Famine Read online

  ‘Willard,’ said Ed, ‘you should have been a politician, not a farmer.’

  ‘Being a farmer and being a politician are one and the same kind of talent,’ said Willard. ‘Everything you do, you do by careful planting, and careful fertilisation, and watching and waiting – so that when the right moment arrives, you can go shhhklukk! and the ripe ears of wheat fall straight in your hand.’

  Jack suddenly frowned. ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘Look – up ahead there. Just over to the right.’

  Ed turned in his seat. Far in the distance, maybe three miles away, he thought he could make out a shadow on the wheat. A brown, irregular stain that covered five or six acres at least.

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Willard. ‘There’s more of it.’ The helicopter banked in a wide circle around the field, and approached the stain from the south-west. There was no question about it. The blight had spread here, too – almost five miles to the south of the first outbreak. Ed told Dyson to hover by the edge of the dark area while he took a long look at it. Dust and wheat flew up all around them, but Ed could see for himself that the blight was creeping from one stalk to another, from one acre to the next, and that only quick and decisive action was going to save South Burlington from the most disastrous crop in its entire history. That was if any action could save it at all.

  ‘Okay,’ Ed told Dyson at last. ‘Let’s go check the eastern acres.’

  It took them until two o’clock in the afternoon to make a thorough airborne check of the whole farm. By the time Dyson brought the helicopter back into the pasture behind the farmhouse, they had counted seven major areas of blight, and three smaller outbreaks.

  The helicopter settled on the grass and the rotor blades whistled slower and slower. Ed opened the door and climbed out, followed by Jack and Willard.

  ‘Well,’ said Jack, cleaning his glasses on his shirt-tail. ‘What are we going to do now?’

  Ed said, ‘I don’t know. Nothing, right now. First of all I want to hear what Dr Benson’s got to say.’

  ‘And then you’ll call the senator?’ asked Willard.

  Ed glanced at him. Willard was brushing his moustache with his fingers and looking exaggeratedly innocent.

  ‘I may,’ Ed told him. ‘Just to make his acquaintance.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Willard. ‘I’ll make the call to Dr Benson, if you like, and see if he has any ideas yet. I can reach you at the house?’

  ‘Yes. I should be there for most of the afternoon.’

  Ed walked across the pasture, vaulted the split-rail fence, and made his way around to the front of the house. It was a neat, well-proportioned house, with white carved balconies and shuttered dormer windows and a shingle roof that sloped all the way down to the roof of the front verandah. It didn’t look like the kind of house that Dan Hardesty would have chosen for himself, but only recently Ed had discovered that it wasn’t. An early partner of his father’s called Ted Zacharias had constructed it, and sold it to his father along with twenty thousand acres of arable land. Ed hadn’t been surprised by the discovery: his father had always been a man of business, not of taste.

  As Ed crossed the yard, he saw the grey Cadillac Seville parked in front of the steps, and the buff-uniformed chauffeur leaning against it smoking a cigarette. His mother was here. He rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck as he walked through the verandah and opened the gentian-blue front door. His mother always gave him a feeling of suppressed tension, and it sometimes took Season an hour of gentle talk and a massage to calm him down after the old lady had gone.

  Mrs Ursula Hardesty was another reason he had left home.

  She was standing in the hallway as he came in, primping her hair. She was tall, bony as a clothes-horse and wearing a light green Yves St Laurent dress that was at least twenty years too young for her. Her eyes were as pale and watery as Little Neck clams, and her neck was withered and white, although it was sparklingly decorated with three strands of diamonds and pearls. She gave him a lopsided smile, and raised her arms like someone signalling to a passing ship.

  ‘Edward. My dear. I thought I’d surprise you.’

  ‘Hello, Mother.’

  He embraced her as circumspectly as he knew how. Curling his arm around her waist and yet not quite touching her; kissing her cheek from a fraction of an inch away.

  ‘You’re looking peaky, dear,’ she said. ‘Are you still taking that tonic wine I brought you?’

  ‘When I remember. I’ve just had a bad night, that’s all.’ Mrs Hardesty glanced towards the living-room, where Ed could see Season’s arm on the back of the settee, holding a smoking cigarette.

