Love and the Loveless

by Henry Williamson

  “What is it? Roadside Returns?” Fenwick made the inevitable joke, as he sniffed the tobacco. “Log Cabin. Pah, it’s scented! Give me Dobie’s Glasgow Coarse Cut every time!” as he pushed back the pouch across the table.

  “Sorry. I haven’t got any.” He regretted his stiffness at Fenwick’s off hand manner when the other said, “Ah, but I ’ave! Help thysel’. Now let’s cut for partners. Right, you and I against these two.”

  He shuffled dog-eared cards. They had been sitting there about an hour when the door opened and a sergeant and corporal of Military Police came in. They stood and looked around for a minute, before leaving.

  “Come on, Fenwick,” said Phillip, tapping out his pipe and putting it in his pocket. “We ought to sling our hook. I know the ways of those birds. One of them got me pulled in for a deserter in France, and I thought my number was up. Come on! Sorry to spoil the game——”

  “But they can’t touch us, we’re not doing aught wrong, Maddison! This is a free country, isn’t it?”

  “Come on! I want to see if someone is in the Angel. Come on!”

  “But why go to that snobs’ place? What’s wrong wi’ ’ere?”

  “Come on!” Phillip stood up, and put on his cap. He did not want to meet the A.P.M. again, lest he be reported for ‘conduct unbecoming an officer and gentleman’, by playing cards in a pot-house. But Fenwick refused to move.

  “Look, Fenwick, I must go. I’ve just remembered that I ought to see Captain Hobart, he’ll be making up his list of officers now, for his new company. I want the transport job, and now’s the time. Hobart’s in the Angel most nights.”

  “Eh, I wouldn’t mind servin’ under Ho-bart. I’ll come, if you think it’s all reet? Sorry to break up the game, friends.”

  Fenwick was putting on his cap when the door opened and in walked Brendon, cane under arm, hands behind back.

  “What are you two officers doing in here?”

  “We were just about to leave, sir.”

  “Answer my question. Don’t you know this place is out of bounds for officers? You don’t? Ignorance is no excuse. Were you playing cards? Gambling is forbidden by King’s Regulations. And why are you”—to Fenwick—“smoking in public? There may be some excuse for you,” as he glanced at the D.C.M. riband, “but none for you!” to Phillip. “Follow me.”

  Outside the A.P.M. said, “Well, what excuse have you for being found in there?”

  “Sir!” said Fenwick, “the man who keeps the place is a friend of mine, sir.”

  “Then you should visit him in a private room. I won’t have officers going into bars reserved for the men. For one thing, the men don’t like it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “As for you, young feller, there’s no excuse! I warned you to watch your step, didn’t I? Very well! Dismiss!”

  They saluted, and walked away. Phillip felt constricted. Why had Fenwick been so obstinate, and slow? “I thought he would come, you know!”

  “Bah, dinna’ fret yoursel’! He were only chuckin’ ’is weight about.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Captain Hobart was in the Angel. Phillip was greeted like an old friend, and Fenwick with enthusiasm when he was introduced as a friend of Pinnegar’s. The D.C.M. riband appeared to be unnoticed.

  “Good! Got a company in mind?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Care to join us? Maddison’s in already.”

  “Aye!”

  “That’s settled then. Calls for a celebration!”

  Later, when Fenwick had gone to the lavatory, Hobart said, “There’s a meet five miles away at half-past ten. If you’re free tomorrow morning, how about hackin’ out there together?”

  “I was going to play billiards, skipper.”

  “Billiards! In the morning?”

  “I’ve already arranged to go out with Fenwick.”

  “Oh, I see. In that case you can’t very well disappoint him. He looks a lonely sort of cove, doesn’t he? Where are you playing, here?”

  “No, at a place called Sleaford—isn’t it, Fenwick?”

  “That’s reet,” said Fenwick, sitting down. “But we won’t be going till tea-time. I’ve got friends there, who told me I could bring along a pal.”

  “Couldn’t be better!” exclaimed Hobart. “The meet is halfway to Sleaford. Why not come out with me in the morning, Phil, and I can run you into Sleaford afterwards in my bus?”

  “What about my horse, skipper?”

  “I’ll take a groom, and he’ll bring your hunter back. I’ll see to that. You’re on? Good! I’ll see ‘Ropey’ Griggs first thing tomorrow. Be at the bottom of ‘A’ lines at 9·45 ack emma.”

