He and John had left a few days after Christie failed to come back.
‘I’m not staying here no more,’ John said. ‘We’re going to get out on the road when I find some boots.’ The next day he bought some in a pawn shop, and a hairy brown wool coat for Joey, which was too big and hung round his shins. They bundled a few things into the old red curtain: the pan, knife and spoon, the remaining candle stubs, matches and what little they had in terms of food and clothing. John carried the curtain over one shoulder, the contents clanking as he went along. Joey slung the coat round his neck, hanging forward over his shoulders.
They walked out of Birmingham along the Warwick Road.
That first day was very hot. They passed through Greet and Acock’s Green, the glare of the sun in their eyes. The soles of Joey’s feet began to burn on the hot road and each step hurt. The coat felt like a great weight and made his neck hot and prickly. In Acock’s Green they stopped at a vicarage and asked for water. The woman gave it to them in jam jars and made meat-paste sandwiches. She told them to sit in the shade of the church. With the sandwiches were two pieces of fruit cake, and they ate them and lay dozing in the heat until a man came past and yelled at them to clear off. Later they got down onto the towpath along the cut, watching the boats go up and down, and moving out of the way of horses. It felt cooler there by the water. They sat for a while by a bridge and Joey took his boots off and dangled his feet in the filthy water. John didn’t take his boots off. Joey wondered why not. He had never once seen John change his clothes. He barely ever even took his hat off. His beard was so tangled it looked as if it had melted into one big mass. They never said much to each other, just plodded on all day, Joey following behind John’s black-clad figure. That night they slept in a park, the next tucked under a hedge in a field. It rained on the second night and the drops gradually trickled through the canopy of leaves, though the curtain and the coat, which Joey wrapped round him, helped keep some of it off. They woke the next morning and rolled out from under the hedge, looking out across a pasture of thistles and dock leaves dotted with black and white cows, all shrouded in a fine mist, which burned off as the day grew hotter. There were brambles woven into the hedge, but the fruits were still green and hard. Joey tugged one off its shoot. It was tough and gritty, and made his face twist at the bitterness, so he spat it out. The grass smelt so nice when you lay close to it that he tried eating that, nibbling at the young, green shoots.
‘That ent no good,’ John remarked. ‘Only animals can eat that. You’ll make yourself bad.’
After a lot of effort John lit a fire at the edge of the field and eventually they had a pan of black tea. They had spent almost a week on the road, wandering, begging from village rectories and farmhouses, sleeping in barns and hedgerows, when they walked up the track to Elm Tree Farm.
The potato crop was picked and they were put to haymaking. To save the horses from the hottest time of day, Mr Belcher began mowing soon after four in the morning. The others went out with him, still heavy with sleep, into the grey, uncertain light and the smell of night and dewy grass. A shred of moon still glowed in the sky. Joey was given a rake to gather in the long, damp grass, which dried in piles as the sun rose and the heat grew. The air was moist from the dew, then warm as a steam bath. In that early part of the day they worked in silence. All the men were quiet except Frank, who after breakfast would often whistle or hum lively, jigging tunes to himself. Joey liked the songs, his mind followed the thread of them, but for some reason they seemed to enrage John, who Joey sometimes heard mumbling that Frank should ‘fuckin’ shut up’ or ‘shut his cake hole . . . bloody Irish carry on . . .’ Joey didn’t understand what made John like this about Frank. You never knew with John. He had liked Christie.
The sun beat down on them as the days grew hotter. Mr Belcher stood the horse and cart in the shade of the one tree in the field for as long as possible. Frank and Steven flung forkfuls of hay up onto the cart and the mound grew higher and higher.
‘You can get up there now.’ Mr Belcher picked Joey up and almost threw him onto the pile, passing him a pitchfork. ‘Get it spread out. We’ve a lot more to get on there yet.’
Joey stood, legs splayed, on the top of the cart. Molly was allowed to lie panting in the shade underneath. Part of the time Joey was busy with his fork while the others pitched up bundles of hay. As they went off to get more, he had time to stand and look around from the whispering green shade of the tree. The next field was full of waving heads of oats, which Mr Belcher said would be the next job. Beyond it, way down at the bottom edge of the farm, was the railway and every so often they heard the LMS trains chugging in the distance, puffing out clouds of steam to the blue sky, the sound building, then receding. Every time a train came by, Joey felt a thrilling sensation. He stood wanting to wave and shout. There were moments when everything seemed right, a perfection in the puffing of the train, the warm ease of his body fed with the morning bread and cheese, the smells of cut grass and horse, the animal nibbling at the grass and giving out loud breaths away to his left. There was Molly with her lovely soft head lying near him, only leaving the shade of the tree when she spotted a rabbit across the field and tore off after it. It was too quick for her and she returned with her tongue lolling to one side. He thought nothing could be better, ever.