  ‘I hope you’re not having any trouble,’ she said, her voice as brittle as fractured porcelain.

  ‘You mean you hope I’m not having too many arguments with Season? Is that it?’

  Mrs Hardesty looked pained. ‘I’ve never had anything against her, Edward, but I can’t say that she’s really cut out to be the mistress of a wheat-farming empire, can you? I mean – fashion and style are all very well,, but has she bought herself any galoshes yet?’

  ‘Mother,’ Ed told her, ‘I’m not having you start all that again. Season’s settling in pretty well, all things considered. It’s a big change to come to Kansas from New York City. A big shock to the system. Season’s going to have to be given time to get used to it.’

  ‘Well…’ said Mrs Hardesty, disapprovingly, turning her mouth down at the corners.

  ‘Well nothing, Mother,’ Ed retorted. ‘And as to when she’s going to buy herself any galoshes… she’ll do it when Gucci bring out some galoshes with red-and-green bands round the top.’

  ‘It’s your loss,’ Mrs Hardesty said. ‘If you want to carry the whole burden of South Burlington yourself… it’s really up to you. I can’t influence you.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Ed. ‘Now come and have a cocktail before I start getting mad at you. I’ve got enough problems on the farm without getting mad at my mother.’

  ‘No serious problems, I hope?’ said Mrs Hardesty, as they walked through into the living-room.

  ‘Moderately serious. Some sort of crop disease. We’re not sure what it is yet.’

  Mrs Hardesty frowned. ‘Is it bad? You’re almost ready for harvesting.’

  Ed walked around the back of the sofa, clasped Season’s hand, and bent over to kiss her. She was dressed in tight dark blue velvet pants and a cream-coloured silk blouse. Her hair was freshly washed and shining, and she had let it hang loose to her shoulders.

  ‘How is it?’ she asked.

  Ed shrugged. ‘Hard to tell yet. But it’s still spreading. We saw patches of it all over.’

  ‘Did Dr Benson call yet?’

  ‘Willard’s trying to get in touch with him now.’

  Mrs Hardesty sat down in the velvet-covered armchair by the fireplace, facing the library chair which had once been her husband’s. She sat stiff and erect, raising her head like an inquiring eagle. ‘You’ve sent samples across to Dr Benson?’ she asked. ‘Your father always thought that Dr Benson was a quack.’

  ‘Perhaps he is,’ said Ed. ‘But he’s our first line of assistance. Jack’s been trying to isolate the blight all night, and he can’t make out what it is.’

  ‘I could give you Professor Kornbluth’s number,’ said Mrs Hardesty. ‘He did some wonderful work for us on seed dressings.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Mother, but Professor Kornbluth is an expert on the protection of germinating crops, and that’s it. This is a blight of the whole ripened ear.’

  ‘Has it spread very far?’ asked his mother.

  ‘Two, maybe two hundred and fifty acres.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty acres? And you’re leaving it to Dr Benson? My dear, you can’t do that!’

  ‘What else do you suggest I do?’

  ‘Go over his head. Your father would have done. Go straight to the Department of Agriculture.’

  Ed sat down in his father’s chair, and crossed his legs
in a deliberate effort to show that he was relaxed. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘Dr Benson is the Kansas state expert on crop protection. Whatever father thought about him, and however erratic he might seem to be—’

  ‘Alcoholic, more like,’ sniffed Mrs Hardesty.

  ‘All right, alcoholic. Erratic. Whatever. But he’s still the man I have to do business with, week in and week out, and if I go over his head now there’s never going to be any chance of my getting a favour out of him in the future. I know what he’s like. I’m not dumb. But I told Willard to kick his keister if he dragged his feet, and I think he’ll be able to help us.’

  Mrs Hardesty suddenly and unexpectedly turned to Season. ‘What do you think, my dear?’ she demanded.

  Season shrugged. ‘I don’t think anything. I don’t think I’ve ever met Dr Benson. Whatever Ed decides to do is fine by me.’

