Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

October came, a beautiful month, tranquil and still, with wide, clear eyes and a robe that grew each day more tawny. The fruits of the earth had been gathered in, and the winter lay hidden in the soil. In the early hours frost was very near, and the breath of the cows steamed at milking time, and the dew on the grass had the look of rime. Leaves began to flutter down and to lie yellow upon the orchard grass, where the windfallen apples rotted or were mere shells picked hollow by the blackbirds. Furze had no time to gather windfalls, nor was it worth his while to pay for the picking. He gathered what he could, or put two of Will's small daughters to the trees, with a few pence and a basket or two of fruit to satisfy children and mother. Most of his apples went to Cinder Town and some of them to "Green Shutters," where old Hesketh's young trees did no more than fill a good sized tray.

Two weeks of September had passed, and ten days of October, and between "Doomsday" and "Green Shutters" silence held. Then days ran side by side, each day much like every other day, separate, with an aloofness that might seem final. To Furze it had every appearance of finality. He did not bother. He assumed that it made no difference to him her being there, nor could the manner of her being there soften his hardness. It did not alter his manner of living; he slogged about in dirty boots; he shaved when he pleased, wore no collar, piled unwashed crockery into the sink, let cobwebs and dust accumulate. Good muck and money were the things that mattered. He lived now on the assurance that he would allow nothing else to matter.