Harvest At Brightstone Farm

HISTORICAL SHORT STORY BY LAURA TAPPER

In this story, set in the 1930s, When hop-picking time came round, Iris knew she’d soon see Davey once again…

Last one ’ome gets a slug in their bed!”
Frank stamped in a puddle on his way past his sisters, splashing dirty water on to their already wash-weary pinafores.

Their youngest brother, William, came running after as fast as his skinny legs would carry him, but his foot caught on a stone and he fell headlong on to the path, unable to save himself.

They all paused, holding their breath with him, until the shock reached his brain then issued from his mouth in an explosion of tears.

“Up you get, my man.” Iris bent down, scooped her five-year-old brother out of the muck and checked him over. “You’ll live.”

The little boy planted his feet resolutely, a dribble of blood trickling from his knee.

“I don’t want slugs in me bed!” he wailed.

“I don’t, neither,” their six-year-old sister, Lily, added, starting to snivel.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Iris heaved William on to her hip with one hand and took Lily’s hand with the other.

“It’ll be dark by the time we get back and ’ere’s me with all the chores still to do.

“Trust me, nobody’s gettin’ a slug in their bed.” As she herded the rest of the family home, Iris added, under her breath, “It’ll be our Frank who’s gettin’ a flea in his ear.”

At thirteen, Iris Edwards was the eldest in the family and about to leave school.

After her came Frank and then Arthur, followed by Violet, Lily and little William.

With so many mouths to feed, their father worked long hours delivering fruit and veg all over London on a barrow, while their mum, Hilda, worked in a laundry.

That left Iris with a lot to do.

“Frank Edwards, I want a word with you.”

As soon as she got in the door to their two up, two down dwelling in South Terrace, Iris set William on his feet.

“Do you set out to make my life hard on purpose, or is it just an unlucky accident on your part?”

“It’s here.” Frank interrupted her, holding up an envelope by its top two corners. “Addressed to Mr and Mrs J. Edwards.”

He held it up to his nose and breathed in deeply, closing his eyes as he did.

“I can smell the country air still on the paper.”

“You’re daft in the head, you are!” Iris snatched the letter from his hand and examined it.

A slow smile curved her lips. He was right: she recognised the rounded writing.

That envelope had travelled from the Kent countryside and contained the Edwards family’s annual invitation to work for three whole weeks at Brightstone Farm, along with train tickets to take them there.

She carried it carefully and put it where it always stayed, waiting for departure day, behind the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Dry your eyes, Lily. Pull yourself together, William. In a few days’ time, we’re going ’opping.”

“Arthur, stop dawdlin’ or we’ll leave you behind.”

Hilda Edwards led her brood through the dim streets to London Bridge, pushing a cart piled high with the things they would need: chairs, pots, pans and bedding.

“Don’t trail that bundle of clothes in the dirt, Violet,” she added. “You’ll be gettin’ grubby enough once you’re workin’.”

Iris brought up the rear, leading the two youngest by the hand, and they soon became part of a stream of families making their way to the hopping train, leaving their men behind in London to carry on with their regular jobs.

She caught the sound and the smell of the huge black engine on the air and, before she knew it, they were in the carriage.

The sooty streets of the city gave way to the green fields of Kent, and she knew that they were on their way to the closest thing she’d ever get to a holiday.

As she looked out at the farm buildings, surrounded by trees and hedgerows, she felt a pain in her chest.

What if she was in service next year? What if this was her last time of going hopping?

Squeezing her eyelids shut in an attempt to silence the thought of the friendship that might also bring to an end, she took a deep breath.

All the more reason to make the most of every single second of this trip, then.

She nodded to herself and, having made that firm decision, opened her eyes and spoke to Lily, who was sitting on her knee.

“Have you seen a cow yet?”

The little girl shook her head.

“Right, let’s see who can spot the first one.”

They always had the same hut: number four.

Inside, there were two large beds made out of pallets, with straw mattresses on them.

The boys all shared one and the girls, Hilda included, shared the other.

Brightstone Farm was one of the better ones, with brick-built huts for the pickers, complete with a privy at the end of the line.

“Come all these miles and we’re still in the middle of a terrace,” Hilda joked, same as she did every year.

“It smells funny.” William wrinkled up his nose.

“There’ll be no whining,” Hilda scolded as she began to unpack their few simple belongings.

“When I was your age, all we ’ad was ramshackle shelters made out of sheep hurdles an’ blankets, so think yourself lucky.”

“Back in my day . . .” Frank rolled his eyes and Arthur giggled.

