A man in his forties with an unlit pipe in his mouth was sitting in a chair with his booted feet on a desk and reading from a sheaf of papers. Harry knocked on the door and the man called, ‘Come in, the door’s open,’ and then, looking up, crashed his feet to the floor.

‘Beats me,’ he muttered and threw the papers on the desk. ‘What’s a man to do?’

Harry was sure that it wasn’t a question aimed at him, so he said nothing as the man continued.

‘What would you think was the best thing to do, buy local and pay twice the price or buy from America at a better rate?’

‘What would you be buying, sir?’ he asked.

‘Why, grain of course; rape, flax, the usual thing.’

‘Then buy local,’ Harry said firmly. ‘Stay loyal to ’local farmer so that he can hold on to his farm and farmhands, and keep our economy strong.’

‘And what about people like me and the folk I employ?’ The man put his elbows on the desk and stared at Harry. ‘What about when Mr and Mrs England can’t afford to pay for the foodstuffs, soap and clothing that your local farmer produces, so he grows less than he did, and then because I can’t afford to pay his high prices I have to sack my men when there’s no work for them so they can’t feed their families or keep a roof over their heads? What then?’

Harry was stumped. He’d felt angry towards people like Charlesworth who had dropped nicely into a well-run farm, but he hadn’t given a thought to men who had plunged money into other businesses which also served the population. He rubbed his hand over his neat beard, which he’d trimmed especially to look for work.

‘Not sure, sir,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘I think there has to be a compromise somewhere.’

‘You’re damned right, there has!’ The man thumped the desk. ‘Now then,’ he went on. ‘Who are you exactly?’

‘I’m a former farmhand, sir, Harry Randell, looking for work cos there’s none in ’country.’ Harry gave a weak grin. ‘Is it fait accompli ?’

‘Had a good education, have you? Speak another lingo?’

‘No sir, I’ve never used that expression afore, but I know what it means.’

‘Which is?’ The man drew his dark eyebrows together.

‘It means that it’s out of our hands. American wheat is already coming into Britain. Agreement has been struck.’

‘So we’ve to make the best of it, is what you’re saying?’

‘Aye, I reckon so,’ Harry nodded. ‘But I’m no businessman. I suppose it’s a question of looking for ’best deal you can strike.’

‘Right, Mr Harry Randell. I like a man who can think. When can you start?’

CHAPTER SIX