“No. Probably not. He can hardly be manning the fence all the time. God knows who it is. Anyway, it’s a different thing with one man, unarmed, under a flag of truce. There’s no reason why they should fire.”
“But they might!”
“They won’t.”
But he had an odd feeling as he walked along the middle of the road towards the fence, his white flag held above his head. It was not exactly fear. It seemed to him that it was nearer to exhilaration—the sense of fatigue allied to excitement that he had sometimes known in fevers. He began to measure his paces, counting soundlessly: one, two, three, four, five… In front of him, he saw that the barrel of the machine-gun poked through a hole in the fence a good ten feet above the ground; not far from the top. David must have built a platform on the other side.
He stopped, seven or eight feet from the fence, and looked up. From somewhere near the gun muzzle, a voice said:
“Well, what are you after?”
John said: “I’d like to have a word with David Custance.”
“Would you, now? He’s busy. And the answer’s no, anyway.”
“He’s my brother.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then the voice said:
“His brother’s in London. Who do you say you are?”
“I’m John Custance. We got away from London. It’s taken us some time to travel up here. Can I see him?”
“Wait a minute.” There was a low murmur of voices; John could not quite catch what was said. “All right You can wait there. We’re sending up to the farm for him.”
John walked a few paces, and stared into the Lepe. From beyond the fence he heard a car engine start up and then fade away along the road up the valley. It sounded like David’s utility{143}. He wondered how much petrol they would have in store inside Blind Gill. Probably not much. It didn’t matter. The sooner people got used to a world deprived of the internal combustion engine as well as the old-fashioned beasts of burden, the better.
He called up to the man behind the fence: “The people with me—can they come out of the ditch? Without being shot at?”
“They can stay where they are.”
“But there’s no point in it. What’s the objection to their being on the road?”
“The ditch is good enough.”
John thought of arguing, and then decided against it. Anyone on the other side of the fence was someone they would have to live with; if this fellow wanted to exercise his brief authority, it was best to put up with it. His own disquiet had been allayed by the promptness with which it had been agreed to send for David. That at least removed the fear that he might have lost control of the valley.
He said: “I’ll walk along and tell my lot what’s happening.”
The voice was indifferent. “Please yourself. But keep them off the road.”
Pirrie was sitting up and taking notice now. He listened to what John had to tell them, but made no comment. Roger said:
“You think it’s going to be all right, men?”
“I don’t see why not. The bloke behind the machine gun may be a bit trigger-happy, but that won’t bother us once we’re behind him.”
“He don’t seem very anxious to let us get behind him,” Alf Parsons said.
“Carrying out orders. Hello!”
There was the sound of an engine approaching. It halted behind the barrier.
“That will be David!” John got to his feet again. “Ann, you could come along and have a word with him, too.”
“Isn’t it a risk?” Roger asked.
“Hardly. David’s there now.”
Ann said: “Davey would like to come, too. I should think—and Mary.”
“Of course.”
Pirrie said: “No.” He spoke softly, but with finality. John looked at him.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I think they would be safer here,” Pirrie said. He paused. “I don’t think you should all go along there together.”
It took several seconds for John to grasp the implication; he only did so then because the remark came from Pirrie and so could be founded only on an utterly cynical realism.
“Well,” he said at last, “that tells me something about how you would act in my place, doesn’t it?”
Pirrie smiled. Ann said: “What’s the matter?”
John heard David’s voice calling him in the distance: “John!”
“Nothing,” he said. “Never mind, Ann. You stay here. It won’t take me long to fix things with David.”
He had half expected the gate in the fence to open as he approached, but he realized that caution—possibly excessive, but on the whole justified—might prevent this until John’s status, and the status of the troop that accompanied him, had been settled. He stood under the fence, still blind to whatever was happening on the other side of it, and said:
“Dave! That you?”
He heard David’s voice: “Yes, of course—open it. How the devil is he going to get in if you don’t?”
He saw the muzzle of the gun waggle as the gate beneath it opened slightly. No chances were being taken. He squeezed through the gap, and saw David waiting for him. They took each other’s hands. The gate closed behind him.
“How did you make it?” David asked. “Where’s Davey—and Ann and Mary?”
“Back there. Hiding in a ditch. Your machine-gunner damn near killed us all.”
David stared at him. “I can’t believe it! I told the people at the gate to look out for you, but I never believed you would get here. The news of the ban on travel… and then the rioting and rumours of bombing… I’d given you up.”
“It’s a long story,” John said. “It can wait. Can I bring my lot in first?”
“Your lot? You mean…? They told me there was a mob on the road.”
John nodded. “A mob. Thirty-four of them, ten being children. We’ve all been on the road for some time. I brought them here.”
He was looking at David’s face. He had seen the expression only once before that he could remember: when, after their grandfather’s death, they had heard that the whole estate was being left to David, It showed guilt and embarrassment.
David said: “It’s a bit difficult, Johnny.”
“In what way?”
“We’re crowded out already. When things began getting bad, the locals began to come in. The Rivers from Stonebeck, and so on. It was their boy who got hold of the machine-gun—from an army unit near Windermere. Three or four of the men came with him. It’s spread thin. We’ll manage all right, but there’s no margin for accidents—a potato failure, or anything like that.”
“My thirty-four will spread it thinner,” John said. “But they’ll work for their keep. I’ll answer for that.”
“That’s not the point,” David said. “The land will only support so many. We’re over the mark now.”
A brief silence followed. The Lepe rushed past on their right. The man tending a fire on which a pot was simmering and the two men up on the platform were both out of earshot. Nevertheless, John found himself lowering his voice. He said:
“What do you suggest? That we turn back towards London?”
David grasped his arm. “Good God, no! Don’t be a fool. I’m trying to tell you—I can make room for you and Ann and the children; but not for the others.”
“Dave,” he said, “you’ve got to make room for them. You can do, and you must.”
David shook his head. “I would if I could. Don’t you understand—those people aren’t the first we’ve had to turn away. There have been others. Some of them were relations of people already here. We’ve had to be hard. I’ve always told them that you and your family must come in if you got here. But thirty-four…! It’s impossible. Even if I agreed, the others would never let me.”
“It’s your land.”
“No one holds land except by consent. They are in the majority. Johnny—I know you don’t like the idea of abandoning the people you’ve been travelling with. But you will have to. There’s no alternative.”