“There are no bequests?”
“None, surprisingly.” The solicitor took off his spectacles and slipped them into his top pocket. “Your father was a kind man but also, it seems, unsentimental. I asked him, when we were drawing up his will, if he wanted to make any special bequests – bearing in mind his staff and his commitment to conservation and so on – and he was quite emphatic that he did not.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He was very firm about that. He said that, aside from the reserve, his only responsibility was to his family. You.”
Kit stared at the little grey man in disbelief.
“Well, you have my number. It’s on the letterhead. I’ll wait for you to get in touch.” The solicitor left the room, went down the stairs, got into his car and drove off.
Kit sat on the bed. Guilt surfaced. Guilt at not being there when his father needed help and when he died. Guilt at wanting to sweep away his life’s work and escape to the other side of the world.
He blew his nose loud and long, in an attempt to banish the stuffiness that seemed to be turning into a cold.
He walked to the desk, pushed back his hair and picked up the envelope. He slit it open with a brass paperknife, tipped it up and a wad of papers tumbled out – legal documents and plans of the estate. There was also a smaller envelope, addressed simply to ‘Kit’ in his father’s handwriting. He opened it, took out a letter and sat down on the bed to read it. It was dated two years previously.
My dear Kit,
There are a few things I need you to know, and sometimes it’s easier to say such things in a letter than it is to say them face to face. I’m afraid it’s been one of my failings in life that I’ve always found it difficult to be open with my feelings when I’ve thought that such openness would lead to unhappiness in the other person. This lack of honesty, if you like, is sometimes also apparent when you want to praise somebody, but feel that such praise might come over as being patronising or insincere. Perhaps now I can be more honest on both counts.
Kit felt uneasy about what might be coming. He read on.
I was very sad when you left. You must have known that. But I hope my sadness didn’t transmit itself in a way that interfered with your striking out on your own and achieving your own goals. A son should never feel that he has to follow in his father’s footsteps, or that he’s tied to his father’s way of life. A father can hope for such a gift, but he has no right to expect it.
I admit that when you left I felt bitter. Sorry for myself, to be honest. But that sorrow was gradually replaced by admiration. I don’t think I ever made it completely clear how proud I am of your achievements. That they were accomplished on the other side of the world, with no help from your friends or family, only adds to your standing. Your mother would have been very proud of you too.
Kit was unable to continue. He stared out of the window as dusk fell. The leaves of the ivy on the wall of the farmhouse rattled in a gust of wind. He picked up the letter once more.
I think I can understand why you needed to go. Sometimes it’s not enough for a father to give his son space, or to let him have enough rein. In your case I realise that I must have cast a long shadow, but it gives me no satisfaction to know that.
Throughout my life I’ve made plenty of mistakes. I’ve tried to be a good man, but goodness is a funny thing. Some people see it as saintliness – seldom an admired quality except in nuns or prisoners of conscience. Others see it as a naive hope. I suppose, in truth, that it’s somewhere between the two.
I’ve always promised myself that I’d never lecture you, but now that I’ve gone (funny thing to say when, as yet, I haven’t) perhaps I can be allowed just a small homily. Ignore it, if you want, but it makes me feel better to get it off my chest. A last wish, if you like.
It seems to me that the most important thing in life is that you should be guided by your own true feelings. The trouble is that these feelings are sometimes difficult to divine. Experience produces veneers of learning that can mask what we intuitively or instinctively know is right. Your gut reaction is often the one which is most reliable, so never underestimate it.
Don’t let the fact that people let you down, or act in ways which are less than honest, make you believe that humankind is bad. It isn’t. It’s just sometimes misguided, confused and frightened. Neither should you be persuaded that mankind has no place on the planet, except to tiptoe around other forms of life. Mankind is as vital here as other creatures, and in the same way that other creatures must sustain themselves, so must man. The difference is that man is entrusted with a conscious responsibility for other forms of life.
Look further than the obvious when endeavouring to work out what is right. Too many people enter into heated emotional arguments based on envy and distrust.
I’m sorry if this is beginning to sound too much like a sermon. I didn’t intend it to. What I really wanted to do was to communicate to you the joy and the pleasure I have had in my life, much of which has come from working this small patch of countryside. As you will discover from my bank balance, it is not financially rewarding, but then financial reward is not what I sought.
It’s been my greatest belief in life that a man entrusted with land must hand it on in a better state than it was in when he inherited it. I hope that this is the case with West Yarmouth. When my father farmed here the ground was given over to sheep and turnips. Now butterflies and bats breed, wild flowers thrive, and the red squirrel is beginning, slowly, to recolonise, though few, as yet, are aware of that. Sometimes it’s good to be quiet about things.
I have made sure that the areas of the farm still under cultivation are worked responsibly and organically, with an eye to the ground being kept in good heart. Land must be productive – whether it produces wild flowers or wheat – but it must be husbanded, not plundered.
Deciding what to do with the land will be a problem that I cannot solve for you, and I make no apology for presenting you with a difficult decision. I can’t pretend that I don’t want you to pick up the torch, but I won’t force my beliefs and responsibilities on to you, except to ask you to make sure that somehow the reserve continues to thrive. Whether you do this by selling it to someone who will carry on my work, or by taking it on yourself, is up to you. The books might be of help.
