Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [588]
It was a pitiful farm, though there were many others like it. His sheep were out on the ridge above and they walked slowly up there together. She inspected them.
“All Southdowns? No Hampshires?”
“They’re less trouble.”
“And they give less in return too,” she said briskly.
In the last few years, a great change had taken place in the vast population of sheep above Sarum, and Jane knew all about it. The hornless Southdowns which had replaced the old long-horned Wiltshire stock in the last century were now being replaced themselves with another, even more productive breed, the Hampshires.
The Hampshires produced lambs which fattened earlier: they gave a better return; but they were, as Jethro said, more trouble, and certainly more expense, to feed.
“I don’t like hurdle sheep,” he added. “Have to feed them root crops in a field instead of just turning them loose on the downs like a grass sheep.”
“Even so, all the best farmers are changing to Hampshires,” she reminded him.
He did not seem to be very impressed, but strode on before turning.
“I can’t afford the investment,” he said quietly.
It was very likely true.
“But what about the agricultural societies?” she suggested. “Can they help? And what about your landlord?”
Many farmers had found the machinery and investment needed in the new age too much for their individual purses; but for more than a generation now, clubs had been formed of small farmers who banded together to buy machinery and make capital investments. In a similar spirit, Mr Rawlence had recently set up a loan company for improving landlords.
“Landlord’s an old man. Won’t spend anything,” Jethro replied. “As for the societies,” he gestured towards the little hamlet and the bare downs above: “we’re cut off here, you see.” She noticed that when he said it, there was a faint glint of satisfaction in his eye, and she understood. There were many in those quiet, desolate regions, miles away from the bustle of the city and its market, who had no longing for change.
They began to walk down the slope again.
“Have you any relations who could help?” she asked.
He laughed softly.
“Relations? I’ve relations over the five rivers. Hundreds of them – down south to Christchurch, and north to Swindon, I’spect. Hundreds of us Wilsons.” He gave her a slow smile. “I don’t know them; they don’t know me. It’s that sort of family.” She nodded. She thought she could see them: fishermen, small farmers, quiet people who had lived in the area since who knew when. “The ones down at Christchurch are smugglers, so they say.” He chuckled. “More money in that.”
“No doubt.”
Away from the city, on his own ground, where he seemed to move with such ease, there was something strangely attractive about his tall, strong figure and his gentle, half-mocking humour.
It was just before they reached the farmhouse again that he remarked:
“Over there,” he pointed to an overgrown area along the edge of an old ditch, “is where you can find pigs.”
“Pigs?”
He grinned.
“Hedgehogs. They call them pigs up here.” He moved over to the brambles and showed her the ground, which was a mass of roots and fallen leaves. “You follow along here. Then you break down the ground and you find them.”
“How do you know where to look?”
“You know. Sometimes,” he said simply. “They taste better’n rabbits; that’s what all the folk up here say.”
She had never thought of such a thing before. How strangely simple, how primitive it was: harsh nature at the edge of the chalk ridges as it had been, she supposed, for thousands of years. A world on her very own doorstep that she had sometimes ridden past, but never known.
“I fear we don’t know much about hedgehog hunting in the close,” she said wryly.
“No.”
He was observing her quietly: she was aware of it. And how strange it was, she thought, that here in this poor hamlet, on the edge of the open wilderness, this half-reformed drunkard farmer with his simple life should make her feel uncomfortably as if he knew something about her that she did not know herself. He said nothing: he remained inscrutable