  Mrs Hardesty rose to her feet. ‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ she said, in a frivolously sarcastic tone. ‘“Whatever Ed decides to do is fine by me.” Have you ever heard any wheat-farmer’s wife come out with such a positive and helpful contribution? Do you know something, my dear, when I was mistress of this farm, I used to spend all my waking hours finding out about crops and how to grow them. I was as much an expert on wheat as Ed’s father was. I could talk about planting and harvesting with the best of them, and I could take a tractor to pieces with my own bare hands. This region is lousy with sidewalk farmers, who commute to their farms from Wichita and Kansas City, and lousy with suitcase farmers, who spend most of their time in Chicago and Los Angeles, and only fly in for the sowing and the harvesting. Well, Dan Hardesty wasn’t one of them, and neither was I. We lived on our land and we took care of our crops and we produced more grain on these eighty-five thousand acres than most farms that were twice our size. We did it together, Dan and I, and that’s why I can hardly believe my ears when I hear you saying that you don’t care about it.’

  ‘I didn’t say that I don’t care about it,’ put in Season. ‘I simply said that I respect Ed’s judgement.’

  ‘Come on, Mother,’ said Ed. ‘We all know what you and Daddy did to build up South Burlington. It’s part of the family’s history. But can’t you just leave it alone?’

  ‘I see,’ said Mrs Hardesty. ‘You’re prepared to talk about your father and I as ancient history – a bedtime story for Sally, maybe – but you’re not prepared to take my advice?’

  ‘Mother, this is my farm now.’

  Mrs Hardesty looked out of the window across the sunlit yard. Her hands were clasped together in controlled anguish. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know it is. And I also remember what it cost this family for you to have it.’

  Season turned around. That, Ursula, is a grossly unfair remark,’ she said, coldly. ‘Ed was just as hurt as you were by what happened to his father and what happened to Michael. Good God, you’re talking as if he killed diem with his own bare hands.’

  Mrs Hardesty stared at her. ‘My only regret,’ she said, ‘is not that Edward took over the farm when his father and his older brother both died. My only regret is that he should have brought to South Burlington a wife who treats the farm and everything that it means to this family with such obvious contempt.’

  Season was about to say something caustic in return, but she held herself back. Instead, she reached over to the low gilded coffee-table and opened the cigarette-box.

  ‘I’d really appreciate it if you sat down and made yourself comfortable,’ she told Mrs Hardesty. ‘I hate to see anyone feeling ill-at-ease in my home, no matter who it is.’ Mrs Hardesty looked to her son, but Ed simply said, ‘Sit down, Mother. I’ll fix you a cocktail.’

  ‘You will stay for some supper, won’t you?’ asked Season. ‘Perhaps you’d like to stay the night?’

  The telephone over on the French bureau started to ring. Ed said, ‘Excuse me,’ and went across to pick it up. It was Willard, calling from the office on the far side of the yard.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ he said. ‘I saw the old lady’s car outside.’

  ‘Just the usual,’ said Ed. ‘Did you get hold of Benson?’

  ‘I sure did. And I hope you’re sitting down.’

  ‘Has he found out what it is?’

  ‘He has some ideas. But it turns out that we’re not the only farm that’s been hit. He’s had samples in this morning from as far away as Great Bend and Concordia. Seems like the whole state’s been affected.’

  ‘The whole state? You’re kidding.’

  ‘I wish I was,’ said Willard. ‘But I called Arthur Kalken over at the Hutchinson place just to check, and he told me their whole south valley is nothing but two thousand acres of blight. He’s had it for two, three days now.’

  There hasn’t been anything about it on the news.’

  ‘Well, the state agricultural people have been trying to keep it quiet until they know what it is. They don’t want buyers boycotting Kansas wheat just because they’re afraid it might be contaminated or something. And also, the thing’s only just hit. Most of the farmers were like us – they thought they were the only ones who’d got it.’

  Ed ran his hand through his hair. ‘What’s going to happen? Did Benson have any ideas?’

  ‘He’s still trying to isolate it. He’s sent some samples to the federal laboratories, too. But meanwhile, George Pulaski’s arranging an emergency meeting for all die state’s wheat farmers – probably in Kansas City and probably on Thursday morning.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Ed. ‘Did Benson give you any ideas about interim control? Sulphur spraying, anything of that kind?’

