Lark Rise - Flora Thompson (read more books .TXT) 📗
- Author: Flora Thompson
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children to be fed; but flour for the daily pudding and an occasional
plain cake could be laid in for the winter without any cash outlay.
After the harvest had been carried from the fields, the women and
children swarmed over the stubble picking up the ears of wheat the
horse-rake had missed. Gleaning, or ‘leazing’, as it was called locally.
Up and down and over and over the stubble they hurried, backs bent, eyes
on the ground, one hand outstretched to pick up the ears, the other
resting on the small of the back with the ‘handful’. When this had been
completed, it was bound round with a wisp of straw and erected with
others in a double rank, like the harvesters erected their sheaves in
shocks, beside the leazer’s water-can and dinner-basket. It was hard
work, from as soon as possible after daybreak until nightfall, with only
two short breaks for refreshment; but the single ears mounted, and a
woman with four or five strong, well-disciplined children would carry a
good load home on her head every night. And they enjoyed doing it, for
it was pleasant in the fields under the pale blue August sky, with the
clover springing green in the stubble and the hedges bright with hips
and haws and feathery with traveller’s joy. When the rest-hour came, the
children would wander off down the hedgerows gathering crabapples or
sloes, or searching for mushrooms, while the mothers reclined and
suckled their babes and drank their cold tea and gossiped or dozed until
it was time to be at it again.
At the end of the fortnight or three weeks that the leazing lasted, the
corn would be thrashed out at home and sent to the miller, who paid
himself for grinding by taking toll of the flour. Great was the
excitement in a good year when the flour came home—one bushel, two
bushels, or even more in large, industrious families. The mealy-white
sack with its contents was often kept for a time on show on a chair in
the living-room and it was a common thing for a passer-by to be invited
to ‘step inside an’ see our little bit o’ leazings’. They liked to have
the product of their labour before their own eyes and to let others
admire it, just as the artist likes to show his picture and the composer
to hear his opus played. ‘Them’s better’n any o’ yer oil-paintin’s,’ a
man would say, pointing to the flitches on his wall, and the women felt
the same about the leazings.
Here, then, were the three chief ingredients of the one hot meal a day,
bacon from the flitch, vegetables from the garden, and flour for the
roly-poly. This meal, called ‘tea’, was taken in the evening, when the
men were home from the fields and the children from school, for neither
could get home at midday.
About four o’clock, smoke would go up from the chimneys, as the fire was
made up and the big iron boiler, or the three-legged pot, was slung on
the hook of the chimney-chain. Everything was cooked in the one utensil;
the square of bacon, amounting to little more than a taste each;
cabbage, or other green vegetables in one net, potatoes in another, and
the roly-poly swathed in a cloth. It sounds a haphazard method in these
days of gas and electric cookers; but it answered its purpose, for, by
carefully timing the putting in of each item and keeping the simmering
of the pot well regulated, each item was kept intact and an appetising
meal was produced. The water in which the food had been cooked, the
potato parings, and other vegetable trimmings were the pig’s share.
When the men came home from work they would find the table spread with a
clean whitey-brown cloth, upon which would be knives and two-pronged
steel forks with buckhorn handles. The vegetables would then be turned
out into big round yellow crockery dishes and the bacon cut into dice,
with much the largest cube upon Feyther’s plate, and the whole family
would sit down to the chief meal of the day. True, it was seldom that
all could find places at the central table; but some of the smaller
children could sit upon stools with the seat of a chair for a table, or
on the doorstep with their plates on their laps.
Good manners prevailed. The children were given their share of the food,
there was no picking and choosing, and they were expected to eat it in
silence. ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’ were permitted, but nothing more.
Father and Mother might talk if they wanted to; but usually they were
content to concentrate upon their enjoyment of the meal. Father might
shovel green peas into his mouth with his knife, Mother might drink her
tea from her saucer, and some of the children might lick their plates
when the food was devoured; but who could eat peas with a two-pronged
fork, or wait for tea to cool after the heat and flurry of cooking, and
licking the plates passed as a graceful compliment to Mother’s good
dinner. ‘Thank God for my good dinner. Thank Father and Mother. Amen’
was the grace used in one family, and it certainly had the merit of
giving credit where credit was due.
For other meals they depended largely on bread and butter, or, more
often, bread and lard, eaten with any relish that happened to be at
hand. Fresh butter was too costly for general use, but a pound was
sometimes purchased in the summer, when it cost tenpence. Margarine,
then called ‘butterine’, was already on the market, but was little used
there, as most people preferred lard, especially when it was their own
homemade lard flavoured with rosemary leaves. In summer there was
always plenty of green food from the garden and homemade jam as long as
it lasted, and sometimes an egg or two, where fowls were kept, or when
eggs were plentiful and sold at twenty a shilling.
