by Tim Pears
‘Don’t worry, I should say,’ a fellow codger told him. ‘Not much you can do about it.’
‘Oh, yes, there is. I put instruction in my will to have a vein cut.’
This provoked laughter. ‘You’s got a will? What else you stipulated? Left your jacket to a scarecrow? You bain’t got no will.’
‘Maybe not, but if I did, that’s what I’d put in it.’
Leo drank much beer. The privy was a bare dim shed with a gully on the floor along one wall, running into a drain. He returned to the bar.
One man said, to no one in particular, ‘You seen that maid up Berry Lane? ’Er’s in the family way and no mistake.’ He took a slow gulp of beer, reward perhaps for this contribution to the conversation.
Another man took a pipe from his pocket, placed its stem between his teeth, closed his lips and puffed. He inhaled and exhaled, in brief rapid bursts of air. He looked at the bowl, or tried to, cross-eyed, then took matches from a different pocket and lit the pipe, pursing his lips and opening them a little periodically to get some kind of suction or airflow going. Once he had done so he removed the pipe from his mouth and said, ‘And we all know who takes the credit for that, don’t we? Marriage ain’t put a stop to Gilbert Prowse’s philanderin.’
A third man took a sip of cider and said, ‘He’s a sinner. But it’s hard to blame a man who finds his self with a frigid wife from seekin warmth elsewhere.’
One or two men nodded in agreement. The second man puffed his pipe, pondering this a while, then he said, ‘A frigid wife must be worse than one what’s on heat permanent, like.’
More men nodded. Then the first man took another slow draught of beer and burped, and said, ‘That’s what they says the matter with his poor old lordship’s daughter, why ’er’s alone on the estate. Goin about the place in men’s breeches, on that damned motorcycle. Her don’t want a man.’
‘My old girl reckons her wants a woman,’ the pipe-puffing second man said.
Leo raised his mug and swilled the beer around. The mug was less than half full. He left it on the table where he’d sat and rose and walked to the bar and asked the landlord for another pint.
The landlord said, ‘You sure you ain’t had enough for one night, young fellow?’
Leo considered this proposition, swaying a little on his feet. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘I need just one more.’
He watched the landlord pull the beer, and place the new mug on the bar, and with a section of cut wood draw off the foam atop the mug. The landlord shook the wood and put it back in its place beneath the bar.
Leo paid for the beer and carried it towards the man who had spoken of his old lordship’s daughter. Leo reached the man and raised the mug and poured its contents carefully over the man’s head. At first the man did not appear to realise what was happening. The beer fell upon him, drenching his hair and sliding down over his face and shoulders. Then he began to splutter and wave his arms and twist his body. He moved like someone underwater. When he’d emptied the mug, Leo walked back to where he’d been seated before and placed the empty mug beside the one he’d drunk from, and stumbled out of the pub and all the way back to his cabin on the Luscombes’ farm.
7
When he heard the tin bowl clang against the metal bin, the horse raised his head and turned. Presently the woman appeared and poured the oats and chaff into his feeding tray, and the large grey gelding fed. When she had done the same for the small pony in the box adjoining, she climbed the ladder to the loft and pulled hay loose and dropped it into the horses’ wooden mangers below.
There was not enough work for the last stable lad so Lottie had to lay him off. He found employment in the lace shop at the Heathcoat factory in Tiverton. There were only the two horses left. Pegasus, her big grey gelding, and the rotund old pony. He was well over twenty years old and had once worked in a mine. Now he could no longer pull even an empty cart. His heart was weak and he had arthritis in the hips and shoulders. Lottie exercised him, on a long lead, but lately he’d begun wheezing, which she feared meant a collapse of his windpipe and did not bode well. Yet the Shetland pony had not grown crotchety in his ageing decrepitude, as some horses did, but was a grave and easy-going beast. He was a grass or field companion for the big grey. Pegasus preferred his unobtrusive company to solitude.