  ‘He said to leave it alone. It’s not rust, and it’s not powdery mildew, and it could react adversely if you dust it.’

  Ed put the phone down. Season was watching hin intently, and she said, ‘You’ve got your Aristotle Contemplating The Bust Of Homer face on again. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Willard talked to Dr Benson. It seems like South Burlington isn’t the only farm with the blight. The whole state’s affected.’

  ‘And I suppose Benson still doesn’t know what it is?’ asked Mrs Hardesty.

  ‘No, Mother, he doesn’t,’ said Ed. ‘But it seems like he’s taken your advice, and sent the problem over his own head. He’s asked the federal laboratories to look at it, too.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Hardesty, ‘it won’t be the first time the wheat crop’s failed in Kansas. For some of those part-timers, it’s a regular occurrence.’

  ‘The whole wheat crop, throughout the whole state?’ asked Ed. ‘South Burlington’s wheat crop, too?’

  ‘The crop’s insured, isn’t it?’ Mrs Hardesty asked. ‘And at least your father isn’t around to see it fail. He would have tanned your hide.’

  ‘Mrs Hardesty, the blight isn’t Ed’s fault,’ said Season. Mrs Hardesty lifted her head, more like an eagle than ever. ‘Poor farmers always blame everything except their own lack of talent. Drought, floods, hail, mildew – they’re all an excuse.’

  ‘Mother,’ said Ed, ‘you’re going to make me mad in a minute.’

  The telephone rang again. It was Willard. ‘Dr Benson called me,’ he said. ‘Told me to watch the two-thirty news on television. Seems like the state agricultural department has just put out a statement.’

  Ed pointed to the television, and twisted his hand to indicate to Season that she should switch it on. Then he asked Willard, ‘Any more news about the analysis?’

  ‘Not a thing. Looks like it’s one of those diseases that’s going to baffle modern science for years to come.’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ said Ed, and put the phone down again.

  The news was just beginning. After a lead report about fighting in Iran, the anchorman said, ‘Trouble of a different kind here at home. Reports from the wheat-growing states of Kansas and North Dakota tell of a rapidly-spreading and so-far unidentified crop blight. Apparently the blight is attacking ripe ears of wheat and causing them to rot right on their stalks, and hundreds of acres of crop
s have already been destroyed. Local and federal agricultural experts are working around the clock to isolate the cause of the blight – so far without success. George Pulaski, chief of the agricultural department for the state of Kansas, the country’s number one wheat producer, says that he’s confident the blight will be brought under control before the damage ruins more than a nominal percentage of the year’s crop. But, he warned, many farmers may face substantial losses, if not bankruptcy.’

  That was all. Ed walked over and switched the television off. ‘I think I could use a drink,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Thank God your father isn’t here,’ said Mrs Hardesty. ‘Thank you, God,’ said Season, and Mrs Hardesty gave her a frosty stare.

  Four

  That evening, after supper, he went upstairs to his small library and placed a call to Senator Shearson Jones in Washington. The telephone rang for a long time before anyone answered, and then an irritated voice said, ‘Senator Jones’s residence.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to the senator, please.’

  ‘The senator isn’t here. He’s in Tobago, on vacation.’

  ‘He spoke in the Senate yesterday afternoon, on soybean subsidies.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, either he has an incredible talent for throwing his voice, or else he’s still in Washington. You tell him it’s Ed Hardesty, son of Dan Hardesty, and you can also tell him one hundred and forty-two thousand tons.’

  ‘That’s the message? One hundred forty-two thousand tons?’

  ‘That’s the message.’

  There was a lengthy pause, during which Ed could faintly hear someone laughing. Then there was a series of clicks, and the phone was put through to Senator Jones.

  ‘Jones here.’ The voice was thick, and slurred with tiredness or drink.

  ‘Senator Jones, you don’t know me, but you knew my father.’

  ‘That’s right. What’s this cockamamie message about one hundred and forty-two thousand tons?’