  In the morning, after a restless night, in which his imagination literally ran away with him on a horse for a couple of hours over all remembered illustrations of Handley Cross, Mr. Facey Romford’s Hounds, and Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour, Phillip pulled on boots, well-boned by his servant, and wondered whether or not to use spurs. Supposing the rowels tore Black Prince or, worse, put the gelding out of control? He decided that, as an officer was considered to be naked without a belt, to go to a meet of foxhounds without spurs would reveal him to be ‘the veriest tyro’. Anyway, riding boots looked rotten without spurs.

  He was nervous when he set off on Black Prince shortly before half-past nine. But nervousness gave way to jubilation; he began to sing as he cantered on the grass, and Prince, pricking up ears, began to prance against the bit. Soon the gelding was fighting, between canter and gallop, for its head; so Phillip relaxed the reins, and let it extend itself until, seeing red around the hats of three riders in the distance, he turned to the left among the trees, thinking to take Black Prince over the Riding School jumps. Steady, Black Prince, steady! as he leaned forward and patted the gelding’s neck. Steady, Prince! Then a steady pull on the reins, held low; and almost as suddenly as it had burst into speed, Prince stopped. Phillip was not ready for it, but managed to keep his seat. He remembered what Hobart had said about the possibility of Prince having come out of a mare trained to polo, the foal imitating the actions of its dam when out to paddock. Sixteen hands was high for polo; but the breeding was there.

  He dismounted and adjusted girth and surcingle before going to the jumps.

  “Gently, Prince! Steady, boy!” He held back the dancing horse, which shook its head as it crabbed sideways towards the first fence. Then it sprang forward, gathered itself above a dull tattoo of hooves, and flung itself and rider over. Desperately he held it from galloping away after the last fence; and keeping it to a prancing canter, brought it round again to the jumps. “Gently, Prince! Steady! Steady!” He managed to pat its neck; Black Prince responded; and went round the jumps with less dash. Involuntarily he dropped the reins on its neck, whereupon Prince stopped. He dismounted, and found that the trouble was a curb-chain hooked on too tight. “Poor Black Prince! That bloody groom! And bloody me, why didn’t I check the bit?” Two fingers could be passed between chin-groove and chain only with difficulty. He released it. Prince whinnied. He felt a flow of affection for the horse, and laid his cheek against the soft bulge of skin between nostril and upper lip, feeling the warmth of Prince’s breath. Playfully he breathed into the gelding’s nostril, an action that was greeted by the softest whuffle; and then with fingertips stroked the bases of Prince’s ears. It was like stroking his white rat, Timmy, in the old days. Dogs and cats liked it, too; so had his kestrels, his tame jay, and jackdaws. The secret was tenderness, or kindness, as all the great poets knew. That was the secret of the world, to which the world could not trust itself, through fear.

  It was time to make for ‘A’ lines; he must not be late. Prince took him over the grass at a gentle trotting lope, the South African triple canter. He could ride, he could ride!

  After five minutes happy waiting at the bottom of ‘A’ lines Jack Hobart, with groom, rode up.

  “It may rain, so I’ve brought along an extra coat,” said Jack, after g
reetings. “Hart will strap it to the rear of your saddle.”

  They set off across the park, making for the south gate, where they turned east and trotted along a quiet country lane, the sun breaking through the mists of the morning lying over grass and ploughland. Jack sniffed the air.

  “Makes life worth living, what? It’s a good scenting day—no wind—you can smell the bullock muck in the crew-yards. Pigs, too. Some of these farmers are making their fortunes out of our camp swill. Ever seen the waste food piled behind the cookhouses? Can’t blame anyone, really. Loaves arrive mouldy, sides of meat tainted. War’s all waste, of course. Wonder what this country will be like afterwards? I doubt if the old routine will satisfy—even if taxation don’t make it impossible—y’know, long weekends at country houses, first nights in town, all that sort of thing.”

  A little later he said, “By the way, I notice you ride with the reins in one hand. All right for ceremonial, but perhaps it might be better to hold two in each hand, when we get crackin’ on a line and have to fly the bigger timber. It’s only an idea, of course. Only, if one hasn’t hunted this fairly fast country before, y’ know——”

  Phillip sorted out bridoon and snaffle reins, and threaded them between second and third, and third and little fingers of each hand respectively; then saw that they were untwisted, and lying flat on Prince’s neck. Thus prepared for the worst, he tried to rebalance himself, feeling almost misplaced upon the saddle since now his left arm and shoulder were no longer upheld with the right arm hanging low. He felt he would not be able to keep his seat like that; but resisted the impulse to transfer the reins to his left hand. When they cantered on the grass verge of the lane, Prince following Jack’s mare, he found, after a quarter of a mile, that he could sit with a new feeling of balance.

