Any amusement Nancy had found in pricking his rehearsed defenses was rapidly giving way to anger. If he in any way represented the views of her natural mother then she had no intention of "doing a kindness." "Oh, please! What inference was I supposed to draw?" It was a rhetorical question, and she looked toward the window to calm her irritation. "You had no right to give me the name of my biological family or tell me where they live. It's information I've never requested or wanted. Must I avoid Dorset now in case I bump into a Lockyer-Fox? Must I worry every time I'm introduced to someone new, particularly women called Elizabeth?"
"I was working to instruction," he said uneasily.
"Of course you were." She turned back to him. "It's your get-out-of-jail card. Truth is as alien to lawyers as it is to journalists and estate agents. You should try doing my job. You think about truth all the time when you hold the power of life and death in your hands."
"Aren't you following instructions, just as I am?"
"Hardly." She flicked her hand in a dismissive wave. "My orders safeguard freedom… yours merely reflect one individual's attempts to get the better of another."
Mark was stung to mild protest. "Do individuals not count in your philosophy? If number bestowed legitimacy, then a handful of suffragettes could never have won the right for women to vote… and you would not be in the army now, Captain Smith."
She looked amused. "I doubt that citing the rights of women is the best analogy you could have drawn in the present circumstances. Who has precedence in this case? The woman you represent or the daughter she gave up?"
"You, of course."
"Thank you." Nancy pushed herself forward in her chair. "You can tell your client I'm fit and happy, that I have no regrets about my adoption, and that the Smiths are the only parents I recognize or wish to have. If that sounds uncharitable, then I'm sorry, but at least it's honest."
Mark moved to the edge of his seat to keep her sitting down. "It's not Elizabeth who's instructing me, Captain Smith. It's your grandfather, Colonel James Lockyer-Fox. He assumed you'd be more inclined to respond if you thought your mother was looking for you"-he paused-"though I gather from what you've just said that his assumption was wrong."
It was a second or two before she answered. Like James, her expression was difficult to read and it was only when she spoke that her contempt was obvious. "My God! You really are a piece of work, Mr. Ankerton. Supposing I had replied… supposing I'd been desperate to find my biological mother… when were you planning to tell me that the best I could hope for was a meeting with a geriatric colonel?"
"The idea was always to introduce you to your mother."
Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. "Did you bother to inform Elizabeth of this?"
Mark knew he was handling this badly, but he couldn't see how to retrieve the situation without digging bigger holes for himself. He deflected attention back to her grandfather. "James may be eighty but he's very fit," he said, "and I believe you and he would get on well together. He looks people in the eye when he speaks to them and he doesn't suffer fools gladly… rather like yourself. I apologize unreservedly if my approaches have been-" he sought a word-"clumsy-but James wasn't confident that a grandfather would appeal over a mother."
"He was right."
It might have been the Colonel speaking. A quick, scornful bark that left the other person floundering. Mark began to wish that the golddigger of his imagination had been the reality. Demands for money he could have dealt with. A complete disdain for the Lockyer-Fox connection fazed him. Any minute now she would ask him why her grandfather was looking for her, and that was a question he wasn't at liberty to answer. "Yours is a very old family, Captain. There have been Lockyer-Foxes in Dorset for five generations."
"Smiths have been in Herefordshire for two centuries," she snapped back. "We've farmed this land without interruption since 1799. When my father retires, it'll be my turn. So, yes, you're right, I do come from a very old family."
"Most of the Lockyer-Fox land is rented out to tenant farmers. There's a lot of it."
She fixed him with a furious gaze. "My great-grandfather owned Lower Croft and his brother owned Coomb. My grandfather inherited both farms and incorporated them into one. My father has been farming the entire valley for the last thirty years. If I marry and have kids, then my father's grandchildren will own the two thousand acres after me. As I fully intend to do both, and add Smith to my children's surname, then there's a good chance these fields will be farmed by Smiths for another two centuries. Is there anything more I can say that will make my position clear to you?"