When bread and lard appeared alone, the men would spread mustard on
their slices and the children would be given a scraping of black treacle
or a sprinkling of brown sugar. Some children, who preferred it, would
have ‘sop’—bread steeped in boiling water, then strained and sugar
added.
Milk was a rare luxury, as it had to be fetched a mile and a half from
the farmhouse. The cost was not great: a penny a jug or can,
irrespective of size. It was, of course, skimmed milk, but hand-skimmed,
not separated, and so still had some small proportion of cream left. A
few families fetched it daily; but many did not bother about it. The
women said they preferred their tea neat, and it did not seem to occur
to them that the children needed milk. Many of them never tasted it from
the time they were weaned until they went out in the world. Yet they
were stout-limbed and rosy-cheeked and full of life and mischief.
The skimmed milk was supposed by the farmer to be sold at a penny a
pint, that remaining unsold going to feed his own calves and pigs. But
the dairymaid did not trouble to measure it; she just filled the
proffered vessel and let it go as ‘a pen’orth’. Of course, the jugs and
cans got larger and larger. One old woman increased the size of her
vessels by degrees until she had the impudence to take a small, new, tin
cooking boiler which was filled without question. The children at the
end house wondered what she could do with so much milk, as she had only
her husband and herself at home. ‘That’ll make you a nice big rice
pudding, Queenie’, one of them said tentatively.
‘Pudden! Lor’ bless ‘ee!’ was Queenie’s reply. ‘I don’t ever make no
rice puddens. That milk’s for my pig’s supper, an’, my! ain’t ‘ee just
about thrivin’ on it. Can’t hardly see out of his eyes, bless him!’
‘Poverty’s no disgrace, but ‘tis a great inconvenience’ was a common
saying among the Lark Rise people; but that put the case too mildly, for
their poverty was no less than a hampering drag upon them. Everybody had
enough to eat and a shelter which, though it fell far short of modern
requirements, satisfied them. Coal at a shilling a hundredweight and a
pint of paraffin for lighting had to be squeezed out of the weekly wage;
but for boots, clothes, illness, holidays, amusements, and household
renewals there was no provision whatever. How did they manage?
Boots were often bought with the extra money the men earned in the
harvest field. When that was paid, those lucky families which were not
in arrears with their rent would have a new pair all round, from the
father’s hobnailed dreadnoughts to little pink kid slippers for the
baby. Then some careful housewives paid a few pence every week into the
boot club run by a shopkeeper in the market town. This helped; but it
was not sufficient, and how to get a pair of new boots for ‘our young
Ern or Alf’ was a problem which kept many a mother awake at night.
Girls needed boots, too, and good, stout, nailed ones for those rough
and muddy roads; but they were not particular, any boots would do. At a
confirmation class which Laura attended, the clergyman’s daughter, after
weeks of careful preparation, asked her catechumens: ‘Now, are you sure
you are all of you thoroughly prepared for to-morrow. Is there anything
you would like to ask me?’
‘Yes, miss,’ piped up a voice in a corner, ‘me mother says have you got
a pair of your old boots you could give me, for I haven’t got any fit to
go in.’
Alice got her boots on that occasion; but there was not a confirmation
every day. Still, boots were obtained somehow; nobody went barefoot,
even though some of the toes might sometimes stick out beyond the toe of
the boot.
To obtain clothes was an even more difficult matter. Mothers of families
sometimes said in despair that they supposed they would have to black
their own backsides and go naked. They never quite came to that; but it
was difficult to keep decently covered, and that was a pity because they
did dearly love what they called ‘anything a bit dressy’. This taste was
not encouraged by the garments made by the girls in school from material
given by the Rectory people—roomy chemises and wide-legged drawers made
of unbleached calico, beautifully sewn, but without an inch of trimming;
harsh, but strong flannel petticoats and worsted stockings that would
almost stand up with no legs in them—although these were gratefully
received and had their merits, for they wore for years and the calico
improved with washing.
For outer garments they had to depend upon daughters, sisters, and aunts
away in service, who all sent parcels, not only of their own clothes,
but also of those they could beg from their mistresses. These were worn
and altered and dyed and turned and ultimately patched and darned as
long as the shreds hung together.
But, in spite of their poverty and the worry and anxiety attending it,
they were not unhappy, and, though poor, there was nothing sordid about
their lives. ‘The nearer the bone the sweeter the meat’, they used to
say, and they were getting very near the bone from which their country
ancestors had fed. Their children and children’s children would have to
depend wholly upon whatever was carved for them from the communal joint,
and for their pleasure upon the mass enjoyments of a new era. But for
that generation there was still
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