merely the result of personal enmity?
All that talk about justice and disinterested co-operation was
sentimental nonsense. If he told the truth, Rossitur would have
acknowledged that the _Northern Clarion_ paid him to advertise it among
the labouring classes. Any extension of "progress" implied increased
circulation for his paper.
"But the fruitful ears to store
In Thy garner evermore...."
And, anyway, it had not been as though he, Coast, had done anything
outrageous. A word here and a hint there to the men, warning them
against premature compliance with a barely concealed tyranny....
Rossitur himself might have done the same. Supposing Coast did dislike
the Robsons, to refrain from performing an obvious social duty because
its performance exposed him to the charge of personal enmity would have
been nothing short of cowardice. Of that, at least, he was certain.
He pulled out the stops for the final _crescendo_. The congregation
abandoned all genteel restraint, and unburdened its accumulation of
emotion in a flood of exultant song. It was pleasant to know that in
spite of apprehensions this business of unions and strikes and progress
made very little difference after all. There had been a good deal of
talk by the bridge on Saturday nights, and several superfluous pints
of beer had been drunk over heated political discussions, and for six
weeks a few wives had knitted their brows over unreplenished purses;
but all that was over now, and Mr. Slater in a clean white surplice was
encouraging the wicked man to turn away from his wickedness, as though
there had never been any unprecedented scenes in the back yard of the
Wold Farm, and no queer speechifyings by a black haired man called
Hunting, and a red haired man called Rossitur.
On the whole, Anderby was pleased with itself. Foreman from the Wold
Farm and Ezra Dawson, who only deserted the seclusion of the Primitives
once a year to climb the hill for the harvest festival, propped their
foreheads on their hands and praised the Almighty for His estimable
promptitude in restoring order to the village. Violet, wearing a new
silk blouse, almost twisted her neck, in her effort to catch Fred
Stephens's eye where he stood, white surpliced and chastened in the
choir stalls, no longer an enemy of respectability, but a very nice
young man with whom anyone might be seen walking out after service.
Bert Armstrong flung out his chest and boomed the hymns with tremendous
relish. Really, everything was about as satisfactory as it well could
be. Some people, of course, did not seem very pleased, but then fellows
like Waite never were satisfied about anything. In other parts of the
world, strikes might lead to permanent hostilities and riots, and
general discomfort. It merely confirmed the conviction of Anderby's
superiority to the rest of the world, to realize how quickly and easily
it recovered from this decease of industrial enterprise.
Mr. Coast, it is true, differed from the majority in his appreciation
of Mr. Rossitur's intervention. The village could see how throughout
the service he had sat huddled on the organ seat, chewing the ends of
his moustache. Well, of course, being the chief supporter of the union,
even if you couldn't be recognized officially because you weren't an
agricultural labourer, it must be rather trying to have your public
aspirations checked at their outset.
The sermon was over and the last hymn announced. From the choir
stalls, an arm reached out and tapped Coast on the shoulder. He turned
irritably. A slip of paper was thrust into his hand. He read the note
scrawled on it by the vicar with increasing indignation:
"Dear Coast,
"Would you kindly manage not to go quite so fast with the hymns?
I'm sure it's very gratifying to see you know them so well, but the
choir cannot keep pace with you.
"Yours,
"E. C. SLATER."
Well, of all the outrageous impertinence! Coast crumpled it savagely
into a ball, and turned to the organ. "We plough the fields, and
scatter" moaned like a funeral dirge, with long-drawn wails at the end
of every line.
The congregation clumped out of church, and stood about the churchyard
in scattered groups of threes and fours. Coast began to collect his
music with trembling fingers. His head ached intolerably, and he
laboured under a strange delusion that the whole village was laughing
at him. Every one knew that he had urged the continuance of the strike.
Every one would know soon enough that the vicar sent him insulting
notes across the choir stalls.
The sexton began to extinguish the candles on the altar, but Mrs.
Robson still sat in her pew, gazing dreamily before her.
Coast had mislaid the manuscript page of music that fitted in to his
psalter, containing the chants for festival psalms. Striking a match he
groped among the shadows on the floor.
"Mr. Coast," the vicar's dry voice summoned him from below the seat.
He sat up suddenly, knocking his already aching head on the side of the
keyboard.