He gave a resigned sigh. "Have you no curiosity?"
"Absolutely none."
"Can I ask why not?"
"Why fix something that isn't broken?" She waited for him to respond, and when he didn't: "I may be wrong, Mr. Ankerton, but by the sound of it it's your client whose life needs fixing… and off the top of my head I can't think of a single reason why that burden should fall on me."
He wondered what he'd said that had led her to so accurate a conclusion. Perhaps his persistence had suggested desperation. "He just wants to meet you. Before she died his wife asked him several times to try to find out what had happened to you. I think he feels it's his duty to honor her wishes. Can you respect that?"
"Were they party to my adoption?"
He nodded.
"Then please reassure your client that it was completely successful and he has nothing to feel guilty about."
He gave a baffled shake of his head. Phrases like "unresolved anger" and "fear of rejection" hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he had the sense not to say them. Even if it were true that her adoption had left her with a lingering resentment-which he doubted-psychobabble would only irritate her more. "What if I were to repeat that you'd be doing a great kindness if you agreed to meet the Colonel? Would that persuade you?"
"No." She watched him for a moment, then raised a hand in apology. "Look, I'm sorry, I've obviously disappointed you. You might understand my refusal better if I take you outside and introduce you to Tom Figgis. He's a nice old boy, and he's worked for Dad for years."
"How will that help?"
She shrugged. 'Tom knows more about the history of Coomb Valley than anyone. It's an amazing heritage. You and your client might like to learn a little of it."
He noticed that every time she said "client" she lent a slight emphasis to it, as if to distance herself from the Lockyer-Foxes. "It's not necessary, Captain Smith. You've already convinced me that you feel a strong connection to this place."
She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "There was a Roman settlement here two thousand years ago. Tom's the expert on it. He rambles a bit but he's always willing to pass on his knowledge."
He declined politely. "Thank you, but it's a long drive back to London and I've a stack of paperwork in the office."
She flashed him a sympathetic glance. "You're a busy man… no time to stand and stare. Tom will be disappointed. He loves chewing the cud, particularly with Londoners who have no idea of Herefordshire's ancient traditions. Round here we take them seriously. It's our link to our past."
He sighed to himself. Did she think he hadn't got the message already? "Yes, well, with the best will in the world, Captain Smith, talking to a total stranger about a place I'm not acquainted with isn't a top priority for me at the moment."
"No," she agreed coolly, standing up, "nor for me. We both have better things to do with our time than listen to elderly strangers reminisce about people and places that have no relevance to us. If you explain my refusal to your client in those terms, then I'm sure he'll understand that what he's suggesting is a wearisome imposition that I could do without."
He'd walked into that with his eyes wide open, thought Mark ruefully as he, too, rose to his feet. "Just for the record," he asked, "would it have made any difference if I'd said from the start that it was your grandfather who was looking for you?"
Nancy shook her head. "No."
"That's a relief. I haven't made a complete dog's breakfast of it, then."
She relaxed enough to give him a smile of genuine warmth. "I'm not unusual, you know. There are as many adopted children who are perfectly content with their lot as there are who need to go looking for the lost pieces in their jigsaws. Perhaps it has something to do with expectation. If you're satisfied with what you have, then why court trouble?"
It wouldn't do for Mark, but then he didn't share her confidence in herself. "I probably shouldn't say this," he told her, reaching for his briefcase, "but you owe the Smiths a lot. You'd be a very different person if you'd grown up a Lockyer-Fox."
She looked amused. "Should I take that as a compliment?"
"Yes."
"It'll make my mother's day." She led him to the front door and held out her hand. "Goodbye, Mr. Ankerton. If you have any sense you'll tell the Colonel he's got off lightly. That should kill his interest."
"I can try," he said, taking her hand, "but he won't believe me… not if I describe you accurately."
She pulled out of his grip and stepped back inside the doorway. "I was talking about legal action, Mr. Ankerton. I'll certainly sue if you or he ever approach me again. Will you make that clear to him, please?"
