The Death of Grass - John Christopher, ebook, Temp
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Also by John Christopher in Sphere Books:THE WORLD IN WINTERA WRINKLE IN THE SKINTHE POSSESSORSTHE YEAR OF THE COMETTHE CAVES OF NIGHTTHE LONG VOYAGEThe Death of GrassJOHN CHRISTOPHERSPHERE POPULAR CLASSICSISPHERE BOOKS LIMITEDLondon and SydneyFirst published by Michael Joseph Ltd 1956Copyright © 1956 by John ChristopherPublished by Sphere Books Ltd 197830-32 Gray's Inn Road, London WC1X 8JLReprinted 1979, 1980, 1984, 1985This edition published by arrangement with the authorand his agentstradeMARKThis book is sold subject to the condition thatit shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated withoutthe publisher's prior consent in any form ofbinding or cover other than that in which it ispublished and without a similar conditionincluding this condition being imposed on thesubsequent purchaser.Set in Intertype TimesPrinted and bound in Great Britain byCox & Wyman Ltd, ReadingProdromeAs sometimes happens, death healed a family breach.When Hilda Custance was widowed in the early summerof 1933, she wrote, for the first time since hermarriage thirteen years before, to her father. Theirmoods touched - hers of longing for the hills of West-morland after the grim seasons of London, and his ofloneliness and the desire to see his only daughter again,and his unknown grandsons, before he died. The boys,who were away at school, had not been brought backfor the funeral, and at the end of the summer term theyreturned to the small house at Richmond only for anight, before, with their mother, they travelled north.In the train, John, the younger boy, said:'But why did we never have anything to do withGrandfather Beverley?'His mother looked out of the window at the tarnishedgrimy environs of London, wavering, as though withfatigue, in the heat of the day.She said vaguely: 'It's hard to know how these thingshappen. Quarrels begin, and neither person stops them,and they become silences, and nobody breaks them.'She thought calmly of the storm of emotions intowhich she had plunged, out of the untroubled quiet lifeof her girlhood in the valley. She had been sure that,whatever unhappiness came after, she would neverregret the passion itself. Time had proved her doublywrong; first in the contentment of her married life and5her children, and later in the amazement that such contentmentcould have come out of what she saw, inretrospect, as squalid and ill-directed. She had not seenthe squalidness of it then, but her father could hardlyfail to be aware of it, and had not been able to concealhis awareness. That had been the key: his disgust andher resentment.John asked her: 'But who started the quarrel?'She was only sorry that it had meant that the twomen never knew each other. They were not unlike inmany ways, and she thought they would have liked eachother if her pride had not prevented it.'It doesn't matter,' she said, 'now.'David put down his copy of the Boy's Own Paper. Although a year older than his brother, he was onlyfractionally taller; they had a strong physical resemblanceand were often taken for twins. But David wasslower moving and slower in thought than John, andfonder of things than of ideas.He said: 'The valley - what's it like, Mummy?''The valley? Wonderful. It's ... No, I think it willbe better if it comes as a surprise to you. I couldn'tdescribe it anyway.'John said: 'Oh, do, Mummy!'David asked thoughtfully; 'Shall we see it from thetrain?'Their mother laughed. 'From the train? Not even thebeginnings of it. It's nearly an hour's run from Stavely.''How big is it?' John asked. 'Are there hills allround?'She smiled at them. 'You'll see.'Jess Hillen, their grandfather's tenant farmer, met themwith a car at Stavely, and they drove up into the hills.The day was nearly spent, and they saw Blind Gill atlast with the sun setting behind them.Cyclops Valley would have been a better name for it,6for it looked out of one eye only - towards the west. Butfor this break, it was like a saucer, or a deep dish, thesides sloping up - bare rock or rough heather - to theoverlooking sky. Against that enclosing barrenness,the valley's richness was the more marked; green wheatswayed inwards with the summer breeze, and beyondthe wheat, as the ground rose, they saw the lusher greenof pasture.The entrance to the valley could scarcely have beennarrower. To the left of the road, ten yards away, arock face rose sharply and overhung. To the right, theRiver Lepe foamed against the road's very edge. Itsfurther bank, fifteen yards beyond, hugged the otherjaw of the valley.Hilda Custance turned round to look at her sons."Well?''Gosh!' John said, 'this river ... I mean - how does itget into the valley in the first place?''It's the Lepe. Thirty-five miles long, and twenty-fiveof those miles underground, if the stories are to bebelieved. Anyway, it comes from underground in thevalley. There are a lot of rivers like that in these parts.''It looks deep.''It is. And very fast. No bathing, I'm afraid. It's wiredfarther up to keep cattle out. They don't stand a chanceif they fall in.'John remarked sagely: 'I should think it might floodin winter.'His mother nodded. 