"Well?"
The vicar was annoyed. "When I send you a note with a suggestion
like that, Mr. Coast, there is really no need to caricature my
criticism--No? That hymn, that last hymn, it was disgraceful--really
quite spoilt, yes, quite spoilt!"
"You asked to have it slow. I gave you what you asked," snapped Coast,
shutting up the keyboard with a bang.
"I don't think that is quite the spirit--not quite the spirit--for you
to adopt, Mr. Coast. Irreverent work sets a bad example."
"Well, I don't think there was any need for you to use my pupils to
pass your instructions along. At least you might have folded the paper.
Half the choir were sniggering--making a fool of me before the boys
and then expect the discipline of the school to be good."
"Well, really, when you will play hymns as though they were polkas yes,
polkas, you must not expect me to refrain from some remark. Another
time, please play more suitably. Good evening."
As the vicar passed the front pew, Coast saw him pause.
That damned woman had heard everything then--heard him scolded like a
schoolboy by that fool Slater. It was too much.
"Well, well, Mrs. Robson"--Coast could guess just how the Vicar rubbed
his bloodless little hands--"I think we have some cause for rejoicing
this year--hah? A most trying business, satisfactorily over."
"Yes," said Mary. Her weary voice sounded remote and toneless in the
shadowed church.
"I think we may congratulate you and Mr. Robson--very disinterested
behaviour, very. Quite right that you should have stood out for the
sake of the small farmers--quite. I was talking to Mrs. Armstrong
to-day. She said what a help you and your husband had been to Albert.
Very commendable."
Mrs. Robson made no reply.
"I hope your husband has not suffered from the anxiety. Is he strong
again?"
"I think he will be all right now if he takes care."
"Quite so, no more strains. But there, you look after him so well."
"I do what I can, but I can't stop the wind blowing."
"Ah--of course. We are all in the hands of God's providence. No more
talk about your retiring from farming, I hope?"
"Why, where ever did you hear that rumour?"
"I believe your husband said something about it one day at the parish
meeting."
"Oh, I think not. You've made a mistake. He must have meant something
else. We shan't retire for years, if ever we do at all--and I don't see
why we should. We both hate town life."
"Of course, of course. I thought perhaps that after your husband's
stroke he might find farming a little strenuous after this unfortunate
affair." The vicar coughed discreetly.
"Oh well, now that it's over, I don't suppose we shall have much more
bother."
Didn't she, indeed! Coast on the organ seat smiled bitterly. He could
picture in the darkness Mrs. Robson's smile of smug self-satisfaction.
"Of course--in your hands--sure to be all right. Very capable. Very."
They moved away together down the aisle. The sexton limped round the
church like a great bat, extinguishing lights and covering brass work
with baize hoods.
"Shall I leave the key to you, Mr. Coast?" he queried.
"Please."
Then he, too, went. The schoolmaster sat alone. "I don't suppose we
shall have much more bother...." Bother about the playing field, bother
about the brassocking holiday, bother about taking Jack Greenwood from
school before his time, bother about the strike.... All conveniently
settled, with the least possible discomfort to herself, Mary Robson.
How nice. How truly obliging of the Almighty to arrange the world so
manifestly for her advantage!
"Oh, damn the woman! Damn her, damn her!"
There seemed nothing more to say.
* * * * *
At four o'clock the following Saturday afternoon, Coast was walking
up the village street on his way to visit old Mrs. Armstrong. He had
finally been persuaded by the parish council to approach her about her
field in the village, which Mrs. Robson had suggested might serve as a
playing ground for the school children. The road was full of life that
afternoon. Continually bicycle bells chimed and tinkled, and couples
rode past to Hardrascliffe. The Saturday after Harvest was always a red
letter day at Anderby. Even Fred Stephens, who was due to return to
work with his comrades on Monday, had ingratiated himself sufficiently
with the Robsons' Violet to escort her, with sheepish humility and the
bait of an invitation to the Pictures, along the Hardrascliffe road.
Coast had passed the post office and the bridge, and turned into the
street of straggling houses that led to the Wold Farm. A short stocky
figure slouched slowly ahead of him. He recognized Eli Waite shabbier
and more disconsolate than ever, walking with drooping head, an empty
pipe between his teeth.