There came a couple of days of rain, so heavy that they had to wait before anything else could be harvested and the Belchers found them odd jobs to do round the farm. Joey was put to cleaning the stiff, filthy harnesses in the barn. Afterwards it grew very hot again. They had a day’s haymaking left. But the day was interrupted.
The heat built up. Even though they were gathering hay right from the top end of the field, Mr Belcher wouldn’t move the horse. Frank cursed about this.
‘The animals get treated better than us here . . . Treats her like a queen and us like scum . . .’
‘No, he doesn’t – you know he doesn’t.’ Steven reasoned with him. ‘He’s a very fair employer, Frank – you know he is.’
Joey liked Steven. He was gentle and kind. Steven had once worked in a bank. Joey didn’t know why he was on the road now. He wondered if he ever screamed and shook when he was in the bank.
After a dinner of bread and meat pies, they rested for a while in the shade. Soon after they had picked up their rakes and pitchforks again, they heard a train coming up from the south. Joey watched it from the top of the cart. There was a heat haze across the pale oatfield and the train, dark and metallic, seemed the one thing with any definition in the landscape. Its steam was a cloud of white and the sound began to decrease. Then Joey saw something. Something which shouldn’t have been there: flecks of coloured light. He narrowed his eyes. The light was leaping up, orange, dangerous.
‘Fire! Down the oatfield. Get down there!’
At Mr Belcher’s cry, everyone was running. Joey slid down from the stack, not knowing what to do but run. It seemed such a long way across the field. He was with Frank, John and Steven and Molly came with them too, her tail a flag amid the oat stems. Mr Belcher had disappeared, shouting that he was going to get some sacks. The four of them saw the fire take hold of a seam of the crop, licking hungrily at it.
‘Thank heavens there’s no wind,’ Steven panted. ‘Must have caught from a spark from the train.’
They had nothing but rakes and forks to beat at the fire. Molly circled, barking shrilly.
‘Make a break round it!’ Frank was shouting. They were all beating down the stalks around the fire, trying to keep it from advancing any further. John beat at the flames with his pitchfork. Joey copied him. It frightened him hearing the crackling fire, feeling the heat of it on his face if he went too close.
‘Help us make a break!’ Frank yelled at him. ‘It’s no good doing that, you stupid fucker – get over here!’
Joey could see Frank was right, but John just ignored him and turned his back, thrashing away with his pitchfork, mumbling angrily to himself.
‘Come and help us over here!’ Steven insisted, but John ignored him as well. The others saw he wouldn’t listen and left him. Joey joined them, beating down the crop in a semi-circle round the flames.
It seemed an age until both Mr and Mrs Belcher came running, staggering under the weight of rolled-up sacks. Joey saw the sacks were dripping water. They threw the sacks over the edge of the fire, stamping it out, then moving on, eating into it until it got smaller and smaller. Joey saw quite soon that they were going to beat it.
‘What if we hadn’t been there and seen?’ Steven said as the last flames were stamped out.
‘We’d’ve lost the crop,’ Mr Belcher said. Both he and his wife wore sober expressions. Mrs Belcher wiped her puce face on the end of her apron. ‘We try and plant away from the edge but it only takes a stray spark like that . . .’ He looked round. ‘You saved it, though. You’re good blokes – thanks.’
‘’Cept for that feckin’ idiot over there.’ Frank nodded at John, who was standing, fully clothed as ever, in the heat. ‘What’s the matter with you, eh? Got a screw loose or something?’ He tapped his head. Something had got into Frank. He seemed wound up and tremulous, his body tense with the need to goad John.
‘Don’t, Frank,’ Steven said. ‘It’s over. It doesn’t matter.’
‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ Frank shouted. ‘Except the man’s an idiot – just look at him!’
Joey jumped as John launched himself abruptly from beside him and threw himself on Frank, punching him in the head.
‘I’m not stupid!’ he screamed. ‘Don’t call me an idiot!’
