Cut and Come Again

  CUT AND COME AGAIN

  by

  H. E. BATES

  To

  Edward J. O’Brien

  Contents

  Foreword by Lesley Pearse

  A Note from the Family

  Beauty’s Daughters

  Cut and Come Again

  The Mill

  The Revelation

  Waiting Room

  Little Fish

  The Station

  The House with the Apricot

  The Irishman

  The Plough

  Jonah and Bruno

  The Bath

  Harvest Moon

  The Pink Cart

  Bonus Stories:

  The Tree

  The Man from Jamaica

  A Note on the Author

  Foreword

  I have always believed that H.E. Bates was the absolute master of short story writing. He managed to create a little world for you to enter into, and that soft focus world would stay with you long after you’d finished the story.

  When I first started writing I tried my hand at short stories, assuming quite wrongly it would be easier than attempting a book. Bates was my guiding light; there appeared to be a simplicity about his work that I sought to emulate. I did get a few short stories accepted by magazines, but they could never be in his league. I certainly never created anything as lovely as ‘The Watercress Girl’. Did any writer before or since? I think I found it in a magazine and read it curled up in my aunt’s spare room one wet school holiday and then went on to rush to the library to find more of his work. Fair Stood the Wind for France was the first book I borrowed and I was totally hooked on his work, but it was always the short stories I really admired the most.

  Lesley Pearse, 2015

  A Note from the Family

  My grandfather, although best known and loved by many readers all over the world for creating the Larkin family in his bestselling novel The Darling Buds of May, was also one of the most prolific English short story writers of the twentieth century, often compared to Chekhov. He wrote over 300 short stories and novellas in a career spanning six decades from the 1920s through to the 1970s.

  My grandfather’s short fiction took many different forms, from descriptive country sketches to longer, sometimes tragic, narrative stories, and I am thrilled that Bloomsbury Reader will be reissuing all of his stories and novellas, making them available to new audiences, and giving them – especially those that have been out of print for many years or only ever published in obscure magazines, newspapers and pamphlets – a new lease of life.

  There are hundreds of stories to discover and re-discover, from H. E. Bates’s most famous tales featuring Uncle Silas, or the critically acclaimed novellas such as The Mill and Dulcima, to little, unknown gems such as ‘The Waddler’, which has not been reprinted since it first appeared in the Guardian in 1926, when my grandfather was just twenty, or ‘Castle in the Air’, a wonderful, humorous story that was lost and unknown to our family until 2013.

  If you would like to know more about my grandfather’s work I encourage you to visit the H.E. Bates Companion – a brilliant comprehensive online resource where detailed bibliographic information, as well as articles and reviews, on almost all of H. E. Bates’s publications, can be found.

  I hope you enjoy reading all these evocative and vivid short stories by H. E. Bates, one of the masters of the art.

  Tim Bates, 2015

  We would like to spread our passion for H. E. Bates’s short fiction and build a community of readers with whom we can share information on forthcoming publications, exclusive material such as free downloads of rare stories, and opportunities to win memorabilia and other exciting prizes – you can sign up to the H. E. Bates’s mailing list here. When you sign-up you will immediately receive an exclusive short work by H. E. Bates.

  Beauty’s Daughters

  It was a small two-storied farmhouse built of brick the colour of sheep-reddle, with a wired-in yard of wooden cow-hovels roofed with corrugated iron that shone white hot in the straight afternoon sunlight. It stood quite solitary on the rise of land, and without a sign of life; the yard empty even of chickens; the surrounding fields, divided up into set rectangles by fences of wire, empty of cattle; the treeless grass scorched brown under the fierce heat, and the sky empty of birds. As I went up the hedgeless cart-track of summer-baked mud towards the house I looked down at my shoes. They were covered with soft red dust, ironstone dust, the colour of the land all about me. Even the pasture was coloured red; the red dust seemed to be choking the thin brown grass. And then when I looked up again it seemed as if years of wind had blown a bombardment of dust against the house and that the bricks, and even the woodwork, had absorbed it. Beyond the red house the fields continued in bare undulations, scorched up, almost grassless, and beyond the land the sky was a fiery blue without a shred of cloud. Nothing stirred and nothing seemed to be happening in the stillness of afternoon sunlight.

