the fire in the great hall in the evenings Don read Huxley’s Island.
‘Listen to this. He says here that everybody in Pala has to dig for two hours a day. Well, he’s right, isn’t he, digging’s so … physical, isn’t it? Digging’s the only work one should be doing, not sitting at a desk, where does that get you? It makes you senile.’
‘I’m knackered,’ said Tessa.
‘Of course you are, but don’t you see it’s doing you good. Winstanley had something to say about it, now where’s Winstanley?’
Wherever Don was there was always a book. The great hall was filling up with dusty tomes rescued from other parts of the house. Winstanley was underneath Paradise Lost.
‘Listen to this … Tessa? Dee-Dee? Is she asleep? This is about the diggers: “Let everyone that intends to live in peace get themselves with diligent labour to till, digge and plow the common and barren land to get their bread with righteous moderate working among all moderate minded people. This prevents the evil of idleness.” Isn’t that right? Have you ever worked so hard? And weren’t we idle before, bumming around?’
Tessa lay down. Dee-Dee was breathing regularly and gently; it was soporific. Tessa felt as if every muscle in her body had been stretched, but she liked this new feeling. I am strong, she thought. She was much stronger than Dee-Dee and probably more than Don.
‘… To get their bread with righteous moderate working …’
They bought their bread in Bungay.
Through the doorway into the walled garden came the gardener; balding, red-faced, old cardigan, cord trousers, cap. Standard rustic. He was pushing a wheelbarrow. He looked like a Hoskin. Molly’s Charlie was a Hoskin.
‘Morning,’ he said. He looked at her strangely, but then most people looked at her like that. Perhaps it was the flashes of red in her hair like the crest of a strange bird of paradise. ‘Ah, ha.’ He put down his wheelbarrow.
‘The garden’s lovely.’
‘Flowers! You can’t eat they.’
‘I wanted to say your Savoys are splendid.’
‘Not a bad crop,’ he nodded critically. ‘I eats most of it myself. Er and ’im, what they don’t eat I gets and ’im ’e’s never here and ’er, she don’t eat.’
‘Bit of a waste of time, then?’
‘I think ’er freezer’s full, I think ’er’s got ten freezers … work on a Sunday, too. I got to keep it smart, some high-faluting type’s getting it put in a book.’
Tessa smiled. ‘That’s me, I’m doing sketches.’
He snorted. ‘I hope they pays you.’
‘And I hope they pay you.’
‘Oh, they do that. I said to ’im, there’s work for six here and ’ee said, I’ll pay for six … did you ever? Now, when them hippies were here, you heard about that?’
‘Yes.’
He laughed. ‘Those girls in their noddy nothings, and the lads. I hid behind a bush once, see.’
Tessa said nothing.
‘Now, Charlie Hoskins, he were my cousin and he said to me, “Now Bob, you wouldn’t believe what they gets up to.”’ He picked up the wheelbarrow. ‘But I tell you, they didn’t put nothing in the freezer. They grew it and they et it, now that’s right, isn’t it?’
Tessa resumed her work. She didn’t believe for a moment Bob had hid behind a bush. She was sure that story was circulated by anyone who visited the local pubs. She well knew they had been objects of amusement. They were tolerated and later even liked, but the Hoskins, the Becks, the Palmers, and others who were the inhabitants of the Saints, could never understand why Don and his friends chose to live unheated, with dirty clothes and bare feet.
Don was respected in a strange sort of way. He was ‘gentry’, one of them, moneyed and mad. ‘Old man Bell’, as Geoffrey was known, was revered. ‘In Old man Bell’s day’, that golden age, prewar, pre-tourist, pre-European Community, when the pubs were smoky, with rickety chairs and lino floors, and the men played cribbage.
They discovered one of these pubs in a village called St James, which had even fewer houses than St John’s. The George was shabby. The bar was the size of a small sitting room. There was one table, some benches and a fire, even though it was July. They went there to find something to eat.
‘Do you serve food?’ asked Don.
The landlord, thin and wrinkled, stared. His mother, small and very fat, stared too. Two men in caps by the fire started laughing.
‘What you want, then, chicken in a basket? Fish in a basket? Turkey in a basket? Nelson, get ’em roast beef in a basket.’
‘No food,’ said the landlord.
‘We’ve walked miles,’ said Tessa.
‘There’s no food.’
‘But there’s beer,’ yelled the men.
In the end Nelson’s mother made sandwiches, curled white bread and spam. They drank so much they could hardly stand.
‘This place is amazing,’ said Don. The beer was amazing too. The notorious George, open all day and most of the night. Don went back frequently.
It was late September. The harvest was over, the straw and stubble had been burnt, the fields were being ploughed. It occurred to Don, Tessa and Dee-Dee, like it occurred to the grasshopper in the story, that winter was coming and they were unprepared. Their only successful crop was spinach, and one can eat enough spinach. Don’s daily reading was The Cultivation of Vegetables and Flowers, printed in about 1888, but it was getting colder and working outside was not appealing. Inside was colder too. They moved their bed from the great hall to the solar. Don had kept Geoffrey’s carved bed. At night they wore thick socks and wool vests. They kept the Aga burning constantly.
‘The winter’s going to be fantastic,’ said Don; ‘wait until it snows, it’s like the snow palace in Dr Zhivago.’
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