Addlands Read online

  Addlands is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Tom Bullough

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by The Dial Press, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  THE DIAL PRESS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Originally published in the United Kingdom by Granta Books, London.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Bullough, Tom, author.

  Addlands: a novel/Tom Bullough.

  pages; cm

  ISBN 978-0-8129-9872-6

  ebook ISBN 978-0-8129-9873-3

  1. Family secrets—Fiction. 2. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PR6102.U47A63 2016

  823'.92—dc23 2015029000

  ebook ISBN 9780812998733

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Simon M. Sullivan, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Anna Bauer Carr

  Cover photograph: © Peter Adams/ImageBrief

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  1941

  1947

  1952

  1957

  1963

  1970

  1976

  1977

  1983

  1989

  1990

  1996

  2001

  2011

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Addlands (i.e., headlands):

  the border of plough land which is ploughed last of all.”

  W. H. HOWSE, Radnorshire

  BY FOUR O’CLOCK, when Idris was devouring his tea, perched between the tall, spoked wheels of the whilcar, the fence no longer straggled around Llanbedr Hill but cut out almost to the heather. Its wires whistled in the searching wind. He appraised the bent grass, the sheep’s fescue and deep red fern of his new-claimed ground. He checked for rocks with his quick, black eyes, then, tossing a scrap of cake to the dogs, lowered himself back onto his smarting feet, warming his hands inside his old tweed coat before he gripped the shafts of the Ransome and manhandled it over to the working horse, which was tethered to the first post he had sunk.

  “Aw!” he called. “Aw whoop! Aw whoop!”

  Buster was a contrary animal. To catch him in the mornings took guile and diligence—hiding the harness, proffering bread or threatening him with Albert’s bicycle, which always filled him with a paralysing terror. But a horse was a horse: the highest of all animals, whatever the virtues of the sheepdog. Once Buster was hackled he would nettle to his work, and although Idris held the jo-lines and the handles of the plough, he guided him with his words alone—his voice shrill over the clatter of the tack. Short, round-shouldered, he toiled behind him up the shallow slope, one foot in the reen, the other in the crumpled fern. He watched the mountains emerge from the red-green hilltop, snow in the gullies of their long black body like a skeleton exposed. He paused at his former boundary with the common land to hurl a few stones out of the way, but in time he reached the addlands by the green lane to Painscastle and lumped the plough round to face the wind, the valley and the birds already diving and arguing on the scar he had left in the hillside.

  “That’s him, Buster! That’s a boy!”

  On occasion, ploughing, Idris had counted thirteen different species of bird in his field. Even now there were seacrows, and starlings, and lapwings, and rooks from the trees at the church. How anybody could think this work was lonely was more than he could understand. And then there was the pleasure of the ploughing itself—of the line, of the furrow falling clean and firm so the seed would sit in the ridge. The War Ag paid every farmer in the country for ploughing up grazing, for putting down crops, but others left grass between their furrows; others still had refused to comply at all and found themselves thrown off their land. Compulsory war work: that was what it meant. Idris, he would do his bit of usurping the common, same as the next man, but he found his defiance in precision, in a tidy job, and if his neighbours took it for acquiescence, well, there it was.

  The plough stopped dead in the black, peaty soil. It threw itself forwards so that the handles kicked out hard as a bullock, and Idris caught such a blow to the chest that it was only by grabbing the plain wire fence that he was able to keep his feet. He gasped and choked on the airless wind. His long, pale face turned dark, almost scarlet. In the naked pain it was as if he had been gassed, as if his lungs were blistering all over again.

  The sun was falling now, between Mynydd Troed and the far-away plume of the Beacons. Beneath the colouring clouds Idris stood propped against the nearest fence post, coughing, wheezing, wiping the tears from his face. There were ravens in the larches round the cottage at the Island, wethers out for Llyn y March Pool. The sunlight, in places, revealed old copps and reens: the work of the Denes, so his grandfather Idris had told him.