Of the two, John was the bigger and he caught Frank off balance, knocking him to the ground. But Frank was full of crazed, wiry strength and in a few seconds he hurled himself out from under John and over on top of him, snarling into his face, his teeth bared.
‘Think you can push Frank Monaghan around do you? You stinking, shite-thick English bastard . . .’
Joey felt himself shrink with dread. He backed away as Frank began to punch John and Steven and the Belchers went to pull him off. Joey turned, hearing the blows and ran up the field away, away to the tree and its shade. He lay curled under the hay cart, eyes screwed shut.
Forty-One
Gwen spent the days after coming back from Wales feeling truly miserable. For part of the journey from Aberglyn she had sat in a separate carriage from Daniel, utterly hurt, weeping tears of anger and frustration. When next they changed trains, Daniel found her on the platform.
‘Well, thanks for coming to find me!’ she erupted at him.
‘I just
have
come to find you,’ he said, exasperated.
‘I mean back there – on the train.’ She was trying to keep from crying, but barely succeeding. There were people milling about on all sides of them. She pulled her hanky from her sleeve and blew her nose, feeling pathetic.
‘But you told me to leave you alone!’
‘I didn’t mean
actually
leave me
alone
for the whole journey, I meant . . . Oh, never mind. Forget I said anything.’
‘Hey.’ He went to put his arm round her waist. ‘Come on – I don’t know what I’m s’posed to have done, but I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘That’s the trouble though!’ She flared up again. ‘You’ve no idea, have you? You ask me to come with you to Aberglyn and then you spend nearly all your time off at meetings and . . . I know it’s important but you could just show a bit more consideration.’
Daniel sighed, pulling her closer. He looked dog tired and she began to relent a little.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Only – it’s what I do down there, see. Habit really. And it’s important.’
And aren’t I important at all?
she wanted to say, but she gave a stiff nod, swallowing her tears.
Why do I always have to come second?
‘We need to get to the other platform.’ Daniel took her hand and she allowed herself to be led.
She hoped it would be better now, that they would sit close, talk again. And they did sit holding hands, but it was hard to begin. She didn’t find the courage to mention the conversation she had overheard the night before. And very soon after the train left Hereford, Daniel’s eyes closed and he slept until they arrived. By the time they had got on the last train, Gwen herself felt low, and sleepy and past talking about anything. They parted in Birmingham with a quick hug and kiss in the dark street outside Millie’s and Lance’s flat.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Daniel said wearily.
‘Umm.’ He saw her into the house and she stood at the door watching as he walked off along the street. A deep sense of melancholy came over her. She felt so close to him sometimes, as if they inhabited the same skin, yet there he was, a stranger heading off into the night without turning round.
I just need a good night’s sleep
, she thought.
I’m feeling tired and gloomy
.
She crept up the dimly lit staircase. At least Millie and Lance would be in bed by now and she wouldn’t have to contend with them.
But she was wrong. As soon as she opened the door to the flat she heard Millie’s angry voice raised shrilly in the sitting room.
‘. . . but you don’t – you never do anything except go to work and come back. It’s bad enough now, but how are we going to get by once the baby comes?’
‘Oh, do stop going on, darling . . .’ Lance sounded plaintive and at the end of his tether. He evidently slammed something down on the table. ‘Let’s just go to bed – I can’t keep this up.’
‘No – that’s just like you. Run away, go to sleep – anything to avoid me . . .’
Millie was crying. ‘I feel as if I live on my own all the time! Gwen’s never here and you have no time for me.’
‘I do have time for you. But you’re tired all the time – and so am I . . .’
‘Well, it’s not much of a life, is it? We haven’t even been married a year and all you do is ignore me already . . .’
Their bickering voices went on and on. Gwen slipped quietly into her room, wishing the door would muffle the sound of their quarrelling completely. She was so tired she barely had the energy to get undressed before falling into bed, where she lay listening to Millie and Lance moving about, sniping at each other in an exhausted way before finally closing their own bedroom door behind them. She’d always felt sorry for Millie, but she didn’t half go on. No wonder Lance got irritated. And he was such a drip! What on earth had Millie seen in him in the first place? Gwen lay there, fed up with the pair of them, resolving that she would never, ever get into a situation like that. But then her spirits sank even further. Hadn’t she and Daniel sounded the same today? He had hurt her so badly by being blind to how she was feeling and she still felt sore about it. She thought of his parting words, ‘See you tomorrow.’