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199552
Captain - Education Officer
Charles Frederick Tabeart
Note by his son Colin: this story was written by Charles Frederick Tabeart when he was a prisoner of war. He told me that it was autobiographical. Perhaps he chose the female form to emphasise the physical demands on a youngster working alongside grown men - but regardless of his reasons, it gives a vivid description of what agricultural labour was like in the early twentieth century, and a feel for what "working one's way through college" actually involved in those days.
‘Marjorie’
She forced the last mouthful of dry bread and cold beef sandwich down, and drank a little strong sweet milkless tea from a pint bottle; the local brewer's name was in block relief on the botle, and she thought how much more unpleasant life would be if her father were like the other farm labourers, and got drunk every week-end. Praise be, he didn't drink beer at all, and only a very occasional glass of whisky, at Christmas, or when he felt a bout of his old malaria coming on. Yes, she was lucky to have such a good father! She watched him drink from the bottle she had passed him, and wondered why she had never been able to acquire that trick of letting the liquid slide effortlessly down her gullet. Whenever she tried to drink from a bottle, her tongue and top lip always managed to get wedged and she had to wrench away the bottle, which always produced a sucking noise, like the sound when you dragged your foot from ankle-deep mud. Dad always drank freely, the air gurgled into the bottle as he drank, and his lips never stuck to its mouth. Oh well, she supposed she wasn't meant to do it; she should always drink from a tumbler at a table; she always would if they were not so damnably poor that every penny counted! That was why she was here now, having breakfast in a field. A field of mustard at that. Her summer holiday, and instead of reading Keats, Byron, Shelley; instead of trying to understand Moliere, Corneille, Lamartine; instead of struggling with Ovid and Cicero, she must lacerate her fingers, her hands, her arms, harvesting this filthy mustard. God, what vile stuff! How it tore and ripped one's flesh as one handled it. And the day had only just begun. Nine o'clock, with three hours work to be done before the next stop for the midday meal. Three hours' work? Three hours' torment, three hours' hell, unbearable heat, sweat running into her eyes and almost blinding her, dust everywhere, scorching her throat, irritating her nose, making her sneeze and cough, cough and sneeze, sneeze -- oh, blast it! Damn it! BLAST IT! Why do people, at least why does old Morgan have to grow the blasted stuff! Why can't he be content with corn! More money in mustard, Dad says. Funny little sayings Dad came out with at times. "Coleman didn't make his money out of the mustard people ate, but out of what they left on the side of the plate". One consolation, he didn't make any out of what she, Marjorie, left on the side of her plate, because she never used it. But, ironically enough, he made money out of her another way - out of her tired, torn, bleeding fingers and hands. Then why didn't he pay more? Perhaps he did pay well- dad said so, at any rate. It was just that old miser Morgan who paid so badly. Eight shillings for a day's work - and a day was twelve hours! Seven in the morning until seven at night! And now, at the moment, it was only ten past nine, with the sun getting warmer every minute, and her head beginning to ache already with bending over this beastly work. She straightened her body momentarily, and then bent again panic-stricken as she saw the reaping machine relentlessly turning the corner toward her. It was much too fast, she hadn't finished the last swath it had laid, and if she didn't hurry she would keep it waiting.
Her memory returned to last night's conversation between her father and the foreman of the farm. The mustard would have to be cut with the hay mower. Too much flattened with the recent severe storm of wind and rain, and the dragging vines of convolvulus - bind-weed they called it. Bind-weed it was too - clinging, tenacious, making it next to impossible to separate one sheaf from the next. Now she was actually doing her share of tying this damned stuff into sheaves. The machine went round and round, she and the other workers were its slaves. Each had his own stretch to tie, and when completed, each returned again to start on the next round. One more man would have made all the difference! Eight men and a girl were not enough to keep pace with the reaper, and whenever it stopped , Marjorie was the one who stopped it. Naturally, she was not as strong or as fast as the men, but they expected her to do as much. Luckily, Dad had the next stretch to hers, and could give a hand if she were behind; luckily for her, that is, but a bit hard on poor old Dad. "Stick it, Peg, it'll be finished tonight" he had said. Perhaps it would, perhaps it wouldn't, but tonight was such a long time away, and it certainly didn't look as if they had done much yet. Tonight was far far away, with its prospect of cool water, so soothing to tortured hands and arms.