  It took all of the strength in his uninjured arm for Idris to push himself upright, then to hoist the plough handles level with his shoulders to allow the horse to pull it clear. The point of the share was snapped off clean. With his hand he tore at the rhizomes of the fern and peeled back the grass from a flat-faced stone a foot in the width and some six inches deep, which he tried at first to lift himself. He tunnelled beneath it, throwing up earth, but even with his boot he could not work it loose, so he trudged across the bank to the whilcar, fetched the chain and bound it round the stone—looping the hook end back through the tee head on the plough.

  “Easy, boy,” Idris murmured. “Easy now…”

  He led the horse slowly down the slope, the Ransome dragging uselessly as the long chain jangled along with the brasses, rose with the share and came tight. The birds lapped back down their single furrow. Buster snorted, shaking his head as if bothered by flies. The muscles showed in his thick white coat. He dug up the soil with one feathered hoof, and with another, and then, with a sucking of mud and a tearing of roots, the skin of the hill at last gave way. The stone reared into the evening light: a slab of darkness, cut, not formed, taller than Idris by a head or more—its long shadow lying coldly on the hilltop for a moment before it fell.

  —

  AT THE TABLE in the kitchen the white jug fell from Etty’s fingers to shatter on the flagstones: an ink spot of water in the last red light from the east-facing window. A moan broke unbidden from the back of her throat and grew into a lowing, like a beast. Her long eyes clenched, her wide lips trembling, she sank until her face was almost in the basin and her nostrils flooded with the reek of yeast. Pain encircled her back and her belly like a noose. An urge came upon her simply to run—even in this sack of a dress, with nowhere to go and the night coming on—but her body held her as completely as the house. The clocks passed the time across the larder door. Somebody was hurrying down the boards of the landing. She looked again into the fist-shaped valleys and the lakes in the dough, which spilled and shimmered as she tried to stand.

  “Mam,” Etty managed, then with growing panic, “Mam!”

  —

  BY THE TIME that Idris had packed up his tools and lowered the long stone onto the whilcar, the first of the nightly searchlights was scouring the sky above the mountains in the south. It trailed through the cobweb clouds, pointed out Venus, found the first new moon of the New Year high over the Twmpa: a dry moon, longer at the bottom than the top, on account of its holding in the water. Idris removed his old felt h
at, joined his hands, bowed to the moon and made a wish. This done, he opened the gate he had hung that morning and—with a second searchlight now sparring with the first, patrolling a land in which he could see not one fire, not one window or headlamp—he allowed Buster to make his way home.

  There’s a long, long trail a-winding

  Into the land of my dreams,

  Where the nightingales are singing

  And a white moon beams.

  Bumping and slithering, the whilcar followed the track back down towards the farm, its iron snout digging up the wet ground, taking the weight from the half-seen horse. Idris sat on the head of the stone, his boots among the unused posts and wire, his bad arm tucked across his aching ribs. He sang along to the wind in the trees: the larches at the Island, the hawthorns on the common and the beeches on the bank above Llangodee, where the dogs were yawling into the darkness. He could have told any place in this valley simply by its sounds, by the movement of the air.

  There’s a long, long night of waiting

  Until my dreams all come true;

  Till the day when I’ll be going down

  That long, long trail with you.

  On the near side of the brook he slipped to the ground and, with the moon and the searchlights appearing once more from the hill behind him, led the horse through the ford and into the Bottom Field. In the thin, shifting light, he saw the first signs of a glat in the hedge, a fresh mole tump, a ewe he’d known as Bessie as a lamb, which was rubbing on a gatepost and would need to be checked for the scab. He passed the creatures gathered round the hay cratch and climbed towards the Banky Piece, where the barn for the Funnon rose above him, loud with cattle, the wind on the roof and in the surrounding trees.