  Then when I reached the turn in the track that led into the farmyard I saw a movement beyond the house: the flap of a shirt-sleeve. A man was digging potatoes in a wired-in patch of ground between the house and a line of damson trees. Then as I began to walk across the yard I saw that the house door was open, with splashes of white hen-dung fresh on the threshold.

  Then, looking at the man in the potato patch again, I saw something else. A red puff of dust, like the puff of a miniature cannon, rose up every time he dug. And as I went closer I could see the dust, like a red blight, on the dark potato leaves, and on the man’s boots, and on his black-green trousers.

  I reached the wire and stood there, looking at the man digging. He did not see me. He was a tallish man, dark and very thin: thin straight body, and thinner splayed-out legs, like a split hay-rake. I could not see his face: only his thin back curved and straightened with each lifting of potatoes.

  Then I spoke. ‘Could I get something to drink here?’ I said. ‘Some tea?’

  He looked up and round at once: though not at me, but at the house. Even then he did not see me. He stared at the house for a moment and then put his fork in the earth.

  ‘Could I get something to drink?’ I said.

  He looked up again: but this time at me, startled, with astonishment. He stared hard, with a half-flicker of recognition in his eyes, as though he could not believe I were a stranger. His eyes were very brown: there was a mild, almost sweet look in them, inoffensive, almost childish. Then he saw that he did not know me, and the sweet mildness shot away and left him blank and uneasy.

  I tried to reassure him: ‘I only want a drink,’ I said. ‘Tea or something, or water.’

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ he said.

  His voice was so subdued that I scarcely heard him. And in a moment he was walking away across the potato patch and then across the yard and so into the house.

  As I stood waiting for him I leaned back on the fence-wire and looked at the sun-scorched yard and the house. At once I saw why there was so little sign of life about the farm: the dog, a shepherd, lay asleep in the shade of a muck-cart, and the hens, ten or a dozen of them, all raw-necked, were huddled together in the thin shadow of a haystack, in scratched-out nests of dust and hayseed, half asleep. And besides the man they seemed to be the only living things about the place. Under the still heat it seemed deserted and dead.

  Then suddenly it came to life. A girl came half-running out of the house to the yard-pump, with a water-bucket in her hand. She did not see me. She was a heavy, big-breasted girl, about thirty. She had nothing on but a white underskirt and white skirt-top: no shoes or stockings or hat or corsets, so that I could see the coarse dirt-shiny soles of her feet as she ran, her black curl-pinned hair, and the great unsupported breasts flopping heavily und
er the thin skirt-top.

  She hung the bucket on the pump-spout and began to work the handle. I could hear the pump sucking air in the short intervals between each motion of the squeaking handle. The water seemed a long time coming up, and finally after working the handle madly the girl desisted for a moment, out of breath. I could hear her muttering, and I could see even at that distance the sweat shining yellow on her coarse-fleshed face. Then after a moment she began to work the handle again; and again the pump sucked air and nothing happened, and once more she gave it up.

  But this time her anger broke out in a shout.

  ‘Dad! Dad!’ She bawled as if he were on the opposite field-slopes. ‘Dad! Christ Almighty. Where are you? Where the hell are you? Dad!’

  Nothing happened. She began to pump again, the pump sucking air as before, she swearing. Every time she lifted her arm I could see the thick sweat-matted hair black under her armpits. In anger her face was sullen, passionate, the dark eyebrows close together. But there was one thing about her that was different.

  I did not see it until I began to walk across the yard towards her. She had begun to push back her thick hair away from her face, and as I came nearer I saw that she had lovely ears; small, lovely, soft-curved ears that shone very white against her black hair.

