by John Wilcox
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ shouted the bay’s rider, his face flushed a shade deeper than his coat.
‘Morning Colonel Reeves,’ answered the Major equably, making sure that the shovel was firmly fixed before turning to face the rider. ‘I am just making sure that there will be no further trespassing on my land.’
‘Dammit, man. The hunt doesn’t trespass. It clears the land of vermin.’
‘If I want to clear the land of vermin, I will do it in my own way, thank you.’
‘Look here, Fonthill.’ The second rider, much younger and slimmer than the MFH and displaying an extravagant frill of lace at his throat, spoke in a high-pitched voice. ‘We try to avoid your land because we know your views, but sometimes we just have to follow. Now which way did our fellow go?’
Fonthill ignored the younger man and held the Master’s gaze coolly. The big man jerked the reins in exasperation as his bay fretted to be off again, and turned his gaze on Simon and Jenkins, who were watching the turn of events with some dismay. Involuntarily, Jenkins shot a quick glance up the hill, the direction taken by the fox.
‘That’s it, Evans,’ shouted the Master across the fence to his huntsman, ‘set the hounds up the hill to the right. They’ll be able to get through the hedge higher up and pick up the scent. We’ll follow from this side.’
He hauled his horse’s head round to start up the hill, but George Fonthill caught the bridle to prevent him. The bay shied and half reared, causing the Master to sway perilously in the saddle.
‘Don’t grab my bridle,’ snarled the rider, the veins standing out in his neck above his stock. ‘Let go, damn you. Let go.’ He swung his whip up and brought it down across the elder Fonthill’s shoulder, and then lashed him across the head, causing the Major to fall away, one hand held up to his face to protect himself.
At this, Simon sprang forward but slipped in the mud. Jenkins was quicker. The Welshman leapt to the far side of the rider, pushed the latter’s boot out from the stirrup in one quick movement and heaved the leg up and over the saddle, causing the Master, flailing desperately to regain his lost hold on the reins, to pitch on the ground with a thud. Jenkins nipped around the startled horse and held out a hand to assist the Master to his feet, but the big man cracked him across the wrist with his whip and struggled upright, raising the whip behind his head to bring it down again on the Welshman.
Major Fonthill moved to intervene, but Simon put a restraining hand on his chest. It was some time since he had seen Jenkins in action, and he was not to be denied this opportunity.
Perfectly balanced, as always, the Welshman skipped aside to avoid the lash, seized the Master’s wrist to whirl him round and then, with cool precision, kicked him in the groin. With a gasp like air escaping from a balloon, the big man sank back to the ground, his eyes protruding.
‘I say, you scoundrel, you’ve killed him.’ The younger rider’s jaw had dropped at the speed and ferocity of Jenkins’s attack.
‘No, I ’aven’t killed ’im.’ Jenkins pointed to the Master, who was kneeling on the ground, gasping and holding his testicles. ‘I just kicked ’im in the balls.’ He turned to Simon and his father, as though for support. ‘Look, see, ’e’s movin’ all right. But ’e shouldn’t go around whippin’ people, now should ’e?’ His voice was quite plaintive.
The Major strode forward and bent down by the stricken man, who was now rocking back and forwards on his knees and drawing in deep breaths. George Fonthill looked up at the younger rider. ‘For God’s sake, Barker,’ he growled. ‘Get down and see if we can get him to his feet. Straight legs and his head between his knees is what he needs now.’
But Barker showed no desire to dismount in the presence of Jenkins, and Simon went to assist his father. Together, they struggled to help the large man, his face still contorted with pain, to his feet and then pushed his head down and instructed him to take deep breaths. Eventually the treatment seemed to bring some relief and the Colonel was able to stand upright. He shook off the Major and Simon with a gesture that bespoke no thanks for their concern, and pointed a finger at Jenkins.
‘That man will go to jail for attacking me in that cowardly way,’ he gasped. ‘I shall bring charges, I promise you. The whole county will recognise you for what you are, Fonthill – a . . . a . . . lily-livered socialist who employs ruffians of the worst kind. You will both suffer for this.’
