Harvest Home (6 page)

“Well, now, that’s neighborly. I’ve got the kettle on; let me put the cow to pasture, and you’ll come and have a cup of tea with me.” It sounded less an invitation than a command performance, and I found myself nodding in accord. Her step was spry as I followed her along a footworn path to the barn, where she disappeared for a moment, then reappeared, herding a large brown-and-white cow into a small pasture, carefully setting in the fence bar to keep the animal out of the corn.

“Brown Swiss.” She spoke with a touch of pride, explaining that the cow, whose name was Caesar’s Wife, was descended from the first herd of Brown Swiss brought from Switzerland to New England almost three centuries before. Caesar’s Wife was the Widow’s treasure.

She led me back the way we had come, stopping to stir the boiling pot with a large wooden paddle. “Hog,” she said briefly, and I watched the pieces of meat and fat rise to the surface. “One of Irene Tatum’s. Slaughtered it myself last week. Most mysterious thing! Hog had two stomachs, if you can believe it.” She gave me a look. “Guess what I found in one of ‘em? A collar button.” Her look sharpened, as though testing me. “Wouldn’t you call that an augury?”

“I guess I might,” I said, laughing.

“Sure you would. Anybody would. But what sort?” she asked in a dismayed voice, looking at the sky again. The pig, she went on, had been put down for salt pork, and she had made sausage with her own casings. The leavings went for blood puddings, and now all that remained was the head which was boiling in the pot; that would be for scrapple.

She pulled out the paddle, shook it, and laid it aside. Now she took a splint basket from a peg on the wall and marched to a corner of the garden where she began examining her plants.

“Only a minute,” she called, snipping several sprigs with the large silver shears suspended from her waist by a length of black ribbon. Someone was sure to have iced tea at the fair, she said as I came up behind her, and a sprig of mint always went nice. She held it out for me to inhale its cool fragrance, then cut some more and offered me another sniff; “Pennyroyal. Good for colic.” When she had done, she led me to the back door, took off her boots, and coaxed her feet into the worn shoes. Enjoining me to wipe my feet, she showed me into the kitchen. She laid the basket on the table and indicated a chair where I might be seated. While I put aside my sketchbook and drawing case, she tucked the cinnamon buns in the warming oven, put out a second cup and saucer beside the one already in evidence, poured tea, brought butter from the refrigerator, and a pot of honey.

The kitchen was low-ceilinged, small, and comfortable, and furnished with the clutter of a lifetime. One counter, on which sat a score of green bottles, with a scattering of corks and labels, was a small bottling works. Another held several shallow crocks whose contents looked as if they had only recently come from the oven: the blood puddings she had spoken of. A large tin kettle bubbled merrily on the stove. She spooned some of its contents up, blew on it, then tasted. It was not to her apparent liking, for she made a face, then bustled about, adding a little of this, a pinch of that, until the brew was more to her satisfaction.

“How’s your family?” she asked, pursuing these small homely details.

“Fine.” I noticed her hands, large working hands, yet marked by their own simple grace, shapely, tapering fingers and smooth oval nails. “Except for Kate—she’s been having asthma attacks.”

“I know. Asthma.” She spoke the word sharply, marking such a condition with her personal disdain. “That child oughtn’t to have asthma.” She took out the buns and set them on a plate before me. “Help yourself.” Her nimble fingers separated the small harvest of herbs in the basket, tying them in bunches and hanging them from nails set into the edge of a shelf over the sink. Everywhere were jars and other containers, filled with various herbs, stalks, blossoms, seeds—what appeared to be an entire pharmacopoeia of country cures. “What’s that used for?” I inquired, sniffing at the kettle on the stove which gave off an aromatic, almost exotic essence.

“For what ails you.”

I wondered if she was bottling the concoction to sell at the fair, medicine-show style. As though reading my mind, she explained that she did a satisfactory back-door business; hardly a soul in the village didn’t stop by one time or another for one of her herbal infusions.

Her eye fell on my sketchbook. “How’s the paintin‘ comin’?” I assured her I was working hard at it, and had a New York gallery swindled into handling my work.

“You any good?”

“Probably not.”

“You’re a liar.” She beamed behind her glasses. “Let me see.” She leafed through the book, murmuring approval; then uttered a little gasp as her hand flew to her breast. I saw she had come upon the page of tombstones I had drawn yesterday. “My, my, ‘course you’re good. Dear me. Clemmon’s stone.” Gazing at the rendering of the grave marker, she seemed a trifle overwrought. “Aye, there’s where dear Clem sleeps.” Closing the sketchbook, she set it aside, and took the chair opposite me, stirring her tea with a small silver spoon. “Clem bought me these cups the year we was married. The whole set, and not a one broken, not even a chip.” She lifted the cup, staring thoughtfully at it for a moment, then sipped. “How long you folks been married?”

