gns.snakes-第28部分

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　few　acres　that　they　actually　owned。
　　
　　In　the　beginning　Jack　had　had　to　rely　on　casual　farm　work　to　make　ends　meet。　　Rumour　had　it　that　his　'capital　investment'　had　e　from　equipment　stolen　from　his　various　employers；　nothing　serious　enough　to　warrant　police　investigation；　a　roll　or　two　of　sheep…netting　from　one　place；　a　few　stakes　and　staples　from　another。　Jack's　mechanical　knowledge　from　his　haulage　days　came　in　handy；　enabled　him　to　keep　their　old　1962　Ferguson　tractor　going；　and；　with　some　very　untidy　improvisations；　they　managed　to　scrape　a　meagre　living。　Sam　was　an　accident；　set　them　back　a　bit；　but　they　got　by　in　their　own　slovenly　fashion。　Their　shortings　were　many　but　all　were　agreed　that　the　one　thing　they　did　not　shirk　was　work。
　　
　　Sam　was　not　at　all　keen　on　the　idea　of　lugging　the　bales　off　the　sandpit　field；　but　if　the　old　man　said　that　that　was　what　they　were　going　to　do　today　then　that　was　what　they　would　do。　He　had　learned　many　years　ago　not　to　argue　with　his　father。
　　
　　Dora　watched　the　two　of　them　file　out　of　the　room；　and　sighed　loudly。　Jack　worked　the　boy　too　hard；　never　gave　him　any　time　off。　Sam　was　a　hired　labourer　on　a　pittance　of　a　wage；　not　a　son。　The　boy　was　bright　enough；　would　in　all　probability　have　done　well　　at　　school　　if　Jack　had　not　persistently　kept　him　at　home　to　help　with　the　harvest；　the　lambing；　every　seasonal　job　as　it　came　round。　'Tell；　'em　you've　'ad　the　'eadache；　boy；'　he　would　say　at　every　period　of　absenteeism　from　school。　Sometimes　it　was　〃the　bellyache'　just　to　ring　the　changes。　　Sam　might　have　gone　on　to　sixth…form　college　if　his　school　attendances　had　not　been　so　inconsistent；　but　Jack　Jervis　wouldn't　have　stood　for　that。　'Work　is　what　you　do　with　yer　'ands；　boy；　not　sittin'　at　a　desk　thinkin'　about　it。'
　　
　　She　began　to　clear　the　table；　Sam　would　end　up　an　ignorant　pig；　just　like　his　father。　She　couldn't　change　either　of　them　so　she　might　as　well　go　along　with　them。　They　would　still　be　scratching　for　a　living　in　another　twenty　years'　time。
　　
　　Work　was　a　way　of　life　to　Sam　Jervis。　Seven　days　a　week；　365　days　a　year；　he　did　not　expect　anything　else。　On　a　holding　like　this　one　you　did　every　job　yourselves；　spent　as　little　money　as　possible；　a　cycle　that　you　began　again　as　soon　as　the　old　one　ended。
　　
　　This　bloody　heat　was　a　bit　much；　though。　He　wondered　how　the　old　man　could　stand　not　just　a　shirt　on　but　a　woollen　waistcoat　worn　over　it。　Trousers　and　heavy　boots；　too。　All　Sam　was　wearing　was　a　pair　of　denim　shorts；　hacked　from　his　old　working　jeans　when　the　lower　legs　became　threadbare；　and　a　pair　of　scuffed　pumps。
　　
　　The　routine　was　always　the　same。　Dad　drove　the　tractor　and　trailer；　Sam　rode　on　the　back。　Then　between　them　they　loaded　the　trailer　with　bales；　stacked　high　and　precariously；　and　trundled　back　home　where　they　unloaded　them　into　the　barn。　They　managed　three　loads　before　lunch　and　estimated　that　there　were　probably　another　five　left。　They　would　finish　around　teatime…a　late　tea。
