Possession (Roche, February 1923)/Part 1/Chapter 6
A man could not help but feel proud to see the baskets of plump, ripe strawberries spread in rows over the barn floor. They were so fresh, so excellent, that they could not fail to bring the highest price. Phœbe, kneeling on the floor, packed them into crates, each holding two dozen boxes. Mrs. Machin, sitting on a chair, examined each carrier of six boxes, as it was brought in, and, if it were satisfactory, paid the picker in tickets valued at one cent each. Solomon Sharroe and Jammery, she told Vale, were the best pickers, and could pick four hundred boxes each in a day, in the height of the season. The women picked well but were not to be depended on, often leaving the patch half-picked, to take the tram-car to Brancepeth, where they would spend all their earnings on fancy shoes and hats, and, often, their men's earnings too.
Vale had taken up a basket and was picking out the largest berries and eating them with a boy's mischievous pleasure in Mrs. Machin's disapproving glances. He dropped one to a rangy Dorking rooster which was picking in the straw at his feet. The bird, snatching up the unexpected prize, gallantly called his hens who came with long strides from the barnyard, wings spread and beaks agape. The crimson berry was presented with coaxing clucks to the favourite, who gulped it whole and pecked greedily at the juice on her lord's yellow beak. Vale began tossing berries to the other hens.
"I will not have them fowls encouraged to come into the barn," exclaimed Mrs. Machin, angrily.
"But they like the berries," protested Vale.
"Well give them the whole mornin's pickin' then. I wash my hands of it." She jumped to her feet.
"Sit down. Sit down," soothed Vale. "I'll take them somewhere else. This young Indian can help me shoo them out."
"I'll help you," cried Phœbe.
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Machin. "I never see such a girl. She'd sooner do anything under the sun than her proper work. Here, Fawnie, help Mr. Vale scare these hens away and don't set them floppin' over the berries neither."
The young girl set down the carrier she had brought and began gently to urge the fowls through the door. Derek went ahead dropping berries before them. He saw that she was the girl he had watched the night before, whose shining brown-black hair had fallen about her wet shoulders. He scarcely glanced at her but led the way around the barn towards the poultry house, which was partitioned by wire netting from the byre.
"I think we had better put them inside," he said, "and shut the door or they will follow us straight back to the berries." He opened the half-door and entered the poultry-house backwards. He set the remainder of the basket of berries in the straw on the floor. Instantly it was covered by a tangle of wings, beaks, and wattles. He shut the door and smiled at the girl. "That was neatly done. They're all in, I think."
The open windows looked over a stream and a flat meadow where the sheep were grazing.
"The little new lambs are awful pretty," she said in a soft, husky voice.
"Yes, aren't they?" He stared openly at her now, trying to recapture the sensation of the night before. But now he saw only a pretty Indian girl whose straight little body was covered by a coarse blue dress, who had an empty berry-basket tied on her stomach, and whose pouting lips were stained by the fruit to a brighter red. There was no mystery now, no thrill, but she was amusing; and those fawn's eyes of hers . . . they called her Fawnie . . . and that round coffee-coloured neck with the soft lock on the nape. . . .
"I like eggs," she was drawling, while she peered into the nests. "Here's a big brown one—as hot as hot—" she put it in his hand. "That ole black hen laid it. She's mad because I took it."
He dropped the warm egg in her berry basket. "Keep it," he said, "and cook it for your tea, Fawnie."
"Here's five more. All white. I do like white eggs. They're jus' laid too. Hot as hot. Feel."
"Take them, too. But don't mention it to Mrs. Machin." He flushed as he said this. He was really afraid of her then . . . no—not afraid, but he did not want her interference.
"Tell you what I'll do! I'll set them. You jus' lend me this ole black hen that's all rumpled up cluckin' an' I'll take her up to the shack an' set her and get some nice little chicks, eh?" Her eyes sparkled, he could see his face reflected in them . . . useless for him to resist dark-eyed little girls. . . . "Take her then," he said, weakly. Good Lord, she was only seventeen! If she wanted a hen to set, why not?