  Then as I was looking at them and thinking that at any moment she must see me, she stopped pumping again and put her hand on the pump-head and drew herself up and looked down the shaft.

  ‘The bloody pump’s dry!’ she shouted. The pump-shaft magnified the words, so that they rang out hollow and heavy and more blatant.

  And they must have reached the house. For suddenly the man reappeared, half-running. ‘All right, May, I’m coming,’ he said. He kept repeating the words as he hurried across the yard to the pump.

  ‘About time!’ she shouted.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘The bloody pump’s dry.’

  ‘All right, leave it to me. I’ll see to it, May. I’ll do it.’ He spoke in a half-frightened voice, apologetically. ‘All right, May, I’ll do it. Leave it to me.’

  ‘I tell y’ it’s dry!’

  ‘All right, all right. I knowed it were running low.’

  ‘But I wanna git washed!’

  ‘All right, May, all right.’

  He stood by the pump, tiptoe, and looked down the shaft.

  ‘If we could git some water down it’d suck up,’ he said.

  ‘Well, git some, then, git some. Quick.’

  ‘Ain’t no water near ’n Red Link,’ he said.

  ‘Christ.’ She stood furious, clicking her tongue madly. ‘And we wanna go out.’ Then suddenly she seized the bucket. ‘Christ. Give us the damn bucket. Come here. I’ll wash in milk.’

  She took the bucket, and turned, and started to run back into the house. And turning, she saw me.

  At once a miracle happened. By that time I was standing only seven or eight yards away from her, in a direct line between her and the house, so that she had to come past me. And seeing me standing there, looking at her, she was transformed. She shook back her hair with a gesture of almost timid quickness, a sudden and quite absurd act of modesty, as though she were scared at the sight of me. Then she put her free arm flat across her breasts so as to cover them. Then she set her lips straight and drew in her breath and held herself almost primly. And she was looking at the ground until the moment of going past me.

  She looked up for the fraction of a second as she went past. And she spoke.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ It was a soft, ladylike, quite genteel ‘Good afternoon’, and the voice was so unlike the voice that had bawled across the yard that I was too astonished to speak. And she went on into the house.

  The man was working the pump-handle in a series of quick motions, trying to suck up the water, as I reached him. But the sinker was still sucking dry and he gave it up when he saw me come.

  ‘That’s about the last on it,’ he said. ‘We’re praying for rain.’

  Then he remembered:

  ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘she says it’s all right. She’ll put you up.’

  For a moment I didn’t say anything. I was tired, but I hadn’t asked if they could put me up. Then I tried speaking very quietly, with my face half turned away.

  ‘I asked about a drink,’ I said.

  The man gave no answer. Then I remembered that I must have been ten or twelve yards from him when I first spoke. And looking at his face I saw that it was a deaf face: it had the soft, touching, half-stupid look of quiet vacancy that the faces of the deaf have. It was responsible for the look of blank fear and the sweet mild expression in the dark eyes. It explained why he had come so slowly in answer to the girl and why he had misunderstood me.

  And when I spoke again I raised my voice a little:

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘She’s gitten’ the room ready now.’

  ‘All right. But can I have a drink?’

  ‘Ain’t no water,’ he said, ‘only milk. You don’t fancy that, I expect?’

  ‘Anything,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll git it.’

  He began to walk across the yard. Looking after him, I saw something white moving at one of the bedroom windows. It was a girl: not the girl I had already seen, but another. She was combing her hair and watching me: combing the hair straight through, then tossing it back and then looking at the comb, all the time pretending she did not see me. Then she vanished behind the curtain, abruptly, as though she had been pulled there. And in her place I could see a woman: a big florid woman, like an older and fatter replica of the girl I had already seen. She took one look at me and vanished.

  Before I could see who appeared in her place the man was calling from the door.

