Towards Mellbreak

When he got back to the yard the dogs scattered towards stone troughs for a drink. A bucket of old cloths was still soaking by the doorstep, a new strip of cotton nailed high, same nail as last year, rust and weather blotted onto it. Joe’s boots were in the hall. Harold put his in the row and looked along to his father’s at the top. They were dusty now, not moved for five years. Keep their shape well, mind. It was right to have them at the door, but he didn’t like the dust.

‘Better get till t’feed afore it’s gone!’ he bellowed through the narrow, whitewashed hall as he walked, woolly socked.

‘Aye, better git in quick,’ came from the sitting room.

He shuffled around the oval table, tight against the wall. ‘Fair do’s?’ he asked.

‘Aye it’s getting up all right,’ Joe said, buttering his bread.

Corner seat reached, he sighed. ‘Old fencing all right on beck side, though?’

‘No, it’ll be to do mostly ’n’ all.’

Harold raised his brow, stretching his legs. He could see the day in Joe. Fresh faced. Contagious, he thought, sprouts in you just from walking in it.

Catherine came in carrying a stippled black pot of stew, and the men straightened, waiting for the same ladled portions, same grandmotherly motion of her arm since Harold was a lad. And after she’d hung her cloth and settled in her chair, they all tucked in, silently eating till their plates were nearly clear.

‘Aye, could feed more lambs onto the fell for the next couple of years if you’ve a mind to it. Broader flock up there without it tumbling,’ Joe said, his bread soaking into the juices.

‘She could take it. Blooming mess those registers, though, diven’t know who’s been grazing what on the fells really.’

‘We’ve all our own way of writing the count!’

‘Be right. Wouldn’t like to wager how old Jim’d write his!’

‘But there’s no local differences up here, according the Ministry. All the same culture as some clerk behind a desk down south apparently. They’ll find out one way or another. Mind, we didn’t include the shearlings or the hogs in ours so we can easily argue a higher count overall. Another thirty-five of each. No harm to the fell.’

‘Right, we’ll think on it,’ Harold said with a deep breath. ‘Be tight on the books; we’d need a good winter. So, did you get to the county court this morning?’

‘Yes we were there. Made no difference. But they put on a good show when it came to getting the map. You could hear them calling down the corridors, “Call for the map, call for the map” and after a while, two men marched in, one in front of the other with it on their shoulders the size of a rolled carpet! No copy of it, you see. And when they unrolled it onto the floor the QC had Geoffrey walk over and point to say his family had always grazed here. And William do the same.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well he decided based on what landlord their tenancy was with and said it was more likely that they originally grazed on their landlord’s land.’

‘So Geoffrey lost the other side of the fell.’

‘He did. QC never known a fell more than a visit.’

‘Not good news. William’s never used it for years. Did you hear anything about Robert’s tenancy?’

‘Not at the court, no.’

‘But from any there?’

‘No, it’ll be done now. No going back. Landlord will be after a cut of the big farm subsidies and they’re not shy of saying they’ll get less rent for three small farms than for one big one.’

‘Small like ours, you mean!’

‘That’s it.’

‘Marvellous!’

‘Truth in jest!’

‘Well then.’

‘Anyhow, we’ve not enough lowland here worth changing our farm for.’

‘Be about right,’ Harold mumbled passing the bread. ‘But it’s hard to believe Robert couldn’t negotiate. Don’t know how long they’ve been there.’

‘He’ll be a loss.’

‘How they renting the farm out then?’

‘Off the fells and into the fields for a big dairy herd, maybe a crop or two and fatten more of our fell lambs be the sum of it.’

‘They’ve been here since before the first war.’

‘Have that. Know the ways up here better than most. Generations.’

‘Not easy,’ Harold said, both sitting back, plates empty, falling into silence, the pendulum clip of the grandfather clock warm in its polished wood, Catherine clearing her own plate.

‘Off to the shops, Trin?’ Harold asked.

‘Yes, nothing to add till t’list?’

‘No, no, very good.’ Harold leant over the loaf to cut another slice. ‘Not sure on the price we’ll get for store this year.’

‘No but the milkers are good and steady.’

‘Yes, aye, they’re good.’

‘We will need a bigger flock on the fell though, bloody Ministry upping the stakes.’

Harold raised his brow in agreement. Joe was right. He was spending more time in the workers’ meetings speaking out against the Ministry that regulated their work, pushing up demand and not respecting the culture and traditions of local hill farmers. Sometimes when they talked Harold struggled to find a way forward. Things were getting worse. The small subsidy they had per head of sheep for working in ‘severely disadvantaged’ land didn’t go far, and after spending the year lambing, dipping, gathering, checking and clipping in all weather, they sold their lambs on to a lowland farm to graze for a few weeks between crop growth, and the lowland farm got double the price for the final lambs. Nearly twice the subsidy of a hill farmer for a few weeks’ work. And the lowland farmers didn’t depend on the lambs for income. Seemed to be designed to keep demand high and hill farmers poor. Always need to keep your eye on a new way through. Comes into view when you least expect it.

Harold took a breath as some would smoke a cigarette and watched Joe mop the gravy left on his plate. The movement helped him rest. More of an uncle than his dad’s cousin really, working with them since the second war. Too young to go to the trenches with Harold’s father and grandfather Albert. The clock chimed and struck one with the sound of Catherine clattering in the kitchen, her cloth still hanging neatly on the chair. She’s still hand-stitching sections of those old rags, he thought. Has her way of things.

‘Fencing this afternoon?’ he asked.