Lottie descended from the hayloft by the stone steps outside and crossed to the bothy. It retained the scent still of Herb Shattock’s pipe tobacco. She’d brought her horse’s saddle and his bridle and reins there earlier after she’d taken Pegasus for a ride, and cleaned them with a cloth and warm water. They were now dry. Lottie unstrapped the reins and undid the bit from the bridle. She got down the glycerine saddle soap and the neat’s-foot oil from the cupboard and picked a cloth from a pile in the basket and set to rubbing soap into the old leather. She had never cleaned her own tack throughout her childhood. The mundane task was not enjoyable, exactly, but one could lose oneself in the routine, in the smell of lanolin in the soap and the slow shine of leather.
When she heard footsteps approaching, Lottie stopped what she was doing and stepped outside. A man came trotting into the yard, leading a pony. He held the end of the leading rope with his left hand and with his right held it tight beside the head collar. He came to a halt, leaning backwards. ‘Whoa there, easy,’ he said to the horse. ‘Hold up.’
The pony came to a stop and the man said, ‘Good afternoon, miss.’
‘I’d say it was closer to evening myself,’ Lottie replied.
‘I’ll not argue with you, no, I won’t, miss, honest to God. I could but I’ll not, don’t you worry about that now.’
The man wore patched trousers, a once white cotton shirt and a faded waistcoat beneath a frayed tweed jacket. On his head he wore a trilby, at a jaunty angle that may have been due to being bumped out of skew as he trotted but Lottie suspected was not. The hat sported a red feather in the band.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asked him.
‘It’s what I can do for you, miss, is more to the point. Will you look at this sweet mare, miss? I’ve clipped her neat but she’ll grow feather on her elegant fetlocks if that’s what you prefer. Will you take a good look at her and tell me she’s not a beautiful little beast?’
Lottie regarded the bay mare before her.
‘Here’s a cracking little hoss, miss. She’s a temperament of gold, she just wants to please. She moves to the squeeze of a leg and stops to the squeeze a the reins.’ As he spoke, the gypsy turned the horse for his witness. ‘She’s beautiful balanced paces … here, I’ll show you. And her canter is so comfortable now you’ll believe you’re a Chinese empress, miss, being carried in a cushioned litter.’
‘Wait a moment,’ Lottie said.
But the horse dealer would not pause. He continued. ‘She’ll hack out alone and in company, perfectly calm, miss, if that’s what you want. But if you want to hunt her she’s bold with water and ditches, with drops and jumps. She’ll jump a hedge twice her height, brave as a lion she is. She just enjoys everything she’s asked to do, and you can’t say that about every hoss.’
Lottie smiled. ‘What makes you think I’m in the market for a horse?’ she asked.
‘This mare deserves the best possible home,’ he said. He looked around the stables. ‘And a refined woman like yourself to look after her. She loves people. She’s excellent to bathe, to box. To catch, to clip. To stable, to shoe.’
The man ran the bay mare away through the stable yard and turned her and brought her back. She looked sound, certainly.
‘Happy with dogs and farm animals,’ the dealer gasped. ‘She’s not fazed by traffic, miss. I can see you smiling there and I can tell what you’re thinking.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the traffic? Here we are in the heart a the country and we’ve not a lot more than a little farm machinery. That’s what you’re thinking, is it now? But mark my words, we’ll have a lot more traffic around the narrow lanes in days to come.’
&
nbsp; The man told Lottie that his bay mare was four years six months old almost to the day. She stood at fourteen point three hands unshod.
‘I take it you’re selling her,’ Lottie said.
The man’s shoulders slumped. He looked sad. ‘That I am, though I’d rather not. But if you want her badly, I’ll let you have her for twenty-five pounds. Though it pains me. Look. See. She’s no lumps or bumps or vices.’
‘There are two reasons’, Lottie said, ‘why I cannot pay you. Do you know who I am?’
The man nodded. ‘I do, miss.’
‘I’m afraid we are no longer wealthy. You may imagine that I am, but it is not so.’
The man frowned, momentarily flummoxed. Then he said, ‘You can have her for fifteen pounds, miss. She’s the last a my string, I’ve had a good day, haven’t I, and I’ve a place to get back to before nightfall, that’s the truth of it.’
‘The second reason’, Lottie said, ‘is that I cannot bear being taken advantage of.’
‘Honest to God, you’re a hard woman. You’re trying to break my heart and take her off me but I know when I’m beat. All right, I give in. She’s yours for ten. If you’ll not give me that then I’ll take her up on the moor and let her loose, that I will.’