They chased the hen, caught her; Fawnie pressed her firmly against her side while they searched for more eggs. In the horse-stable they found seven—five on a shelf inside an old horse-collar, two in the manger of one of the Welsh ponies, wet with his slobber.
They set out like children, Derek carrying the eggs in his hat. They took a roundabout way to the shack through the arching blackberry and thimbleberry canes. Two babies rolled on a blanket on the beaten earth, by the door, tended by an older child. The idiot boy, perched in the crotch of an apple tree, stared blinking at the sky.
"Where shall we set her?" asked Derek.
"Under my bunk," she chuckled. "It's nice an' dark there."
"Oh no. I'll get a coop and set her in the orchard."
"The ole woman'd find her there first thing. I want her under my bunk." She stroked the hen's head with a brown, supple hand.
"Very well. Which is your bunk?" They went into the dim hut, stuffy with the smell of straw and old clothes.
"Beulah and Alma and me sleeps in this one," she said, crouching before one of the lower bunks. "You hold the hen."
He held the warm bundle of feathers while she dragged forth an empty box and half-filled it with straw pulled from her bed. Derek felt hypnotized by her soft, swift movements. She talked in a little muttering way to herself as she arranged the nest:
"Here's nice yaller straw already warmed—here's a nasty ole thistle—get out you ole pricky thistle on the floor—I hope Alma will step on you—here's a pigeon's feather sure enough—that brings luck—come lazy-bones—" reaching up for the hen—"get on your eggs an' mind you hatch 'em all out or Durek will pluck you alive, won't you, Durek?"
Derek lit a cigarette to drown the odors of the shack. "Who told—you—my name?" he asked, between puffs.
"I heerd Phœbe an' Bob Gunn talkin' about you an' they called you Durek. They said you was afraid of Mrs. Machin. Are you?"
"A little," he admitted. "Are you?"
"Not a bit. I ain't afraid of nobody—except Jammery . . . If any of them kids touches this hen o' mine I'll chop their heads off. Ain't she nice?"
The hen was settling herself on the nest with elaborate care. Every feather on end she drew the eggs under her body by convulsive movements of her encircling wings. With her beak she pressed the last one under her full, downy breast. She looked from side to side to make sure that none protruded, then, with a last shudder of sensuous delight, she half-closed her eyes, parted her beak, and settled down to her twenty-one days' vigil and retreat.
It was an extraordinarily fine season for fruit. The strawberries ran a luxuriant course, without burning heat to shrivel them or storms to beat them into the soil. Cherries were not successful everywhere, but the cherries at Grimstone hung in large, plump clusters that almost hid the foliage. The raspberries were the finest in years, and a good crop of pears and apples was promised. Not only was there an abundance of fruit but the stock was doing well. Six of the ewes had twins, there were seven little Jersey calves, and a likely-looking foal. In the heavy soil at the back of the farm there was a fine showing of oats, wheat, and plump roots. Derek had had the fences between Grimstone and Durras mended and intended in the autumn to paint some of the out-buildings and build new houses for the pigs and poultry separate from the other stock. He wrote enthusiastic letters to his brother, urging him to pay him a visit while the fruit was in its prime and the boating and bathing good.
He was eating his bacon and eggs one morning, his brain busy with agreeable plans, when he heard excited voices in the kitchen.
"I'll go and tell him," he heard Phœbe say.
"You'll do nothing of the sort," came sharply from Mrs. Machin, "just let me get my hands out of this flour and I'll tell him myself."
Then Newbigging spoke: "Whist, can't ye? I'll go mysel'."
He came to the door, cap in hand.
"Weel," he announced, with a grin, "they've flitted."
"Flitted? Who? Where?"
"The Indians. They've all gone to Chaird's to pick. There's neither hide nor hair o' them aboot the place." The others crowded about him, staring in at Derek.
He set down his teapot with a bang. Why was bad news so often announced in the middle of a comfortable meal? "Why did they go?" he asked. "What do you expect me to do about it?"
