‘I don’t feel like playing this evening,’ the boy said.
‘What’s biting you?’
‘What’d you do if you caught the owner of that donkey?’
‘Not to give you a short answer, we’d do nothing.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ve trouble enough without going looking for it. If we applied the law strictly in every case, we’d have half the people of the country in court, and you know how popular that would make us.’
‘It’s lousy. An old donkey who’s spent his whole life pulling and drawing for someone, and then when he’s no use any more is turned out on the road to starve. How can that be justified?’
‘That’s life,’ Casey replied cheerfully. He went in and took one of the yellow dayroom chairs and the Independent out on the gravel and started the crossword. Sometimes he lifted his head to ask about the words, and though the boy answered quickly and readily the answers did not lead to further conversation.
It was getting cold enough for both of them to think about going in when they heard the noise of a car approaching from the other side of the river. As soon as Casey looked at his watch he said, ‘I bet you it’s the Colonel and the wife on their way to Charlie’s. I told you,’ he said as soon as the black Jaguar appeared, but suddenly stiffened. Instead of continuing straight on for Charlie’s, the Jaguar turned down the hill and up the short avenue of sycamores to stop at the barrack gate. Casey left the newspaper on the chair to go forward to the gate. Mrs Sinclair was in the car, but it was the Colonel who got out, taking a large basket of apples from the back seat.
‘Good evening, Colonel.’ Casey saluted.
‘Good evening, Guard.’ The effortless sharp return of the salute made Casey’s effort seem more florid than it probably was. ‘Is the Sergeant about?’
‘He’s out on patrol, but his son is here.’
‘That will do just as well. Will you give these few apples to your father with our compliments and tell him the licence arrived?’
Big yellow apples in a bed of green leaves and twigs ringed the rim of the basket, and in the centre red Honeycombs and Beauty of Bath were arranged in a striking pattern.
‘Thank you, sir. They’re very beautiful.’
‘What is?’ The Colonel was taken by the remark.
‘The way the apples are arranged.’ He coloured.
‘Mrs Sinclair did the arranging but I doubt if she ever expected it to be noticed.’
‘Do you want your basket back, sir?’
‘No. Your father can drop it in some time he’s our way. Or it can be left in Charlie’s. But come. You must meet Mrs Sinclair,’ and the boy suddenly found himself before the open window.
‘This young man has been admiring your arrangement of the apples.’ The Colonel was smiling.
‘How very kind. Thank you,’ she said.
In his confusion he hardly knew how the Colonel took leave of them, and he was still standing stock-still with the basket in his hand as the car turned for Charlie’s.
Guard Casey reached down for an apple. ‘One thing sure is that you seem to have struck on the right note there,’ but he was too kind to tease the boy, and after he’d bitten into the apple said, ‘No matter what way they’re arranged they’ll be all the same by the time they get to your belly. Those people spent a lot of their life in India.’
The boy showed his father the basket of apples as soon as he came in off patrol. ‘It’s to thank you for getting them the gun licence. There’s no hurry with the basket. They said we could bring it to the house some time or leave it in Charlie’s.’
‘Of course I’ll leave it to the house. It’d not be polite to dump it in Charlie’s,’ and he was in great good humour after he’d left the basket back with the Sinclairs the very next day.
‘Colonel and Mrs Sinclair have been singing your praises. They said they never expected to come on such manners in this part of the country. Of course it doesn’t say much for the part of the country.’
‘I only thanked them.’
‘They said you remarked on how the apples were arranged. You certainly seemed to have got above yourself. I kept wondering if we were talking about the same person. They want to know if you’d help them in the garden for a few hours after they come back from England.’
‘What kind of help?’
‘Light work about the garden. And they’d pay you. All that work they do isn’t work at all. They imagine it is. It’s just fooling about. What do you say?’
‘Whatever you think is best.’ He was quite anxious to go to the Sinclairs, drawn to them and, consequently, he was careful not to dampen his father’s enthusiasm by showing any of his own.
‘Anyhow, we have plenty of time to think about it. I’d say to go. You never know what might come of it if the Sinclairs started to take an interest in you. More people got their start in life that way than by burning the midnight oil.’ He could not resist a hit at the late hours the boy studied; ‘a woeful waste of fire and light’.
The Sinclairs left for England three days after Christmas, and the Jaguar was absent from Charlie’s in the evenings until the first week in March. The night they returned, as the bell above Charlie’s door rang out, there was gladness in each, ‘They’re back!’ They had become ‘old regulars’. That Saturday Johnny went to the parsonage for the first time.
The jobs were light. He dug, cleared ground, made ridges, wheeled or carried. He had never worked in a garden with anybody before but his father, and by comparison it was a dream working for the Sinclairs. They explained each thing they wanted done clearly, would go over it a second or third time with good humour if he hadn’t got it right the first time, always pleased with what had been done well. Though he was uncomfortable at first over the formal lunch, the good hour they spent over a meal, they were so attentive and cheerful that they put him at ease. The hours of the Saturday seemed to fly, were far too short, and often he found himself dreaming of such a life for himself with a woman like Mrs Sinclair in the faraway future when he would grow old.
The wheel of the summer turned pleasantly. The seeds pushed above ground, were thinned. The roses and the other flowers bloomed. The soft fruit ripened and Mrs Sinclair started to make jams in the big brass pot. Each Saturday the boy went home laden with so much fruit and vegetables that he was able to supply Casey’s house as well as their own.
Beyond the order and luxury, what he liked best about the house was the silence. There was no idle speech. What words were spoken were direct and towards some definite point. At the barracks, the movement of a fly across the windowpane, Jimmy Farry pushing towards the bridge with his head down, and the cattle cane strapped to the bar of the bicycle, were enough to start an endless flow of conjecture and criticism, especially if Casey was around. ‘If you could get close enough to the “huar” you’d hear him counting, counting his cattle and money, counting, counting, counting …’
On one of the more idle Saturdays of the autumn, when they were burning leaves and old stakes and broken branches, the boy felt easy enough with the Colonel to ask him about war and the army.
‘The best wars are the wars that are never fought, but for that you need a professional army, so sharp that any possible aggressor would think twice before taking it on. Actual war is a sordid business, but once it begins the army has to do the job as efficiently as possible. It means blowing people’s heads off. That’s never a pretty business.’
‘Did you fight in the front lines?’
‘Yes. An officer has to be prepared to go anywhere he sends his men. It is a bad business no matter what civilian nonsense is talked about heroism.’ It was plain he had no intention of giving lurid detail and after a silence asked, ‘What do you think you’ll do when you enter the big bad world, Johnny?’