The Nickum Read Online Free PDF

a back-breaking task going behind the tractor (Clydesdale pulled, not motorised) and picking up the potatoes, large and small, and putting them in the wooden container they had been given for the purpose. The day grew warmer, then hot, then almost suffocating, and within a couple of hours, most of the younger ‘howkers’ were stripped to the waist. Only the older, wiser from past experience, kept on their semmits for protection and wore a handkerchief knotted at the corners to protect their bald heads.
    The farmer’s wife and daughter came round at half past nine with some tea and a biscuit, and by noon both Willie and Cecil, and probably several other youngsters, were feeling that they couldn’t go on much longer. Half an hour was allowed for eating their dinners, sitting round the grass verges at the edges of the field, and then it was back to the grindstone again. The sustenance had given them all a good boost, so they set to with almost as much vigour as they had had first thing in the morning. It didn’t take long to fade, however, as Cecil observed, ‘My backbone’s broke, I think. I can hardly bend.’
    Wiping the sweat from his face and out of his eyes, Willie warned, ‘Dinna let onybody see you’re tired. We’ll nae get back again.’
    ‘Yokin’ time, lads,’ came a voice from somewhere on their right. ‘The grieve’ll be roon’ to collect your boxes an’ you’ll get your wages ower yonder.’
    Both boys swivelled round to see where the money was to be given out, and were pleased to see the farmer himself standing at a wooden trestle table set up just inside the field gate. The reward for all the excruciatingly hard labour would be coming, very very soon.
    They watched as the horse went up each drill, stopping for Frankie Wilson, the grieve or farm foreman, to pick up the boxes and write in his little book which box belonged to which worker. Several other collections had been made during the day from those able to work at a good speed, each one being marked with the number of the collector, and they would be added together when the final tally for the day was made.
    ‘Weel, then, lads,’ came the greeting in a few minutes, ‘let’s see how much you’ve got.’ Frankie swung their box on to the cart. ‘Nae bad, nae bad. You’ve daen better than I thocht. Ower you go, then, an’ wait in the line. It’ll nae tak’ lang, jist the weighin’ o’ this last lot.’
    It didn’t take long, for which the boys were extremely glad. Having to stand in the sun, even at seven at night, was hard on poor exhausted bones, but at last it was their turn. Their day’s work was weighed, Mr McIntyre stating, ‘You’re two grand wee workers, I’ll say that for you. Are you thinkin’ on comin’ back the morra, or can you nae face it again?’
    It was Willie who said boastfully, ‘Oh we’ll be back, we’re nae that tired.’
    Poor Poopie-Cecil, scarcely able to make a move, just nodded, but both faces lit up when they were handed a half-crown each.
    Willie had been watching what the co-workers in front of them had received; most of the other boys got a good few coins, some of the older youths even pocketing a paper note of some kind. Ten shillings, maybe, or, like the men, a pound note. As they left the field and stood waiting for the cart to take them home, Willie whispered, ‘Will you manage the morrow, Poo … eh … Cecil? You’ll get another half-croon.’
    His chum heaved a telling sigh, but murmured, ‘I’ll be fine if I get a good night’s sleep.’
    When he reached home, struggling to keep upright for the last hundred yards or so, Willie handed his half-crown to Emily. ‘See that, Mam? If I gan evey day this week I’ll ha’e … what’s seven times half a croon, Becky?’
    ‘Not seven,’ warned their mother. ‘You’ll not be tattiepickin’ on the Sabbath, even though Johnny McIntyre’s heathen enough to expect it.’
    ‘Eight half-croons mak’ a pound,’ announced thirteenyear-