Russell, Morning Interlude (1936)
Russell, Daniel; The Saturday Review, 22 August 1936, p. 243
He sat upon the low stone wall by the roadside and soaked his ancient bones in the sunlight. He was incredibly old. His brown face was seamed and crossed with a multitude of wrinkles. The hand which held his pipe shook as though palsied. Under his chin from ear to ear he wore a frame of whisker. From under his curly brimmed bowler hat there were long wisps of white hair. His blue eyes were faded and watery, but still alert and gleaming with humour.
His garments belonged to a fashion long since dead. His bowler hat was green with age. His coat and waistcoat buttoned high up to the spotted scarf which encircled his stringy neck. His trousers were of strong brown corduroy. His boots were the clumsy products of the village cobbler.
As I neared him he swept up one gnarled hand in greeting. “Marnin’ to ‘ee,” he said solemnly, “‘t’es a bewtiful marnin’ sure enough.”
He waved his hand in a large and hospitable gesture. Do ‘ee set aside me.”
Eightpence a week
He dusted the stones with a flaring red handkerchief. I sat beside him.
“It do do me owd bones good to set out ‘ere,” he said, “I do come up ‘ere most every foine day. T’es a long drag up, but it be worth it. I be an’ not so spry as I was. I still gits about though. So long as I kin drink me pint and smoke me pipe I don’t grumble. I never ‘ave ‘ad much an’ what I ‘ad I ‘ad to work ‘ard fer. These young fellers to-day they don’t ‘ave sich a ‘ard toime as what we ‘ad. Left school when I were zix I did, and went to scaring crows at eightpence a week. Only a liddle boy, I were, to stay out in the fields all day long. First start off I did cry turrible, I were so lonesome. Fourteen of us there was in the family an’ me faither only earning zixteen shillin’ a week. Never ‘ad butcher’s meat we didn’t, less farmer killed a pig an’ gied us the innards. But, bless ‘ee, us did thrive on it. Bread an’ bacon an’ biled cabbage were what I were bred on, an’ I’ve outlasted most on ’em. ‘Ard days they was, though.”
He fell silent for a moment. I offered him my pouch. When his pipe was going well he said: “I minds, when I were ten year owd, farmer sent me ter market wi’ some pigs. Fowerteen moile it were I ‘ad ter droive them pigs. Then, when I got thur, I ‘ad ter bring back some sheep. Farmer he gied me thrippence fer gooin’, an’ whed I got ter market I were so hungered I spent me thrippence on buns an’ beer, so I did the job fer nothin’ as ‘ee moight zay.”
“You hadn’t much time for pleasure, then?” I asked him.
He smiled. “Oh, aye. Us did ‘ave plenty o’ fun. But us ‘ad ter make our own fun. Us did ‘ave a dance or a liddle concert sometimes. Then there was the ‘arvest ‘omes. All them what ‘ad ‘elped ter git the carn in was asked, an’ farmer ‘e’d gie ’em a gurt feast with plenty o’ beer. Then us young fellers ud git up an’ dance and someone ud zing us a zong. Good times they was. Then thur was the wrastlin’. That were a great sport when I were a young man. They did wear boots that was tipped wi’ iron or bone, an’ they’d kick at each other’s legs till one on ’em cried enough. My faither were a notable wrastler in ‘is day. ‘Is legs was black to the knee till the day ‘e died from the kicks ‘e’d took.
“What was your job?” I enquired.
“Carter, I were, ‘ead carter afore I finished. Zeventeen shillin’ a week an’ a cottage an’ a point o’ milk every day. I were up every marnin’ afore ’twas loight to see to me team, then out all day in the fields an’ ‘ome at sundown. Long hours they was an’ ‘ard work, specially ‘arvest toimes. Us ud start at fower in the marnin’ an’ goo on till ‘leven at night. Used to take us longer to git it in then cos us ‘adent no reapers. Us used to cut the corn by ‘and. I mind the first reaper what come about ‘ere. Folks come fer moiles to see it. There aren’t fellers now what kin use a scythe like we could.
No money, but . . .
He puffed thoughtfully at his blackened pipe. “Tell ‘ee what,” he said suddenly, “‘t’is bin a ‘ard loife fer me an’ a bit o’ a struggle sometimes, but oi’ve ‘ad a real good time. Never ‘ad much money, but oi’ve managed some’ow. I done me job an’ oi rackon I done it well. Always ‘ad good ‘osses an’ always looked arter ’em. Any road, I ain’t got much longer. But when the good Lord do call me I bain’t afraid to goo.”
With difficulty he laboured to his feet. “Got to goo now,” he explained. “Me darter do goo on turrible if oi’m late fer me dinner. Thank ‘ee fer settin’ down wi’ an owd man. Good day to ‘ee.”
He touched his quaint old hat and set off down the road. I watched him until he had turned the corner and the thought was in my mind that, hard and humble though his life had been, there were many men who would envy him for that little sentence, “I bain’t afraid to goo.”
Credit to Ruslan Pashayev for sharing this artefact with the Devonshire Wrestling Society.