The village left behind, he had five miles of hill to climb, the gradient getting steeper and the surface rougher with every mile: it was not until he had passed Greenbeck—his nearest farming neighbours, but two hundred feet lower than Fellcock, that the going was really bad. Macdonald had already started a fight with the local council in order to get the road improved. He maintained that the road was a highway, marked on the Ordnance Survey as such, giving access to two farmsteads, Fellcock and High Garth, and that it was the business of the local authority to keep it in repair.
High Garth farmhouse had been vacant for years, and Fellcock had not been inhabited for three years before Macdonald bought it, so the local authority had “let that be.” The farmer of Greenbeck was now a milk producer, which meant that the milk lorry collected his milk, and as far as Greenbeck the road was passable: beyond Greenbeck it was a very bad road indeed, but Macdonald intended to have that altered: as a potential dairy farmer he meant to have the advantages which accrue to that honourable calling.
He reached his own turn at last, the rough track which joined Fellcock Hall to the highway. (Most sizeable farmsteads are “halls” in Lunesdale.) Jock Shearling was there, busy with the new gate, and Macdonald gave a cry of pleased surprise. He knew that Jock had been working hard to improve the rutted track which led from the road to the house, bringing up tractor loads of pebbles from the shiller banks in the valley, but Macdonald had never expected Jock to transform a rough track into a very presentable metalled road with a surface of grit and asphalt which looked almost a road layer’s job.
“Good day, Jock. How on earth did you manage it? This is a grand job. Did the council send their roadmen up?”
“Not them.” Young Jock smiled back at the gaffer. “That’s our road, from here to the house,” he said. “Them in the council won’t touch that: they let me have a load of asphalt they’d got left over from the work they did below Greenbeck—aye, and they brought it up in their big lorry. Likely, there’s a bill coming for that, but ’twas worth it. That’s a right good road now—or soon will be.”
“It is indeed; it’s one of the things we wanted,” agreed Macdonald. “The Co-op man can get his van to the door now.” (It was always “we” and “our” when they spoke of the farm, a joint venture.) “Did the councilmen give you a hand laying the stuff?” went on Macdonald.
“Not them,” said Jock. “They dumped it and made off: none of their business, this wasn’t. I was lucky,” he added leisurely, leaning against the stone stoop (the gatepost). “I was just getting busy shifting the stuff when a chap came down from up yonder.” He pointed up hill to the open fell. “ ’Twas a Saturday afternoon; he was one of the gangers working on t’ pipe line over Bowland and he’d walked over t’ fell to find Crossghyll village, t’ pub he wanted, I reckon. But he stopped when he saw me working and asked if I wanted a hand.” Jock scratched his head and grinned. “I did that,” he said, “ ’twas a right heavy job at first, and this fellow was a hefty chap. I said: ‘See how you make do and then maybe we’ll talk business.’ He was a worker, that one was,” added Jock. “I soon saw that; he didn’t waste no time and didn’t chatter neither. He worked a half day Saturday and a full day Sunday: thirty bob I paid him and ’twas cheap at the price, because he knew the job and put his back into it. Same the next weekend—and that’s why you’ve got a road instead of a mud lane to drive on.”
“I’ve got you to thank for the road, Jock,” rejoined Macdonald. “Not many men would have tackled it: you did all the ground work, levelling and laying the pebbles and gravel, but I’m glad you got some help over the surfacing. Get in the car and I’ll drive you home to tea on your own road.”
Jock got in, adding: “Thought it’d be a nice surprise for you to see the job done: it’s worried me to see you bumping a decent car over them potholes, and reckon you didn’t like it neither, treating the springs and tyres like that.”
“You’re right,” said Macdonald. “I’d been meaning to take a pick and shovel and lend you a hand myself, but there’s other jobs I’d sooner be tackling. You must have been surprised when one of those navvies offered to do an extra job on a Saturday afternoon: they’re a rough lot from what I’ve heard. I had a crack with the gang boss sometime back: he said most of them are the dregs of the labour market, unskilled labour, here today and gone tomorrow.”
“Likely they are: that’s a rough job, digging that pipe line,” said Jock. “Maybe the chap who worked here wanted some extra cash to pay for his drinks—costs money to get drunk these days, poor silly sods. But he was a worker, that one was.”
Macdonald pulled up at the gate which gave on to his own fold-yard and Jock said:
“Drop me here: I’ve got some young stock in the shippon at High Garth. I fixed it with Mr. Brough: he wasn’t using it and I keep an eye on some Aberdeen Angus he’s got on the pastures there: suits us both—saves him sending a man up and costs us nothing.”
Macdonald laughed. “Good for you,” he said. “I’ll put the car away and say good day to Betty, and then I’ll
