by Tim Pears
Mildred ignored Isaiah entirely as she bundled the wheat straw. Perhaps she was deaf or had become so.
Isaiah turned to the others. ‘Ye’ll like this one too, lad,’ he said to Herbert. ‘It happened in the summer of’eighty-eight. Mildred got took to the flower show in Watchet, the evenin grew cool, her friends set off for home, but Mildred stayed drinkin cider with a silk-tongued ruffian by the name a Jasper Huxtable. I knew his brother, a good pal a mine. All ruffians and rogues, the ole family. Look at her now ye might doubt me, but then Mildred Daw was a right comely maid, sixteen year old, fair-complexioned. Were ye not, Mildred? Bowerly, she was.
‘This rogue spoke to her of the great ships he’d seen in Avonmouth and the factories big as villages in Bristol, though I doubt he’d ever bin as far as Weston-Super-bloody-Mare. Excuse my language, Albert. He offered to walk Mildred ome. They dawdled back in the moonlight. A tawny owl called from above them as they walked through Raven’s Wood. Back in a field Jasper suggested they rest a moment on a stook a sheaves that’d fallen over. He laid is and upon her in a place that made her understand what e was up to. Do you know what she did, lads, have you eard the tale?’
Fred and Herbert shook their heads. Leo did not move.
‘Your fathers know it. Dunstone too, though he may not remember. Well, here it is. First she disabused him of his intentions in no uncertain manner. Jasper lay on the stubble, clutchin his manhood, groanin to himself. But that weren’t all. Mildred intended to leave. She did not plan it, how could she, but some fool loader had left his two-tined fork in the field. It was only when she saw the implement layin there that the idea come to mind. She took it up, went back to her suitor, turned him with her dainty foot over on to his front, and pinned him to the ground with the two tines of the fork either side of his neck. Is that not exactly as it happened, Mildred? She then stood upon the fork and pressed it deep into the earth, leavin scarce enough slack for the lad to breathe.’
Albert and Enoch Sercombe, chuckling, nodded their approval, of the act or perhaps of Isaiah’s telling of the story or of both. Fred and Herbert looked from Isaiah to the spinster and back to Isaiah in consternation.
‘And there was Jasper Huxtable found the mornin following by the harvestin team.’
The boy looked at Mildred Daw. He could imagine her doing such a thing to someone who displeased her. He thought that Isaiah should be careful.
‘They found this poor lad but how did they know what happened?’ Herbert demanded. ‘How do you know, old man?’ He gestured to Mildred. ‘Did she go round tellin all and sundry what she done?’
‘That, lads, is the best thing about it,’ Isaiah said. ‘T’was Jasper himself who sang, so outraged was he by her treatment of him. So used was he to havin is way with the maids of our district. He made imself a laughin stock.’
‘Should a kept his peasel to his self,’ said Fred.
‘So long as Jasper lives, and for a further generation now that I’ve told thee, tis what e’ll be known for. His bastard children too.’
September
Ruth Sercombe gathered all the eggs that she could find. She inscribed the date 13.9.11 in pencil upon the shells as was her habit, and added them to those laid on previous days. She counted the eggs. There were forty-three in shades of white and brown, and she packed them with straw in two willow-rod baskets. These she asked Leo to carry with great care to the manor. He wondered why she did not ask Kizzie. Was it not girls’ or women’s work? Though he did not articulate his grievance aloud his countenance perhaps betrayed it. His mother said, ‘Your sister is liable to forget what her is carryin, start thinkin silly thoughts and swingin the baskets.’
‘I am not, mother,’ Kizzie said. ‘How can you say such a thing and sully my reputation in my own home?’ Her indignation was well acted.
‘Would you prefer to carry the eggs?’ Ruth asked her daughter.
Leo looked at his sister. Kizzie narrowed her eyes. She saw she could not win, only choose the lesser of twin defeats. ‘I concede the eggs’ journey might be less perilous in my dull brother’s care, mother.’
*
The boy walked away from the cottage. A pair of crows sidled along his mother’s washing line like tightrope walkers, of a kind he had seen at Minehead Fair, a family of tumblers and acrobats who carried in their blood some odd immunity to the pull of gravity.