‘Quite so,’ Barker now joined in, having backed his horse well away from Jenkins. ‘I saw what happened. I am a magistrate and I will give evidence. It was a cowardly, unprovoked attack.’
‘Unprovoked!’ Jenkins’s indignation seemed to increase the Welsh intonation in his voice. ‘The bloody man was whippin’ everybody in sight, so ’e was. It’s ’im who should go to jail, look you.’
‘That will do, Jenkins.’ George Fonthill turned to Reeves. ‘Would you like to rest in our house for a while, Colonel? It might be wise if you are hurt. We could send for Dr Davies from the village.’
Reeves regained his whip from the ground. ‘Certainly not. I shall make my own way to the village: to the police house, to lay charges. Now if you can show me a gate nearby, I will leave your damned land, Fonthill. But you will be hearing from me shortly. A warrant will be issued for your man’s arrest as soon as I can see the constable.’
George Fonthill pointed to the lower end of the field. ‘By the willow there. Please close it behind you.’
The Master gathered his reins and, limping, led his horse away from the little group. With a reproving glance at the three men, Barker followed him.
The Major held out his hand to Jenkins. ‘My dear Jenkins,’ he said, ‘I am not sure that I approve of your method of fighting, but I am grateful to you for coming to my aid. Most grateful.’
The Welshman shook hands and then looked at the ground in some embarrassment. ‘Sorry, Major. I don’t know any fancy ways of fightin’, see, an’ ’e was a bit big to muck about with. Particularly with that whip of ’is. Sorry, I’m sure, if I’ve given offence.’
‘Well, my man, I’m afraid that you’ve given plenty of offence to Colonel Reeves. But the man is a bully and – what can I say? – a most reactionary sort of fellow. If there was one man I would like to see receive a blow in the . . . whatchamacallit? . . . the unmentionables, then I can assure you that Reeves is the chap. However, I do hope he is not permanently injured.’
Simon picked up the shovels and pitchfork. ‘I feel that’s enough ditching for the day, Father. Perhaps we should get back. I think we may have some preparations to make if Reeves carries out his threat.’
In silence, the three climbed into the little dog cart and, Jenkins taking the reins, made their way back to the house.
As they bounced along the uneven tracks across the small estate, Simon watched the broad back of Jenkins and began to feel growing concern for his friend. Of course the attack had been provoked and, indeed, Reeves had been the aggressor. Technically, he was also trespassing. Simon knew, however, that, should the matter come to court, it would not be as simple as that. Reeves was a large landowner, a member of the county council and a magistrate himself. The hunt was supported by rich men, farmers and workers alike, and it was the custom to cross private land. A counter-charge of trespassing was unlikely to stick. The Master had many highly placed connections throughout the Borders, and in those circles he was a popular man. The main point, however, was that an attack on such a man by a servant would not be tolerated, particularly the mode of attack chosen by Jenkins. So very brutal, the gossip would insist. Such a disgusting way to behave and so typical of what happens when a liberal entertains ‘modern’ ideas! Simon shook his head.
Surprisingly, however, Charlotte Fonthill took a different view. Sitting around the dinner table that evening with her husband and son (Jenkins, on his own insistence, always dined with the servants), Mrs Fonthill demanded to be told everything. To Simon’s amazement, his mother threw back her head and guffawed when the details of the aff
ray – or, as she came to refer to it, the Battle of Jenkins’s Boot – were unfolded.
‘Serves the man right,’ she chortled. Then her face darkened. ‘How dare he raise his whip to you, my dear!’
With an inward smile, Simon realised that even if it was the sainted Prince Albert who had attacked her husband, he would receive the same enmity as if the assailant had been an itinerant tramp. The Fonthills’ was a love affair that was set in concrete.
‘Now, my dears,’ she concluded at the end of the story, ‘the first thing to do is to summon Jenkins into the drawing room and give him a large glass of the best whisky we have. Then we must discuss his defence. There is no doubt that he will be charged, but he must not – he must not – be found guilty. I have an idea, but we must discuss it with him. He is clearly a most resourceful man who deserves our full support.’
