‘Well, it’s a funny thing, but Sir William Whatnot seems to ’ave a terrible woolly-pig problem.’
Sir William Waegbert was sitting quietly in the breakfast parlour and sipping a cup of tea with a nice slice of lemon when he noticed a deep, muddy furrow slashed across his manicured fairway. He rushed outside, shirt-tails flapping, and stared aghast at the desecration of his perfect green turf. There, on a scraping of muck, was a fat, round trotter print, bigger than that of any domestic pig. It was of such a size that it could only belong to a giant boar. Sir William had his gardeners rake over the damage and reseed the lawn but in the morning, as Sir William surveyed the garden from his bedroom window, he saw instantly that the woolly-pig had struck again.
Labourers arrived at Piddle Hall from all over the county to prepare the estate for the plans drawn up by the new golf-course designer. They dug and they raked and they preened and they pruned, but every morning, all across the grounds, they were met with fresh marks left by the furious rampaging of the woolly-pig. The course progressed like Penelope’s web, advancing during the day, but unravelling every night.
Several miles away, Jack arrived home to discover that his course was complete. Basset and Curtis led the Roses through the garden gate and out into the field where, fluttering in the summer breeze, were nine chequered flags. Jack stood on the newly rolled ninth green and surveyed the finished scene with awe. It was done: his very own golf course. Basset and Curtis watched with interest as he turned white then pink, and briefly were concerned he was going to cry, but then Jack seized Curtis and kissed him solemnly, while the old man made popping sounds of surprise.
‘You’ve done it. I despaired, I gave up but you didn’t abandon me. This, this is friendship,’ Jack concluded, gravely planting another kiss on the rough cheeks of the other man.
Sadie shook hands with each of them in turn, gratitude radiating from her eyes. Across the fields there was a thud and clatter as the last touches were put on the squat houses belonging to Wilson’s Housing Corp, but nothing was going to spoil this moment for Jack. The sun burned through the clouds and the air was filled with the scent of flowers. The rose bushes Sadie had planted around the dew pond were budding open and formed clumps of crimson and cream against the green grass. Curtis produced his flask from his back pocket and held it up.
‘A toast, to our very big success.’
Jack put out a hand. ‘Yes. A toast to our success and to the Queen Elizabeth Golf Club. God save the Queen.’
Curtis grinned, took a swig and then passed the jar around the group. Each took a sip in turn, echoing the toast. Basset gave the flask to Sadie who, with scarcely a shudder, wetted her lips with the pungent liquid.
‘God save the Queen,’ she said, ‘And all of you.’ Unable to further articulate her thanks, she smiled and quietly retreated to her garden, leaving the men alone on the hillside.
‘So how did you get permission?’ Jack asked in wonder.
Curtis and Basset exchanged looks and chuckled. Then, Curtis flopped down on a bank of daisies, sticking his large leather boots out in front of him.
‘This is an auld place. We doesn’t care too much for these snivlin’ rules. No busybody’s tellin’ me whats to do with my land, or nothin’.’
The ancient man spoke slowly, while Basset harrumphed his agreement.
‘But I can get arrested. Go to prison,’ said Jack, still worried, as he settled down between them.
Basset chuckled, ‘Aye right. They takes you and they takes us all. They isn’t goin’ to do nothin’.’
From the top of the hill the church bell began to chime midday. As the deep note echoed around the valley, Basset got to his feet.
‘Right you are then. That’s my dinner bell, that is. Best get ’ome or Lavender will give us a right earful.’
With a friendly wave, he disappeared across the meadow, while the other two lay down sleepily upon the mossy banks.
‘I is glad that ’ee ’as gone. Jack Basset is a nice enuff fellow but still a bit o’ a noggerhead. No such thing as a woolly-pig, my arse.’
Jack laughed and wiped his forehead with his stained monogrammed handkerchief.
‘Take a big breath, Jack, an’ look at the gleam in the grass an’ the sun in the sky.’
Jack filled his lungs with fresh air and looked again at the light shimmering along the grass. The wind rippled through it like waves on an emerald sea. He felt safe under this big blue sky. The village was at the edge of the world where the mundane rules did not apply. He remembered Curtis telling him months ago that this was part of the old world, an ancient place belonging to King Alfred or was it Albert? Jack resolved to be like one of the men of old and ignore the piffling rules of planning departments and councils. He disliked modernity and so he would be like the other men of the village and pretend it wasn’t there. This was a corner of another place, with bluebells, willow herb, fat glossy ducks and mythical pigs.
