Eritopia

Goodwill to All Men

Beetle had been out and about again, and ended up once more in Myrtle Tavern. His mood was better today, however, and the beer made him mellow rather than maudlin. When he got home he found his wife, Megan, sitting next to a lamp in front of a smouldering fire.

'Where's the boy?' Beetle asked.

'Out.'

'Where?'

'He didn't say.'

'Huh.'

Megan was a large woman, and wore a coarse skirt with jumper, cardigan and shawl to keep out the cold. She went into the kitchen to fetch his dinner.

'Stew again?'

'What else,' she said, and put it on the table.

The ale had made him hungry, but he ate the watery stew without pleasure. Filled up, he took an extra coat and made ready to leave the house.

'I'll be working at the plot, when he comes back send him along,' he said, more in hope than expectation.

A few blocks further along the huts thinned out, and he began to smell the River. The long path separating his patch from others ran parallel to it. To his right he could see glimpses of the water through holes in the fences and boundary hedges. It gave him satisfaction, that River. A sense of the powerful, a helpful force when other indicators of the times were dire or desperate. It gave water in dry periods, and in flood it deposited rich sediments up as far up as Nearby Mill. That was further up the slope than Beetle's patch, which meant he didn't have to pay for irrigation like others. His place was in a good spot, and he knew it.

At the gate he spat on the ground and smothered the spittle with his boot, rubbing it into the soil. He eased the gate open into his quarter-acre. It was getting dark, and he was sobering up. His mind became restless again, with spiky thoughts that pinged and twittered inside.

He was more than surprised to find Martin already there, bending in the half-light with his spade. He was raising the potatoes, shaking off the soil and stacking them in the barrows.

'Well, well,' Beetle said. 'Ain't this a turn up. Twice in one week.' He threw his coat on a fence and took up a spare spade. He started at the other end of the drill from Martin, and waited for some acknowledgement.

'Go easy on 'em,' he shouted the twenty feet or so that separated them. 'They'll bruise.'

Martin kept digging and piling, not altering his technique one bit. The light was low, and the wind, although it had dropped, was keen.

'How many?' he asked. 'Before we stop?'

'They all need doing,' his father said. 'What we need is a moon. Then we can finish.'

'No moon tonight,' the boy replied. 'What we need is a fire.'

'Can't draw attention. Just dig, and feel for 'em, eyes'll adjust. I've done it many times before.'

'What are you worried about? Afraid the Guardia will come and take them?' Martin knew their personal quota had already been dug. These last were extras, destined for the illegal stills.

'You didn't come down 'ere to snitch, I fancy.'

'No. Mother said it would stop you getting arrested.'

'She didn't mention it.'

'Wanted to surprise you.'

'It did.'

They continued to dig and sort, and got nearer to each other. It was dark now, and the trench was hard to make out. Martin had to bend down to see where to plant the spade. There was a clank of spades, and Beetle was there in front of him.