"Chaird has gie'd them a fine new cottage he had built for his parents who died last winter, and he has twice as many raspberry canes an' currants an' blackcaps coming on. His missus is goin' to teach the girls to sew an' read, and she's goin' to doctor the bairn that has fits."
"He wouldn't have dared do this in your uncle's time, the scoundrel," said Mrs. Machin.
"You're changing your tune about him, aren't you?" said Windmill, sarcastically. "But he's only living up to his reputation for shrewdness."
"Good God," said Vale, "what shall we do? Can't we force them to come back? The cherries are fairly dropping off the trees for ripeness."
No one answered him. They had turned back to the kitchen with angry looks towards someone who had come in. Then Derek heard the soft voice of Jammery. He followed the others into the kitchen.
Jammery stood in the open doorway, an amused smile curving his sensitive lips.
"Well," cried Mrs. Machin, "this is a nice way to treat us after all these years, and all we've done for you."
"It's not my fault, really," protested Jammery. "It's the old man. Mr. Chard got around him somehow, and we've got to do what he says or he and the old woman'd make the place too hot to hold us."
"What is to become of my fruit?" demanded Vale. "Where are the white pickers who used to pick for Chard—the mean cur—could we get them?"
"They have a prejudice agin us here because we've always employed Indians," said Mrs. Machin. "But we've got to get pickers from somewheres, for tomorrow's the last day for the Saturday market."
"I was thinking," said Jammery, "that if Mr. Vale will pay my way I'll go to Brancepeth and see a family of Indians I know there. I might be able to get them."
"If you do I'll make it worth your while." Already Vale was growing hopeful for his cherries. "And you fellows," he added, turning to his men, "can get busy and help pick. I shall take a hand at it myself."
"I'm cuttin' hay," protested Hugh McKay.
"Cuttin' hay, are you?" snapped Mrs. Machin. "I'm glad you told me. I thought you was just standin' there gapin'."
"Weel, I'm goin' to cut it, if I can ever get out o' this kitchen," shouted McKay, angrily, and, pushing Jammery out of his way, he flung off to his fields.
Mrs. Machin turned to Windmill. "You take the light wagon and go into Mistwell and see what left-overs you can pick up. Tell them the pickin's fine and there'll be hot tea supplied at noon. Bob and Jim and Phœbe and I can turn right in now."
That afternoon as Derek stood beside a prolific young Montmorency, dropping its blood-red clusters into an eleven-quart basket at his feet, Mr. Jerrold called.
"I hear your Indians have decamped," he said. "Gone over to our friend Chard, eh?"
"Yes. We're all doing our best to save the cherries, but the raspberries need going over and I don't see how it's to be done. Jammery went to Brancepeth after pickers. Had no luck at all. And I wish you could see the bunch Windmill got at Mistwell: two fat old women, three little boys, and a young married woman named Orde with a two-year-old child that has to be suckled every ten minutes or so."
"Oh, I know the Ordes. He fishes in the winter and loafs all summer while she supports him by picking berries. I tell you, Vale, small fruit is the very devil. That's why I ploughed mine under. I know a poor chap from the city who got a place beyond mine, and planted an immense lot of gooseberries. Last summer he came to me with tears streaming down his face. He couldn't get a soul to pick the damned gooseberries and he had been working at them alone till he was worn to fiddle-strings and his hands all scratched and bleeding. His wife was going to have a baby, too."
"Lord! What became of them?"
"We got a spell of heat and drought then and they all withered up on him. He was sold out last spring."
"Poor beggar. Well, Jammery's coming over at daybreak tomorrow to pick till noon when we ship. He is quite a decent fellow."
"I shouldn't trust him. Look here what I've done for you." Holding his walking-stick under one arm he had picked cherries till one large, shapely hand was brimming.
"Fine," said Derek, "just drop them in the basket."
"I'll light a cigar before I pick any more. Have one?"
"No thanks. Too busy."
"I wish Gay were here. She'd enjoy this."
"When is she coming back?"
"Very soon. She can't stay away from her father very long."
