But the image of Eddie lying wedged with the other men like sardines on the floor of a builder’s shed bothered him – it didn’t seem right – and even before he’d reached Coyne’s Farm he’d come up with a solution.
‘See what I mean, Sal? This would suit Eddie down to the ground. It’d be warm and dry and there’s plenty of hay to make a bed with.’
Standing in the cavernous barn, Sam held forth to an audience of one. A sociable chap by nature, he found the solitude of his working days something of a burden and had fallen into the habit of treating Sally as his confidante.
‘No problem with fresh water, either. There’s that tap in the yard outside. I tell you, this place is made for him.’
It was Coyne’s Farm being so near to where Eddie and his mates were working that had put the idea into his head. The turn-off to the farm was only half a mile further on, though in fact Sam never went that way himself, the muddy track having fallen into disrepair since the place was abandoned. Not wishing to risk the suspension of his old van on it, he would stop some way short of the turning at a spot where the paved road was crossed by an ancient footpath that led over a low saddle in the wooded ridge behind Coyne’s Farm into the valley where it was situated.
This path – it was called Wood Way, and according to the guide books dated from before Roman times – ran as straight as an arrow down one slope of the valley and up the other side before vanishing in the rolling contours of the South Downs, which rose only a short way off to fill the horizon.
It marked the boundary of Coyne’s Farm, and to get there all you had to do was walk down the path until you came to a gap in the hedgerow beside it, slip through that, cross an apple orchard and a kitchen garden, and – hey presto – there you were in the cobbled yard behind the house, with the barn not thirty paces away at the other end of it. Eddie’s barn!
Sam had timed his walk. It had taken him twelve minutes on the dot from where his van was parked, and on the way a further thought had occurred to him. Just a bit past the gap in the hedge a fork off the main path led across the adjoining fields to a small village, more of a hamlet really, called Oak Green, where Eddie could buy whatever provisions he might need. Not that Ada wouldn’t see to it that he’d have most of what he wanted.
By the time Sam reached the yard he’d made up his mind to speak to Mr Cuthbertson on Eddie’s behalf. It wouldn’t be right to do it behind his back – just move Eddie in without saying anything. But he didn’t think his employer would have any objections to his scheme.
Coyne’s Farm was a choice property – one of the best on his books, Mr Cuthbertson always said. Being right on the edge of the Downs, it was fine sheep-rearing land and had been profitably worked until a couple of years back when the owner had died. Having no sons to take over from him – his two boys had been killed in the war – he’d left the farm to a nephew of his wife’s, but this bloke, who owned a dairy farm outside Petersfield, was only interested in selling the place, which was why it was on the market.
Mr Cuthbertson had told Sam that he expected to get a good price for it one day, once things had picked up again, and that the present owner had already turned down a couple of prospective purchasers on his advice because their offers had been too low. The opportunity of having a reliable man on the spot, in residence so to speak, would not be one he would turn down.
The barn stood at one end of the yard and at right angles to the house, which was built of patterned brick in a style popular in the region. A lofty wooden structure, it had been used as a storeroom when the farm was abandoned and its doors were kept padlocked as a deterrent against intruders who might otherwise be tempted to rifle its contents.
Sam had a key to the padlock, and having drawn the bolt, he’d flung both doors wide, flooding the dark interior with light, displaying the stacks of hurdles used for temporary fencing, essential for sheep-raising, which lined both sides of the building for most of its length. Where they ended, towards the rear of the barn, the empty space was filled with a variety of objects, including furniture from the house, draped with canvas to protect it from rain coming through the roof, and an assortment of farm implements stored in crates and wicker baskets. At the very back, in one corner, an old pony trap stood with its shafts upraised like the arms of a soldier surrendering.
It was to the opposite corner that Sam had made his way and where he’d spent some minutes clearing an area of the earth floor. Seizing hold now of a pitchfork that was sticking out of a wicker basket, he began raking together the old hay that was still scattered about underfoot and pushing it into a mound.
‘See, this’ll be his bed,’ he told Sal, who’d accompanied him into the barn and was watching his activities with mild interest. ‘Eddie’s bound to have a bedroll with him if he’s sleeping rough, and this’ll do for a mattress underneath.’
During the months of his stewardship he’d explored the stored treasures of the barn and he remembered having seen one or two articles that might come in handy now. Finished with the pitchfork, he went in search of them and presently returned dragging an old Victorian washstand behind him with an enamel jug and basin balanced precariously on its marble top. A second expedition netted a pair of oil lamps which Sam examined and found to be in good working order.
Then a further idea occurred to him and he turned to a large mahogany wardrobe which stood nearby draped in canvas. He’d looked inside it once, he recalled, and unless memory deceived him… Pushing back the folds of canvas from the doors, Sam tugged them open.
Yes, there it was!
The gleam of a mirror shone in the dark recesses of the cupboard. Formerly attached to the inside of one of the doors, it now stood loose, propped against the back. Sam hauled it out and bore it in triumph over to where he’d prepared Eddie’s bed. He leaned it against the wall beside the washstand.
‘He’s got to be able to comb his hair in the morning,’ he said to Sal, by way of explanation. ‘All the comforts of home. That’s our motto.’
Pleased with the outcome of his efforts, Sam examined his own reflection in the looking glass, grinning at the way the cracked surface distorted his homely features, giving an extra twist to the broken nose he’d had these past twenty years, a souvenir of his days as a fairground mauler.
One thing was certain: Ada hadn’t married him for his looks.
‘You’re no oil painting, Sam Watkin.’ She’d told him that often enough. ‘But you’re a good bloke.’
Sam didn’t know if he was a good bloke or not, but he felt warmed by the thought of what he was doing for Eddie, who’d looked older than his years when they’d sat together on the bank a little while back. Just worn out. As though life had been grinding him down.
Christ, times were hard.
‘There, now. That’s better.’
Sam lit his pipe and leaned back with a sigh. Their lunch had been unusually delayed that day. But the cheese sandwiches Ada had packed for him had gone down a treat, while the bit of cold sausage and biscuit he’d set aside for Sal had been equally well received. She was stretched out on the ground beside him now, fast asleep, muzzle twitching, chasing rabbits in her dreams.
Even when he’d finished with the barn, he’d still had his regular tour of inspection of the house and outbuildings to make and it had been close to three o’clock before they’d quit the yard and walked up the hillside to the wooded ridge behind the farm. Struggling up the slippery slope, Sam had chuckled to see what heavy weather his companion was making of the climb.
‘That’s what comes of overeating, my girl.’ Fat as butter she was.
Once they got to the top the going had become easier. Here the ground underfoot was cushioned by generations of fallen leaves, the still air rich with the stored scents of summer. Sam had paused to admire the dust motes dancing in shafts of sunlight piercing the canopy of foliage overhead. He loved the woods. They took him back to his boyhood, a time of innocence, in his mind, before the war, when the world had seemed different. To his poaching days, which even now seemed blameless, when he’d been a lad working on a farm up near Redford, and would slip away of an evening into the twilit forest.