‘No one tells us what to do but Jack,’ murmured Curtis softly.
‘Oh?’ said Jack in surprise with a sideways glance at his friend, who was lying on his back, head propped on a molehill pillow.
‘Not Jack Basset,’ said Curtis. ‘Jack-in-the-Green.’
‘Jack-in-the-what?’
‘Jack-in-the-Green. You know. The Green one. Robin of the Wood. ’Ee keeps everythin’ in balance.’
He gestured to the concrete bungalows on the horizon. ‘’E’ll flood out them houses, in time, turn ’em back to water meadow an’ muck. Not these ten year perhaps, but ’Ee will.’ He pointed with a stubby thumb at Bulbarrow Ridge. ‘Aye. That’s ’is back.’
Jack turned to gaze once more at the jagged outline of Bulbarrow against the horizon and realised that if he shut one eye and squinted it did resemble a giant man sleeping. The curls of cloud looked a little like smoke rings from the giant’s pipe, which was in reality a lightning-struck tree. But, he wondered if this was the same as the tall tale of the woolly-pig. ‘So, have you ever seen him, this Jack?’
Curtis chuckled. ‘No one ’as seen Jack-in-the-Green. ’Ee’s not like that – a thing or a man. ’Ee is the trees, an’ the gleam in the grass an’ the damp mornin’ dew an’ that feelin’ you gits in an evenin’ when the wind’s in the ash leaves.’
Jack felt a strange sensation in his belly, and when he closed his eyes he imagined that he could hear the worms churning the earth beneath the grass. There was something familiar about Curtis’s words, as though he was telling a story that Jack already knew.
‘A barn owl’s white wings under a full moon,’ he said.
‘Aye. An’ in the stink of badger shit on a nice summer’s night – that’s a good ’un.’ Curtis sat up and looked straight at his friend. ‘That’s ’ow we knew yoos was all right. You’d seen Jack.’
‘I had? But no one sees Jack.’
‘Aye. Not as such. But yoos dug this land all by yerself for what, thirty days and thirty nights. We all watches you from top o’ Bulbarrow. That were Jack.’
He stared at Curtis in wonder.
‘’Ee’s in the earth an’ in our flesh. When a man can work tireless like, beyond what is normal for a little man, that’s Jack-in-the-Green,’ he explained with a twitching smile. ‘Did yer not wonder ’ow a chap like yoos managed it?’
Jack marvelled – he had worked with incredible energy, barely tiring and with boundless enthusiasm but he had not considered where this vigour had come from.
‘So Jack must have wanted this golf course then?’
‘Aye,’ Curtis pulled his hat over his eyes and from beneath the brim added, ‘Fer now.’
Later that afternoon, Jack sat at the kitchen table working out the playing order and the pairs for the grand coronation match. Now everyone in the village wanted to play, so he was forced to decide the entrants by lottery – it was rather complicated and made his head ache. He did not like restricting the number of participants but he had only managed to secure half a dozen sets of clubs, and the game had to
be finished in time for the coronation itself. He needed a smoke to help him think and went outside to sit on the front porch. The garden had changed in the week they had been away. Nothing waited even for a moment. The jasmine around the front door had burst into flower and some of the white blooms had already faded and withered brown. Jack admired the front door from the outside – an immense piece of handsome oak with solid iron studs. He breathed out a puff of smoke and gently ran his finger along one of the studs, but it pricked him and a drop of blood appeared under his nail.
‘Bugger.’
He stood up and pressed down the heavy iron latch on the door, only to find it was stuck and that he had locked himself out. Usually, Sadie would let him in but she was at the village hall with Lavender and the Coronation Committee. Muttering, he sat back down on the doorstep; he would just have to wait for her to return. He stubbed out the cigarette and licked his finger. He had an idea: he could stop writing the blasted tournament timetable and go and have a drink with Curtis instead – there were important things to discuss. In all the time they’d been friends, he realised he’d never been to Curtis’s home and was not even sure exactly where the old man lived, although he had mentioned his orchard several times. Jack also knew he kept sheep on Bulbarrow. On balance, the orchard was closer and so he decided to try there first.