"Yes," he said.
She gave a brief nod and closed the door, and Mark was left to pick his way through the mud, less concerned with failure than with regret for an opportunity missed.
BBC News Online-
18 December 2001, 07:20 GMT
Fox hunters and saboteurs resume hostilities
Boxing Day will see a return to fox hunting after foot-and-mouth restrictions were lifted yesterday. The sport was voluntarily suspended in February after hunts nationwide agreed to support the ban on animal movements during the epidemic. It has been the most peaceful 10 months since the crusade against fox hunting began 30 years ago, but the Boxing Day meets will rekindle the antagonism between the pro- and anti-hunting groups, which has been on a back burner for most of 2001.
"We expect a huge turnout," said a spokesman for the Countryside Alliance Campaign for Hunting. "Many thousands of ordinary people recognize that hunting is a necessary part of rural life. Fox numbers have doubled in the 10-month layoff, and sheep farmers are worried about the number of lambs they are losing."
Hunt saboteurs have pledged to be out in force. "People feel strongly about this," said one activist from west London. "All saboteurs are united in their desire to protect foxes from people who want to kill them for fun. There is no place for this kind of savage blood sport in the 21st century. It's a lie to say fox numbers have doubled. The summer has always been a closed season to hunting, so how could extending the layoff by three months result in a 'plague'? Such claims are pure propaganda."
According to a recent Mori survey, 83% of people polled found hunting with dogs either cruel, unnecessary, unacceptable, or outdated. But even if the prime minister makes good his recent pledge to ban fox hunting before the next election, the debate will continue.
The pro lobby argues that the fox is vermin and will need to be controlled whether hunting is banned or not. "No government can legislate against the fox's predatory instincts. Once inside the wire, he will kill every chicken in the run, not because he's hungry but because he enjoys killing. Currently 250,000 foxes are culled annually to keep the numbers at an acceptable level. Without hunting, the fox population will grow out of control and people's attitudes will change."
The anti lobby disagrees. "Like any other animal, the fox adapts to its environment. If a farmer fails to protect his stock then he can expect it to be preyed upon. That's Nature. Cats kill for enjoyment but no one's suggesting we set a pack of hounds on the family moggy. Where's the sense in blaming the fox when the debate should be about animal husbandry?"
The pro lobby: "Hounds dispatch cleanly and quickly while snares, traps, and shooting are unreliable methods of control, often leading to severe injury with no guarantee that the fox is the animal captured. Injured animals die slowly and painfully, and the public mood will shift when this becomes apparent."
The anti lobby: "If the fox is as dangerous as hunts claim, why do they use artificial earths to encourage their numbers? A gamekeeper recently admitted that for 30 years he's been producing foxes and pheasants for the hunt. If you're a keeper in hunting country, it's obligatory to provide an animal for the kill, otherwise you're out of a job."
The accusations and recriminations are bitter. The Countryside Alliance's pretense that it's a rural versus urban issue is as absurd as the League Against Cruel Sports' claim that no jobs will be lost if fox hunters make a "wholesome switch to drag hunting." Dislike of killing a native animal for sport is as strongly felt in rural areas as it is in the town, and the Woodland Trust, for one, refuses to allow hunts across its land. By contrast, drag hunting will only secure jobs if huntsmen, many of whom are farmers, can be persuaded that signing up to a group activity which offers no useful benefit to the community is worth their time and money.
Each side would like to paint the other as destroyers-of a way of life or of a vulnerable animal-but the verdict on whether or not hunting should be banned will rest on the public perception of the fox. It's not good news for the hunting lobby. Another recent opinion poll posed this choice: Place the following in order of the damage they do to the countryside: 1) foxes; 2) tourists; 3) New Age travelers. 98% of the respondents put travelers at the top; 2% (presumably huntsmen suspecting a trap) put foxes; 100% found tourists the least damaging because of the money they bring into rural economies.
