The Go-Between (14 page)

  It opened on a deep-rutted farm road. In some places
the ruts were so deep and narrow, and baked so hard, that when I
put my foot into them (from a feeling that I ought to), I could
hardly get it out. Supposing I was left there, held by the foot,
flinging myself this way and that, like a stoat in a trap, until
help came!

  Beyond the fields the road seemed to vanish into the
hill-side; there was no sign of it on the grey-green rise ahead.
But when I got there, I found it turned to the left, and
switch-backed its way between spare hedgerows to a farmyard and a
cottage. There it ended.

  To a boy of my generation a farmyard was a
challenge. It was an accepted symbol of romance, like a Red
Indian’s wigwam. All sorts of adventures might await one: a fierce
sheep-dog, which ought to be braved; a straw-stack, which one must
slide down or admit oneself a funk.

  There was no one about.

  I opened the gate and went in. There, facing me, was
a straw-stack with a convenient ladder running up it. Soft-footed,
bending down and peering round, I made a reconnaissance. The stack
was an old one, half of it had been cut away; but plenty was left
to slide down. I didn’t really want to, but there was no excuse
whatever not to, if I was to retain my self-respect. I could not
help acting as if the eyes of the whole school were on me. Suddenly
a slight panic seized me; I longed to get the sliding over; and I
omitted a necessary and practical precaution always taken, and
without loss of face, by experienced straw-stack sliders: to make a
bed of straw to break my fall. I could have done it—there was
plenty lying about—but I yielded to my sense of urgency.

  The wild rush through the air, so near to flying,
enraptured me: it was deliciously cool, for one thing, and devotee
of heat though I now was, I saw nothing illogical in also relishing
every experience that relieved me of it. I had already made up my
mind to repeat the performance several times when crash! my knee
hit something hard. It was a chopping-block, I afterwards
discovered, submerged by the straw below the stack; but at the
moment I could do nothing but moan and watch the blood flow from a
long gash under my knee-cap. The fate of Jenkins and Strode flashed
through my mind and I wondered if I had broken my bones or given
myself concussion.

  What should I have done next I don’t know, but the
decision was taken out of my hands. Striding across the farmyard
came the farmer, a pail of water in each hand. I remembered him—it
was Ted Burgess of the swimming-pool, but he clearly didn’t
remember me.

  “What the devil—!” he began, and his red-brown eyes
sparkled with angry lights. “What the hell do you think you’re
doing here? I’ve a good mind to give you the biggest thrashing
you’ve ever had in your life.”

  Oddly enough this didn’t put me against him: I
thought it was exactly what an angry farmer ought to say; in a way
I should have been disappointed if he had spoken less harshly. But
I was terribly frightened, for with his sleeves rolled up on the
arms I remembered so well he looked quite capable of carrying out
his threat.

  “But I know you!” I gasped, as if that was sure to
turn away his wrath. “We—we’ve met!”

  “Met?” said he disbelievingly. “Where?”

  “At the bathing-place,” I said. “You were bathing by
yourself... and I came with the others.”

  “Ah!” he said, and his voice and manner changed
completely. “Then you are from the Hall.”

  I nodded with such dignity as I could muster in my
semi-recumbent position, hunched up, the straws sticking into the
back of my neck, feeling, and no doubt looking, very small. Now
that a greater physical danger was removed, I was becoming acutely
conscious of the pain in my knee. Experimentally I touched the
place and winced.

  “I suppose we’d better do that up for you,” he said.
“Come along. Can you walk?”

  He gave me his hand and pulled me up. The knee was
stiff and painful, and I could only hobble.

  “Lucky it was Sunday,” he said, “or I shouldn’t have
been here. I was taking the horses a drink when I heard you
holler.”

  “Did I holler!” I asked, crestfallen.

  “You did,” he said, “but some lads would have
cried.”

  I appreciated the compliment and felt I must make
him some return.

  “I saw you dive,” I said. “You did it jolly
well.”

  He seemed pleased and then said: “You mustn’t mind
if I spoke to you a bit hasty. That’s the way I am, and these old
boys round here, they drive me half demented.”

