December 1952

They’d earmarked this day for ploughing but the east field had a silver skin of frost at dawn and now the prospect seemed unlikely. Mr Mayhood had assured him over breakfast, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t rule it out just yet until we’ve had a quick inspection. If it goes down any deeper than a couple of inches, we’ll have to put it off. But I don’t think it looks too bad.’ After they washed up the dishes, they put on their woollens and walked out together, treading the compacted ground in search of where it seemed most frozen. Somewhere near the middle of the field, they stopped. Mr Mayhood pushed his fork into the soil. ‘Looks all right. About an inch. It ought to take a plough, I think,’ was the decision. ‘We could let it thaw, but there’s a danger it’d get so wet the tractor will get stuck in it – that’s something Hollis warned me to look out for. Anyway, let’s have that cup of tea first. Warm our cockles up before the wagon comes.’

They went back to the porch to drink the tea that Florence had left out for them, and waited for the lorry to arrive with their manure. They’d ordered it dried out and pulverized this time, less pungent than the fresher stuff.

‘It’s mornings like these I’m inclined to hire somebody else, you know,’ said Mr Mayhood. ‘Can’t keep looking for a fella who refuses to be found. If he came back, we’d take him on again, but it’d be for half the wages. Florence says she’ll put the word out in the village. That all right by you?’

Charlie nodded, cradling his mug and letting its steam thaw his nose. ‘You’ve been more than fair to that old man. Too fair.’

‘That may be so.’

‘He wouldn’t do the same for you or me.’

‘That may be so, as well. But isn’t that what makes it necessary?’

‘I suppose.’

When the lorry came, he watched it dump the muck in one big pile in the yard, knowing it would be his job to shovel it on to the trailer later on for spreading. Once Florence had got finished with the plough, they’d have to rake the field by hand because their harrow needed welding. Even with the guarantee of Joyce’s help, he’d not been looking forward to the task, and now it seemed they’d have to manage it without her. Not only had his sister been away all night with some bloke no one knew, she hadn’t even had the courtesy to telephone and give her reasons – no doubt, when she offered them, they’d stink about as much as the manure.

Mr Mayhood hadn’t let his disappointment with her show yet. All he’d said was, ‘I don’t think we ought to speculate too much about your sister. She’s an adult and I’m sure she’ll have an explanation when she gets back home. I think it’s only right she’s heard.’ But Charlie recognized their method: channelling their irritation into cleaning, cooking, laundering and other preparations for the day. His aunty used to manage Joyce that way and it had got her nowhere. The only difference was the Mayhoods were a lot more persevering, more inclined to let Joyce remedy her faults before condemning her. It was a major part of why he felt so grateful to them. He could still remember those long afternoons he’d spent with Mr Mayhood in the summer, back when they’d been making renovations to his room. They’d been planing beams of ash to make his bed frame, working to the drawing he’d submitted for approval. One day, in a sweaty, resting moment, Mr Mayhood had blown out his cheeks and told him there was apple juice down in the larder, nice and cool. They’d gone to fetch the jug and stood for a while in the shady kitchen, gulping down two glassfuls each, an easy silence growing in the room, a sense of safety coming over him, until he’d got the confidence to say what he’d been meaning to for weeks.