'It always used to. Does it still,Jess?''Cut off for a month last winter,' Jess said. 'It's not sobad now we have the wireless.''I think it's terrific,' John said. 'But are you reallycut off? You could climb the hills.'Jess grinned. 'There are some who have. But it's arocky road up, and rockier still down the other side.Best to sit tight when the Lepe runs full.'7Hilda distance looked at her elder son. He wasstaring ahead at the valley, thickly shadowed by sunset;the buildings of the Hillen farm were in view now, butnot the Beverley farm high up.'Well,' she said, 'what do you think of it, David?'Reluctantly he turned his gaze inwards to meet herown.He said: 'I think I'd like to live here, always.'That summer:, the boys ran wild in the valley.It was some three miles long, and perhaps half a milewide at its greatest extent. It held only the two farms,and the river, which issued from the southern face abouttwo miles in. The ground was rich and well cropped, butthere was plenty of room for boys of twelve and elevento play, and there were the surrounding hills to climb.They made the ascent at two or three points, andstood, panting, looking out over rough hills and moorlands.The valley was tiny behind them. John delightedin the feeling of height, of isolation and, to some extent,of power; for the farm-houses looked, from this vantage,like toy buildings that they might reach down and pluckfrom the ground. And in its greenness the valley seemed an oasis among desert mountains.David took less pleasure in this, and after their thirdclimb he refused to go again. It was enough for him tobe in the valley; the surrounding slopes were like cuppedand guarding hands, which it was both fruitless andungrateful to scale.This divergence of their interests caused them tospend much of their time apart. While John roamedthe valley's sides, David kept to the farmland, to hisgrandfather's increasing satisfaction. At the end of thesecond week, boy and old man, they went together tothe River field on a warm and cloudy afternoon. Theboy watched intently while his grandfather plucked earsof wheat here and there, and examined them. His nearvision was poor, and he was forced to hold the wheat atarm's length.'It's going to be a fair crop,' he said, 'as well as myeyes can tell me.'To their right there was the continuous dull roar asthe Lepe forced its way out of the containing rock intothe valley.David said: 'Shall we still be here for the harvest?''Depends. It may be. Would you like to be?'David said enthusiastically: 'Oh, yes, Grandfather!'There was a silence in which the only intrusion wasthe noise of the Lepe. His grandfather looked over thevalley which the Beverleys had farmed for a centuryand a half; and then turned from the land to the boy athis side.'I don't see as we shall have long to get to know oneanother, David boy,' he said. 'Do you think you wouldlike to farm this valley when you're grown?''More than anything.''It'll be yours, then. A farm needs one owner, and Idon't think as your brother would be fond of the life,any road.''John wants to be an engineer,' said David.'And he'll be likely enough to make a good one. Whathad you thought of being, then?''I hadn't thought of anything.''I shouldn't say it, maybe,' said his grandfather, 'sinceI never seen aught of any other kind of life but whatI glimpse at Lepeton Market; but I don't know ofanother life that can give as much satisfaction. And thisis good land, and a good lie for a man that's content withhis own company and few neighbours. There's stoneslabs under the ground in the Top Meadow, and they saythe valley was held as a stronghold once, in bygonetimes. I don't reckon you could hold it now, againstguns and aeroplanes, but whenever I've been outsideI've always had a feeling that I could shut the door9behind me when I come back through the pass.*'I felt that,' David said, 'when we came in.''My grandfather,' said David's grandfather, 'had himselfburied here. They didn't like it even then, but inthose days they had to put up with some things theydidn't like. They've got more weight behind them today,damn them! A man should have the rights to be buriedin his own ground.'He looked across the green spears of wheat.'But I shan't fret so greatly ...
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