Chapter 8

About the middle of March, Tom was moved to a convalescent hospital at Polegate, and a fortnight later sent home. Worge gave him a big hail, and the whole family, including Thyrza, sat down to a supper which was supposed to outshine the best efforts of hospital. That supper was not only a welcome but a farewell. When he had eaten two more in the muddle of his kin, he would eat a third in quiet, alone with Thyrza. The few necessary preparations for his marriage had been made, and the room was booked in Hastings for the third day from now. His happiness made him dreamy, and also tender towards those he was to leave, for though he had not realised his mother’s jealousy of his sweetheart, he vaguely understood that it would hurt her to lose him, as lose him she must when he went to this other woman’s arms. So he held her hand under the table oftener and longer than he held Thyrza’s, and kissed her good night without being asked.

The next day Harry took him to see the spring sowings. They were finished now, and the chocolate acres lay moist and furrowed in a muffle of misty April sunshine. Harry, more thickset and sinewy than of old, tramped a little behind his brother, as a workman after an inspector, with sidelong glance at Tom’s brown, stubborn [136] profile, anxious to see if praise or delight could be read there.

Tom was indeed delighted with the fruits of Harry’s industry, swelling in soft, scored curves from Worge’s southern boundaries at Forges Wood to the northern limits of the Street. But he was also aghast.

“You’ll never have the labour to kip and reap this—and you’ve bruk up grass!”

“I can manage valiant till harvest, and then I’ll git extra hands. As for the grass, ’twur only an old-fool’s idea that it mun never be ploughed.”

“And I reckon ’tis a young-fool’s idea to plough it,” said Tom rebukingly.

“The newspaaper said as grass-lands mun be bruk up now, to maake more acres.”

“And wot does the paaper know about it?”

“A lot, seemingly.”

“It aun’t lik to know more than men as have worked on the ground all their lives, and their faathers before ’em. Any farmer ull tell you as it’s hemmed risky to plough grass.”

“The paaper never said as it wurn’t risky, but it said as farmers must taake some risks these times, and git good crops fur the country, and help on the War.”

“Doan’t you go vrothering about the War, youngster. It aun’t no concern of yourn—and I reckon it woan’t help us Sussex boys much if our farms go to the auctioneer’s while we’re away.”

“Worge woan’t go to the auctioneer’s. You spik lik faather wud his faint heart. And a lot of good it’ll do if you chaps beat the Germans out there and we have to maake peace ’cos we’re starving wud hunger at home.”

[137]

“There’ll be no starving—you taake it from me. We’ll have ’em across the Rhine in another six months, so ’kip the home-fires burning till the lads’ returning,’ and doan’t go mucking up the farm fur the saake of a lot of silly stuff you read in the paapers.”

But Harry stuck doggedly to his idea—

“I mun try, Tom—and I’ll never git the plaace sold up, fur we’re spending naun extra save fur the seed and a bit of manure. I go unaccountable wary, and do most of the wark myself, wud faather to help me on his good days, and Juglery and Elphick stuck on jobs as they can’t do no harm at. It’ll do Worge naun but good in the end—wheat’s at eighty shilling a quarter, and guaranteed—and anyhow, I tell you, I mun try.”

Tom was impressed.

“Well, Harry, I woan’t say you aun’t a good lad. But it maakes me unaccountable narvous. Here have I bin toiling and sweating this five year jest to kip the farm together, and now you go busting out all round and saying it ull win the War. Wot if we chaps out there doan’t win, t’aun’t likely as you will. Howsumdever....”