  The stable lamp flared then sank into a glow as the stocking fell back over the flame. Idris had to lift it just to make out the rabbits hanging in braces, their big shadows stirring on the deep barn walls, the bantams roosting on the fat white beams. In the yard the sheepdogs were wagging and whining for attention. The pig he had spared the previous month returned his look from the door of the sty, while the cattle in the beast-house shouted their hunger and the door of the stable swung and creaked—the cob gone out of his bay.

  “Drat that boy…” Idris started.

  He stood for a moment in the stars in the puddles, beneath the tall and blinded house, then, hawking, spitting, he went to fill a bucket in the stone-lined flem, which ran along the top edge of the yard. He washed the feathering of Buster’s legs, unhackled the ropes and rose his supper of swedes and oat straw. He took the hay knife down from its peg, but at the first sound of a motorcycle he returned outside to peer down the track at three lines of light, which came blinking out of Turley Wood, throwing shapes like ghosts onto the trees and the hedgerows.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hamer,” called the midwife, dismounting at the bridge. She stopped the spluttering engine and took her bag from the pannier. “What’s news?”

  “Well…Well, Mrs. Prosser.” Idris was looking some inches to her left. “Well, she were heavy on foot this morning.”

  “You hanna seen her, then?”

  “No no. I’ve only come back but just.”

  The midwife hesitated, perhaps out of pity. “Oh!” she said. “There was a bomb fell at Boughrood last night. Did you hear?”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well!”

  “Aiming for the railway bridge, they reckon. Made a heck of a hole in the Dderw!”

  “Oh,” Idris repeated, as if this woman were a stranger, as if they had not sat within ten yards of one another every Sunday for the past twenty years. He turned his eyes another inch into the darkness and held up the lamp to light the old wooden bridge that led across the flem to the house. “I had best fodder the beasts, I had. Please to go on in, Mrs. Prosser.”

  —

  ALONE, AS HE always had been, Idris sat in his old pine chair beside the fire in the kitchen. With stiffened fingers he peeled back the hems of his corduroy trousers, fought with his laces and stood his boots together on the hob, their raised toes facing out into the room. He smelt the stink of his stockings join the smells of the oil lamp, the stewpot in the oven, the birch logs drying on the nook. He scratched his chilblains, took a swig of tea, stretched out his legs and turned his paper to the light.

  “You are asked to plough more,” he read. “Brecon Motors, Ltd., are dealers for David Brown Tractors and ploughs.”

  “Let the stars guide you during 1941.”

  “If you’re feeling all in after a hard day’s work hop into a LIFEBUOY TOILET SOAP BATH—it’ll soon put new life into you.”

  From the ceiling came another terrible scream.

  “Rhyscog. Mr. Philip Griffiths, Pant Farm, officiated at the Methodist Church here on Sunday. Mrs. Joyce Prosser was organist, and Mr. Idris Hamer, Funnon Farm, was precentor.”

  Idris dropped the paper and folded over his knees, one hand working in the island of hair that remained on the top of his head. He breathed in gasps, groaning to muffle the sounds from the bedroom—the cries, the footsteps, the urgent women’s voices—and, by the case clocks that now stood either side of the larder door, some minutes passed before he raised his eyes again to the failing fire and took another birch log from the stack. He sat with his hands clasped at his chin and watched the flames revive on the log’s paper skin, sending flurries of light across the embossed roses on the door of the oven, the underside of the mantelshelf, the mistletoe pinned to the black beam above him. He watched them find the splinters left by the teeth of his crosscut saw, and soon both ends of the log were engulfed, and then the log was the fire and Idris felt a flush of heat among the grizzling stubble and the vertical lines of his face.

  “O Lord,” he said, quietly. “O Lord, give me patience to bear it and all the rest I will leave in Thy hands.”