Simon smothered a grin. One swing of the boot and dear old 352 had been elevated from the ranks of the boozy underclass to become a friend of the family! Ah well, Jenkins was certainly going to need all the help he could be given.
It was clear that Jenkins considered the summons to join the family in the parlour the prelude to a hanging, at least. As he entered and perched on the edge of the chaise longue, he shot a despairing glance at Simon. This was difficult ground for him. Gone was the easy, free-wheeling relationship between master and servant that had existed on the veldt of Africa and the hard scree of India’s North-West Frontier. He had always feared that that warm friendship – not between equals, because that could never be, but between comrades – would end as soon as they entered the family home on the Welsh Borders. And so it had proved, despite all Simon’s solicitude. The family, and particularly Mrs Fonthill, had made it clear that in her house Jenkins was just a servant – and an unruly, alcoholic one at that. He had regretted kicking the Colonel as soon as the boot had gone in. Not because the act was not deserved, but because he knew it would confirm him to be a savage. He should have taken the whip across the face and then punched the bastard hard. Mrs Fonthill’s welcome now, then, was all the more unexpected.
‘George,’ she commanded. ‘A very large whisky for Mr Jenkins.’
A huge single malt in a shimmering cut-glass tumbler was presented to him – the first he had tasted since, as officers’ mess orderly in the 24th seven years earlier, he had helped himself every evening before clearing up. He sipped thoughtfully. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I think it’s an 1873, isn’t it?’
‘Good lord, so it is. How on earth did you know?’
Simon intervened. ‘Oh, 352 is a man of many parts, Father, as . . . er . . . you have seen today.’
‘Indeed.’ Charlotte Fonthill now took charge. ‘Mr Jenkins, I wish to thank you most sincerely for coming to the aid of my husband today. Not that he could not have taken care of himself, you know, but he was most certainly disadvantaged and your intervention was most timely.’
Jenkins shifted on the chaise longue. ‘Yes, well. Thank you, my lady.’
Mrs Fonthill’s former habitual irritation with Jenkins returned momentarily. ‘No. As I have told you so many times. We are not titled and therefore you must not call me your lady. I should be madam or Mrs Fonthill.’
‘Right, then. Yes. Thank you, missus . . . I mean madam.’
‘Yes, madam is perfectly acceptable. Now, back to this distressing incident of earlier today. We have been talking amongst ourselves and we believe that because Colonel Reeves has some influence here, you almost certainly will be charged.’
Jenkins shot a quick glance at Simon. ‘Does it mean jail, then, miss . . . madam?’
‘Not while I have . . . I mean while we have breath in our bodies. Now look here, the case will come before the local magistrates. We have no idea whether it might be referred to a higher court or whatever. But I have a cousin in London who practises at the Bar and I intend to call him down here to defend you.’
Jenkins shifted again. ‘Very kind of you, madam, but with great respect, I don’t see how a barman can ’elp in this kind of situation, particularly a bloke what’s still practisin’ and learnin’ the job, like.’
Simon and Major Fonthill stifled smiles as Mrs Fonthill sat with her mouth open, her brow furrowed. ‘What? What? Oh, I see. Yes, they’re confusing terms, aren’t they? No, he is a barrister – which means he is an advocate and will speak for you – and he is also a QC, a Queen’s Counsel. You couldn’t do better, I assure you.’
Jenkins was now frowning. He sat silently for a moment and then took a deep draught of the whisky. ‘Thank you, Mrs Fonthill,’ he said eventually, wiping his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘But, you know, I really don’t want anybody to speak for me, see. I’ve always done my own talkin’, like, and I’d rather do it now, if you don’t mind. I really appreciate the trouble you’re takin’, though, absolutely.’
The Major leaned forward. ‘Don’t be silly, man. Sir Roger Chamberlain, my wife’s cousin, is probably the best barrister in the land. It would be most impressive to have him down here in a magistrates’ court to defend you. He will, of course, do a first-class job and his presence alone, I feel, would score heavily in your favour.’
