Грэм Мастертон - Famine

‘This looks like being a disastrous year for wheat farmers in the Middle West. A mysterious blight has stricken crops in most parts of Kansas and North Dakota, in some cases ruining fifty to sixty per cent of a farm’s entire harvest. Fortunately, grain stocks are very high after last year’s excellent weather, and President Carter’s embargo on selling US wheat to the Russians has also helped to keep the silos topped up. So – Department of Agriculture experts are saying today that there is no immediate cause for public concern.

‘In Washington, Kansas Senator Shearson Jones has acted promptly in setting up an appeal fund for farmers who lose their wheat crops because of the blight, and has already been pledged three million dollars by agriculture-related industries. He hopes that Congress will vote his fund anything up to ten million dollars because of the “vicious, unprecedented, and unusual nature of the blight.”’

There was a lengthy interview with Shearson Jones, looking like a fat white Moby Dick in the glare of the mobile television lights, and he spoke with jowl-trembling sincerity about the ‘plain hard-working men who defy storm, drought, and disease to feed this nation of ours.’ Afterwards, John Magonick said, ‘Other states have reported an unusually high incidence of crop failure this year. In California, whole vineyards of table grapes are rotting on the vine, and lettuces, according to the California Growers’ Association, are looking very browned off. In northern states, too, it seems as if corn and soybean crops are suffering, and in Wisconsin some dairy farmers are complaining of rancid grass. The Department of Agriculture puts the blame on this year’s humid conditions, but doesn’t expect the country’s nationwide food production totals to fall very much below eight per cent on last year’s figure.

‘In Canada, some wheat growers are suffering the same blight as our unfortunate Kansas farmers, and Parliament in Quebec will be discussing possible emergency measures tomorrow.’

Ed stood up and switched the television off.

‘Did you hear that?’ he said.

‘Couldn’t fail to,’ said Willard.

‘But did you hear the way it was all made to sound so goddamned reassuring ? That was what bothered me when Shearson’s assistant called me – what was his name – Peter Kaiser. Everything’s fine. Everything’s under control. Your crops have all been blighted in the space of forty-eight hours, we still don’t have a goddamned clue why, but sit back and relax. Now they’re talking about crop blights in California and Canada, and nobody seems to be worried. I mean, for Christ’s sake, California produces a third of the vegetables for the entire country. And what are we going to do for wheat if Canada’s harvest gets wiped out, too?’

‘They said that grain reserves were pretty high.’

‘Sure, but how long do they think they’re going to last? I don’t know how many loaves of bread and hamburger buns get eaten in the United States in the space of a single day, but just think about it. There was something else that bothered me, too. Rancid grass in Wisconsin. What happens if dairy products get hit? And meat production?’

‘Come on, Ed, you’re letting this whole thing get you worked up,’ said Dyson. ‘If there was any real reason to panic, they would have said so on the news. There must be thousands of millions of tons of canned foods in the country to keep us going through a bad year, in any case, and what about all the frozen stuff?’

‘And what about next year?’ demanded Ed. ‘What happens if our crops get hit again?’

‘You heard what they said on the news. They’ve got the federal research laboratories working on it. They’re bound to come up with something.’

‘Well, I sure hope so.’

Ed didn’t stay long at Willard’s house. He was feeling too anxious and unsettled to sit down and have a drink with the boys. What’s more, he hadn’t yet heard from Season and Sally, and he wanted to go back to the farmhouse and wait for them to call. He finished his beer, said good night to Willard and Dyson, and walked back along the winding track that led to the main farmyard.

His mother was standing on the front verandah in a long white evening-dress with a high collar and batwing sleeves. She was holding on to the rail, and looking up at the full Kansas moon.

‘Hello, Mother,’ he said, as he mounted the steps.

She turned around, and nodded. ‘Nearly harvest time,’ she said. ‘Or it should have been, at least.’

‘I heard some news from Washington today,’ Ed told her. ‘It seems like we may be getting some extra compensation, on top of our usual crop insurance. We may be able to keep the farm going after all.’

‘Well, that is good news,’ said his mother. ‘I was just thinking how sad it would be to see South Burlington die.’ He stood beside her, a few feet away. Her diamond necklace was sparkling in the moonlight, and he could smell her perfume, mingled with the wind-borne sourness of decaying wheat.

‘Have you heard from Season?’ he asked her.

She shook her head.

‘Well, I’m going upstairs to have a bath and dress for dinner. Do you want a drink before I go?’

‘No, thank you,’ said his mother. Then, hesitantly, ‘Edward?’

‘Yes, Mother?’

‘You’re better without her, you know. South Burlington is better without her.’

Ed stared at her for a long time. Then he said, ‘I love her. Mother. If I didn’t think it would make matters worse. I’d quite happily sell this farm tomorrow, and everything on it, and go join her in California.’

‘I’m glad your father can’t hear you say that.’

‘Daddy’s dead. Mother. Don’t keep waving his shroud at me. Now, if you’ll pardon me for fifteen minutes, I could use a shave and a hot bath.’

Ursula Hardesty turned away, and struck a deliberately hurt and melodramatic pose by the verandah rail. Ed paused for a moment, wondering if he ought to say he was sorry, but then he opened the screen door and went inside. This was his house now, his farm, his marriage. Whatever charades his mother wanted to play under the harvest moon, well, let her do it. Charades were a luxury that few people were going to be able to afford for very much longer.

Half-way up Topanga Canyon, Carl Snowman turned the Mercury stationwagon into the steep and curving driveway, past the mailbox that carried a Los Angeles Times flag, and through the leafy gardens that eventually took them up to the house. He parked the stationwagon at an angle, and jammed on the brake tight, so that it wouldn’t ran back downhill.

‘We’ve finished the extension now, you know,’ he told Season, switching off the engine, and opening his door. The key alarm buzzed plaintively in the warm evening air. ‘The playroom, the spare bedroom, everything. Sally can have a whale of a time.’

He opened the door for Season, and helped her out. Sally was in the back, covered by a rug, fast asleep after the flight. They had been delayed for three hours at Albuquerque, because of a refuelling problem and by the time they had reached Los Angeles, Season had been feeling distinctly frayed. Standing in the terminal at Albuquerque, staring out through the tinted windows at the sun-rippled concrete and the gleaming aeroplanes, she had been tempted to book a flight straight back to Wichita, and return to Ed.

It was only her urgent need to be herself, as well as Mrs Edward Hardesty, that had kept her away from the American Airlines desk. I have to give myself a try, she had told herself. If I don’t try, then I’ll never find out.

At the top of the cedarwood steps, the door of the house opened, and Season’s sister Vee appeared in the lighted doorway. She was two years younger than Season, but their friends invariably thought she was older. Her hair was bleached Beverly Hills white, and she had a deep California tan. Apart from that, she wore the smocks and Gloria Vanderbilt jeans of a determinedly casual movie director’s wife. Her hoop earrings swung as she kissed Season on both cheeks.