“Seventeen years next June.”

“That’s a good time. Must be prett‘ near settled in each other’s ways by now. Marryin’s good, keeps a body on his toes. Me, once I lost Clem, I never cared to wed again.”

I watched her peering through the window at the great cookpot in the dooryard, following with her eye the trail of white smoke as it rose in the air. “Straight up,” I heard her mutter, “we’ll have a nice fair.”

She turned back. “Your place seems to be comin‘ along, don’t it? You got a good man there in Bill Johnson.”

“Did have.” I explained about Bill’s imminent departure.

“Why, he didn’t say nothin‘ to me ’bout goin‘ to Las Vegas.” She sounded surprised and a little miffed that Bill had not taken her into his confidence. “You’ll be needin’ another, won’t you?”

“It’s not easy getting help around here, with everyone thinking about the corn crop.”

“Things’ll slack off a bit now before harvest.” Her heavy tread caused the floorboards to give as she got up and tied one of the puddings in waxed paper and slipped it into the sack I had brought the buns in. “Got to drop this off to Justin Hooke’s. He’s partial to blood puddin’s.”

Justin Hooke, I had learned, was the tall plowman we had seen in the field the day we first arrived in Cornwall Coombe. Owner of the most prosperous farm in the community, he was generally regarded with a mixture of awe, respect, and benevolence. His wife’s name was Sophie, and their union had been one the entire village looked upon fondly. Justin must have been a decided favorite of the Widow’s, for now she placed another pudding in the basket.

“How’d you like that tea?” she demanded, producing a box from the shelf. “Weber’s English. It’s a One-B Weber, not a Two-B. I mail to London after it. Ever hear of Fortnum & Mason?” I said I had. “That’s where. Fancy store. They don’t seem t’carry One-B Weber’s tea in America.”

I carried my cup to the sink, washed and rinsed it, and started for the door.

“Off so soon?” She laid a large quilt beside the basket.

I thanked her, and said I planned on hiking out to the Lost Whistle Bridge to make some drawings. Remembering what I had come for, I gave her the five dollars for eggs and honey. She pocketed it and said she was going out Lost Whistle way herself, if I cared to ride along. “Worthy ought to be here any moment to hitch up the buggy. Unless you prefer shanks’ mare.”

Again I had the feeling of command, rather than suggestion. But, yes, I replied, I’d be happy for the ride. She excused herself, saying she must ready herself for the fair, then left me, and I heard her going up the stairs and passing overhead.

I wandered back out into the dooryard. Chickens and geese pecked at random among the rows of pole beans. In the distance the church bell sounded eight sonorous peals. Hearing a noise behind me, I looked to see someone pedaling a bicycle down the drive. I recognized Worthy Pettinger, who delivered the morning paper.

“Morning,” he called.

I returned the greeting and walked to meet him. “Morning, Worthy.”

“Sorry I’m late this morning, Mr. Constantine. Ma’s frazzled today over the fair.” He gave an energetic nod and his smile was bright as he took a paper from the handlebar basket and folded it. He was of high-school age, thin and lanky, with handsome, well-boned features, and a bright, eager smile; a thoroughly ingratiating young man. An industrious one as well; one could always see Worthy mowing someone’s lawn or chopping in a woodpile or planting a garden.

“Worth-
ee
?” A second-story window had flown up and the Widow’s head popped out. “Hitch up the mare and don’t dawdle.” She popped back in. “Oh, dear,” came her disembodied voice, “now where in the nation’s my brooch?”

Worthy kicked down the metal stand and leaned his bike on it, then deposited the newspaper on the steps. I ambled along behind while he went into the stable and led the little mare out. “Hey, old girl, hey, old girl,” he said cheerily as he slipped the bit in her mouth and adroitly maneuvered her into the traces. He brought the harness, hooked it up, and hitched the leads into the shafts, all in a matter of seconds.

“You seem to keep pretty busy,” I observed, admiring his dexterity.