He sauntered down the lane, admiring the colourful coronation posters, while women buzzed to and fro looking harassed. Curtis’s orchard lay on the outskirts of the village, down a narrow dirt track, and it was quiet in this part of Pursebury. There were only one or two houses and those were in poor repair. It was marshy and dank in the wet, while in the summer it swarmed with gnats and fearsome Blandford flies. Once, a long time ago, this had been a pleasant part of the village with ten or more cottages and a stony lane leading to them, but then the river had changed its course and turned the road into a flowing stream. The cottages flooded and, in a few years, the wattle walls were washed away and the families forced to relocate up the hill. He gave a low chuckle – Jack-in-the-Green must have wanted it back.
He wondered how Curtis managed to remain. The river had been running its present course for sixty years, and hardly anyone remembered a time when this overgrown place was inhabited by anything other than sheep and wild deer. He opened the gate at the end of the track and went into the field at the bottom. It had been a damp spring and the sodden water meadows were filled with wild flowers – pale pink spotted-orchids, lemon balm and marsh marigolds. He tramped a path through the long grass towards a green shepherd’s hut nestling in a far-off orchard that lay a good half-mile from even the dirt track. He was amazed that anyone lived in a place so isolated – the old man’s nearest neighbours were a family of yellow wagtails nesting in the roots of an ancient sycamore tree that towered above the hedgerows.
Jack’s feet were wet inside his leather shoes and, cursing, he realised that he should have changed into his galoshes. He pushed the wooden gate leading into the orchard and halted unthinkingly to gaze about him. There must have been a hundred trees and the grass around them was neatly trimmed, in contrast to the waving green of the surrounding meadows. The blossom on the branches had faded and early bees buzzed amongst the leaves. The shepherd’s hut sat in the middle of the orchard, painted an olive colour that was starting to flake. It rested on four large iron wheels, red with rust, and a short ladder led to a small door in one end. A thin spiral of wood smoke rose from a narrow chimney on the side of the hut – Curtis must be at home. Jack paused on the top rung to admire the view of Bulbarrow. He could make out the medieval church perched on the hilltop and the thatched roofs of the village and, while it might be lonely, no one could deny that Curtis had picked a magical spot for his home. Rousing himself, Jack rapped on the door. There was no answer.
He knocked again, louder this time. Nothing. He wondered if Curtis was sleeping and if he ought to come back later. He edged round the side of the hut and tried to peer in the window but the curtains were tightly drawn, even though it was nearly six o’clock. He decided to try one last time and thumped on the door with his fist. The door creaked ajar. Gingerly, he pushed it open and crept into the cabin. It was warm and dark, and in the corner of the single room, he saw the red gleam of a wood-burning stove, throwing out a steady heat. There was almost no furniture – only a high-backed chair, a tattered fleece covering the wooden floor and a basket of logs. In a low cot Curtis lay fast asleep with his mouth open. Jack knew he should turn around and leave the old man, but there was something about the stillness of the sleeping figure that unnerved him.
‘Curtis,’ he called softly.
He gave the small form a gentle nudge. It made no response. Jack sat on the edge of the cot and lowered his ear to Curtis’s mouth. No breath tickled him. He touched his neck and felt for a pulse. The old man’s skin was cool.
Curtis Butterworth, the last of the old Dorset men, was dead. His life ended less than a mile from where it began, over a hundred years before.
Jack listened to the quiet of the afternoon. The smouldering logs in the old stove cast a warm glow around the cabin and a rosy flush upon Curtis’s cheek, so that Jack could almost fancy he still lived. This strange old man was the greatest friend he had ever known, and yet he did not shed a tear. He felt numbness in his belly and slid to the floor of the hut. Curtis’s stout boots were lined up next to the door and a bloodied brace of pheasant hung from a nail. He noticed something else. Pinned beneath the dead birds was an envelope with ‘Meester Jack Rose-in-Blom’ written upon it. He hauled himself to his feet and unfastened the letter, then, not knowing what he ought to do next, sat back down by the cot, and opened the envelope. Inside was a note, written on very thin parchment that looked suspiciously like toilet paper.