‘Aye.’

Catherine came back in, buttoning a black woollen coat, her grey hair pulled into a small bun as usual. ‘Now, Palm Sunday march after church and then four o’clock tea, Joe. If you’re not for the church, it’s to be ready for tea, mind. Harrisons will be visiting. You with us, lad?’

‘No, Catherine, thank you. I’m off to Lamplugh. Spend a bit of time with our Sandra and the family.’

‘Right you are, I’ll give you a tin.’

‘Lovely, she’ll be pleased with that now, kiddies’ve always room for your cakes!’

She nodded to say a deal had been struck. ‘And yours in there,’ she said pointing to the metal tin with a portrait of Elizabeth II at her coronation.

‘Ginger?’ Harold asked hungrily.

A smile flickered across her face as she turned to leave. ‘I’ll be taking the car now for church-cleaning, mind.’

‘OK Trin, no bother,’ Harold called as he waited for more instructions to the sound of her walking through the hall, his mind drifting. And for a moment the two men sat in a full-bellied rest. ‘Subsidies for drainage is the thing now,’ he said, studying the tabletop. He’ll not like the idea of them assessing and advising the farm, Harold thought. ‘Could send a letter, an “application” for to take water off the top of Ard and Sail, drain the marsh areas to get more grass up there.’

‘On the fell? They’ve only diggers! Be clowns to try a digger up there.’

‘Mire needs clearing,’ Harold said quietly, avoiding Joe’s gaze and opening the tin. ‘She’d have a fuller pelt if we got the bogs off her.’

‘You seen those bloody tractors furrowing up the peat hills? Never!’

‘But they’ll likely offer, or as they say “allocate”, is it?’ Harold said, handing the cake over, wide eyed, soon cracking a sly smile, Joe jolting back cutting into a laugh, thumping his fist on the table, ‘Aye, let’s see them try. Aye lad,’ he flared in a deep growl, ‘be a good day out watching!’ And both leant back, Joe scratching his ear, sniggering, ginger cake in lines of gravy and crumbs on his plate, the distant sound of Catherine driving through the yard.

The next morning, cows milked and sheep checked, Harold was in his only suit waiting by the fire, black coals smoking from the soot of being shovelled on to last the morning. Esther’s family would be arriving later. He’d known her since he could remember but not really spent time with her. Hardly spoken in gatherings, nothing more. Not stood near enough to her for it. Could be a match. Maybe. Would be good to fill out the place. ‘No pressure,’ he mumbled confused by the thought of her. Catherine came in, pulling on her gloves.

‘You look grand,’ she said, her nod emphasised by the small brim of her hat. And with a clip, her handbag shut and hooked over her arm, bible in hand, they stood poised for a moment, as they always did, a familiar respect for the moment before leaving.

Up Newlands path they walked in polished shoes, a slim wind streaking their backs. Tight coils of bracken knotted the banks of rusted stalks, parting occasionally for spliced thick-leaved snowdrops, fierce in their stems. And as the hill steepened, the two of them climbed, gently swaying like rocking chairs past Robinson; their even pace holding its rhythm. After about an hour they rimmed the peak of Newlands path and a small church came into sight in the next valley with a few people walking into the side gate. Catherine watched them, he thought, as if they were words on a page.

When they got to the west entrance a dozen or so stood at the foot of the steps. Jim, an old friend of Albert’s was surrounded in conversation, leaning on his stick, medals from two wars hanging in lines. His grandson Isaac quiet at his side.

‘Hello Catherine, Harold,’ he said, firm grip to his hand. ‘Spitting image of your father,’ he added looking Harold in the eye. ‘Grand fettle was George, he was that.’

Harold chatted, hands in pockets. The sound of Jim had the fullness of his own father and grandfather. When he looked around to find Catherine amongst the people arriving, she’d settled by the wall next to Jim’s wife Mary in almost the same black coat and hat.

A bell began to toll and the crowd streamed up the red sandstone steps, and through the wrought iron gate into the church; wooden pews glossed with polish, the heavy hymn books, prayer books and bibles lining their shelves so carefully they looked chiselled in. At the altar, two large palms woven with hazel and silver birch crossed over in an arch, almost hiding the stained glass of Mary and Martha. And the small pipe organ, size enough to surround one man, creaked its stoppers and keys as if the wood were part of its hum. Catherine put her bible on the shelf as they knelt. Harold often felt emptied when he prayed. Words, especially the long prayers, stumbled in him; it seemed enough to kneel, bent in his chest, humbled. The wind sounded stronger inside. Must be stone bringing out the noise, he thought. And as the priest read Luke’s passion, Catherine’s finger lining every word, Harold thought of Christ’s walk to Calvary. Grey clouds, lit from beneath drew his sight out of the clear window to his side. They moved slowly towards Haystacks. Willingly, he thought, remembering the harsh fells when the tide of winter was up against him. Can only be done willingly or you fall.

After a while, the prayers were over and they all stood to sing ‘All glory, laud and honor,’ while David, who farmed the other side of Rannerdale, and his grandson Tom, lifted the large palms from the altar and processed down the aisle with the priest, their grip on the white stems as firm as for any flag. Everyone filed out behind, picking a new cross of knotted silver birch from a basket, singing ‘the company of angels are praising Thee on High,’ and once they were down the steps they began the next hymn ‘Ride on! Ride on in majesty,’ their voices thinning in the air, ‘the hosts of angels in the sky look down with sad and wondering eyes to see the approaching sacrifice.’