He walked along the lanes across the estate. Stones beneath his boots clattered as if hollow. Each basket was covered with a white linen cloth to keep the full glare of the morning sun from the eggs. The distance was two miles, give or take some yards, and three times on the journey he laid the baskets gently upon the ground and waited for the ache in his upper arms to fade away, then picked up the baskets and resumed walking.
The closer he came to the big house the more people he saw. Gardeners, coachmen, stable boys. He did not study what they did but kept his eyes down. A butcher’s covered cart was leaving, a grocer’s arrived. He followed it around to the back of the house. The grocer passed over wooden boxes full of produce, which two maids conveyed through the wide back door. Leo placed his baskets upon the ground and waited. The grocer kept on passing boxes to the maids. They began bringing empty ones upon their return, which he took from them into his waggon.
One of the maids had red hair poking out from beneath her cap, of a redness the boy had not seen before. The other had black hair, dark eyes, and she assessed him as she passed. Eventually she addressed him. ‘What is you, a beggar boy? If you is, you’d best scat. Full house this weekend. Cook’s in no mood for charity. Er’ll box yer ears.’
The maid hoisted an empty box to the grocer. He installed it behind him and passed her a full one, which she carried inside. When she next emerged she spoke to Leo again. ‘Still here?’
The girls carried many loads. The red-haired one was taller. There was sweat on her forehead along the line of the white cap, and with each full box whose bulk she heaved so she gasped a little more. The dark, shorter one showed no strain and could, it seemed, have performed the task all day. When the delivery was complete the grocer waited. He stood by his cart. He said nothing to Leo, but gazed towards the door. The darker girl came out bearing an armful of empty boxes. The grocer took these and stacked them in his waggon. He walked around to the front and climbed up onto the seat. He clicked his teeth and the vanner set off towing the cart across the gravel.
The maid stood before Leo and looked down at the baskets. He lifted them and passed them to her. ‘I know you,’ the girl said. ‘I knew I did. Aunt Ruth’s boy. Don’t you recognise me?’
Leo looked at her. He neither nodded nor shook his head.
‘You’re Fred’s little brother,’ the maid said. ‘We was in school together. You and me is cousins.’ She waited for some seconds, then shrugged her shoulders. ‘Tell Fred hello from Gladys.’ The maid turned and carried the baskets into the house. She left the door open, whether for a breeze or because she intended to return shortly with the empty baskets Leo did not know. His mother surely needed them. He stood waiting. Occasionally someone came in or out of the door. A man, a lad, a girl, each in the uniform of their station. All ignored him. He did not budge. When he’d arrived the back yard was in shade but the sun rose over the top of the house and now he stood beneath its glare. The red-haired maid emerged. She walked away from the house towards one of the buildings in the yard. He could hear her rummaging amongst whatever objects existed therein. She reappeared carrying some kind of wooden bat, or paddle. Tool or toy. As she walked past she made to strike him, and giggled. The boy did not flinch.
Shortly the dark-haired girl stood in the doorway, carrying the willow baskets. ‘Meg said you was still here,’ she said. There was a note of complaint in her voice, as if she had been blamed for the boy’s presence. ‘You should a said.’ She waited in the doorway for Leo to come to her.
Leo took the baskets from his cousin, and nodded, and turned and walked out of the yard. He knew where the stables were
and made his way to them. He loved the Shire horses that he would work with in his life to come but all horses intrigued him. As well as motley cobs and hacks the master kept half a dozen hunters, for himself and those he invited to ride with him. They were half- and three-quarter bred, with Irish Draught. The master liked to travel to Ireland to buy them. He hunted with the foxhounds from Dulverton and on Exmoor with the staghounds. He also hunted elsewhere and had his horses transported by train. The grooms and stable lads exercised them daily. By now they’d have been returned to their pasture. One, though, was tethered by its halter to a ring on the wall in the yard and was being studied by two men.
The horse was a chestnut mare. Her hair had been clipped all over save for the shape of a saddle, which remained a darker colour upon her hide.
