A man stopped and spoke to me as I sat in the field near
Petersfield, eating my bread and honey and watching the sunset rage across the
sky.
“That’s a sight, ain’t it!”, he said, wrinkling the skin around
his eyes and showing all his teeth in a wild grin.
“Yes, it’s fine.”
“Over
in a minute, though,” he mused. He gave me another grin.
“Where are you going to spend the night, then – under a
haystack?” He seemed to find me very amusing; I had the impression
that he was just able to keep back his chuckles.
“I shall go to the Youth Hostel at Harting, if I can find the
way,” I said.
“It’ll be dark before you get there,” he told me, still with the
grin on his face. The sunset had turned his skin orange, and against this
the row of large white teeth were startling. A yellow cow’s lick of hair
curled round on his forehead. It was a nice fresh, clownish face.
“Why
are you smiling at me?” I asked suddenly.
“Oh, I dunno, you look as though you was enjoying yourself, eating
all that bread and honey out in the open.”
“I am,” I said.
I
turned and looked straight into his eyes; they seemed to
be bubbling over with exuberance, sparkling all along the edges with the
beginning of laughter tears.
I caught some of his
crazy gaiety, and grinned back; then we both laughed out aloud and became
thoroughly friendly.
“I
hope you’ll find your way,” he said softly. He asked me more questions,
still gazing at me. Even when he said goodnight, he kept looking over his
shoulder and waving his hand.
To be wished so much good
was lovely. I got up and walked to Harting. And as I walked I
remembered my relations and all the people who made me feel
uncomfortable.
It’s better to sleep
in the ditch, I thought, than to thrust yourself on your relations.
Excerpt from “I Left My Grandfather’s House” by Denton Welch,
March 1943. Illustrations show Harting
and its flora and fauna.
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