“Yes, sir. Plenty of work hereabouts, if a fellow cares to do it. I’m trying to make enough money to go to agricultural college next fall. There’s still a lot that farmers don’t know about growin‘ corn, even if they’d have you think otherwise. Organic, that’s the thing.” He spoke in a buoyant, forthright manner. “I figure by different planting methods you could maybe double the yield of corn. Good land around here, but people don’t take advantage of it. There’s machines that’ll do the work of ten men, with time to spare, for plowing and sowing, harvesting—everything.” He spoke to me confidentially: “I got a tractor.” I gathered from his tone this was a treasure on a par with the Widow’s cow. “It’s a beauty. I can take the whole motor apart and put it back together again, and she works just fine.” He spoke in such a secretive, guarded tone that I decided having a tractor in Cornwall must be a daring enterprise indeed.

“Why don’t the other farmers have them?”

“Not allowed. Machinery’ll put the small farmer out of business, and we’re sort of all in it together. But tractors could be the salvation of the whole town, them and harrows—”

“Shame on you, Worthy! Are you preachin‘ sedition, then?” The Widow had appeared in the doorway, waiting while the boy led the horse and buggy to her. “Here’s a bun. Eat. You look thin.”

She had changed her work clothes for an elegant, full-skirted black dress, with a long black alpaca apron over it. Her white hair was carefully brushed and pinned up in a knot, and neatly covered by a snowy cap with a ruffled edge, the strings hanging down either side of her chin. The missing brooch adorned her ample bosom.

“Thanks, Widow.” Worthy picked up the paper and exchanged it for the bun.

“Don’t thank me, thank the mister’s missus—she made ‘em. Drat that newspaper, I don’t know why I spend the money. Nothin’ but rape and murder and higher taxes.” She flung the paper aside and went into the kitchen, reappearing in a moment with her basket and quilt, and a small valise made of worn black leather. She kept a watchful eye until Worthy stowed all this safely under the seat.

“Drat, forgot my shears.” Again she disappeared, returning with her waist girdled by the black ribbon from which hung the silver shears, looking as though they were the companions of her life. She took the flowers from the bucket, wrapped their dripping ends in part of the discarded newspaper, and added these to the other things that had already been loaded. Thus fitted and accoutered, she gave the boy her hand while he aided her ascent into the buggy seat. “Did I remember to turn off the stove? Worthy, run and look.” She turned to me. “See how a good-lookin‘ man like yourself flusters an old lady.” She indicated the place beside her, I took it, she picked up the reins and gee’d the mare, turning the buggy in a wide arc so the wheels slid into one of the herb beds. “Hell’s bells, there’s my fennel ruined. Worth-
ee
?” She dropped the reins and waited for rescue. Worthy flew down the steps and led the mare from the dooryard onto the drive, smiling good-naturedly. “Think you’d never driven a buggy, Widow,” he said, returning the reins to her. “Maybe you’d better break down and buy yourself a car.”

“What should I do with one of them infernal contraptions? All smoke and noise and gas-eatin‘. Better a horse that eats hay. Clem gave me this buggy for a weddin’ present, and I’ll be buried before it is.” She flipped the reins, the mare started forward, but she immediately pulled up. “I was forgettin‘. Worthy, Mr. Constantine here’s goin’ to need some help around his place. Bill Johnson’s takin‘ himself out to Las Vegas for the gamblin’. Think you might find some time to lend a hand?” She fixed him with a look behind her spectacles.

“What kind of work, Mr. Constantine?” I explained about the skylight in the studio, and the terrace wall. He agreed to come at the first opportunity and see what might be done, then sped off on his paper route.

“He seems like a good kid,” I offered conversationally, grateful for the Widow’s concern in my difficulties.

“Aye, Worthy’s a likely lad. Good as they come and better’n most. He’s cheerful and obligin‘ and he’s handy. He’ll make a good farmer one of these days.” I said I thought it ambitious of him to want to go to agriculture school. She did not reply immediately, but sat considering the matter. When she spoke, it was with a thoughtful tone. “He’s only makin’ trouble for himself. Folks won’t take to newfangled ways around here. He’s got his heart set on goin‘ away to school, but his father en’t about to let him. Him nor his mother both.”

I expressed surprise that parents would stand in the way of a child’s wanting to better himself. The Widow shook her head. “I s’pose it sounds small to you. But you have to understand folks around here. They’re set in their ways and it’d take one of them atomic bombs to move ‘em. Worthy, now, he’s different. Always has been. I midwifed him and I’ve seen him growin’ up spirited. Needs a bit of cautionin‘ now and then, but he’ll do fine. They’re the hope of the world, the young. Your girl, now, Kate. Is she takin’ to our country ways? Does she seem happy?”