The Death of Grass by John Christopher

The Death of GrassJohn ChristopherFirst published byMICHAEL JOSEPH LTD26 Bloomsbury StreetLondon, W.C.l1956Set and printed in Great Britain by Unwin Brothers Ltd. at theGresham Press, Woking, in Times type, ten point leadedOn Paper made by Henry Bruce at Currie, Midlothian, and boundby James Burn at EsherProdromeAs sometimes happens, death healed a family breach.When Hilda Custance was widowed in the early summer of1933, she wrote, for the first time since her marriage thirteenyears before, to her father. Their moods touched-hers oflonging for the hills of Westmorland after the grim seasonsof London, and his of loneliness and the desire to see hisonly daughter again, and his unknown grandsons, before hedied. The boys, who were away at school, had not beenbrought back for the funeral, and at the end of the summerterm they returned to the small house at Richmond only fora night, before, with their mother, they travelled north.In the train, John, the younger boy, said:'But why did we never have anything to do with Grand-father 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, andthey become silences, and nobody breaks them.'She thought calmly of the storm of emotions into whichshe had plunged, out of the untroubled quiet life of hergirlhood in the valley. She had been sure that, whateverunhappiness came after, she would never regret the passionitself. Time had proved her doubly wrong; first in the con-tentment of her married life and her children, and later inthe amazement that such contentment could have come outof what she saw, in retrospect, as squalid and ill-directed.She had not seen the squalidness of it then, but her fathercould hardly fail to be aware of it, and had not been able toconceal his awareness. That had been the key: his disgustand her resentment.John asked her: 'But who started the quarrel?'She was only sorry that it had meant that the two mennever knew each other. They were not unlike in many ways,and she thought they would have liked each other if herpride 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 only frac-tionally taller; they had a strong physical resemblance andwere often taken for twins. But David was slower movingand slower in thought than John, and fonder of things thanof ideas.He said: 'The valley-what's it like, Mummy?''The valley? Wonderful. It's... No, I think it will bebetter if it comes as a surprise to you. I couldn't describe itanyway.'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 all round?'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. Theday was nearly spent, and they saw Blind Gill at last withthe sun setting behind them.Cyclops Valley would have been a better name for it, forit looked out of one eye only-towards the west. But forthis break, it was like a saucer, or a deep dish, the sidessloping up--bare rock or rough heather-to the overlookingsky. Against that enclosing barrenness, the valley's richnesswas the more marked; green wheat swayed inwards with thesummer breeze, and beyond the wheat, as the ground rose,they saw the lusher green of pasture.The entrance to the valley could scarcely have beennarrower. To the left of the road, ten yards away, a rockface rose sharply and overhung. To the right, the RiverLepe foamed against the road's very edge. Its furtherbank, fifteen yards beyond, hugged the other jaw of thevalley.Hilda Custance turned round to look at her sons.'Well?''Gosh!' John said, 'this river... I mean-how does it getinto the valley in the first place?''It's the Lepe. Thirty-live miles long, and twenty-live ofthose miles underground, if the stories are to be believed.Anyway, it comes from underground in the valley. There area 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 chance ifthey fall in.'John remarked sagely: 'I should think it might Hood inwinter.'His mother nodded. 'It always used to. Does it still, Jess?''Cut off for a month last winter,' Jess said. 'It's not so badnow we have the wireless.''I think it's terrific,' John said. 'But are you really cut off?You could climb the hills.'Jess grinned. 'There are some who have. But it's a rocky

road up, and rockier still down the other side. Best to sittight when the Lepe runs full.'Hilda Custance looked at her elder son. He was staringahead at the valley, thickly shadowed by sunset; the buildingsof the Hillen farm were in view now, but not the Beverleyfarm high up.'Well,' she said, 'what do you think of it, David?'Reluctantly he turned his gaze inwards to meet her own.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, andthe river, which issued from the southern face about twomiles in. The ground was rich and well cropped, but therewas plenty of room for boys of twelve and eleven to play,and there were the surrounding hills to climb.They made the ascent at two or three points, and stood,panting, looking out over rough hills and moorlands. Thevalley was tiny behind them. John delighted in the feeling ofheight, of isolation and, to some extent, of power; for thefarm-houses looked, from this vantage, like toy buildingsthat they might reach down and pluck from the ground. Andin its greenness the valley seemed an oasis among desertmountains.David took less pleasure in this, and after their thirdclimb he refused to go again. It was enough for him to be inthe valley; the surrounding slopes were like cupped andguarding hands, which it was both fruitless and ungratefulto scale.This divergence of their interests caused them to spendmuch of their time apart. While John roamed the valley'ssides, David kept to the farmland, to his grandfather'sincreasing satisfaction. At the end of the second week, boyand old man, they went together to the River field on a warmand cloudy afternoon. The boy watched intently. while hisgrandfather plucked ears of wheat here and there, andexamined them. His near vision was poor, and he was forcedto hold the wheat at arm's length.'It's going to be a fair crop,' he said, 'as well as my eyescan tell me.'To their right there was the continuous dull roar as theLepe forced its way out of the containing rock into thevalley.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 was thenoise of the Lepe. His grandfather looked over the valleywhich the Beverleys had farmed for a century and a half; andthen turned from the land to the boy at his side.'I don't see as we shall have long to get to know oneanother, David boy,' he said. 'Do you think you would liketo farm this valley when you're grown?''More than anything.''It'll be yours, then. A farm needs one owner, and I don'tthink as your brother would be fond of the life, any road.'