Elizabeth said nothing. She sat back and watched the animal, which seemed unaware of their presence. Occasionally she glanced at Kit.
The squirrel finished its snack, dropped the nutshell and scampered off into the wood. Elizabeth got to her feet and turned to him. “It’s taken us ten years to get this far,” she said, and headed downhill. He followed her, half a dozen paces behind, until they came to a smaller, lighter patch of woodland fringed with gorse. A few yellow flowers studded the prickly bushes. “When gorse is in bloom . . .” intoned Elizabeth.
“ . . . kissing’s in season,” finished Kit.
“You haven’t forgotten, then.”
“No.”
“Your father left his mark on a lot of people.”
“So I’m discovering.”
She pushed her way through the spiky undergrowth. “We call this the Spinney.” Kit followed, the sharp spikes of the gorse perforating his clothing. Finally the bushes stopped abruptly and they came out on to a close-cropped sward of grass that ran steeply down to the cliff edge. Kit stopped and gazed at the view. From this lofty vantage-point, he could see the morning sun glinting on the crests of the waves. The reserve was behind them now and the sea below a deep navy blue. The sight of it took his breath away. The gentle morning breeze was clearing his head and he looked up into a pale blue cloudless sky.
He looked round for Elizabeth, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished as quickly as the squirrel, and just as silently, leaving him quite alone to face the sea and an uncertain future.
It worried him that he gravitated naturally towards Wilson. As an animal, the pig had hitherto held him in no particular thrall. Horses were different: breeding and bloodstock lines fascinated him. Pigs couldn’t compete, when it came to sleekness of coat, conformation or general demeanour, and yet here he was, leaning into the old girl’s sty and scratching her mud-encrusted back with a stick.
“What do you make of it all, then? Eh?”
The pig responded with a snort.
“Yes. Exactly. Bit of a bugger, really, isn’t it?” He rubbed the stick behind her ear and her eyes closed with pleasure.
“It’s all right for you. All you have to do is eat and sleep. I’ve got to sort all this lot out. I mean, I’ve got nothing against you – nothing against pigs as a race – but horses are my thing. You might be a prizewinning Gloucester Old Spot for all I know but I can’t tell that from your lines or your conformation – if you’ve got one. But I can with horses.” The animal peeped at him, occasionally, from under her floppy ears while she foraged for food.
Kit tried harder to impress. “I’ve had a few winners – Melbourne Cup. Not mine, of course, my boss’s – but the breeding was down to me. I’d like a stud farm of my own, really. Got a bit saved. Not enough, though. You could come with me if you want. As long as you’re prepared to travel.” The pig showed no interest. “I suppose you’d rather stay here, but I haven’t enough money to keep this place going even if I wanted to. Tax to pay, no obvious buyer and . . . a couple of women who are . . .”
He was just about to ask Wilson’s advice on the particularly knotty problem of what would become of Elizabeth and Jess when the latter called him from across the yard. She was standing by the barn with a tall man in an old tweed jacket and a flat cap. He stood, hands in his pockets, watching, as Kit walked over to where they stood.
“This is Mr Maidment,” said Jess, then walked off in the direction of the orchard.
Kit shook the man’s large, horny hand. “Arthur Maidment,” the man introduced himself. He was tall and angular with a slight stoop, a ruddy, clean-shaven face and pale blue eyes. He touched his cap before he spoke. “Thought I’d better come and see ’ee.”
“Yes.” It was the best response Kit could manage.
“I know ’tis early days but I thought y’ought to know that my lease comes up for renewal soon.”
“Yes.”
“Just wanted to know if you knew, like, what would be ’appenin’.”
“Well, not yet, no.”
“You goin’ to sell up?”
“Almost certainly.”
“ ’Cos if you is then I might be interested in buyin’. At the right price, of course.”
“I see.” Kit brightened.
“But if you’re not sellin’ we ought to talk about the land anyway.”
“Sorry?”
“This management lark. Can’t go on like this. Makin’ no money. Can’t go on with this organic business. Too much labour and not enough return. Need to think about a different management scheme.”
Kit’s head was swimming. He had barely come to grips with the extent of the estate, had only just walked around it, and he was being asked to make decisions about its management when all he had really wanted to do was to get rid of it.
Though if Arthur Maidment wanted to buy it where was the problem? Hadn’t it just been solved? Or could he sell off part to pay the inheritance tax and keep the rest? But why should he do that? And if Maidment was not happy with organic farming, what would happen to the reserve if he bought it? “Shall we go inside, Mr Maidment?” he asked. “Talk this through over a cup of coffee?”
“If you like.”
Kit led the way to the kitchen, found the kettle and a decent jar of coffee then sat his neighbour down at the kitchen table. Maidment took off his cap, revealing a snowy white thatch of hair. He ladled three heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his mug and took up the conversation. “Got a plan for more sheep. More daffs, too. But I needs to use fertilisers to get better crops.”
“Can’t you use organic fertilisers?”
“Not to get enough early bite – enough nitrogen in there. Need to use more fertiliser to make the land more productive. Herbicides, too.”