‘What is wrong with her?’
The gypsy was aghast. ‘Wrong with her, miss? Wrong with her? Are you wondering if she’s any good on the gallops, is that it? Yes, she’s a jumper, but she’s nice paces on the flat, too. She’s potential to be good. Very good, to be fair.’
Lottie shook her head. ‘If you’ll sell her for ten pounds she must be worth less. But I like the look of her. Listen to me. If you tell me what is wrong with her, and she’s not a bad one, if whatever it is I can cure her of it, I’ll take her off you.’
The horse dealer stood there in a state of agitation, wrestling with his self-respect. Then he came to a conclusion. ‘Do you know what, miss? I once had a hoss, a young hunter what had taken to bolting. I had him along with a bunch of others I was selling, see? I was always honest with the groom here, Mister Shattock it was, and he took a shine to this hunter. I warned him that once a hoss had bolted it would do so again, for a beast finds intense pleasure in bolting, see? Mister Shattock nodded in agreement with me, but he took the bad hoss and none of the other good ones. He gave it laudanum and the hoss calmed. He calmed the bolting clean out of him, would you believe it? And that animal became your father’s favourite hunter.’
Lottie could indeed believe that Herb Shattock had done as the gypsy claimed.
‘My name is Levi Hicks,’ the man said. ‘Ask anyone, I’m a hossman to the ends a me fingers. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with this dear hoss. Everything I’ve said to you is true, miss. She’s a good doer who lives on fresh air. I mean, she’s a clever girl, she makes you smile, miss, doesn’t she?’
‘She does.’
‘She’s not a bad ’un, honest to God. You’ll cure her if you have the time. I would but I’ve not got the time, do you see? I’ve got to turn my money over, have I not?’
Lottie went into the bothy and found her purse. She took a ten-pound note and went back outside and handed it to the horse dealer. He took the note between the fingers of his left hand and in a single dextrous action folded it and put it in a pocket. Then he handed the rope to Lottie.
‘You’ve got a beauty there, miss, truly.’ He began to walk away.
‘Wait, Mr Hicks,’ Lottie said. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with her?’
Levi Hicks stopped and faced Lottie once more. ‘Someone treated her bad,’ he said. ‘Real rough. She’s lovely outdoors but pardon my language, miss, she’s a bitch in a loose box. You watch her, ’cos she’s lightning quick.’
The gypsy horse dealer bent obsequiously forward and tipped his hat, then turned and trotted out of the yard.
8
On the day following his excess of alcohol in the inn, Leo Sercombe rose early and walked once again to the village, and through it, and on to the estate. The sky was grey, heavy, overcast.
Leo made straight for the gamekeeper’s cottage. He knocked on the door. This time he could hear commotion from inside. Yelled instruction. ‘Answer it, Stan.’
The door opened. A boy stood in the doorway. He was perhaps ten years old, but he could not be, for there stood Leo’s brother Sid. He stared up at Leo, with his black Sercombe eyes. Leo gazed back. He could not move. The joints and the bones of his legs turned soft and would not support him, and he reached a hand out to the frame. Had he plunged through some trapdoor into the past? Or Sid risen, a revenant child, from the past into this present moment? Which must mean that Leo himself was dead. He could not breathe.
The boy broke the spell. He turned and called softly, ‘Father.’
Another, smaller child came to the door. A girl. In duplication or doubling of the uncanny, she resembled Leo’s sister, Kizzie.
Then a man came up from behind them and placed his hand on a shoulder of each child and studied Leo, until from his lips there grew a smile that bloomed as a grin transfiguring the whole of his face. He stepped forward between his children.
Leo hugged his brother’s solid flesh. He rested his chin on Sid’s head and inhaled the smell of him. When Sid let go and grasped him by the elbows with two meaty hands, Leo felt the strength of the man.
‘Let me look at you,’ Sid said, taking a step back, still with a grip on Leo’s arms. ‘You’m grown tall as the old man.’
Leo nodded. ‘I spec one of us had to.’ He looked down then, and saw the children still staring up at him. They each had those blackcurrant Sercombe eyes.