“That’s enough of your cheek. You’re not so big as I can’t give you a clip round the ear if I’ve a mind to.”

Hilda made a sudden move towards the two boys, who immediately dashed out of the door into the Kent sunshine.

“Mickey, Edith, look at this.” Iris held out a ladybird to show the little boy and girl. “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away
home . . .”

“Hello, Iris.”

At the words, Iris stopped the rhyme and looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun.

The voice was deeper and the young man in front of her was inches taller than he had been last year, but the flip in her chest confirmed that her heart would have recognised him immediately, even if her eyes might not have done.

“Hello, Davey.” She smiled shyly. “I’m looking after the little ones this year.”

“So I see.” He took the hand on which the ladybird was crawling, turning it over as the insect made its way on to her palm.

“At least your fingers will stay pretty, then,” he added.

It was always easy to spot pickers, because the sulphur they sprayed on the hops stained their fingers black.

“Well, there would ’ave been our Lily and William for me to mind, anyway, an’ it means the other mothers can get a lot more done without the worry of watchin’ these.”

Iris nodded to the large group of young children running around the grassy area near the makeshift shelter she’d set up at the end of the terrace of huts.

“They’ll pay me in tokens, so it’s the same difference.”

“Makes sense.”

The ladybird had flown away, and Mickey and Edith had wandered off, but Davey still kept hold of Iris’s hand.

Seeing you is the best part of hopping. It always has been

he told her.

They were interrupted by a tall girl of about fifteen with a shiny black ponytail.

“I wouldn’t touch her, if I were you. You don’t know where she’s been.

“The village is full of strangers.” She gave the term great emphasis and shuddered.

“My father’s glad he got the grilles up in time – nasty, thieving individuals.”

“That’s not fair, Penny. On this farm, we welcome our friends from the East End.” Davey smiled reassuringly at Iris. “We couldn’t do the harvest without them.”

“Yeah, but your dad has enough sense not to mix them up with locals in the hop garden.

“Strangers on one side, decent folk on the other; how it ought to be.

“Just look at them scratching.” Penny pointed to William, who was stretching his short arms up and down his back in an attempt to relieve an itchy spot which remained just out of his reach.

“You’d be itching, too, if you slept on straw mattresses full of beetles and fleas. It doesn’t mean we’re not honest.” Iris bridled, pointing her finger at the girl.

“At least we’ve the manners and good sense to judge people on how they behave and not where they come from.”

“Let’s go up to the house, shall we?” Davey suggested, taking Penny’s arm. “I’m sure my sister would be happy to see you.”

Iris stood open-mouthed and furious as she watched the young man she’d always considered her friend walk off with the daughter of the local grocer.

It wasn’t news to her that the villagers were unpleasant to the families who travelled down each September to help with the harvest.

The shops tended to shun them, many refused to serve them, and those that did put metal grids up in front of their goods to prevent them from being stolen.

As a result, the East End families mostly bought supplies directly from the farm or from the traders who brought their wares to the terrace.

That way they could buy things with their hopping tokens, rather than having to wait until payday.

Iris had to admit there had been a few London pickers over the years who might have been less than honest, but it was unfair that they should all be tarred with the same brush.

More to the point, she was angry with Davey that he hadn’t stuck up for her more to that dreadful Penny.

When push came to shove, it was clear which side he was on.

“There’s someone outside wants to talk to you.” Frank nudged Iris as they were making up the beds before everyone gathered around the fire outside for evening songs and storytelling.

“I don’t want to talk to ‘im.” Iris shook out the blanket on the girls’ bed and spread it across as best she could.

“You might as well ell ’im to sling ’is ’ook.”

Her mouth was set in a grim line.

A few minutes later, Frank was back.

“He told me to tell you that Penny wouldn’t let up about us lot, so he sent her packin’.

“He wanted you to know, ’cause he reckons you should watch your back. Says she’s a nasty piece of work.”

“Well, you can tell ’im that he needn’t ’ave bothered.” Iris turned to Frank with her hands on her hips. “I can look after meself, thank you very much.”

Her brother held his hands up to stop her tirade.

“I’m not your go-between. Tell ’im yourself, if you’ve got anythin’ else to say.”

With that, he stomped out to join the others by the fire.

“I’m sorry to ask it,
Mrs Edwards.”

The next day, just as they were getting ready to cook their evening meal, Farmer Grainger stood awkwardly on the threshold of their hut, talking to Hilda.

“You’ve been good workers for years and you’re honest as the day’s long. I told Mr Avery as much when he came down throwing accusations about.

“But his daughter claims she saw your Frank sneaking around at the back of the shop last night, and now they’ve found some stuff is missing.”