  “When you go over a fence, hold your hands low, just behind your horse’s withers,” said Jack. “A steadying touch there makes all the difference to balance, I think you’ll find.”

  They trotted up a drive, passing a lodge, and came through trees to a house of red brick with many windows and twisted chimney stacks, before which, on a large gravelled space, stood horses, some mounted, others held by grooms.

  Phillip had seen only one meet of hounds before, when a boy staying with his cousin Willie at Rookhurst, when the scene had been pictorial, with human figures seen without discrimination. Now he wondered about the people before him. Khaki predominated, most of the officers wearing badges of cavalry regiments, and those in the yeomanry with burnished shoulder-chains. Other riders in mufti were obviously men on leave, from their soldierly appearance. Then there were elderly farmers, by the look of them. They wore dark coats with bowlers, most with breeches and long black boots, but others with ordinary trousers held within gaiters. The more rugged and elderly ones wore stiff collars, some of them celluloid, with nondescript ties; one old boy with white hair and moustaches wore long trousers and ankle boots, with a high-crowned black hat, between bowler and topper; his horse was a big chestnut animal with a Roman nose. Other, younger farmers wore stock-ties held by gold-mounted pins seemingly made from slender quill-like bones about two inches long. They were smartly dressed, in dark West-of-England skirted coats and white breeches, and had a quiet but independent manner, as they kept to themselves, touching hat-brims lightly with finger-and-thumb when addressed by one or another of the elderly gentlemen, looking like squires wearing red coats, which he must remember to call pink. Hobart seemed to know quite a number of people, among them ladies sitting side-saddle, and wearing tall silk hats. There were some children, too, on ponies, the older ones breeched, wearing bowlers and tweed jackets. Apart from them was a group of smaller children seated in wicker baskets on long-tailed Shetlands, all dressed in black velvet caps and fawn gaiters buttoned to above the knee. Their nurses stood by them, in grey uniforms and bonnets.

  More riders were arriving, among them some young women dressed like men and riding astride. They had brown faces, and appeared to be unaware of the several men, apparently temporary officers like himself, who stared at them. Words are given us to conceal our thoughts. He remembered O’Connor, who had defended him before the subalterns’ court-martial at Heathmarket, two battles ago: likewise to conceal one’s glances, to observe with the retinae of the eyes, was good manners.

  The huntsman, lean red face and hawk nose, wore a coat more pink than red with many rubbed-out weather-stains. He sat his grey horse, apart from the pack. The hounds were in a rough circle, squatting on their haunches apart from the riders. Two whippers-in, one of them a boy, in red coats, were guarding them. The hounds looked to be smaller than those he remembered at Rookhurst, and of a uniform pale yellow and white in colour.

  “Jim’s hunting the lady pack today. Very fast goin’. Look at their feet, like cats’.” A howl came from beyond a group of outbuildings, followed by other bayings. “That’s the dog pack—they know the little bitches are out today. Don’t look so serious. You’ll be all right. I shouldn’t try and take your own line, as you don’t know the country. Follow the rest of the field, most of ’m will go through gates, if you have any doubt about your horse. You know, of course, that hounds always have right of way? Never over-ride ’em. I got cussed good and proper once, by the master, for ridin’ ahead of him.”

  A butler, followed by three parlour-maids in dark brown uniform dresses and starched white caps with long tabs, came out of the house and went from rider to rider with trays holding glasses. After the serving of sherry there came a double toot on the horn, and to the noises of hooves on gravel the pack moved off, between the whippers-in, following the huntsman. Then the master led the field down an extension of the gravel drive and through two towering rhododendron clumps to an iron gate, held open by an old gardener with dundreary whiskers and felt hat in hand. They were now in the park. To the massed mournful singing of hounds in kennels, and the toot-toot-toot of the horn, the huntsman ahead began to trot, and the field behind, spreading fanwise over the grass, started to bob, shake, and struggle with horse-heads. Steady, Prince, steady! But Prince felt the general excitement, so did the rooks which rose cawing out of the oaks, to flap up and float into the pale sky, now clearing of the lower mists, and revealing patches of blue. The colour exhilarated Phillip, and he wanted to shout, feeling so greatly happy. Here he was, following a famous pack, accompanied by a groom with two spare leathers worn like bandoliers, told off by Hobart to see that he, Phillip Maddison Esquire (since he held His Majesty’s commission) was all right; while just in front All Weather Jack, thick-peaked buff cap with wide polished leather band set at an angle, was trotting cavalry-fashion, not rising up and down in the saddle but sitting out the bumps as though screwed to the saddle. All Weather Jack beckoned Phillip to come beside him.