  —

  IN THE NIGHT the pain began to shift, to turn, to find its direction. Its colours deepened in Etty’s eyelids, became the blues and violets of some ungodly flower. As if in prayer, she knelt beside the bed, and when the pain came upon her she buried her face in its old feather mattress and barely noticed the shrieks that burst from her lips. The room was thick with a faecal stink. She was naked from the waist. Someone was mopping her, unthinkably, talking in a tight, calm voice. In those moments when she recovered her mind she made weak efforts to tug down her dress, but then again the pain returned, her thoughts dissolved in its burning tide and she knew no more than her mother’s hand, which she held with her entire strength.

  —

  ETTY LAY WITH her shoulders on the pillows and her head against the heavy oak bedhead. In spite of the pain she dozed, drifted, woke only distantly when her mother took the blind from the tall sash window and the morning effaced the night-time shadows, exposed the faded red of the curtains and the pink and yellow flowers of the wallpaper.

  In the kitchen the grandfather clocks chimed sixteen times. In the yard the midwife greeted Albert the labourer, who called an instruction to the farm boy. There was the kick and roar of a motorbike. Etty waited for the breakfast train to come whistling and rumbling up the embankment from Llanstephan Halt, then heard the geese and remembered that she no longer lived at Erwood Station, that there was no railway, no road, no shop, no St. John’s Ambulance with its three other nurses and its wide doors open to the world. She moaned in her throat and woke up the baby, which began at once to search for her nipple and suckled again with such terrible strength that she could only think of thunder or of the white-tipped Wye in its full winter spate.

  “Keep him down, love,” said Molly, her mother. “That’s it. Head up, see?”

  Etty felt the hot tears on her round, girl’s cheeks. She lifted her head an inch from the bedhead and looked past the red hair damp and scattered on her shoulders to her swollen breasts, and still she could not believe this furious creature in his towelling cocoon—his wild black hair, his puckered purple face, the two little teeth in his bottom gum, which had tinted dark the milk
around his lips.

  On the bedside chair, Molly smiled and murmured meaninglessly, and when the baby relented and fell back to sleep she lifted him carefully into her arms. As Molly stood, Etty felt the breath grow tight in her chest. She watched her mother cross the worn oak floorboards, her head bent, her elbows appearing from the fringe of her shawl. She saw her in the three angled mirrors of the dressing table that they had brought with them in the lorry in the summer—her vein-tangled hands, her dark hair protruding from her crimson headscarf—and when she reached the fireplace at the end of the room Etty felt that, if her baby went another inch further, she might be pulled apart.

  She looked away quickly to the window and the last, lost reaches of this cleft-like valley: this unkind farm pushed back into the open hills. In the left of the frame were the bare, rook-flapping sycamores of the abandoned church, which sat not fifty yards from the house, at the top end of the yard. Above the stone-tiled roof of the barn a crowd of fieldfares rose from Quebec Field with glimmering wings, grew, contracted and settled in the Panneys. Above them, on Llanbedr Hill, a few ragged hawthorns and the bare, grey larches at the Island stood exposed by the flaming sky and, as she watched, she saw first a dog, then the horse and the whilcar led by her husband: a hunched little figure in an old tweed coat, plodding, climbing the slanting track onto the common. He crossed the lane to Painscastle and stopped in the bracken of his newly fenced field. He turned, legs parted, a hand to his eyes as if surveying his kingdom. But then the arch of the sun broke free of the hilltop and he was lost to the light of a new day.

  IT HAD ONCE come as a surprise to Etty to discover that her husband could sing. Nothing but the shrill of his speaking voice would have suggested to her that he was a tenor who had, as a young man, performed the solo from “Sound the Alarm” at county concerts—and the high A too, if Nancy Llanedw were to be believed. In Etty’s experience, Idris sang hymns and hymns alone. There was rarely a journey when he would not embark on “O’er Those Gloomy Hills of Darkness” or “There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood,” and as they drove through the furious night, although she felt no exultation whatsoever, still she found that she was singing herself—her own voice clear and precise, rising into the harmonies. She sat in the trap beneath the heavy blanket, peering past the lantern at the sniping snow, while Oliver huddled under her arm, on the slight, firm bulge of her belly.