The reaper again, with its diabolical clatter; a thing of the Devil himself. Why on earth couldn't it lay the stuff in bundles, like a corn reaper? Instead, just one long swath, which must be gathered bit by bit into the requisite size for sheaves, and the damned bind-weed holding it together as though with wire - barbed wire! Yes, that was it. One might almost as well be bundling up lengths of barbed wire. Impossible to wear gloves, too - one would never be able to tie the stuff at all. Chatter chatter chatter - there it was again, beating out its monotonous rhythm; beating into her aching head, tearing its way in, insistent as a cross-cut saw, sawing her brain into pieces. Hurry, hurry, make haste - how the hell could you make haste, with this blasted bind-weed. Strong enough to hang a man! Pity one couldn't hang old Morgan with it. That's it, hang old Morgan with bind-weed. A fitting end for the old skin-flint. Too mean to clean his land and get rid of the weeds that choked his crops. Deserved to be choked himself for being so mingy.
Crescendo of clattering, stamping of great hooves just behing her, making her start back in fright as she felt the warm breath of the horses on her neck. Oh, that she were a man! She'd tell that grinning oaf lolling on the machine that it wasn't at all funny to frighten people like that. What was this, though? Dad, striding up to the machine, Dad in a cold fury of anger, his fists clenched, showing white at the knuckles, and telling the fellow if he were looking for the biggest hiding he'd ever had in his life, just to try it again. Quiet words, with a steely menace behind them, and all the muscles of Dad's arms bunched and hard as steel too. The man on the machine cowered as though struck with a whip, mumbled out a craven apology, amd with an abjectness almost incredible in a grown man promised that it would not happen again. Marjorie stood looking at the horses, great gentle beasts, panting and sweating with their exertions. She wasn't afraid of them normally, but they had given her such a start that she had felt quite sick. With a grateful smile at Dad, she bent again to her work, while he strode back to his own stretch. The morning dragged on, interminally, it seemed. Her back ached, her legs, loins, arms, shoulders, neck - all ached; her head throbbed intolerably, felt as if a drum were beating inside it. This damned mustard! Even in flower, she remembered, the scent of it had made her head ache, and although they lived half a mile from the field, if the wind were in that direction the smell had been nauseating, unbearable. Sweat poured from her body, streamed into her eyes, making them smart, into her mouth, sweetly salt, into the scratches on arms and hands, stinging, biting, unendurable. Still one had to endure it. There was no escaping it, with the sun beating down, relentless, burning, burning her fair skin, until she felt that she must get into the shade somewhere, anywhere, blessed shade. No hope of shade here, though - not a tree within a hundred yards, and even if there were, no hope of any relief.
Chatter chatter chatter - the ceaseless beat of the reaper the only accompaniment to her thoughts; but at long last, silence; twelve o'clock, and she was cycling home wth Dad for the midday meal. Home immersed in cool water, wonderful relief to her tormented skin. Then dinner, as they always called it at home; (at school it was lunch) beef stew, with dumplings, onions, carrots, mashed potatoes.
Marjorie fell to ravenously, with Dad and the rest of the family, all except Mother. Mother looked tired, and no wonder, thought the girl, as she glanced through the window at the lines full of newly-washed clothes, white testimony to Mother's industry since they had left the house that morning. Treacle pudding to follow! Oh, darling mother, thank you, thank you, however you found the time to do it.