The older man picked up the mare’s off-hind leg and bent it slowly. The mare raised her head and her ears went back. The man lowered her leg and spoke to the lad and walked away. The lad fetched a hose-pipe that was curled up beside a tap. He unwound the pipe towards the horse. Leo walked along the wall of stable doors until he was close enough to see the swelling at the mare’s hind hock. The lad went to the tap and turned it on. Water emerged from the end of the pipe and brought it to life like a black snake. The lad was dark and lanky. He trotted over and picked up the spout and directed the water at the swelling on the mare’s leg.
Leo watched the mare accept the stable lad’s aquatic ministrations, her ears forward, her head bent. She appeared to enjoy the jet of cool water. Perhaps it numbed the pain of the sprained muscles in her leg. She was a fine creature, neither the fastest nor the strongest animal but a combination of the two as was required for a day chasing a pack of dogs. He had seen them. Farm workers stopped and watched when they passed near or distant, a horn blowing, hounds speaking, nobles and gentry galloping like some red chaotic cavalry charging. His father hated it for his carthorses were seized by the urge to join them. Some memory awoken of when they were ridden by giants hunting on the old moors. The memory of an earlier or perhaps an alternative life. ‘Hold em,’ his father would yell, and all the carters hung grimly on to their Shires until the urge subsided. But once Herbert let go and Red raced away towing a harrow. The horse galloped through a gateway that was too narrow. The gateposts stopped the harrow, and all the harness was torn asunder. The tackle shattered. The horse continued for a few yards then came to a halt, confused by his own excitement.
Some hunters were thoroughbreds, racehorses retired or failed. His father said the master preferred them tough, with a fine, sloping shoulder and good feet. ‘No hoof, no horse,’ he said, though whether it was his own maxim or the master’s or someone else’s entirely Leo did not know.
He moved closer and studied the mare’s small almost dainty hooves, the elegant fetlock joints that seemed too frail to carry that weight of beast and rider landing from a vaulted fence or hedge.
The stable lad looked lazily about him then. He glanced over his shoulder and leaped and cursed this boy who’d come silently up behind him. He sprayed water over the mare and all around her.
‘Who the fuck is you?’ the lad demanded. ‘And what the ell’s you doin creepin up on me?’
Leo did not answer. The lad resumed directing the water at the hunter’s hock. ‘Get lost,’ he said over his shoulder.
Leo did not move, but continued studying the horse’s feet.
The stable lad glanced back at him. ‘And why the fuck is you shakin your head?’
‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Leo said.
‘Speak up, you little squirt,’ the lad said.
Leo did not know how to raise his voice. He had tried before but couldn’t find the mechanism within his mouth or throat. ‘You shouldn’t put cold water on her leg.’
He thought the stable lad would strike him then, but instead he grinned suddenly and turned the hose-pipe upon Leo, directing it around his body until his clothes were soaked. Leo did not move. ‘I should put it on you instead, is that it?’ the lad yelled. ‘You little twat.’ He directed the water at Leo’s head. Leo closed his eyes. He felt his hair lifting and falling from his skull under the pressure of the water. He did not believe in the efficacy of such treatment for this horse but it might be good for others. The water ceased beating upon his face. He opened his eyes. The lad was once more hosing the chestnut mare. The groom stood beside him.
‘You’d better ave a good reason for wastin my water,’ he said.
‘This clod come up behind me, gaffer,’ the lad said, petulant. ‘Scared me alf out a my wits. Then he tells me I shouldn’t be a-hosin her hock. Who the little toe rag thinks he is I couldn’t tell ee.’
The groom was halfway in height between the boy and the spindly lad, and was soundly built, beefy. He turned to Leo. ‘We are very busy, boy, and I have no time for pranks nor foolishness, so tell me now why he should not hose the mare and her swollen hock.’
Leo looked up at the groom. He opened his mouth to speak but could not. His jaw trembled, knocking his upper and lower teeth against one another. Cold water dripped from him. He swallowed, clenched his jaw, squeezed a breath through his teeth and said, ‘Her heel is cracked.’
The groom looked at him a moment longer, then looked at the lad and said, ‘Turn it off.’ He stepped towards the horse and lifted her back-right leg as he had before but this time he ignored her knee and studied her foot instead. The lad returned.
