he was listening to sounds from the hall and presently they told him what he wanted to know, that Rumble Patrick had been upstairs to see Mary and was now standing in the passage leading to the library talking to Claire, apparently ascertaining whether or not this would be a propitious moment to explain where he had been all day and why he had needed that extra ration of petrol. He heard Claire say, ‘Yes, he’s in there, Rumble …’ and then, with a hint of uncertainty ‘Well, that’s up to you. I’m not taking sides, so don’t count on me.’
That was it, then. Another gap torn in Valley defences through which God alone knew what problems might advance. At best more work and more muddle; at worst a daughter left without a husband and condemned to a life of shadows, like so many Valley wives in the decade that followed the 1918 Armistice.
Rumble came in without knocking, cheerful, tousled and, Paul decided, a little too hearty in his approach. Glancing at him Paul’s mind went back to an interview with the boy years and years ago, when Rumble, expelled from school for a series of extravagant practical jokes, had stood there by the window refusing Paul’s offer to send him to the Agricultural College and announcing his intention to try his luck in Australia. Paul had loved him for that because he knew why the choice had been made. As an adopted son Rumble Patrick considered that the line of succession should remain with Simon, Andy or Stevie, and nothing Paul or Claire could say had persuaded him to do otherwise. He had gone off, at sixteen, to make his own way in the world, and had not returned until the mid-thirties to claim Mary and Periwinkle Farm, but even then, with that independence that had been both his father’s and mother’s legacy, he had insisted on buying it and Paul could even remember what he had said: ‘If I farm I farm my own land, Gov’nor.’
Well, here was the same obstinacy and for a moment Paul was able to study it objectively. He said, without looking at him, ‘You don’t have to grope for the soft approach. I know where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to. All I’m interested in learning is why .’
‘I don’t think I could say off my own bat, Gov’nor, but we might solve it together. Providing you were willing to try that is.’
This time Paul did look at him, expecting to see the fleeting, half-quizzical smile that was something else the boy’s urchin father had bestowed on him but Rumble was not smiling. He looked troubled so that Paul said, with a shrug, ‘I thought you had more sense than any of them but it seems you haven’t. One bomb and you go overboard, looking for sharks with a knife between your teeth.’
This growl did produce a smile and Rumble turned to the sideboard, his hand resting on the decanter. ‘How are you off for whisky, Gov’nor?’ and Paul said grumpily, ‘Help yourself, and pour me a large one.’
It must have been more than half a minute after the hiss of the siphon that Rumble said, ‘Look, Gov’nor, you were in precisely the same situation as me in 1917, except that you were older and had a gammy leg. But you went. Suppose you try explaining?’
It was a treacherous blow, Paul thought, but without resenting it. Neither was it easy to give an honest answer, without supplying Rumble with more ammunition.
‘It was a different kind of war,’ he said. ‘The entire attitude of people was different because it was fought exclusively by men between eighteen and fifty. No-one else had a look in.’
‘Presumably people still had to eat and the U-boats were doing a pretty useful job, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, they were, and farming was just as vital to survival, but suppose I told you that, looking back, I see now that I was a damned fool? I could have done a far better job here and saved myself a hole in the head into the bargain.’
‘Well, I’ve gone one better already,’ Rumble said, ‘I’m not signing on for the Army, the
That was it, then. Another gap torn in Valley defences through which God alone knew what problems might advance. At best more work and more muddle; at worst a daughter left without a husband and condemned to a life of shadows, like so many Valley wives in the decade that followed the 1918 Armistice.
Rumble came in without knocking, cheerful, tousled and, Paul decided, a little too hearty in his approach. Glancing at him Paul’s mind went back to an interview with the boy years and years ago, when Rumble, expelled from school for a series of extravagant practical jokes, had stood there by the window refusing Paul’s offer to send him to the Agricultural College and announcing his intention to try his luck in Australia. Paul had loved him for that because he knew why the choice had been made. As an adopted son Rumble Patrick considered that the line of succession should remain with Simon, Andy or Stevie, and nothing Paul or Claire could say had persuaded him to do otherwise. He had gone off, at sixteen, to make his own way in the world, and had not returned until the mid-thirties to claim Mary and Periwinkle Farm, but even then, with that independence that had been both his father’s and mother’s legacy, he had insisted on buying it and Paul could even remember what he had said: ‘If I farm I farm my own land, Gov’nor.’
Well, here was the same obstinacy and for a moment Paul was able to study it objectively. He said, without looking at him, ‘You don’t have to grope for the soft approach. I know where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to. All I’m interested in learning is why .’
‘I don’t think I could say off my own bat, Gov’nor, but we might solve it together. Providing you were willing to try that is.’
This time Paul did look at him, expecting to see the fleeting, half-quizzical smile that was something else the boy’s urchin father had bestowed on him but Rumble was not smiling. He looked troubled so that Paul said, with a shrug, ‘I thought you had more sense than any of them but it seems you haven’t. One bomb and you go overboard, looking for sharks with a knife between your teeth.’
This growl did produce a smile and Rumble turned to the sideboard, his hand resting on the decanter. ‘How are you off for whisky, Gov’nor?’ and Paul said grumpily, ‘Help yourself, and pour me a large one.’
It must have been more than half a minute after the hiss of the siphon that Rumble said, ‘Look, Gov’nor, you were in precisely the same situation as me in 1917, except that you were older and had a gammy leg. But you went. Suppose you try explaining?’
It was a treacherous blow, Paul thought, but without resenting it. Neither was it easy to give an honest answer, without supplying Rumble with more ammunition.
‘It was a different kind of war,’ he said. ‘The entire attitude of people was different because it was fought exclusively by men between eighteen and fifty. No-one else had a look in.’
‘Presumably people still had to eat and the U-boats were doing a pretty useful job, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, they were, and farming was just as vital to survival, but suppose I told you that, looking back, I see now that I was a damned fool? I could have done a far better job here and saved myself a hole in the head into the bargain.’
‘Well, I’ve gone one better already,’ Rumble said, ‘I’m not signing on for the Army, the
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