  “We’re going to draw Galton Spinney in the middle of the plough you can see half right through the trees ahead. If there’s a fox there, he’ll probably come out at the far end. Anyway, I’ll show you where we can stand and get a view of both sides of the spinney.”

  At the end of the park the field waited, while the huntsman jumped a ditch; and followed by hounds and the flanking whips, entered the ploughed field, which lay in steeply laid furrows, causing the horses to stagger at times. Some of the field were making to the left of the park, where it joined a meadow. Others were jumping the ditch. Hobart said, “Follow me.” He put his horse at the ditch, it gathered itself and sprang over, while he clung like a frog. Feeling that everyone knew he was an amateur, Phillip turned Prince’s head and with indecisive pressure of calves hoped he would get over all right. His horse took him over, he lost an iron, it clanged as Prince galloped after the other horse. He pulled at its mouth, loose on the slippery saddle, somehow got his balance, and kicking his boot into the iron, felt steadier. Prince slowed to a trot beside the horse it had followed.

  About a dozen riders waited on a hillock immediately overlooking the hedge, and the lines of furrows seeming to converge at the oval spinney four hundred yards distant
. Phillip watched hounds running into the trees: almost immediately he saw a fox loping between two furrows, coming towards them. Jack saw it at the same time, and yelled “Tally ho!” and pointed. The fox stopped, crouched down, and slunk off at right angles, crossing the furrows to get away from the rest of the field at the edge of the park. “Tally ho!” yelled many voices, as arms pointed at the fox, which began to race. There were encouraging cries from the huntsman, followed by hounds whimpering excitedly as they streamed out of the spinney. The huntsman took off his cap and scooped them on. When they got the scent of the fox they gave tongue. Huntsman blew short stuttering blasts on his horn, followed by a long note: and repeated the Gone Away twice, the final note being prolonged as though triumphantly.

  Black Prince, said Jack afterwards, had evidently been hunted before. Fighting for its head, the gelding went off at a gallop. Cries of ‘Hold your horse!’ were heard in desperation by its rider, or passenger, who found himself most insecure as he pulled the reins, the effort causing him to push against the irons, which extended on the leathers at an angle of almost forty five degrees to the vertical, while he tried to balance on the base of his spine. Before him was a cut-and-laid hedge, on the farther side a ditch, and then grazing, details of which he saw clearly and impersonally as he went down face first, slowly. Without apprehension, as though it was happening apart from himself, he met the earth, harmlessly, while about him legs and bellies of horses were descending. When he got on his feet he saw riders cantering away.

  “Are you all right?” asked Jack, who had turned back. “Good man! Hart will catch your ’oss.”

  Phillip was soon remounted and going across the meadow, and through a gate into a ploughed field, the headland of which was still stubble. Three hundred yards off he saw riders jumping a hedge. Throw your heart over first, he remembered the riding instructor saying. Hotly he held back Prince to a canter, and let him have his head two lengths from the thorn-setts. Leaning forward with hands held low by the pommel he found, to his surprise, that he was over; and with exultation followed the hoof-marks across furrows. Another fence in front, this one tall, with several years’ growth sticking up blackly with thorns. Crikey, he thought: it was six feet high, though thin on the two top feet. Some of the horses in front were refusing. When he got up he saw, and heard, All Weather Jack crashing his way through, thorns scratching on leather. Give Prince his head, lean forward and low, lean forward, shut eyes, toes in. “UP, Prince!” Lean back, you fool, down, down, Prince stumbling. Hold up his head! Good boy, Prince! He galloped after the half-dozen in front. Wonderful, wonderful! Clods of earth flying from hooves in front; then sudden checkings, horses reined back. “’Ware wire! ’Ware wire!”