‘Look at this,’ the groom told him, pointing to the fine cracks in the mare’s heel. ‘How did we not spot that?’ He told the stable lad to pack the heel with Vaseline once he’d dried it off, and that tomorrow they should apply a paste of Epsom salts and glycerine to the swelling on the mare’s hock and make a poultice. The lad nodded. ‘And you can apologise to the boy here.’
The stable lad frowned. ‘He crept up behind me, gaffer,’ he whined. ‘Give me one ell of a fright.’
The groom said nothing. The lad sighed, and said, ‘Sorry, nipper. You does look like a drowned rat.’ He grinned then, as he had before, but this time the groom turned towards him and as he turned he raised his hand and also swung his shoulder so that with little effort he put some weight behind his fist, which he swung upwards and punched the lad on the ear. The lad staggered sideways, yelping and putting his hand to the side of his head. The groom paid him no heed.
‘He didn’t mean no harm,’ the man told Leo. ‘I believe I knows who you might be,’ he said. ‘Is you the carter Sercombe’s boy?’
Leo nodded, glancing briefly at the groom.
‘I’ve heard about you,’ the groom continued. ‘Another Sercombe with equine blood in his bones, so they say.’
Leo did not know whether he should mention that he had an older brother, also a carter. Whether not to do so amounted to disloyalty. He glanced around. The stable lad still grimaced, and held a hand to his ear as if trying to listen to the sound of his pain.
‘Come another time, boy, when tis less busy. You’d best get walkin home now, dry out on the move.’
The boy walked away from the stables. He figured to take a shorter route home, over stiles and brooks that might have put his earlier fragile cargo in jeopardy. Within moments his teeth ceased chattering. In the midday sun the water in his hair was warm as sweat. He circled one paddock and walked through a glade of poplars to another, and stopped dead. He stepped to his left behind a tree trunk so that part at least of his body was hid.
Though she wore boy’s clothes as before and a gentleman’s tweed cap he knew at once it was the master’s daughter. Perhaps by her posture. She rode a blue roan pony. The horse trotted, then slowed down. It looked as if it was going to settle into a walk, but just before it did so it began instead to trot again. After some yards the pony slowed once more, and just before it walked it sped up again. Thus the horse and rider crossed the paddock. They did so along a line directly across the boy’s line of vision, as if on display for him. Leo stepped around the trunk of the tree in order to follow them, and stepped back as
they came the other way.
When they reached the fence the girl turned the horse and came back in the opposite direction in like manner. It was not easy to see how she asked or ordered her pony to do as she wished. There was no movement of her hands on the reins, or the reins upon the bit, that he could see. With her legs she squeezed the pony’s belly but she did not kick him. Again she turned the horse and took him across the paddock. The boy watched. The girl’s posture was upright and unvarying, but he saw that as the horse slowed down and the rider stopped rising off the saddle, so she exerted some downward pressure with her back and her seat and that this too communicated some request the pony understood.
The girl did not speak at any time during these manoeuvres, until she allowed the pony to come to a halt in the middle of the paddock, and then she leaned forward and patted his neck and spoke to him in effusive tones, telling him what a fine boy he was, how clever, how obedient, how marvellous.
After the girl had made much of her horse she raised herself up once more and set off across the paddock. Leo did not know whether she would wish to be observed by the son of a carter as she trained her pony. He did not believe she would appreciate being viewed from the shadows behind a tree. He could walk backwards into the glade and skirt around the paddock in a wide arc, with little loss of time. Instead he walked forward down the slope from the glade, into the late-morning sun. At the fence he placed the empty willow baskets on the ground and watched.
The girl did not see him or else took no notice. She continued suppleing the roan. Having done so from front to rear, now she did so laterally. Moving from the centre of the paddock she took up position on the far side, close to the fence, with the fence on her and the pony’s left-hand side. She walked the horse forward some paces, and brought it to the right. But then rather than keep it coming round, in a curve or a circle, she used her right leg to push the pony’s forehead to the left, so that he walked forward along a straightish line beside the fence but with his head and neck and spine following a curve centred around the girl’s right leg. She walked the horse all the way around the paddock twice and then stopped and congratulated him, once more leaning forward to stroke him. Then she repeated the routine but this time at a trot.