He swam in to the ramp and rested for a moment. The investigation had been quite strenuous. He reached a dripping hand up to his clothes and fished his wrist watch out of his trousers pockets. Heavens, it was late! He scrambled quickly out of the water, dried himself summarily, and began to dress. It had been a splendid expedition; he would certainly come back again soon. It would be fun to explore that thing down in the water, though it probably wasn’t really anything very exciting. Meanwhile, he resolved he would say nothing to the others about this delightful place but keep it privately for himself.
CHAPTER 11
IT was James Tayper Pace who suggested to Michael that he should take Toby with him in the Land-Rover. Michael was going in to Swindon to buy the mechanical cultivator. Though several days had elapsed since the Meeting, and Michael was longing for his toy, he had not had time to make the journey. Now it was Wednesday, and he was determined to go, come what might, in the late afternoon. The shop would be shut by the time he arrived, but he had made his arrangements by telephone and the shop people, with whom he had already done a lot of business, said he might pick the thing up any time before seven.
“Why not take young Toby with you?” said James. They were leaving the estate office together. “It’ll just mean his knocking off half an hour early. Let him see a bit of the countryside. He’s been working like a black.”
This would not have occurred to Michael; but it seemed a splendid idea, and when he was nearly ready to go he went to look for Toby in the kitchen garden.
He found him, with Patchway, hoeing the brussels sprouts.
“Don’t be so careful wi’ ‘em,” Patchway was saying.“Knock ‘em around! Does them good.”
Toby straightened up to greet Michael. The boy was well bronzed now and oily with sweat. Patchway, stripped to the waist, was still wearing his redoubtable trilby.
“I was wondering if Toby would care to come with me into Swindon, just for the ride,” said Michael to Patchway, “if you can spare him.”
Patchway grunted and looked at Toby, who said, “I’d love to, if that’s all right!”
“Pigeons haven’t troubled us so far, have they?”said Michael to Patchway.
“Why should they?” said Patchway. “Little buggers have plenty else to eat. But you watch ‘em when the cold weather starts!”
Toby ran off to change and Michael stood around for a while with Patchway. Patchway had the enviable countryman’s capacity, which is shared only by great actors, of standing by and saying nothing, and yet existing, large, present, and at ease.
This silent communion ended, Michael went to fetch the Land-Rover from the stable yard, and drove it round to the front of the house. The fifteen-hundredweight lorry would have been better for the trip, as the cultivator would have a tight squeeze in the Land-Rover, but the lorry was still laid up with an undiagnosed complaint and Nick Fawley, though asked twice, had not yet condescended to look at it. This was the sort of muddle which lack of time, lack of staff, brought about. Michael knew he ought either to see that Nick fixed it, or else get the village garage man on the job. But he kept putting the problem off; and meanwhile the Land-Rover, perilously overloaded, had to take the vegetables in to Pendelcote.
Michael felt good-humoured and excited. He had great hopes of the cultivator; it would save a great deal of hard work, and it was so light that it could be used by the women: well, by Margaret anyway, since Catherine would soon be gone, and by any other women who turned up in the community. Michael’s heart sank a little at the thought of the arrival of more women, but he reflected that he had got perfectly used to the two that were there. The enlarging of the community was from every point of view essential, and the shyness one felt at the breaking of an existing group was after all soon got over. With more staff and more machinery the place would take shape as a sound economic unit, and the present hand-to-mouth arrangements, which were nerve-rending although they had a certain Robinson Crusoe charm, would come to an end. Michael was pleased too at the thought of a trip to Swindon. It was weeks since he had been any farther afield than Cirencester; and he felt a childish pleasure at the thought of visiting the big town. And it was delightful to have Toby with him; the more so since he had not proposed it himself.
The drive, during which Michael answered Toby’s questions about the countryside, took a little over an hour. Once they stopped briefly to look at a village church. Arrived at Swindon, they went straight to the shop, and found the cultivator packed up ready in the yard. With the shopman’s help, Toby and Michael heaved the wonderful thing into the back of the Land-Rover and made it fast with ropes so that it should not shift about on the journey. Michael looked upon it with love. Its great toy-like yellow rubber-covered wheels jutted out below, and its square shiny red body had burst the packing paper at each corner. The sensitive divided handle thrust its gazelle-like horns toward the front of the van, reaching to the roof between the driver and the passenger. Safely stowed, Michael admired it. He was sorry to see that Toby, whose present ambition was to drive the tractor, seemed to share Patchway’s view that the cultivator was rather a sissy object.
“Now, what about something to eat?” said Michael. By their early start they had missed high tea. Sandwiches in a pub seemed to be the solution; and Michael recalled a nice-looking country pub he had seen a little way outside Swin-don on the road home.
By the time they arrived there it was about half past seven. The pub turned out to be rather grander than Michael had thought, but they went into the saloon bar, which had kept its old panelling of much-rubbed blackened oak and its tall wooden settles, together with a certain amount of modern red leather, coy Victorian hunting prints, and curtains printed with pint mugs and cocktail glasses. The bottles glittered gaily behind the bar, against which leaned a number of cheerful red-faced men in tweeds of whom it would have been difficult to say whether they were farmers or business men.
Michael installed Toby, to the latter’s amusement, in a big cosy settle near the window from which they could see the inn yard and keep an eye on the Land-Rover with its precious cargo.
“It’s practically illegal, my bringing you in here!”said Michael. “You are eighteen, aren’t you? Only just? Well, that’s good enough. Now, what’ll you drink? Something soft perhaps?”
“Oh, no!” said Toby, shocked. “I’d like to drink whatever the local drink is here. What do you think it is?”
“Well,” said Michael, “I suppose it’s West Country cider. I see they have it on draught. It’s rather strong. Would you like to try? All right. You stay here. I’ll get the drinks and the sandwiches.”
The sandwiches were good: fresh white bread with lean crumbling roast beef. Pickles and mustard and potato crisps came too. The cider was golden, rough yet not sour to the taste, and very powerful. Michael took a large gulp of the familiar stuff; he had known it since childhood. It was heartening and full of memories, all of them, good ones.
“This isn’t the West Country here, is it?” said Toby. “I always thought Swindon was rather near London. But perhaps I’m mixing it up with Slough!”
“It’s the beginning of the West,” said Michael. “At least I always imagine so. The cider is the sign of it. I come from this part of the country myself. Where did you grow up, Toby?”