‘This be our kids right here,’ Sid said. ‘This boy’s my Stanley and this maid’s our Elsie. You two, this here’s your uncle Leo, what as I’ve told you of many a time. Elsie, tell your mother we’ve got another mouth for breakfast, and us is comin right in.’
The girl turned and ran into the kitchen. The boy followed. Sid ushered Leo inside, and on after the children.
‘Come on and meet the missis,’ Sid said. ‘Gracie, here’s my long-gone brother, Leo. Leo, this be my better half, Gracie.’
Sid’s wife had a round and pleasant face, blue eyes. Sid stood beside her facing Leo, and put his arm around her shoulders. Stanley stood beside him, Elsie by her mother. ‘This is it,’ Sid said. ‘What you see’s the whole of us. Take a seat, young brother, if yon long legs will fit under the table.’
They ate porridge sweetened with sugar. ‘So this is where you live,’ Leo said. ‘Head gamekeeper.’
‘Aye,’ Sid confirmed. ‘Head, but there bain’t no other.’
‘Aaron Budgell gone?’
‘Gone down, boy. We buried him, along with his proudest possession, the bump on that bald head of his.’
‘I recall it.’
‘Few forget it.’
Gracie cut slices of bread, on which they spread plum jam. She poured mugs of tea. She was short and plump and moved slowly, performing actions with efficient elegance, giving the impression that what she did was practised, choreographed.
‘Is that silly wife a his still about?’ Leo asked.
‘Went to her sister,’ Sid said. ‘Over Wellington way.’
When the children had eaten, Gracie told them to hurry along for school. The girl rose from the table and carried her mug and plate to the sink but the boy stayed where he was. Gracie said his name: ‘Stanley.’
‘Oh, they can be a little late for school today, can’t they, me lover?’ Sid said.
‘Don’t blame me if her gives ’em a dap with the cane,’ Gracie said.
‘They’ll go dreckly,’ Sid told her. ‘’Tisn’t often they meets an uncle for the first time.’
Leo asked how the work was.
‘What work?’ Sid replied. ‘’Tis a different blimmin game now. The shoots is nothin like they was. ’Tis business folk come out from Exeter, a few from Taunton, they pays for the privilege and brings their important clients. To show off, I s’pose. Most of ’
em can’t shoot straight. I tell this lot here, ’tis not like ’twas for Mister Budgell, with his lordship. You mind how he used to go potterin along the hedgerows with his gun and his two Labs and me?’
Sid shook his head, then grinned. ‘You know that old larch plantation up yonder? Four or five year ago I had six- to seven-week-old pheasants in there and one day about a million blimmin starlins decides to come and set up residence. You can imagine, boy. Ruined that wood, they did, with their droppins. But you know how brittle larch is? They all flies down and stands on the branches, I watched ’em, thousands of ’em, and then …’ Sid clapped his hands ‘…the branch snaps, just like that. Laugh? That’d make you chuckle, Leo. The ground they’m stood on gone beneath ’em, and they all squawkin and fussin like they wants someone to complain to but it’s their own fault.’
One thing Leo had already discovered. Sid was as garrulous a man as he’d been a youth.
‘’Twas no good for my pheasants, I had to move ’em. I tried everythin to be rid of them starlins. Hawk kites. Sulphur fires. I shot a lot but not enough to make no difference. Eventually in the spring they up and left a their own accord and they never come back. But then about ten million elder trees come up from under where they’d roosted. From seeds in the berries they ate, see? Oh, they ruined that wood, boy.’
Leo asked Sid what trouble he had with poachers. ‘Can’t be easy when you’re single-handed.’
‘’Tis not too bad,’ Sid said. ‘I’ve got me a handy ash plant, I’ve knocked one or two about with it.’
The boy Stanley rose from his chair and left the kitchen.
‘So long as they ain’t greedy, I don’t mind the odd local helpin his self to a rabbit or two.’
The boy returned holding a thick stick, which he handed to Leo. The end to be held was the circumference of a cricket-bat handle. The plant thickened towards its other end, which bulged with some kind of growth or tumour in the wood. Leo smacked this into his palm. ‘No, I shouldn’t like to be struck with this.’