Newbigging came up, a full basket in either hand. "Hoo many hae ye plucked, Mr. Vale?" he asked, cheerily.
"This is my third. How are the Mistwell folk getting on?"
"Not too bad. Mrs. Orde's away the best, but she has to back down her ladder every wee while to nurse the bairn."
The child, unspeakably dirty, ran up to Newbigging and began to throw handfuls of earth on him. "Aw, Tommy," said the Scot, "it's a guid thing for you I'm no your dada."
The boy galloped back to the foot of the ladder up which he could see his mother's draggled skirt. "Mammy! Mammy!" he yelled, and beat on the rungs with his fists.
"Little brute," said Mr. Jerrold. He hung his stick on a branch, and the two men worked in agreeable silence, broken only by the soft dropping of fruit into the basket, and now and then, a snatch of jiggy song from the tree where Gunn was perched. The smoke of Mr. Jerrold's cigar hung in fragrant blue wisps among the cherries.
Vale was awakened by the same noise that had disturbed him on his first morning at Grimstone, the boisterous gobble of the turkey-cock. He sat up in bed and through the open window could barely see them as they passed, for it was not yet sunrise. The white hen-turkey came last, uttering little liquid sounds like dropping water.
He remembered his cherries with a pang. Oh, that those treacherous redskins were safely back at their job! Well, there was Jammery this morning, at any rate. He made up his mind to be out before any of the household. It would be a good thing, he thought, for them to see that he would do everything in his power to prevent waste, and it would be pleasant among the trees before the sun was up. He drew on a thin jersey and a pair of old duck trousers.
The bees were already humming in the tops of the locust trees. A pale saffron streak lay between lake and sky. A faint half-moon behind the orchard was casting her last, timid gaze upon the world.
He went to the apple-house and got some empty baskets, then entered the regular rows of the cherry orchard. Besides numerous ladders there were several tall wooden stands on top of which two people could sit at ease and strip the highest branches. Peering up, he could see Fawnie sitting cross-legged on one of these, her dress dimly blue as the brightening sky, her hair hanging unbound about her shoulders.
"Come on up," she said, softly, leaning towards him, "come and sit alongside o' me. I'll learn you how to pick our way."
He clambered up the rungs and sat beside her, his legs dangling. "This is ripping," he laughed. "I didn't expect anything so exciting."
"Don' you get excited or you'll fall."
He lit a cigarette. "Do you smoke, Fawnie? Will you try one?"
"I take a puff at the ole woman's pipe sometimes when she's not lookin,' but I don' want one o' them."
"Why?"
"It'd be like flirtin', surely." She resumed her cherrypicking with deft fingers.
Vale laughed and began to pick, too. "I was surprised to find you here, Fawnie."
"I wanted to help you, and Jammery said I could. We've been here since the first crack o' day."
"Good girl. I'll do something nice for you."
"What?" She was choosing two pairs of the finest cherries from her basket.
"What would you like?"
She hung the cherries over her ears like scarlet earrings and looked at him. The ruddy shine of the fruit, hardly fresher than her pouting lips; the dark masses of her hair, her slender, coffee-coloured neck, her slanting, humid eyes awoke in Derek the same sensation he had had when he watched her bathe. He experienced an intense consciousness of the earth—mother of him and of all thriving, air-sucking things—men, deer in the forest, trees interlacing their branches in the wind and their roots in the life-giving soil—all driven by the same force, all feeling the same, sharp, sweet urge. . . . He took her in his arms and kissed her quickly on the cheeks and mouth. They clung together till the voice of Newbigging below made them start apart.
"Hoo many hae ye plucked, master?" he said, with a broad grin on his upturned face.
Vale looked down at him sternly. "Get about your work, Newbigging. If I have any cheek from you, you'll go."
He was abashed, mortified at being caught in such a position. He fancied the jests that would pass among the men. He stared, red-faced, at his dangling boots for a space, and then muttered, sulkily—
"You're a little baggage, Fawnie."
She smiled at him from under her lashes. "You mean I act like I was white," she said.