Strawberry Roan , livre ebook

Strawberry Roan
by A. G. Street

First published in 1932
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
Trava2909@gmail.com
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Strawberry Roan



by A. G. Street

In gratitude
TO MY WIFE
Who never doubted clouds would break

Chapter 1
One Sunday evening in the year 1928, JohnDibben walked back from chapel muchmore quickly than usual. His two smalldaughters, Kate aged eleven and Emily aged nine,generally referred to by their parents as “Katenemily”,were forced to trot by their father’s side inorder to keep up with him, and his wife was beginningto puff at the unaccustomed speed.
As a general rule their return from chapel wasmore in the nature of a leisurely stroll, with frequenthalts for intimate conversation with othervillage worthies; a dallying which was usuallyfinished by Mrs. Dibben’s, “Now father, do ’eecome on. Katenemily do want their supper.”
But this evening there were no stops of anykind. Mr. Dibben strode along as if for a wager,with only a hurried wave of the hand, and a curt“Good evening” to his cronies. The Wesleyanchapel was a little distance from the heart of thevillage of Coombe Wallop, being nearly a milefrom the Dibbens’ home, and, as it was a warm,sultry, September evening, the pace set by herlord and master soon proved too much forMrs. Dibben.
She was what is known as comfortable in build,she was garbed in decorous Sunday black, and shehad on a pair of new, black, button boots. Newboots are usually a trial to most folk, and abouthalfway home these caused Mrs. Dibben to burstout with, “Fer mercy’s sake, John, goo a bitstiddier, do. What’s yer ’urry? My corn be fairtuggin’.”
“Sorry, me dear,” said Mr. Dibben, slowingdown a trifle, “I werden thinkin’, and I do want toget ’ome. I do want to go up along atter supper,fore do get dark.”
“Lor, ’ow you do worrit about that place. Youwere up there afore tea.”
Presently they arrived outside the village shop,of which the fascia board bore the inscription,“ John Dibben ”, with the word “ Baker ” in frontof the “ John ”, and the words “& Grocer ”after the “ Dibben ”. Mr. Dibben took a large keyfrom his pocket and opened the shop door tothe accompaniment of the “ping” of the shopbell.
This was one of Mrs. Dibben’s greatest griefs.Though they were very comfortable, doing well,and she was considered a lucky woman by most ofher contemporaries, the front entrance to her homewas through the shop. And Mrs. Dibben wanteda private front door. She had wanted it for years.On weekdays the “ping” of the shop bell wasmusic to her ears, but on Sundays it was distinctlyout of tune. Sometimes the minister came to herhome after the morning service, and she hated tohave him come through the shop.
This was another grievance against “that place”,which seemed to fill all John’s waking thoughts.If he had not taken “that place”, she would havehad her front door last year. “Matter o’ ten poun,”Jesse Sturmey, the builder, had said, “and make’ee a tidy li’l front porch an’ all.” And John hadalmost decided to have it done, and then he hadtaken “that place”, which had swallowed up allthe available ten pounds, and more besides. Sheheaved a regretful sigh at the thought of her disappointment,passed hurriedly through the shop,discarded the new boots for more comfortablefootwear, and began to lay the supper.
There was no mystery attached to “that place”,to which Mr. Dibben was going after supper. Itwas merely a small farm of about one hundred andforty acres, which he had rented from the Squiresince the previous Michaelmas. Although Mr.Dibben was a baker and grocer, and a successfulone at that, the taking of this farm marked therealization of his life’s dream; for he came offarming stock, and had toiled early and late at hisbusiness, in order, in some measure, to get backto the soil from whence he sprang.
He was not ashamed of being a baker and grocer,he was proud of it, and the past year’s workinghad proved to him that, by comparison with theshop, the farm was far from being a business proposition.But while the shop might make money,the farm satisfied Mr. Dibben’s inmost soul. Heloved every inch of it—the slow, certain growthand maturing of his crops, the horses, the cows,the pigs, and above all the pleasing thrill of possessingthe right to do this or that at will with apiece of England’s land.
But why should he want to go to his farm aftersupper on a Sunday evening? He was a staunchWesleyan. Didn’t he know that on the Sabbathhe should do no manner of work? Of course hedid, but he was not to be caught out by means ofthe Scriptures, because he was well aware of thebit about the man who had an ox or an ass, whichhad fallen into a ditch and required human assistance.Granted, Mr. Dibben did not expect to findany tragedy of this nature, when he arrived at hisfarm, but in the words of his old stockman andgeneral factotum, Silas Ridout, “Wold Dolly wurabout due”. And “Wold Dolly” was Mr. Dibben’sbest cow.