Moved by a sudden impulse to talk to some one more out of love with
life than himself, Coast hailed him with an unusually genial "Good
afternoon, Waite."
Geniality was hardly Coast's typical manner, so Waite turned round with
some surprise. He regarded the schoolmaster as a man of good sense and
perspicacity who had played a worthy part in the recent industrial
crisis. The nod he gave was less sulky than usual.
"Afternoon, Mr. Coast."
"How's Ethel? Any better? Bad business for her getting ill just now.
What does the doctor think of her?"
"He says she ought to get away to a warmer spot, ought not to winter at
Anderby, he says. As if I was a millionaire to send 'er off in a first
class carriage."
Waite spat with emphasis on the path.
"Oh dear, that's bad isn't it? What are you going to do about it?"
Coast knew that any other father in the village would have gone for
help to Mary Robson, and that she would have found, among the various
institutions to whose skirts she clung for the benefit of her protégés,
some holiday home for a delicate child.
But there was no such simple solution for Waite's problem.
"There's nowt to do for the likes o' me but wait and let her get better
if she can."
"Let me see, where are you working now?"
Waite gave him one sidelong glance and then broke forth. "I'm not
working. I'm not striking neither. I've been tenting cows for Tommy
Dent when he went harvesting. I tell you there are some low down
things done in Anderby you'd never hear tell on."
"Oh. Been out of work since that business with Mrs. Robson?"
"Ay."
"Foolish woman, very. Ah, what's that?"
From the road towards Market Burton came a rumbling clatter. An
exultant procession of small boys appeared round the corner of the
hedge. Then a column of dark grey smoke rose beyond it, and finally a
traction-engine lumbered into view, with its trail of thrashing-machine
and elevator.
It drew up beside the Robsons' stackyard gate, where the two men were
standing.
"Hello there! D'you know if Robson's foreman is anywhere about?" called
the driver.
"I doan't," growled Waite, "and I don't care."
The driver turned to his companion, a mechanic seated on the foot board.
"Here, mate!" he exclaimed. "This is one of the famous strikers of
Anderby, I'll be bound. Where's the Red Flag, mate? Is that your union
man?" He pointed a' derisive finger at Coast. "Come on, sonny," he
called to a stout urchin who gazed in rapt enthusiasm at the engine.
"Where's your dad?"
"He's waitin' for you somewheres--wants to get to Hardrascliffe
to-night."
"Well, fetch him along then, for I want a wash up, and a drop of supper
at the _Flying Fox_."
Waite and Coast stood silently by the gate, while a little crowd
gathered to watch the delicate operation of manœuvring the engine and
its appendages into the stackyard. Foreman emerged from the Hind's
house, already attired in his Sunday best. The "thrashing man" was an
old friend and ally.
"Come on, come in with you," called Foreman. "I'm taking missus in tid
Hardrascliffe to-night for a bit o' spree like after harvest, and she's
had 'er best hat on for last hour waiting o' you. We've got light cart
yoked up an' all."
"Oh, git away with you then. I'll bring in the Rolls-Royce, and drop
her gently along side one o' them there stacks for a bit o' rest after
the journey like. Whoa there! Back there!"
His hand on the wheel turned with amazing rapidity. The engine
snorted and backed, then slowly lumbered towards the gateway, leaving
the elevator in the road. There was much backing and twisting,
much shouting of small boys and coupling and uncoupling of the
thrashing-machine, but eventually it was through, and the engine
returned for the derelict in the road.
"You've got a good yardful," remarked the mechanic. "How did you come
on wi' the strike?"
"Strike? We didn't have no strike--just a few fond chaps taking a
holiday through harvest like."
"Oh, ay. You've got some bonny wheat here."
"Ay--and yon barley, but the thatching's bad. We missed owd Deane for
that. The wet'll get in any day now. That's why maister's all on to
have it thrashed an' out of way before weather breaks."
"It's fine enough now--happen a bit o' wind before morning."
"Ay. You'd better damp down the fire in yon engine o' your'n. We don't
want no sparks flying about with all harvest in. There's not enough
water i' t' pond to drown a cat in."