  ‘I never thought. Come in. I never thought about you standing out there in the sun.’

  I followed him into the house, through the front door and along the red-brick passage. The white and grey splashes of hen-dung became mixed with bluish-white splashes of milk as I went farther into the house, the trail following the bend of the passage, and finally at the foot of the stairs a great star-splash of milk lay on the bricks.

  Just beyond the stairs the man stopped, his hand on a door-knob. ‘You make y’self at home in here,’ he said. ‘She’ll be down in a minute.’

  He opened the door and I just had time to see a deal table covered with dirty dinner crocks before the man hastily shut it again.

  ‘Huh!’ he said.

  He walked across the passage at once and opened another door. They were old-fashioned varnished doors, with comb-grained patterns and knots of sepia and gold. And for a moment, when the man pushed it, the second door stuck, as though the varnish had liquefied in the heat. Then it opened all of a sudden. And the man burst in.

  ‘Better come in here,’ he said.

  Going in, I met the stale summer odour of the shut-up room coming out with a rush. It was stifling. Half-stupefied flies were crawling up the closed windows and on the varnished wallpaper and the oil-smoked ceiling and the pier-glass standing on the green plush-draped mantelpiece.

  ‘She’ll be down in a minute,’ the man said. The words were like a chant of reassurance. I put my rucksack down on the oilclothed floor. ‘All right,’ I said again, but he left the room hurriedly, without having heard. When he had gone I sat down and stared at the gramophone.

  I couldn’t help staring at it. Standing in the centre of the table, surrounded by black piles of records, its horn was like some great yawning ship’s ventilator in blue and gold. Looking at it, I wondered and waited. Nobody came. Then I listened; and I could hear the clatter of crockery and then the bump of feet in the rooms above. Every now and then the bumps would increase, shaking the glass in the brass oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. But still nobody came. And the room was intolerable. I began to separate the stale odours: odours of sunstale air and sour milk and hens and then the softer odours of stale cigarette smoke and women’s scent and women’s clothes
. At last I got up and walked round the room, looking at the cheap pictures on the walls and the tea-caddies on the cheap sideboard, all the stale paraphernalia of the farmhouse front room, seeing nothing to interest me until I came back to the gramophone and the pier-glass again.

  Then I saw that the pier-glass frame was filled with all sorts of gilded and silver-lettered cards of invitation, stuck one above another: ‘The Committee of the Oakwood Tennis Club request the pleasure of the company of Mrs. and Miss Rita and Miss May Thompson, at a Dance’; ‘Lord and Lady St. John of Dean request the pleasure of the company of Mrs. and Miss Rita and Miss May Thompson, at the Servants’ Ball’; ‘Mrs. and Miss Rita and Miss May Thompson are cordially invited to …’

  I was still reading the cards when the bumping began upstairs again. Suddenly it grew louder and nearer, and a second or two later the door opened and Mrs. Thompson came in.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘Do please excuse me.’

  It was the same ladylike, put-on voice with which the daughter had murmured her almost timid ‘Good afternoon’ as she hurried past me into the house. And the mother was like the daughter: the same florid body, with the big breasts, the heavy-fleshed passionate face, the black rope-thick hair. An odour of flesh and violets rushed in with her, half driving away the sun-staleness of the room. And she was dressed all in white: white shoes and stockings and a dress of white silk that stretched skintight over her big breasts and hips, leaving her arms bare to the shoulders. She was an imposing woman, and there was no doubt that once she had been a beauty. Now she looked like a fat white pigeon.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll take you up to see your room,’ she said.

  She opened the door and I followed her across the milk-splashed passage and up the oilclothed stairs, carrying my rucksack. Going up behind her I could see nothing but her fat white back and her tight-clothed heavy hams straining and quivering with the exertion of climbing. It was only when she turned the bend in the stairs at the top that I could see her face; and I saw then that she had the same little soft-shaped white ears as the daughter.