John Christopher - The Death of Grass

“My name’s Noah Blennitt, Mr Custance,” the elderly man said, “and that’s my son Arthur. Then there’s my wife Iris, and her sister Nelly, my young daughter Barbara, and my married daughter Katie. Her husband was on the railway; he was down in the south when the trains stopped. We’re all very much beholden {135} 135 beholden: obliged, indebted to to you, Mr Custance. We’ll serve you well, every one of us.”

The woman he had referred to as Katie looked at John, anxiously and placatingly.

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea for us all to have some tea? We’ve got a big can and plenty of tea and some dried milk, and there’s water in the brook just along.”

“It would be a good idea,” John said, “if there were two dry sticks within twenty miles.”

She looked at him, shy triumph rising above the anxiety and the desire to please.

“That’s all right, Mr Custance. We’ve got a primus stove in the pram as well”

“Then go ahead. We’ll have afternoon tea before we move off.” He glanced at the body of Joe Ashton. “But somebody had better clear that away first.”

Two of Joe Ashton’s erstwhile followers hastened to do his bidding.

Pirrie walked with John for a time when they set out again; Jane, at a gesture from Pirrie, walked a demure ten paces in the rear. John had taken, as Joe Ashton had done, the head of the column, which now ran to the impressive number of thirty-four—a dozen men, a dozen women, and ten children. John had appointed four men to accompany him at the head of the column and five to go with Roger at the rear. In the case of Pirrie, he had made specific his roving commission. He could travel as he chose.

As they went down the road into the valley, separated somewhat from the other men, John said to him:

“It turned out very well. But it was taking a bit of a chance.”

Pirrie shook his head. “I don’t think so. It would have been taking a chance not to have killed him—and a rather long one. Even if he could have been persuaded to let you run things, he could not have been trusted.”

John glanced at him. “Was it essential that I should run things? After all, the only important thing is getting to Blind Gill.”

“That is the most important thing, it is true, but I don’t think we should ignore the question of what happens after we get there.”

“After we get there?”

Pirrie smiled. “Your little valley may be peaceful and secluded, but it will have defences to man, even if relatively minor ones. It will be under siege, in other words. So there must be something like martial law {136} 136 martial law: military government, civil law having been suspended , and someone to dispense it.”

“I don’t see why. Some sort of committee, I suppose, with elected members, to make decisions… surely that will be enough?”

“I think,” Pirrie said, “that the day of the committee is over.”

His words echoed the thoughts that John himself had felt a short while before; for that reason, he replied with a forcefulness that had some anger in it:

“And the day of the baronn is back again? Only if we lose faith in our own ability to cope with things democratically.”

“Do you think so, Mr Custance?” Pirrie stressed the “Mr” slightly, making it clear that he had noticed that, following the killing of Joe Ashton, the expression had somehow become a title. Except to Ann, and Roger and Olivia, John had now become Mr Custance; the others were known either by Christian names or surnames. It was a small thing, but not insignificant Would Davey, John wondered, be Mr in his turn, by right of succession? The straying thought annoyed him.

He said curtly: “Even if there has to be one person in charge of things at the valley, that one will be my brother. It’s his land, and he’s the most competent person to look after it.”

Pirrie raised his hands in a small gesture of mock resignation. “Exit the committee,” he said, “unlamented. That is another reason why you must be in charge of the party that reaches Blind Gill. Someone else might be less inclined to see that point.”

They moved down into the valley, passing the signs of destruction, which had been evident from higher up but which here were underlined in brutal scoring. What refugees there were avoided them; they had no temptation to look to an armed band for help. Near the ruins of Sedbergh they saw a group, of about the same number as their own, emerging from the town. The women were wearing what looked like expensive jewellery, and one of the men was carrying pieces of gold plate. Even while John watched, he threw some of it away as being too heavy. Another man picked it up, weighed it in his hand, and dropped it again with a laugh. They went on, keeping to the east of John’s band, and the gold remained, gleaming dully against the brown grassless earth.

From an isolated farm-house, as they struck up towards the valley of the Lune, they heard a screaming, high-pitched and continuous, that unsettled the children and some of the women. There were two or three men lounging outside the farm-house with guns. John led his band past, and the screams faded into the distance.

The Blennitts’ perambulator had been abandoned when they left the road on the outskirts of Sedburgh, and their belongings distributed among the six adults in awkward bundles. The going was clearly harder for them than for any of the others, and they made no secret of their relief when John called a halt for the day, high up in the Lune valley, on the edge of the moors. The rain had not returned; the clouds had thinned into cirrus {137} 137 cirrus: high, wispy cloud , threading the sky at a considerable height Above the high curves of the moors to westward, the threads were lit from behind by the evening sun.

“We’ll tackle the moors in the morning,” John said. “By my reckoning, we aren’t much more than twenty-five miles from the valley now, but the going won’t be very easy. Still, I hope we can make it by tomorrow night For tonight—he gestured towards a house with shattered windows that stood on a minor elevation above them—“… that looks like a promising billet Pirrie, take a couple of men and reconnoitre it, will you?”

Pirrie, without hesitation, singled out Alf Parsons and Bill Riggs, and they accepted his selection with only a glance for confirmation at John. The three men moved up towards the house. When they were some twenty yards away, Pirrie waved them down into the cover of a shallow dip. Taking leisurely aim, he himself put a shot through an upstairs window. They heard the noise of the rifle, and the tiny splintering of glass. Silence followed.

A minute later, the small figure of Pirrie rose and walked towards the house. Apart from the rifle hunched under his arm, he had the air of a Civil Service official making a perfunctory business call. He reached the door, which apparently he found to be ajar, and kicked it open with his right foot. Then he disappeared inside.

Once again John was brought up sharp with the realization of how formidable an opponent Pirrie would have been had his ambition been towards the conscious exercise of power, instead of its promotion in another. He was walking now, alone, into a house which he could only guess to be empty. If he had any nerves at all, it was difficult to envisage a situation in which they would be drawn taut.

From an upper window, a face appeared—Pirrie’s face—and was withdrawn again. They waited, and at last he came out of the front door. He walked back down the path, sedately, and the two men rose and joined him. He came back to where John was.

John asked him: “Well? O.K.?”

“Everything satisfactory. Not even bodies to dispose of. The people must have cleared off before the looters arrived.”