Brer Fox in his red coat and white slippers appeals to us. A man on the dole in an unlicensed vehicle does not. The government should take note. Vulpes vulgaris is not an endangered species, yet he is busy acquiring protection status through the many campaigns to preserve him. It is the traveler who now enjoys the status of vermin. Such is the might of public opinion.
But since when was might right?
Anne Cattrell
4
SHENSTEAD-21 DECEMBER 2001
Bob Dawson leaned on his spade and watched his wife pick her way across the frost-covered vegetable garden to the back door of Shenstead Manor, her mouth turned down in bitter resentment against a world that had defeated her. Small and bent, her old face creased with wrinkles, she muttered to herself continuously. Bob could predict exactly what she was saying because she repeated it over and over again, day after day, in an unending stream that made him want to kill her.
It wasn't right for a woman of her age to be working still… She'd been a skivvy and a slave all her life… A seventy-year-old should be allowed her rest… What did Bob ever do except sit on a lawn mower in the summer…? How dare he keep ordering her up to the Manor… It wasn't safe to be in the house with the Colonel… Everyone knew that… Did Bob care…? Of course not… "You keep your mouth shut," he'd say, "or you'll feel the back of my hand… Do you want us to lose the roof over our heads…?"
Insight had faded a long time ago, leaving Vera's head full of martyred resentment. She had no understanding that she and Bob paid nothing for their house because Mrs. Lockyer-Fox had promised it to them for life. All she understood was that the Colonel paid her wages in return for cleaning, and her aim in life was to keep those wages from her husband. Bob was a bully and tyrant, and she squirreled away her earnings in forgotten hiding places. She liked secrets, always had done, and Shenstead Manor had more than most. She had cleaned for the Lockyer-Foxes for forty years, and for forty years they had taken advantage of her, with the help of her husband.
A clinical psychologist would have said that dementia had released the frustrated personality she had repressed since she married at twenty to improve herself and chose the wrong man. Bob's ambition had been satisfied by a rent-free tied cottage in return for lowly paid gardening and cleaning duties at Shenstead Manor. Vera's ambitions had been to own a house, raise a family, and select her customers herself.
The few close neighbors th
ey'd had had long since moved away, and the new ones avoided her, unable to cope with her obsessional loops. Bob might be a taciturn man who eschewed company, but at least he still had his marbles and patiently tolerated her attacks on him in public. What he did in private was his own concern, but the way Vera smacked him whenever he contradicted her suggested they were no strangers to physical conflict. Nevertheless, sympathy tended to be with Bob. No one blamed him for pushing her out of the house to work up at the Manor. A man would go mad with Vera for company all day.
Bob watched her feet drag as she looked toward the southwest corner of the Manor. Sometimes she talked about seeing Mrs. Lockyer-Fox's body on the terrace… shut out in the cold night and left to freeze to death with next to nothing on. Vera knew about cold. She was cold all the time, and she was ten years younger than Mrs. Lockyer-Fox.
Bob threatened her with the back of his hand if she repeated in public the stuff about the door being locked, but it didn't stop the muttering. Her affection for the dead woman had grown exponentially since Ailsa's death, all recriminations forgotten in sentimental remembrance of the many kindnesses Ailsa had shown her. She wouldn't have insisted on a poor old woman working beyond her time. She would have said the time had come for Vera to rest.
The police had paid her no attention, of course-not after Bob had screwed his finger into his forehead and told them she was gaga. They smiled politely and said the Colonel had been cleared of any involvement in his wife's death. Never mind that he'd been alone in the house… and the French windows onto the terrace could only be locked and bolted from the inside. Vera's sense of injustice remained strong but Bob cursed her roundly if she expressed it.
It was a can of worms that shouldn't be opened. Did she think the Colonel would take her accusations lying down? Did she think he wouldn't mention her thieving or how angry he'd been to find his mother's rings gone? You don't bite the hand that feeds you, he warned her, even if the same hand had been raised in anger when the Colonel found her rifling through his desk drawers.
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