“So if you bought the reserve what would you do with it?”
Maidment smiled. “Have to farm it. Sell the timber, make the land productive.”
“No conservation area?”
“Can’t afford it. ’Twould be a few year before ’twere all taken into cultivation, mind. Can’t rush into these things. Would offer a fair price, though.”
Kit experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Refusing to carry on his father’s work himself was one thing; seeing it all go under the plough or the axe was another. “What about the house?” he asked.
“Not interested, unless it were at the right price.”
Maidment might look like the archetypal son of the soil, but he was no fool. He had as sharp a business mind as any City slicker, Kit decided. “Right. I’ll let you know,” he said.
Maidment rose from the table and picked up his cap. “They ’as my number, the ladies. I’ll wait to ’ear.”
“Thank you.”
Maidment nodded, put on his cap and loped out of the kitchen, leaving Kit with a crisis of conscience that he would have given anything to avoid.
Chapter 7: Forget-me-not
(Myosotis sylvatica)
It was not at all what he had expected. He had been ready for hysterical entreaties not to sell West Yarmouth from both Elizabeth and Jess, instead of which, after Jess’s initial outburst at the pig-sty, they had kept their peace. It was as though they had made a pact. It was unnerving, but maybe that was what they wanted – to unsettle him. If so, they had succeeded. A temper tantrum from Jess or icy reproach from Elizabeth would have been helpful: it would have cleared the air. As it was, he remained uncomfortably uncertain, both of their thoughts and their modus operandi.
Shortly after supper the phone call came as a welcome relief. Elizabeth took it in the hallway and stuck her head round the door into the kitchen. “It’s for you,” she told Kit. “Someone called Heather?”
His thoughts tumbled from the Devon farm across the water to Australia. He got up quickly and went into the hall, carefully closing the door behind him before picking up the phone and sitting on the stairs. “Hello?”
“Hi! How are you? I thought you’d forgotten me.”
<
br /> The voice sounded as though it was in the next room, not thousands of miles away.
“No, not forgotten. Missing you like hell. Wishing I was still with you. Trying to survive without you. How’s it going?” The Australian vernacular came back to him.
“OK.” There was a question in her voice, which he did his best to answer.
“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t rung. I’ve been laid up with flu. Well, a bad cold anyway. Could hardly speak. It’s bloody cold here.”
“Yes. I guess so.”
It was good to hear a friendly voice.
“What’s happening over there? When do you think you’ll be back?” she went on.
“Oh, heaven knows. It’s going to take longer than I thought.”
“How long?”
“Several weeks. Maybe a couple of months. There’s so much to sort out.”
“I knew this would happen.”
“What?”
“That it would take ages. I told you it wouldn’t be easy.” She sounded disappointed. “I’m missing you.”
“Me, too. I could do with a friendly face around here. Everybody seems to think I’m up to no good.”
“Do they know you want to sell up?”
“Yes.”
“Are they being difficult?”
“No. That’s the trouble. Apart from the odd bit of temperament they’re all being fine. I’ve even had a neighbour round who wants to buy the land.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s not quite as easy as that.” Kit tried to explain the situation, taking care to keep his voice down.
Heather listened, then said, “You can’t worry about what they’ll all think. It’s your life.”
“I know. It’s just that . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Seeing all Dad’s work go up in smoke doesn’t seem fair. I’d rather sell to somebody who would at least keep the reserve going, rather than turning it all over to farmland.”
“That could take ages.”
“I know.” He asked about the stud farm and the horses.
“They’re missing you. I’m missing you. Pa’s missing you. We’re all missing you.”
“And I’m missing you. I’d be there tomorrow if I could but– Look, I’m sorry this is all so complicated, but I’ll get back as soon as I can. And I’ll ring you. Every week.”
“Is that all?”
“What?”
“I thought you might ring every day.”
“Sweetheart, it would cost a fortune.”
“Oh.” She sounded hurt.
“Hey . . . a couple of times a week then.”
“Only if you can.”
The enthusiasm he had heard in her voice at the start of their conversation had ebbed away. He could picture her at the other end of the line, standing in the doorway of the white-painted clapboard house, looking out across the white-railed fields where sleek horses grazed. Her dark hair would be tied back in a ponytail, she’d be dressed in T-shirt and shorts, her tanned legs crossed as she propped herself against the porch, an ice-cold beer in her hand. What he wouldn’t give to be standing there now.
They’d had a great Christmas together, the three of them. Kit had become Heather’s father’s right-hand man, supervising the breeding programme. Her older brothers worked at the stud, too, but they lived with their own families in other ranch-houses. Kit lived in the main house with her and her father, and he’d almost become a member of the family. Almost. They’d started off as wary acquaintances, but their relationship had built over the years. Boyfriends had come and gone, and Heather and Kit had become closer as he helped her over broken relationships, and they slowly forged one of their own.
He could hear distant shouting. “I’d better be getting back,” she said. “Pa’s breaking Wackatee’s colt. Ring when you can. We’re eleven hours ahead of you.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Oh . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just wanted this to be a good phone call, that’s all, and it’s not.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, I suppose. Just wish you were here, that’s all.”
