PART I: TOM (continued 2)

No one was about; it was not till more than an hour later that the two antique farm-hands, Elphick and Juglery, came up from Worge Cottages. By that time Tom had milked the cows, mixed the chicken food, and driven the horses down to Forges field. He gave the two unskilled labourers their orders for the day as if he expected to be there to see them carried out. By that time Ivy was hunting for eggs, and Mrs. Beatup was struggling with the kitchen fire, while Mus’ Beatup, in practical, unlearned mood, had gone to the Sunk field to inspect the ewes.

As Ivy came out of the hen-house and crossed the yard, cheery, healthy, blowsy, with eggs in a bowl, Tom had a sudden thought of giving her Mr. Sumption’s message. But he held his tongue. He had meant what he said when he told the minister he was not going to meddle. He had long been convinced of the fact that his sister knew her own business; besides, Jerry ... that lousy gipsy chap.... Pastor might say he was getting on valiant, but all Dallington knew that he had been given seven days C.B. within a week of his joining.

So, with nothing for Ivy but a nod, Tom went in to breakfast. Time was short, but the breakfast was still in a rudimentary state. Mrs. Beatup fought with the kitchen fire among whorls of smoke, while Nell, coughing pathetically, laid the table. Harry in a fit of brotherly love was cleaning Tom’s best boots ready for his journey to Lewes—no one ever went to Lewes in any but Sunday clothes.

“Oh, is that you, Tom? I hope as you aun’t in a hurry. This fire’s bewitched. Nell, give your brother a cut off the loaf. You’d better git started, Tom, or you’ll lose your train.”

So Tom’s last breakfast at Worge was eaten in confusion and mess, the family dropping in one by one for cuts off the loaf or helpings of cold bacon spotted with large blisters of grease. Last of all the breakfast arrived, in the shape of the tea-pot, and a special boiled egg for Tom. He was not able to do more than gulp down the egg and scald himself with the tea. Then it was time to go. He had already tied up a few little things in a handkerchief—a razor, a piece of soap, an old frosted Christmas card which for some obscure reason he treasured—so there was nothing to do but to say good-bye and beat it for Hailsham, a good seven miles.

Mus’ Beatup put down his tea-cup and looked solemn.

“Well, good-bye, my lad. I reckon you’ve got to go. Everyone’s off to fight now, seemingly, so I suppose you must do wot others do. Not that I think so much of this war as some folks seem to—it’s bin going on nigh two years now, and I can’t see as we’re any of us a penny the better off. Howsumdever....”

“He’s going to stop it,” said Nell, her face pink.

“Ho, is he? Well, I’ve no objection. Maybe I’ll write you a letter, Tom, when Maudie calves.”

“I’d be much obliged if you would, faather, and tell me how the wheat does this year, and them new oats by the Street.”

“Good-bye, Tom,” said Harry. “I shall miss you unaccountable.”

“And I’ll miss you, too,” said Zacky, “but there’ll be more room in the bed.”

Tom kissed them sheepishly all round, then walked out of the door without a word.

He was in the yard, when he heard footsteps creaking after him, and turned round to see his mother.

“Wait a bit, Tom,” she panted; “I’ll go wud you to the geate.”

He was surprised, but it did not strike him to say so. They walked down the drive together almost in silence, the boy hanging his head. Mrs. Beatup sniffed and choked repeatedly.

“Doan’t go near those Germans, Tom,” she said, when they came to a standstill. “If you do, you’ll be killed for certain sure.”

“I’ll go where I’m put, surelye,” said Tom gloomily.

“Well, be careful, that’s all. Kip well behind the other lads, and doan’t go popping your head over walls or meddling wud cannons. And kip your feet dry, Tom, and doan’t git into temptation.”

“I promise, mother,” he mumbled against her neck, and they kissed each other many times before she let him go.

The Rifle Volunteer looked down from his sign, where he stood in the grey uniform and mutton-chop whiskers of an earlier dispensation, and stared at the stocky, shambling little figure that trudged its unwilling way to sacrifice—past Worge Cottages, stewing in the sunshine like pippins, past Egypt Farm (which Bill Putland would leave later and more conveniently in his father’s dog-cart), past the shop, with a glance half shy, half beseeching, at the drawn blinds, past the willow pond, out of Sunday Street, into the long yellow road that led to the unsought, undesired adventure.