Kit raised his eyes to the book-filled shelves that lined the room. It would take more than nightly reading to get to grips with three hundred acres of Devonshire. He turned to the last page of the letter.
Writing this makes me heavy-hearted. I have no wish to alter the course of your life – the course that you must steer for yourself – but I feel a need to explain my actions in the hope that you might at least see why I did what I did.
There are some who achieve their goals in life in a forceful way – particularly in the field of conservation. They have their place in bringing matters to public notice, but I’ve never been of their number. I chose to work differently but, I hope, just as effectively. I’m firmly of the conviction that more can be achieved in life by proceeding quietly but positively. Too many people concern themselves with the general rather than the particular; I chose the opposite course. All I can leave behind me to prove my point is the reserve.
Again, I’m sorry to land you with what I suspect will be a difficult decision, but then I cannot really apologise for my life. Do what you must, and know that you gave me much satisfaction in the way you led your own life. Your mother and I hoped, above all else, that you would be your own person, and in that we were never disappointed. Please continue to be yourself and know how much we loved you.
To finish on a practical note, I ask that there be no funeral and no memorial service. I have given instructions to Dr Hastings that my body be left to science – if it’s any use to them. This will surprise some who will doubtless expect me to be buried on the reserve. My spirit will be there. Plant a tree for me.
With love, always,
Dad
Kit laid the letter on
the bed, and for the next hour, until it was quite dark, sat staring silently into space as tears streamed down his cheeks.
Chapter 6: Devil-in-a-bush
(Paris quadrifolia)
The following morning Kit’s head felt like lead. He tried to lift it from the pillow, but dizziness and a streaming cold told him he’d be better off staying where he was. The crisp sunny weather of the past few days was replaced by wind and rain that whipped at the old sash windows of the farmhouse.
At nine there was a knock on his door, and he croaked, “Cub id.”
Elizabeth Punch put her head around the door, immediately sized up the situation from Kit’s general demeanour and gave her instructions. “Stay there. I thought this was coming. The best place for you is bed.” She walked towards him, and laid a cold hand on his feverish brow. “Mmm. I’ll bring you some honey and lemon. Bit of a stinker you’ve got. Change of weather, I expect,” and she stared blankly out of the window at the swirling rain. “A bit warmer where you’ve come from?” She looked down at him.
Kit nodded, then regretted it as his head throbbed like a kettle drum.
“Well, you’re in the right place. Might as well give in to it.” And then, lest her good nature be taken advantage of, “I can’t nurse you, mind – too much to do. But I’ll keep an eye on you and bring you some broth later. All right?”
Kit managed a weak “Thank you,” and she closed the door quietly behind her. He lay back on the pillow, aware of a whispered conversation outside the door, but disinclined to do anything except fall asleep.
For the next two days he coughed and spluttered his way self-pityingly through a heavy cold as only the male of the species can. Sweat poured off him at one moment, and shivers gripped him at the next. Visions of swaying trees and crashing seas came and went, as did the trays of hot lemon and honey, watery consommé and dry toast that Elizabeth brought in from time to time. Through it all came a vision of his father sitting at his desk writing page after page of notes, which were flung to the floor until they merged into a snowy white carpet.
He wanted to reach for the telephone and speak to Australia but his aching limbs and throbbing head dissuaded him. His father’s words swirled around in his head like a litany – “Do what you must . . . continue to be yourself . . . know how much we loved you . . .” As soon as he felt better he would start things moving with the sale of West Yarmouth.
Gradually, his temperature returned to normal, and Elizabeth decided that as the weather had changed so, too, should the location of the man in the master bedroom. On the third morning she appeared with a tray of tea and toast. “Breakfast!” Her voice was louder than it had been before, and Kit detected in it a note of impatience. She put down the tray on the desk and went to the window, threw back the curtains and let in what passed for the morning light. The wind and rain had subsided, to be replaced by a watery stillness.
“If you’re feeling up to it I thought we might walk the reserve this morning,” she said.
“Fine. Yes.” Kit dragged himself upright and ran his hand through his matted hair.
She looked at him, half naked in his father’s bed, and excused herself. “Right. Well I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready. Ten o’clock?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” He felt unable to argue.
She nodded and left, closing the door quietly. This time there were no whispers.
She reminded him of a Japanese tourist guide – the sort who marches in front of her charges with a scarlet umbrella held aloft, anxious that none should go astray. This particular tour began in front of the stables. Elizabeth’s hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a Drizabone cape. “You know about the stables – general storage space underneath, machinery, mowers and the like, our accommodation above.” They walked on, past the pig-sties. “We don’t use these as yet, but we were thinking of getting some rare breeds to fill them. Just a thought. Nothing certain.”