“And you.”
“Speak soon, then.”
“Yes. Soon.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“‘Bye.” There was a click at the other end, and he lowered the handset into the cradle. From thoughts of a sunny Australian day he was plunged back into the chilly gloom of a dark English night. Right now he would rather be in Australia. Right now he would rather be anywhere than here.
Chapter 8: Teasel
(Dipsacus fullonum)
At the end of the first week Kit seemed to be no further forward than he had been when he arrived. Jess engaged him in conversation only rarely, and Elizabeth seemed irritable with him. He decided on an olive branch. “Is there anything I can do?” he’d asked over breakfast.
“There is, actually,” retorted Elizabeth.
He was surprised at the swiftness of her reply. He’d expected a “No, not really,” instead of which he was despatched with a mattock to the Spinney to clear a patch of brambles that were overtaking a grassy bank where Elizabeth wanted to protect the wild thyme and ants’ nests – egg-laying sites for the large blue butterfly.
She walked down there with him on the grey, blustery morning. More as a way of making conversation than anything else, Kit asked, “Where did Dad fall?”
“We’ll pass it in a moment,” she replied.
She said nothing more until they were walking along the steep-sided ravine where the Yar made its way into the sea. Then she stopped. “Just down there.” She nodded towards a small apron of sand and shingle. “That’s where I found him.”
They both stood silently for a while, listening to the waves lapping against the shore.
Kit asked “Did he . . . ?”
“Dr Hastings thinks he had a blackout. He was dead by the time I arrived.”
“How long . . . ?”
“He can’t have fallen more than five minutes before I found him. He left the house just before I did. We were coming to look at the state of the Spinney. I saw him lying on the sand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s I who should be apologising. If we’d left together it might never have happened.” There was a crack in her voice.
“You musn’t think like that.”
She turned on him. “I can and I do. Stupid. It should never have happened. He should be here to see things through. Misadventure, they said at the inquest. Such a pointless word. Childish.” She said nothing more for a few moments, then turned to face him. “Don’t let us down,” she said. Then she walked on with him to the Spinney and instructed him in the indelicate art of grubbing out brambles.
For three hours he flailed away, the blackberry stems lacerating his cheeks and wrists, which were the only parts of his body open to attack, thanks to a thornproof Barbour and thick leather gloves. He stacked the uprooted plants on the edge of the Spinney as per Elizabeth’s instructions.
“Why can’t I just burn them?” he’d asked.
“Carcinogens. Benzopyrene. Ozone layer. Better not to burn them. Stack them in a heap and they dry out and make a protective thicket for nesting birds.”
“Fine.” He considered himself told.
The manual labour did him good: it cleared his head and blew away the cobwebs born of his cold and the jet-lag. Colour sprang into his cheeks and he paused from time to time to gaze at the sea and at the gulls wheeling over the cliffs, their normally black heads white in winter plumage. He nearly leaped over the cliff himself when a voice surprised him.
“Hello!” She laughed when he jumped a foot into the air and slapped his hand to his heart.
“You made me jump,” he said.
“Obviously.” She smiled broadly, looking down at him from her horse.
“You must be Kit.”
“Yes.”
“They’ve got you working already, have they?”
“ ’Fraid so.” He looked up at her, in her white Aran sweater and black hard hat, dark brown jodhpurs and brown suede boots. He looked, too, at her horse, a powerful grey gelding of seventeen hands, his ears pricked, mouth champing at the bit.
“He looks a bit of a handful.”
“Oh, he is. Keeps me on my toes.” And then, realising she had not introduced herself, “I’m Jinty O’Hare from Baddesley Court. We’re neighbours – well, almost.” She leaned down to shake his hand, and he noticed how green her eyes were.
“What’s his name?”
“Seltzer. Ex-team chaser. Good hunter. More energy than I have.” Her accent betrayed her Irish origins. She smiled again, and dimples appeared in her cheeks. “You work with horses yourself, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes. But not here. Out in New South Wales. Not as hands-on as you. More into bloodstock, stud work.”
“That sounds pretty hands-on to me.”
“Oh, I’m more concerned with who should do what and to whom.”
“Mmmm!” She looked at him mischievously. “Fascinating.”
So this was Kit Lavery. Jinty eyed him up from her vantage-point atop the muscular grey. He was looking up at her, his chiselled features and pale blue eyes topped with a strangely boyish mop of fair curly hair. There were beads of perspiration on his brow, thanks to his exertions, and he was breathing heavily. She patted the horse’s neck to calm him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Oh, just walking the cliff-path. We’ve been for a gallop on the sand.” She patted Seltzer’s neck again. “He likes that, don’t you, boy?”
Kit gazed at the vision before him: tall and elegant, her cheeks pink from riding, her long legs flexed in the stirrups, the powerful horse straining beneath her. His heart beat faster.
“Back home for lunch now.” She kicked the horse into a walk. “You should come and look at the stable sometime, unless you’re rushing back Down Under.”
Animal Instincts Page 5