When I grew up

We could all see that Dad was depressed when he came back from market. He wasn’t drunk, but he was very quiet at supper though it was only broth with some fat and bread and a bit of our home-made cheese. When he had eaten, Dad said, “I met Andre at the market today. It’s not good news. He’s got two sons in the army, his wife is sick and his daughter, that’s Marie, can’t give him enough help, what with the cows, the chickens, and the vegetable garden and everything else…He needs my help for the harvest.  He really does, and he asked for it. I owe him, remember how he helped dig the well every Sunday for months?”

“But you can’t help him,” said Mum. “You’ve got a job. You can’t take time off for the harvest, you’ll lose it and we need the money.”

“I owe him,” said Dad. “You know what that means.”   We knew. In our world, if somebody helped you, when they needed your help, you had to give it. Otherwise, no-one would ever help you again no matter what.  Besides, you would lose your reputation. That was everything in the country, – who would marry into a family with no reputation?

We were all quiet. Then, I spoke. “Dad, I am big and strong for my age. I’m not a child any more. Let me help Andre with the harvest.”

“Let me look at you, boy.” I stood up, squared my shoulders and stood tall. “It’s true,” said Mum.  “Jean is not a boy any more. Ask Andre if he will accept him.”

“I’ll do my best, Dad,” I said. “You needn’t worry about that. I know I can do it.”

Andre was not pleased when Dad told him he would be sending me. “Can Jean really do a man’s work?” “Yes,” said Dad, “he can. He takes after his father…” There was nothing Andre could say to that.

The next week, Andre sent word to say what day I was to start. I was to scythe, for that was what Dad always did, and I was to replace him.

The night before, Mum said she would be working with the other women tomorrow to prepare the food for the men. “I will make sure you have plenty to eat,” she said. “You’ll need it, doing a man’s work.”  I knew Mum liked the harvest: working with the other women was fun for her, different to her usual chores which she did on her own. She might look forward to it, but I…. when I went to sleep in the big bed I shared with my little brothers, I I felt my right arm. I was strong, yes, but scything all day?  I would be working with the men, as a man. No longer a child, no longer a boy. 

I slept well and was up not long after cockcrow. I had my usual milk, and bread, and then some more when Mum passed it to me. Dad took his scythe off the wall and gave it to me. “You’re a good boy”, he said, “May God be with you,” and he hugged me.  I was off to Andre’s!

His farm was no bigger than ours, but walking over a field is one thing, scything the wheat is another. I joined a team of ten men. Uncle Rene was there. I greeted him and went next to him. Each of us had our own scythe, and each of us had our own stone so we could keep the blade sharp.  Behind us came another team, to bind the corn into sheaves. Ours was the most important team, for if we were slow, everything was slow….

We stood in a line. I turned round to check the distance between me and Uncle Rene behind. Too far, and the wheat between us would be wasted, too near and I’d be a cripple for life. I didn’t want my legs cut!  “That’s right,” said my uncle. “I can see you know what to do!”

There was tension: the harvest was so important. Then we were off, all together!  Swish, swish, – the blades moved in time, and we began to move slowly across the field. We were like some kind of giant caterpillar with a scythe for legs. But the scythe did not move by itself, it was my arm that moved it! It was tiring. All morning it moved to and fro, and the wheat fell in a gentle swathe behind it. We started early, but it was August and the sun grew hot. I was dazed, all I knew was swish, scythe, swish, scythe.

My arm ached and I wanted to stop, but I could not for the shame. I could not shame myself, and I could not shame our family, – I had to carry on with the swish, scythe, swish, scythe… I stumbled backwards, – and called out. Uncle Rene’s scythe had nicked me and blood streamed down my leg. Astonishingly, only Rene saw what happened for at the same time there was a cry.  “The women, the women are coming with the lunch! The whistle blew, and it was stop.

We walked to the shade at the side of the field.  I don’t know how it happened, but when I turned, Mum was beside me carrying a tin with my lunch in it. She looked at my leg and began to fuss. “It’s nothing, Mum,” I said, “but I do need my lunch.”  There was meat, and vegetables, and best of all, plenty of cool water. I used some of it to wash my leg. Then I rested. When I woke, Mum was still there. “Don’t fuss,” I said. “the afternoon will pass like the morning. I’m a man now.”

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