  I did not despise him for changing his tune when he
knew where I came from: it seemed to me right, natural, and proper
that he should, just as it had seemed right and proper to me to
change my tune with Trimingham when I realized that he was a
Viscount. I carried my hierarchical principles into my notions of
morality, such as they were, and was conscientiously a respecter of
persons.

  We entered the house, which struck me as a mean
abode, through a door that led straight into the kitchen. “This is
where I mostly live,” he told me, defensively; “I’m not what you
call a gentleman farmer, I’m a working one. Sit down, will you, and
I’ll get something to put on that knee.”

  It was not until I sat down that I realized how much
the knock on my knee had shaken me up.

  He came back with a tall bottle labelled “carbolic”
and several pieces of rag. Then from the sink he brought a white
enamelled bowl and washed the gash, which had ceased to bleed.

  “You were lucky,” he said, “that it missed your
knickers and your stockings. You might have spoilt that nice green
suit.”

  Relief surged up in me; I did feel lucky. “Miss
Marian gave it to me,” I said. “Miss Marian Maudsley, at the
Hall.”

  “Oh, did she?” he said, swabbing the knee. “I don’t
have much to do with those grand folks. Now this’ll sting a bit.”
He soaked a rag in carbolic and dabbed it on the place. My eyes
watered but I managed not to flinch. “You’re a Spartan,” he said,
and I felt exquisitely rewarded. “Now we’ll tie it up with this.”
This was an old handkerchief.

  “But won’t you want it?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty more.” He seemed a little put
out by the question. He pulled the bandage rather hard. “Too
tight?” he asked.

  I liked his half-unwilling gentleness.

  “Now try walking with it,” he said.

  I stumped about on the stone flags of the kitchen
floor: the bandage held; I was beginning to feel better. To know
that something that had begun badly was ending well acted like a
tonic. What a story I should make of this! Then suddenly I realized
that I owed him something; used as I was to having things done for
me, as all children are, I was old enough to recognize a debt. But
I dared not offer him money, even if I had had any. What could I
do? Could I give him a present? Presents were very much in my mind.
I looked round the kitchen, which had no ornaments except a large
stockbreeder’s calendar and was so different from my recent
surroundings, and said, rather grandly:

  “Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Burgess” (I was
glad to have got in the “mister”). “Is there anything I can do for
you?”

  I fully expected him to say no, but instead he
looked at me rather hard and said:

  “Well, perhaps there is.”

  My curiosity was at once aroused.

  “Could you take a message for me?”

  “Of course,” I said, disappointed at being given
such a trifling commission. I remembered Lord Trimingham’s message
and how flat it had fallen. “What is it, and who shall I give it
to?”

  He didn’t answer at once, but took up the bowl of
discoloured water and swilled it round in the sink. He came back
and stood over me.

  “Are you in a desperate hurry?” he said. “Could you
wait a minute or two?” He always seemed to speak with his whole
body and it gave a curious intensity to his words.

  I looked at my watch and calculated. “We don’t have
tea till five o’clock,” I said. “That’s rather late, isn’t it? At
home we have it earlier. I could wait—well, ten or fifteen
minutes.”

  He smiled and said: “You mustn’t miss your tea.” He
seemed to be debating with himself: his manner altered and he said:
“Would you like to look at the horses?”

  “Oh yes.” I tried to sound enthusiastic.

  We had reached a long brick-built shed, in which
were four doors, each flanked by a window, and from each window a
horse’s head looked out. “This white one’s Briton,” he said. “He’s
the best puller I have, but he won’t work with another horse, has
to do it all himself. Funny, isn’t it? This is the bay mare, her
name’s Smiler, she’s a good, willing worker, but as soon as
harvest’s over she’ll be in foal; and this grey one’s Boxer, but
he’s getting a bit long in the tooth. And this is the one I drive
and use for hunting, sometimes. He has a nice head, hasn’t he?” He
stooped and kissed the velvet nose, and the horse showed its
appreciation by dilating its nostrils and breathing hard through
them.

  “And what’s he called?” I asked.

  “Wild Oats,” he answered with a grin, and I grinned
back, without knowing why.