They were covering the machine now with tarpaulin, fastening everything
snugly down for its sabbath's vigil. Coast stood watching them, and
noticing how the stacks stood out in firm yellow blocks against the
dark background of the wold. The solidarity of their bulging contour
depressed him. Of what use was it to attack people who were shielded
from poverty and failure by this power of possession? The backwash of
progress beat in vain against the solid wall of property that sheltered
them. He wondered no longer at the loud voiced communists whom he
once condemned as extremists, because they would rob the rich of this
destructive potency of wealth. That fellow Rossitur had been wrong
as usual, when he declared that, after their taste of independence
and co-operation during the strike, the men of Anderby would never
be the same again. It would be just the same, the same patronage and
injustice, the same complacent prosperity of people like the Robsons,
the same heart-breaking rebellion of people like himself. The square
grey house behind the sycamore-trees, the close packed sheaves of wheat
and barley, the farm buildings astir with the sounds of pigs and horses
and cattle, all these testified to the impotence of progress. Oh, the
Robsons were safe!
Mike O'Flynn appeared from the stackyard gate that led to the garden
of the Wold Farm. He strolled up to the little group where Foreman and
the "machine man" discussed the utility of raising bags of corn by a
mechanical invention, instead of swinging them over one's shoulder as
in the olden days.
"What's that fellow Rossitur doing up at the house door?"
Foreman turned. "Nay, Mike, it beats me, but I expect he's gone to see
Mrs. Robson."
"Mrs. Robson went into Hardrascliffe wi't t' maister this after'," said
Shepherd Dawson.
"Well, 'tis no good he's after, anyway, or he'd have gone with Hunting
this morning--bad cess to him! And it's glad I am that Mrs. Robson was
not at home. After the trouble he's given her she'll not be wanting him
again hanging round."
"You off in tid' town to-night, Mike?" asked Ezra, who found Mike's
frequent tirades on the subject of David Rossitur somewhat tedious.
"Now, what should I be doing buying squeakers on the sands and going to
Pictures? There's a corner seat in the _Flying Fox_ that I'd part with
for no man."
The men strolled off. The children still lingered to gaze upon the
fascinating complexity of the great machine, and watch the smoke die
from its funnel. Coast found that Waite was standing beside him leaning
over the gateway. There was still the tiresome business of the field
and old Mrs. Armstrong to be faced. He must get rid of Waite and go on
with his work.
He turned to the figure at the gate.
"Well, I hope your daughter will soon recover."
"I never have no luck, and Ethel's always been a good girl."
"Oh, luck can change they say--though I doubt it."
"Luck's a lousy wench."
"She's never so queer as when she isn't luck at all, but some person
who got their knife into you."
Waite looked with dawning comprehension at the schoolmaster.
"Ay," he remarked.
The wind was rising. A little whirl of dust and straw and dried leaves
blew along the path at their feet.
"The wind's getting up," said Coast. He was looking now from the
rounded stacks to the man at his side, and a new desire was forming in
his mind.
"Ay. I doubt it'll be a blust'ry night," replied Waite.
"It's been a dry month," remarked Coast.
"Ay. Pond shows bottom, an' beck's dry."
"It would be a bad job for Robson if a spark from the engine caught on
his straw."
"Ay."
"Those buildings are very near the yard, aren't they?"
"Ay."
"I believe the wind is blowing from the south too. There'll be rain
soon."
"Oh, ay."
"Did you see in the paper about that stack fire at the other side of
Market Burton? They don't know yet whether it was a spark from the
engine or whether some one had set it on fire."
"Here, what are you driving at, Mr. Coast?"
"I--I'm driving at nothing. I don't know what you mean. Well, I must
be moving. Oh, by the way, do you know that there's a talk that the
Robsons may leave Anderby if anything else happens to upset Mr. Robson?
He's been a bit of an invalid since his stroke."
"I hadn't heard."
"Some people wouldn't think it was a bad thing."
"Ay."
"Well, good evening."
Coast strolled on past the garden of the Wold Farm, and the _Flying
Fox_, till he came to the Armstrongs' gate.
Then he paused. The light was fading and, beyond the stubble fields,
the sky glowed red and stormy. A gust of wind brought the frail leaves
which clung to the branches of a chestnut-tree whirling round him. Down
in the valley, Anderby village grew dim and grey.