Red Sky at Sunrise: Cider with Rosie, As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning, A Moment of War by Laurie Lee Page B
Authors: Laurie Lee
Ads: Link
waste of their lives and the youths for their dumb contentment. They slogged for the Squire and the tenant-farmers for a miserable twelve bob a week. They lived on potatoes and by touching their caps, they hadn’t a sovereign to rub between them, they saw not a thing save muck and each other – and perhaps Stroud on a Saturday night. Did they know what he’d done? what he’d seen? what he’d made? His brown face was aglow with whisky. He spread a sheaf of pound notes along the bar and fished a fat gold watch from his pocket. That’s nothing, he said, that’s only a part of it. They should see his big farm in New Zealand – horses, carriages, meat every day, and he never said ‘sir’ to no one.
The old men kept silent, but drank their free drinks and sniggered every so often. The youths in the shadows just gazed at the man, and gazed at his spinning watch, and as he grew more drunk they looked at each other, then stole away one by one…
The weather outside had suddenly hardened into a blizzard of cutting snow; the night shut down to the blinding cold and the village curled up in its sheets. When the public house closed and turned down its lamps, the New Zealander was the last to leave. He refused a lantern, said he was born here, wasn’t he? and paid for his bill with gold. Then he buttoned his coat, shouted good-night, and strode up the howling valley. Warm with whisky and nearing home, he went singing up the hill. There were those in their beds who heard his last song, pitched wailing against the storm.
When he reached the stone-cross the young men were waiting, a bunched group, heads down in the wind.
‘Well, Vincent?’ they said; and he stopped, and stopped singing.
They hit him in turn, beat him down to his knees, beat him bloodily down in the snow. They beat and kicked him for the sake of themselves, as he lay there face down, groaning. Then they ripped off his coat, emptied his pockets, threw him over a wall, and left him. He was insensible now from his wounds and the drink; the storm blew all night across him. He didn’t stir again from the place where he lay; and in the morning he was found frozen to death.
The police came, of course, but discovered nothing. Their inquiries were met by stares. But the tale spread quickly from mouth to mouth, was deliberately spread amongst us, was given to everyone, man and child, that we might learn each detail and hide it. The police left at last with the case unsolved; but neither we nor they forgot it…
About ten years later an old lady lay dying, and towards the end she grew light-headed. The subject of her wandering leaked out somehow: she seemed to be haunted by a watch. ‘The watch,’ she kept mumbling, ‘they maun find the watch. Tell the boy to get it hid.’ A dark-suited stranger, with a notebook in his hand,appeared suddenly at her bedside. While she tossed and muttered, he sat and waited, head bent to her whispering mouth. He was patient, anonymous, and never made any fuss; he just sat by her bed all day, his notebook open, his pencil poised, the blank pages like listening ears.
The old lady at last had a lucid moment and saw the stranger sitting beside her. ‘Who’s this?’ she demanded of her hovering daughter. The girl leaned over the bed. ‘It’s all right, Mother,’ said the daughter distinctly. ‘It’s only a police-station gentleman. He hasn’t come to make any trouble. He just wants to hear about the watch.’
The old lady gave the stranger a sharp clear look and uttered not another word; she just leaned back on the pillow, closed her lips and eyes, folded her hands, and died. It was the end of the weakness that had endangered her sons; and the dark-suited stranger knew it. He rose to his feet, put his notebook in his pocket, and tiptoed out of the room. This old and wandering dying mind had been their final chance. No other leads appeared after that, and the case was never solved.
But the young men who had gathered in that
The old men kept silent, but drank their free drinks and sniggered every so often. The youths in the shadows just gazed at the man, and gazed at his spinning watch, and as he grew more drunk they looked at each other, then stole away one by one…
The weather outside had suddenly hardened into a blizzard of cutting snow; the night shut down to the blinding cold and the village curled up in its sheets. When the public house closed and turned down its lamps, the New Zealander was the last to leave. He refused a lantern, said he was born here, wasn’t he? and paid for his bill with gold. Then he buttoned his coat, shouted good-night, and strode up the howling valley. Warm with whisky and nearing home, he went singing up the hill. There were those in their beds who heard his last song, pitched wailing against the storm.
When he reached the stone-cross the young men were waiting, a bunched group, heads down in the wind.
‘Well, Vincent?’ they said; and he stopped, and stopped singing.
They hit him in turn, beat him down to his knees, beat him bloodily down in the snow. They beat and kicked him for the sake of themselves, as he lay there face down, groaning. Then they ripped off his coat, emptied his pockets, threw him over a wall, and left him. He was insensible now from his wounds and the drink; the storm blew all night across him. He didn’t stir again from the place where he lay; and in the morning he was found frozen to death.
The police came, of course, but discovered nothing. Their inquiries were met by stares. But the tale spread quickly from mouth to mouth, was deliberately spread amongst us, was given to everyone, man and child, that we might learn each detail and hide it. The police left at last with the case unsolved; but neither we nor they forgot it…
About ten years later an old lady lay dying, and towards the end she grew light-headed. The subject of her wandering leaked out somehow: she seemed to be haunted by a watch. ‘The watch,’ she kept mumbling, ‘they maun find the watch. Tell the boy to get it hid.’ A dark-suited stranger, with a notebook in his hand,appeared suddenly at her bedside. While she tossed and muttered, he sat and waited, head bent to her whispering mouth. He was patient, anonymous, and never made any fuss; he just sat by her bed all day, his notebook open, his pencil poised, the blank pages like listening ears.
The old lady at last had a lucid moment and saw the stranger sitting beside her. ‘Who’s this?’ she demanded of her hovering daughter. The girl leaned over the bed. ‘It’s all right, Mother,’ said the daughter distinctly. ‘It’s only a police-station gentleman. He hasn’t come to make any trouble. He just wants to hear about the watch.’
The old lady gave the stranger a sharp clear look and uttered not another word; she just leaned back on the pillow, closed her lips and eyes, folded her hands, and died. It was the end of the weakness that had endangered her sons; and the dark-suited stranger knew it. He rose to his feet, put his notebook in his pocket, and tiptoed out of the room. This old and wandering dying mind had been their final chance. No other leads appeared after that, and the case was never solved.
But the young men who had gathered in that
Similar Books
