Chapter X
THE PROPHET AND THE MOON
At six o'clock the following evening all Anderby was having tea. From fifty chimneys in the valley rose columns of white smoke. In the Hinds' house at the Wold Farm, the foreman was carving a huge beef pie while Ezra Dawson buried his face in a mug of steaming tea. Mike O'Flynn, paying tribute to his military training, washed himself with indiscreet enthusiasm over the kitchen sink. Jack Greenwood, whose agricultural career had brightened somewhat after Waite's dismissal, sat by his mother's table stuffing his mouth with cold bacon while for the seventh time that evening he explained how he had "mothered up" in the horse pasture.
In the Wold Farm John and Mary faced each other across cold ham and boiled eggs. Both of them disliked cold ham and boiled eggs, but Mary had driven to Market Burton that afternoon and had found no time to prepare a hot meal. Besides for the last three days they had fared sumptuously on chickens and scrambled eggs in honour of a guest.
One of the few people in Anderby who was not having tea sat in the "smoke-room" of the Flying Fox and wished himself back at Oxford—or even Manchester.
David's omission of tea resulted from a disquieting interview he had had that morning with his account book, after which he had been convinced that only by the strictest economy could he afford to spend another fortnight on an unremunerative tour of research and propaganda. He had lunched at twelve o'clock on bread and cheese and beer. He would presently sup on similar wholesome fare. Tea was a superfluous luxury, easily foregone by one who was determined to live as the labourers lived. All the same, the scent of frying sausages and bacon from Mrs. Todd's kitchen across the passage was irritatingly savoury. Against his will, David found himself recalling memories of brekkers in Harcourt's rooms at the House, of dinners at the paternal table in Hampshire, even of beefsteaks eaten in the congenial company of Merryweather, the journalist, and Moore, the lecturer on economics, in a chop-house near the Manchester offices of the Northern Clarion.
This was not at all what he had intended to think about. Really, he must pull himself together and forget his physical demands for a little. Unfortunately, there was nothing particularly pleasant to distract his attention. The smoke-room of the Flying Fox was not a beautiful place. David had decided, when he first saw it, that romantic novelists describing the picturesque interiors of wayside taverns could never have dreamed of such a room.
It was hateful. David hated the bilious green of its painted walls. He hated the wooden table, covered with brown oilcloth. He hated the unfriendly outline of the high-backed settle, and the china spittoons, and the smoking lamp. Most of all, he hated the smoke-grimed placard that hung against the wall, and announced to all comers that Bass's Beer could be obtained on the premises. Why Bass? Why not Symond's Ale—no, he was Soups—or—David failed to recall other brewers of renown.
The only comfortable thing in the room was the fire, leaping and crackling like a live creature. David bent towards it, warming his hands.
"Praised by my Lord for our Brother Fire, through whom showest us light in the darkness, and he is bright and pleasant, and very mighty and strong," he quoted softly. David at that time cherished an ardent admiration for St. Francis of Assisi as poet; and communist, though, being a conscientious agnostic, he felt bound to regret the saint's theology.