Dinner over, and a few blessed moments before they need start back for that hated field. Minutes that flew by, though, and almost immediately it seemed Dad was saying "Ready Peg?" and slipping on his old jacket which he had discarded for the meal, sitting with his shirt sleees rolled just above the elbow, arms burnt to a rich mahogany with constant exposure to wind and rain.
Back to the job, horses being backed slowly, one each side of the pole of the mower. What intelligent creatures - never put a foot wrong, tractable, patient, strong as - as horses. And Marjorie smiled a little to herself at the lack of any other comparison. "Tinker, Primrose, giddap" and with its old nerve-shattering clamour the reaper leapt once more to life. Once again the unending swath, the grinding ache all over her body as she bent to the task. Hard stalks, cruel hooked seedpods of mustard tore her hands anew, tore and scratched, scratched deeper and deeper; the sun beat down more fiercely than ever, burning, searing, scorching her face, neck, arms, until she had the feeling that she was on fire, that she would never be cool again; and all the time that throbbing at the back of her eyes, throb, throb, throb, as though the fingers of some evil being were trying to push the eyeballs out of her head.
"By the sweat of thy brow". The curse of Adam. Curse of Eve too, should Eve be as poor as they were, so desperately in need of every halfpenny they could scrape together to enable her to continue at high school.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the afternoon dragged on. Blisters on her hands now, and she bit her lip as the large one on the palm of her hand burst, sending a shiver of exquisite agony right up to her shoulder. "One more round, Peg, then knock off for tea" Dad called out. "Here's Jo bringing us a can of hot tea."
Sister Joan, very serious, very intent on her can of tea, came slowly towards them, lifting her feet carefully to avoid the hard, sharp, stalks left by the mower. Her bright eyes darted this way, that way, appraising, approving, admiring, and finally came to rest on Marjorie.
Tomato sandwiches for tea, much nicer than the dry breakfast, much more refreshing, and then a big slice of Mother's currant cake. Lovely! Mother cooked such lovely cakes; they melted in your mouth almost, really astonishing when you knew, knew for certain, that Mother couldn't afford to put in even one egg. Yes, she was a lucky girl indeed to have such a father, AND such a mother; and a glow of pride swept through her, grateful that she could do her little bit to help.
The half-hour allowed for tea raced away; work again, and the renewed agony of aching limbs, torn fingers, smarting arms obeying the call of the tyrant machine. Thank goodness the greater part of the field was cut and tied, and it really did look as if they would be finished tonight.
She sent up a fervent little prayer that it wouldn't rain. Clouds had begun to gather in the south-west, and she heard an occasional rumble of thunder. The sun was still beating , but the afternoon's intolerable heat was tempered now by as cool breeze, and the end of the day was in sight at last.
Chatter, chatter, chatter - the old song of the reaper, still dinning in her ears, but by now something of a note of triumph in its ceaseless racket - or was the note of triumph in her own mind? Perhaps that was it. Must be, she said to herself, and thought at the same time how apt one was to attribute qualities they couldn' possibly have to inanimate machines. Yes, the triumph was hers, undoubtedly. No longer was she the slave of the machine. The machine was her servant, would soon have finished its job, and she would be free. She made a quick estimate of what remained still to do. About eight or nine more rounds of the reaper would finish it if the storm held off. Would it? The clouds were blacker and closer now, the wind had dropped, every sound came to her sharply defined, brilliant, like - like the colouring of an impressionist painting!
And with the dropping of the wind came the rain. No warning from afar. No chance to run and get into her old mac. The sky just seemed to open and drench her, all in about ten seconds. Everything stopped, but everybody was soaked to the skin in less than a minute. One might just as well stand still, since there was no point in trying to make for shelter. As suddenly as it had started the rain ceased. Her misery was complete, she could not possibly be more wretched. Might as well finish the job now, the men decided - and for the next twenty-five minutes she had no feelings whatsoever. The storm had numbed her into apathy, and she could not even manage to think "Thank God, that's over", as she stumbled over to the gateway of the field.
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