He shrugged.

“Seems the easiest way is to search your hut and then that’ll be the end of that.”

“Search where you like, Mr Grainger,” Hilda replied. “You won’t find anything. Frank was here with us all evening, same as always.

“Ask your Davey, if you like; he was hanging around for some of it.” Hilda stood aside to allow the farmer to enter.

“My Frank might be a bit of a tearaway at times, but he’s not got light fingers.”

They all watched as the farmer looked carefully through their belongings, before lifting the blankets and the mattresses to search underneath.

There, hidden under the corner of the boys’ bedding, was a single chocolate bar, still in its wrapper, a piece missing.

He held it up.

“Whose is this?” He looked around the room and William started to cry.

“It were a present and I was looking after it.” The little boy sniffed.

Hilda crouched down in front of her son and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“What do you mean, a present? Where from? Who for?”

William’s eyes were wide.

“The big girl with the dark hair. The nasty one.” He shot a glance at Iris. “She said it was for you, to say sorry. I didn’t mean to eat it, Iris.”

His little face crumpled in shame and misery.

Iris quickly recounted the events of the previous day and the adults concluded that Penny Avery had used William in an attempt to frame Frank and cause trouble.

Mr Grainger was full of apologies and repeated that he’d never doubted the honesty of the Edwards family for a moment.

He and Hilda agreed to put the whole business behind them, going on to discuss the day’s work and where they’d be starting in the morning.

As she was one of the longest-serving pickers, Mr Grainger looked to Hilda to keep a lot of the others on track.

Next day, out in the hop garden, Iris was enjoying the repetitive rhythm of the picking.

It was soothing to her soul to be in the shade of the rustling rows of hops, and the smell would fill her dreams once they were back in London.

“I looked for you over with the little ones.” Davey startled her out of her reverie.

“I swapped with one of the other girls for a change. I didn’t want to miss out on the pickin’ altogether.”

She looked at him briefly before continuing with her work.

“I heard what happened with Penny. I’m sorry she’s been so awful.” He paused as though waiting for Iris to respond.

When she didn’t, he continued.

“The other day, I just wanted her out of the way. She can be real trouble.”

“Is that right, Davey?” A harsh voice came to them from behind the row of plants.

Perhaps the trouble comes from you hanging around with filthy strangers like this one.

A fair-haired boy of about fourteen appeared through the foliage, with another two behind him.

“It’s none of your business whose company I keep.” Davey’s chin jutted forward and his eyes narrowed as he confronted the boys.

“But I’d rather mix with strangers than with locals that are worthless, conniving . . .”

Davey didn’t get to finish his sentence before the three boys set about him and all four ended up rolling in the mud.

Iris tried in vain to pull one of the boys off, all the while shouting for help.

Frank, Arthur and a load of other East End boys came running over to break up the fight, each keeping hold of one of the combatants, who were all struggling to get at each other.

Suddenly, into their midst came Farmer Grainger, his face enraged.

“What on earth is going on?” He glared at his son, whose cheeks were streaked with dirt.

Davey hung his head and refused to answer, so Iris piped up.

“He was defending me, sir. These boys had some words to say about us an’ where we come from as weren’t very nice, so Davey was putting ’em straight.”

The farmer silenced her with a gesture.

“I’ve heard enough. I might have known it would come to this.

“I always hoped it would work, having families down from London to pick alongside the local ones, but I can see I was mistaken.”

“But we ain’t done nothin’,” Frank protested.

The village boys nodded smugly to each other.

“I wouldn’t look so pleased with yourselves if I were you, lads,” Mr Grainger admonished them. “Thanks to you, a fair few local people will be losing some work this season.”

He turned to Hilda.

“Mind you, Mrs Edwards, it’ll mean your crews working flat out and for longer hours to get done. Can you manage it, do you think?”

Hilda smiled at the farmer.

“We won’t let you down.”

“You never have yet.”

With that, the East End teams got back to work, while the farmer followed the boys to the other hop garden to give the crew of local workers the bad news.

Iris led Davey back to the terrace to clean him up.

He had a nasty cut on his chin, but she thought the resulting scar might make him even more handsome in the long run.

“Thanks for sticking up for me.” Her eyes were soft as they met his. “It was very brave.”

“You’ve never been a stranger. You’ll always be my friend.” His voice was almost a whisper.

“I hope that, one day, you might be more.”

“Perhaps you’d better start sendin’ me letters then, an’ not just your dad once a year.”

Iris smiled and knew in her heart that, whatever happened, she’d find a way to come back for another harvest on Brightstone Farm next September.

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