　　
　　The　upright　exhaust　belched　black　fumes　as　they　drove　past　the　church。　Sam　glanced　idly　at　the　track　leading　into　the　quarry。　The　old　sandpit　was　technically　theirs；　its　acreage　included　in　the　rent　they　paid　the　council　each　quarter　for　the　field。　Now　that　was　a　bloody　waste；　a　piece　of　ground　that　you　could　not　plough　up；　would　not　hold　stock。　He　wondered　if　there　was　any　way　of　filling　it　in；　levelling　it　up　to　the　field　that　surrounded　it。
　　
　　The　Ferguson　struggled　up　the　steep　incline；　shuddered　to　a　halt　by　the　first　stack　of　eight　bales。　Jack　Jervis　leapt　down；　shouted　at　Sam　to　hurry。　'We　ain't　got　all　bloody　day；　boy。'
　　
　　Eight　bales　loaded；　drawing　up　to　the　next　pile；　another　eight　layered　on　top　of　those。　Now　it　was　Sam's　job　to　clamber　up　on　to　them；　take　the　bales　from　his　father　as　the　old　man　hoisted　them　up　to　him　on　the　prongs　of　a　pitchfork。　Jesus；　the　old　man　would　have　a　heart　attack　if　he　didn't　slow　up；　working　in　a　near…frenzy　in　this　bloody　heat。　It　had　to　be　ninety　in　the　shade　today。　One　day　the　silly　old　fucker　would　drop　in　his　tracks；　just　like　that。　And　I'll　bloody　well　load　him　up　on　top　of　the　hay　and　take　him　down　home。　And　it　won't　spoil　our　tea；　either。
　　
　　Hay　bales　were　ing　up　on　to　the　trailer　as　though　they　were　on　a　mechanical　conveyor　belt。　Ease　up；　you　daft　bat。
　　
　　Suddenly　Sam　Jervis　stopped；　ignored　the　bale　that　had　just　bounced　against　those　he　was　trying　to　stack；　toppling　them　in　a　heap。　Above　the　drone　of　pollen…hunting　bees　he　detected　the　sound　of　a　human　voice；　a　muffled　cry。　He　listened　hard　and　it　came　again。　'Help！'
　　
　　It　was　difficult　to　discern　just　where　the　shout　had　e　from。　Either　it　was　muffled　or　else　it　was　a　long　way　away；　even　as　far　as　the　village。　It　could；　on　the　other　hand；　be　as　close　as　the　sandpit　a　few　hundred　yards　down　at　the　bottom　of　this　sloping　field。
　　
　　'What　the　bloody　hell's　happening　up　there？　You　bloody　well　fallen　asleep？'　Another　bale　flew　up；　bounced　off　the　fallen　pile　and　rolled　off　the　trailer；　thudded　on　to　the　ground　ten　feet　below。
　　
　　'Listen；'　Sam　snapped　back；　'just　shut　up　and　listen　for　a　second。'
　　
　　'What　the　hell　are　you　on　about；　boy？'
　　
　　'Just　listen　a　minute；　will　you；　Dad。'
　　
　　''Help。''　The　cry　came　again；　weaker　this　time　as　though　the　caller　was　growing　tired。　But　it　definitely　came　from　the　sandpit。
　　
　　'There　you　are；　you　heard　that　didn't　you；　Dad？'　Sam　peered　anxiously　over　the　bales；　saw　his　father　retrieving　the　fallen　one；　spearing　it　with　the　pikle；　lifting　it　up　to　throw　it　back　up　again。　'Don't　tell　me　you　didn't　hear　that。'
　　
　　'I　heard　bloody　nothin'；'　Sam　Jervis　grunted；　his　red　face　perspiring　freely。　'You're　paid　to　work　not　to　sit　about　listening　for　things。'
　　
　　'I　tell　you；　Dad；　somebody's　in　trouble　and　it　sounds　like　they're　in　the　。　。　。'　Sam　broke　off　as　the　flying　bale　hit　him；　caught　him　off　balance　and　sent　him　staggering　back　to　sprawl　amongst　the　pile　of　bales。　'You　silly　old　bastard！　There's　something　happened　to　somebody　。　。　。'
　　