In his heart of hearts Mr. Dibben was far moreinterested in wheat growing than in dairying, butlike the majority of farmers in the district he haddecided that the cow was undoubtedly “the ladywho paid the rent”.
He wanted to grow wheat because of the joy hegot from seeing a field of it at harvest time, whichmarked the fruition of three years of constantplanning and toil. But every time he thought aboutit, he was forced to admit that while it was a pleasingthing to do, it was not only too long a business,but also a certain way of losing money.
Even before he had taken the farm he had oftenthought about wheat growing, and had tried tofind an argument which would justify growing it,but he had never succeeded. Life was too short,he thought. Why, the soil required two years ofpreparation in the shape of repeated crops of sheepfeed, which had to be folded off by sheep to enrichthe land before the wheat could be sown. Thenthere followed some ten months of almost continuousdifficulties and dangers, before the cropcould be harvested.
Rooks dug up the seed as soon as it was planted,and then, when the thin spears of almond-greenmade their appearance above the ground, usuallyin November, clouds of hungry starlings fed uponthem. The plants, which survived these pests andalso the winter’s rigours, were damaged by rabbitsand hares in the spring. The remainder came intoear about the first week in June, but unless thisoccurred in calm warm weather, the ears were onlyhalf filled. From then until harvest wheat neededsunshine, then sunshine, and yet more sunshine,which Mr. Dibben knew could not be dependedupon in his district.
Everything, he thought, seemed to be againstwheat growing. A July thunderstorm might laythe smiling field of yesterday as flat as a pancake,thereby reducing the yield by one third and increasingthe harvesting expenses by at least one half.And the harvest placed the wheatgrowerutterly helpless in the hands of the weather indealing with his crop.
Mr. Dibben’s final objection to growing wheatwas, of course, its unremunerative price. He wasa Liberal and a Free Trader, and had been a greatadmirer of that great Liberal statesman, Mr. LloydGeorge; but since he had taken a farm his faith inthat gentleman had been badly shaken. Thereshould have been a fair price for wheat, he thought.The present state of things was wrong, and somehowthere seemed to be some justice in the contentionof the neighbouring farmers that Mr.Lloyd George had let them down badly over theCorn Production Act. He hated to think such aheresy, but he could not help it.
Still, if he could not grow wheat under the existingconditions, there were other things which hecould do, so like most of his neighbours, he hadturned to the gentle, placid cow for comfort andsupport. Wheat growing was too long about, butcows were the quickest thing in farming. Youcould buy a cow one day, and sell milk from herthe next—a small profit, possibly, but that uniquething in agriculture, a quick return.
Being a shopkeeper, Mr. Dibben, quite early inhis farming career, had discovered this pleasingquality in milking cows as compared to the otherbranches of farming, and “Wold Dolly” was theapple of his farming eye—hence his hurried supperthat Sunday evening.
It was a pity to hurry over supper on any Sundayevening at the Dibbens’. Supper on the Sabbathconsisted almost invariably of cold roast beef andpickles. The whole family liked pickles, and froma long and varied consumption they had acquireda pretty taste in these foodstuffs. Mr. Dibbenusually stuck to onions, with an occasional pickledwalnut by way of a change. Mrs. Dibben was fartoo genteel to eat onions, and inclined more to thefancy brands of pickles, more particularly to theIndian Mango, which had a thrilling picture of aneastern snake-charmer on the label on the bottle.Pickles, being considered an unsuitable article ofdiet for children, were only permitted to Katenemilyon Sunday nights as a treat, and the childrenpreferred the rich, brown, liquid Piccalilli.
“Eat your own goods, and then you can tell acustomer what’s what,” was one of Mr. Dibben’smaxims, and, in the matter of pickles, undoubtedlythe Dibbens knew what was what.
But there was no lingering over these delightsfor Mr. Dibben that Sunday evening. He consumedhis supper in hurried silence. Then he rosefrom the table, took out his cuff links—he hadsupped without his coat—and began to roll up hisshirt sleeves well above the elbow.
“What