“I see.” Kit felt a fraud – as though he was a prospective purchaser who had already decided that they were not interested in the property in question but would let the vendor carry on so as not to cause offence. He was unsure whether Elizabeth knew that she was wasting her time. Certainly, there was a degree of casualness in her manner that surprised him. Where was the missionary zeal he had expected? Perhaps she knew that, financially, West Yarmouth Nature Reserve had reached the end of the line. If she did, she was certainly keeping her cool.
“You’ve met Wilson, I understand.” She leaned over the low wall to look at the snuffling hulk that lay in the mud.
“Yes.”
“She seems to have perked up a bit since you arrived.” She turned and walked towards a five-barred gate. “This is the old orchard – it must have been here when you were a child.”
“Yes. Trees look a bit older now.”
“That’s because they are,” she said tartly. “We turn Wilson out here in decent weather. They used to say that the spots on the back of a Gloucester Old Spot were the bruises from fallen apples. A load of rubbish, of course, but at least here she can lie under the trees and not get sunburnt.”
“Sunburnt?”
“Yes. It’s a serious problem with pigs – especially the fair-skinned ones. Wilson is tougher than most but we still have to keep an eye on her.”
The prospect of a pig suffering from sunburn made Kit smile. He pictured Wilson on a Lilo on a Mediterranean beach, smothered in Ambre Solaire, but his reverie was cut short.
“The two fields over there are the ones we take hay from. Organic, of course. No fertiliser, just muck. Good mixture of grasses and wild flowers. The local horses love it.”
Kit looked out across the grassy landscape, which was presently an unpromising shade of light green. “What about the land beyond?” He pointed to the fields where sheep grazed and to others under some sort of cultivation.
“Those are let to Mr Maidment, a local farmer. He grazes sheep and grows a few daffodils. They’re managed organically – your father insisted on that.”
“How much land is there altogether?”
“About three hundred and fifty acres all told. Maidment rents about two hundred and the reserve occupies the rest. Your father talked about extending it as time went on, but we really have our hands full with what we’ve got. If we took in more land we’d need more bodies to look after it.”
And more funds, thought Kit. He stared out over the fields. “And beyond them?”
“The sea. Nobody owns that.”
Kit looked at her. She looked straight back. “Come on.” She strode through the orchard towards another five-barred gate which she held open for him. “This is where it all begins. We call this the Combe. It’s light woodland running down the side of the valley to the sea. But you must remember it?”
“Very well. I used to play here. Is the bridge still there?”
“Oh, yes. Solid as a rock. We’ll go down that way.”
The two of them walked purposefully down a snaking path through the woodland, the wide stream that locals called the river Yar tumbling past them in the bottom of the steep-sided valley. Eventually they came to the old stone hump-backed bridge and Kit leaned over it to look into the water, memories of his early years flooding back with the gushing current.
“Has it changed much?” Elizabeth asked.
“No. Not at all. Not this bit – it’s just the same.” He sounded far away; lost in childhood. His father’s voice echoed in his ears. ‘Go on, then, throw it!’ And they tossed their sticks down into the water and ran to the other side of the bridge to see whose came out first. Pooh Sticks. He had played it with his father every weekend when he was tiny. He was snapped out of his daydreams again by her voice.
“Most of the reserve is on the other side of the river.” She walked ahead and he followed
“How often do you open to the public?” he asked.
“Weekends between April and September. We restrict where they can go to make sure they don’t disturb nesting birds an
d so on. We don’t get crowds, just a steady trickle. Your father thought it important that we shared the place with other people.”
In front of them the sides of the valley rose steeply, thickly carpeted with undergrowth and sprouting healthy young trees. “These have all been planted over the last ten years.” She waved a hand at the branches overhead. “British native broadleaves, but capable of coping with salt spray. Sycamore is quite useful. We’ve put in lots of pines higher up. Hopefully you’ll see why.”
They climbed on. She seemed to have boundless energy while Kit, struggling to get over his cold, frequently found himself breathless.
“We call this the Wilderness.” She took him into a small clearing near the centre of the wood where a log seat was tucked into a group of bushes. “Sit down,” she whispered, “and don’t say anything.” He looked at her. “Just watch.” She pointed to a stand of Scots pine in front of them.
Kit watched. A few small birds twittered from branch to branch. Long-tailed tits and greenfinches. He was pleased that some of what his father had taught him remained. The birds flitted off. For fully five minutes the two of them sat on the bench while a gentle breeze rustled through the lofty pines. Just as Kit was beginning to wonder how long this would continue, he felt Elizabeth nudge him. He turned and she indicated, with a nod, a movement in a pine tree slightly to the right of them. Kit screwed up his eyes to focus them and saw the squirrel, gnawing at a nut held in its paws.
Elizabeth turned to him and smiled. Then she whispered, very quietly, “They said it couldn’t be done. That it was all but extinct on the mainland. But Rupert did it. He got the red squirrel re-established here.”
Kit looked with wonder at the small fluffy rodent sitting on the branch of the pine tree. Its ears were long and tufted, its colour a reddish grey. It reminded him of Squirrel Nutkin – which his father used to read to him at bedtime when he was four or five. He’d always found it rather scary. Now he felt a sudden thrill at seeing a red squirrel in the flesh for the first time.
Animal Instincts Page 4