　　Sam　Jervis　screamed　a　shrill　cry　of　pain。　That　daft　old　fucker　had　tossed　the　pitchfork　up　at　him；　caught　him　on　the　leg。　He　bounded　up　with　a　roar　of　rage　that　turned　to　a　shriek　of　terror。　All　around　his　feet　were　little　black　wriggling　things　like　burned　sausages；　slithering　to　and　fro；　and　amidst　them　was　a　much　larger　one；　somewhere　between　a　foot　and　eighteen　inches　long；　a　furious　creature　that　whipped　and　lashed　him；　struck　at　his　legs　with　its　venomous　fangs。
　　
　　'Adders？　He　tried　to　flee　but　a　heap　of　bales　prevented　him。　'There's　fucking　adders　up　here！'
　　
　　At　least　Sam　thought　they　were　adders；　they　looked　like　the　ones　he'd　seen　before　except　that　they　were　much　darker　in　colour。　He　didn't　care　what　species；　just　that　they　were　snakes　and　everybody　in　Stainforth　was　hiding　from　them。
　　
　　Jack　Jervis　moved　with　surprising　agility；　clawed　his　way　up　on　to　the　trailer；　clambered　over　the　mountain　of　bales；　a　stubby　unlit　pipe　clenched　between　his　teeth；　the　pitchfork　in　his　hands。　His　son　was　lying　on　a　bale；　directing　a　series　of　futile　kicks　at　the　snake　which　was　attempting　to　wriggle　up　after　him。　And　down　below　the　smaller　snakes　were　milling　in　a　heap　like　maggots　that　had　fallen　from　a　piece　of　putrefying　meat。　Black　bloated　worms。
　　
　　'Get　yer　fuckin'　legs　outa　the　way；'　the　farmer　hissed；　poised　his　pikle　as　though　he　was　about　to　hurl　a　javelin；　and　struck　savagely　downwards。　His　aim　was　true；　a　prong　speared　the　enraged　reptile；　and　he　held　it　up。　It　thrashed　furiously　but　could　not　dislodge　itself。　'Got　you；　you　bugger！'
　　
　　Sam　closed　his　eyes。　The　pain　in　his　leg　was　making　him　feel　faint　and　he　certainly　did　not　wish　to　be　a　spectator　to　a　bout　of　his　father's　cruelty。　Old　Jack　Jervis　was　going　to　have　a　field　day；　enjoy　every　second　of　this　massacre　just　as　he　had　gloated　over　that　sheep　he　had　killed　for　the　freezer　last　autumn；　he　had　cut　its　throat　and　stood　there　and　watched　its　life's　blood　spout　all　over　the　yard。　'e　and　watch　this；　boy；　or　e'll　be　gone。　Waste　o'　time　and　effort　stunning　'em　first。'
　　
　　With　a　deft　twirl　such　as　an　acplished　spaghetti…eater　might　have　used　to　unfurl　a　length　from　his　fork；　Jack　sent　the　mortally　wounded　adder　flying　through　the　air。　'E's　as　good　as　dead。'
　　
　　He　turned　to　the　nest　of　young；　and　began　jabbing　and　chopping；　piling　wrigglers　up　the　prongs　of　the　pitchfork　one　after　another。　Seven　in　all；　in　as　many　seconds。
　　
　　'Look　at　them　lot；　boy。'　There　was　a　note　of　pride　in　his　rough　voice。　'Black　adders。　Ain't　seen　no　black　ones　for　years；　not　since　I　was　your　age。　But　they　die　just　as　easy　as　the　brown　'uns。'
　　
　　Sam　sprawled　with　his　back　against　a　bale；　his　vision　darkening；　clinging　to　some　taut　baling　twine　in　case　he　blacked　out　arid　fell　from　the　trailer。　His　leg　was　beginning　to　swell　up；　the　pain　coursing　upwards。　Oh　Christ；　and　all　that　stupid　old　bugger　thought　about　was　killing。
　　
　　'Ah…ha！'　a　grunt　of　triumph　from　Jervis　as　he　held　the　spiked　snakes　aloft。　'Just　look　at　that　lot；　the　little　devils　never　dreamed　they'd　meet　up