  All the heat of the afternoon seemed to be
concentrated where we stood, intensifying the smell of horses, the
smell of manure, and all the farmyard smells. It made me
uncomfortable, almost giddy, and yet it stimulated me; and I was
half sorry and half glad when, the inspection over, we turned to go
back to the house.

  As we were entering the kitchen the farmer said
abruptly: “How old are you?”

  “I shall be thirteen on the 27th of this month,” I
said impressively, hoping he would say: “Why, fancy that!” for most
grown-ups could be relied on to show an interest in one’s
birthday.

  Instead he said: “I should have given you a bit
more. You’re a big boy for your age.”

  I was flattered at this tribute, especially coming
from a man of his size.

  “I wonder if I could trust you,” was the next thing
he said.

  I was very much taken aback, and half offended; but
only half, because I thought it must be the prelude to a
confidence.

  However, I said rather indignantly: “Of course you
can. My report said I was trustworthy; ‘a trustworthy boy,’ the
headmaster said.”

  “Yes, but can I?” he said, eyeing me. “Can I trust
you to keep your mouth shut?”

  What an idiotic question, I thought, to ask a
schoolboy. We were all sworn to secrecy. I looked at him almost
pityingly. “Do you want me to cross my heart?” I said.

  “You can do what you like with yourself,” he
answered. “But if you let on—” He stopped, and the physical threat
that his presence always implied seemed to vibrate through the
room.

  “Is it anything to do with this afternoon?” I asked.
“You can bet I shan’t want to tell them, but they’ll see my
knee.”

  He ignored that. “There’s a boy, isn’t there,” he
said, “a lad of your age?”

  “Yes, my friend Marcus,” I said, “but he’s in
bed.”

  “Oh, he’s in bed,” repeated the farmer thoughtfully.
“So you are on your own, like.”

  I explained that we usually played together in the
afternoon, but that this afternoon I had taken a walk instead.

  He listened with half an ear, and then he said:
“It’s a big house, isn’t it, a great big house, lots of rooms in
it?”

  “Counting the bedrooms,” I said, “I don’t know how
many.”

  “And always people about, I suppose, chatting to
each other and so on? You’re never alone with anybody?”

  I couldn’t imagine what this catechism was leading
to.

  “Well, they don’t talk to me very much,” I said.
“You see, they’re all grown up, and they have grown-up games like
whist and lawn tennis, and talking, you know, just for the sake of
talking” (this seemed a strange pursuit to me). “But sometimes I
talk to them a little, like I did to Viscount Triming-ham this
morning after church, and once I spent a whole day with
Marian—she’s Marcus’s sister, you know, a topping girl—only that
was in Norwich.”

  “Oh, you spent a day with her?” the farmer said.
“That means you’re pretty pally with her, I expect?”

  I considered. I did not want to claim for myself, in
respect of Marian, more than was my due. “She talked to me again
this morning,” I told him, “on the way to church, although she
could have talked to Viscount Trimingham if she’d wanted to.” I
tried to think of other occasions when she had talked to me. “She
talks to me quite often when grown-ups are about— she’s the only
one that does. Of course I don’t expect them to. Her brother Denys
said I was her sweetheart. He said so several times.”

  “Oh, did he?” said the farmer. “Does that mean that
you are alone with her sometimes? I mean, just the two of you in a
room, with no one else?”

  He spoke with great intensity, as if he was
envisaging the scene.

  “Well, sometimes,” I said. “Sometimes we sit
together on a sofa.”

  “You sit together on the sofa?” he repeated.

  I had to enlighten him. At home there were two
sofas; here there appeared to be none; at Brandham Hall—

  “You see,” I said, “there are so many sofas.”

  He took the point. “But when you are together,
chatting—?”

  I nodded. We were together, chatting.

  “You are near enough to her—?”

  “Near enough?” I repeated. “Well of course, her
dress—”

  “Yes, yes,” said he, taking that point too. “These
dresses spread out quite a long way. But near enough to—to give her
something?”

  “Give her something?” I said. “Oh yes, I could give
her something.” It sounded like a disease; my mind was still
slightly preoccupied by measles.

  He said impatiently: “Give her a letter. I mean
without anybody seeing.”

  I almost laughed—it seemed such a small thing for
him to have got so worked up about. “Oh yes,” I said. “Quite near
enough for that.”