Deer Meester Ros In Blom
Yoos was the onlee one to trooly believe in dorsit woolly peg. Them others thinks it is only silly childers tail. Tis most unfortoonate. They is hignorant.
ONLY TROO DORSIT MEN CAN SEE IM, THAT WOOLY PEG. (an Dorsit men is the bist of all English men)
Not them piles of cow mook. They is noggerheads, ninnywallies and effing turds.
Ate een deys after auwld midsommer Drink 5 pints
cider per instructshons (resipee on back of this shit of paper) and look top bulbarrow. afore noon.
Yoos afectsionate frend,
Curtis
p.s Please take them pheasants. Tis a shame to waste em like.
Jack read the letter through three times. Curtis must have known he was dying. He had retreated into his hut like a wild animal that crawls into the hedgerow to die, and his last act was to pass on his recipe to Jack.
They buried Curtis with his last flask of special cider – everyone knew he could not face eternity without a good drink. Jack and Sadie had never been to a Christian burial before and they stood by the grave with the rest of the village, ready to throw a handful of dirt onto the coffin. Jack felt that there was a Curtis-shaped hole in the universe, an emptiness where once he had been. Curtis hadn’t needed a list to be the best of all Englishmen.
After the service Basset erected a temporary headstone fashioned out of wood, on which he had painted the words that would be transferred to the gravestone for posterity:
‘Curtis. Born Last Century. Died 28th May, 1953
aged somewhere between eighty-nine and
one hundred and thirteen-ish’.
In the now deserted churchyard, Jack held the wooden board as Basset wedged it into the soft earth.
‘He were one of a kind. Unique like.’
Jack nodded, dumb with grief. He wished his friend could at least have lived to see the coronation and the start of the Elizabethan era – it was going to be a new world. Then, perhaps, Curtis belonged to the old one.
‘Do you believe in the woolly-pig?’
Basset chuckled and then looked a trifle guilty. ‘Don’t go daft. I ’ad thought we was all clear ’bout that. Said I were sorry.’
‘No, that’s
not what I meant, old friend. It was something Curtis said.’
‘Aye. After ten pints o’ cider, I’ll warrant.’
Basset paused to stare into the horizon. ‘I wish ’ee’d given ’is recipe to some ’un. It is awful sad that ’is cider dies with ’im.’
Jack reached into his pocket and felt the letter, but said nothing.
‘Here,’ said Sadie, handing a red-striped tea towel to Lavender, so that she could wipe the perspiration from her forehead. The kitchen at Chantry Orchard was transformed into an alchemist’s den, with cauldrons of simmering water, trays of chopped herbs ready to be bound into muslin bags for ‘bouquets garnis’ and a mountain of feathers from the plucked chickens, now lying naked and headless in piles ready for the pot.
‘Oooh. I think ’ee’s done,’ said Mrs Hinton, prodding a fat bird, poaching in a vat of water and Jack Basset’s elderflower wine.
‘Juices running clear?’ said Sadie.
‘Oh yes, chief-cook-lady,’ replied Mrs Hinton with a toothy smile.
‘Bring him out then,’ commanded Sadie, handing her a fearsome carving fork and a large plate.
As one fowl was removed, Lavender plunged the next into the steaming basin, cursing as her spectacles misted up, ‘Bugger it. I need bloomin’ wipers on my specs like what Mr Rose-in-Bloom ’as on his smart motor car.’
‘I’m right glad we is doin’ ’im today. Imagine the kafuffle if we was to make ’im on Coronation Day?’ said Mrs Hinton.
Sadie raised an eyebrow – she quite agreed. Fortunately the recipe was clear: the chicken must be made in advance and chilled. This was most considerate of Constance Spry, as otherwise Sadie suspected all the ladies of England would be expected to miss the festivities in order to cook for the men folk. On the great day, the entire country would eat the same luncheon, the nation transformed into a giant dining hall.
Mrs Hinton effortlessly jointed a chicken on a carving board, fat dribbling up to her elbows and greasing the folds of skin. With a polished blade, she diced it into neat bites and scraped the meat into a vast china serving-bowl. Lavender spooned in mounds of creamy mayonnaise, sprinkled on the curry powder and three entire jars of apricot jam.
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