Jenkins directed another glance at Simon, but the latter, his chin in his hand, staring at his friend, stayed silent.
The Welshman took a deep breath. ‘Yes, well, that’s just the point, see, Major. Gettin’ this great gentleman down from London to handle this piddlin’ little local matter – savin’ your presence, madam – would show everybody that you’re worried about winnin’ and that, without this barman chap, I wouldn’t stand a chance. In fact, I can’t ’elp thinkin’ that the local judges, or whatever they are, would get their backs up a bit, what with posh blokes comin’ down from London, see.’
Mrs Fonthill opened her mouth to speak, but Simon intervened. ‘I think Jenkins has a good point here,’ he said. ‘But 352, who would you want to speak for you? A local solicitor from Brecon, say?’
‘Oh no, bach sir, thank you very much. As I said, I don’t want anyone to speak for me. I will speak for myself.’
‘But you can’t defend yourself!’ The Major exchanged incredulous looks with his wife. ‘A court of law is a sort of ritualistic place, highly disciplined. You have got to know the rules and procedures and to conform to them. You can’t expect to just . . . well . . . talk your way out of it, you know. You attacked a highly respected member of our community and we must put up a well-argued case for you. Frankly, my dear chap, I don’t quite see you being able to do that.’
The room fell silent for a minute and Jenkins took another draught from his glass, emptying it. Simon stood and refilled it.
‘A magistrates’ court, then, is it?’ asked the Welshman eventually.
‘Well, to start with, anyway,’ answered Charlotte Fonthill. ‘It could be settled there or, if the charge is considered serious enough, it could go to a higher court.’
‘Ah well, if it’s a magistrates’ court, then I shall be comfortable enough.’
‘Why is that?’
Jenkins gave a wry, rather shamefaced smile. ‘Back ’ome in Wales, I came up before the local beaks twice and got off twice, see. I just spoke the truth an’ asked a few awkward questions to the fellers who were tryin’ to prosecute me. I must ’ave done well enough ’cos they let me off.’
Simon’s mind went back to his early days as a subaltern in Brecon when the quick wits and barrack-room-lawyer abilities of his servant had helped protect him against the campaign of persecution employed by his commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Covington.
The Major sighed. ‘It won’t be that easy here, I’m afraid.’
Jenkins leaned forward. ‘P’raps not, sir, but I’d rather you left it to me. Maybe you and the Captain could be witnesses for me about what ’appened an’ all that, and you, Major, could give me a bit of background information, like, about this trespassin’ business before I go in the dock. But I think I can ’andle it, given ’alf a chance by the judge blo
ke. You’ll see. Anyway,’ he sat back with an air of finality, ‘I’m very grateful to you all, but that’s the way I’d like to do it.’
Simon stood. ‘Very well, 352. It looks as though your mind is made up, so we must let you get on with it. Of course, we will be witnesses and give you all the help we can.’ He turned to his parents. ‘As I said earlier, Jenkins has hidden talents. We’ll just have to see if he can deploy them well enough to get himself off this hook. Now, if you’ve finished your whisky, old chap – and I see that you have – we’ll let you get off to bed. We’ll meet again when the summons arrives.’
Although his glass seemed empty, Jenkins upended it one more time to make sure, gave the Major and his wife the benefit of his face-splitting beam, nodded to Simon and left the room. The Fonthills stared at each other.
Mrs Fonthill stamped her foot. ‘If he defends himself, he won’t stand a chance.’
Simon shrugged his shoulders. ‘He can be damned stubborn when he wants to be – but he can also be very resourceful. I just hope that his recent fracas in the Black Dog will not be held against him.’
Chapter 2
A week later, they all assembled in the gloomy magistrates’ court at Brecon. The summons to attend court had been delivered unusually – and ominously – quickly. Three magistrates sat on the bench.
Simon leaned across to his father. ‘Do you know them?’ he asked.
The Major nodded. ‘The two flanking the chairman are farmers. The chap on the left is a great supporter of the hunt, a dedicated Tory, and has a reputation for sending down almost everyone who appears before him.’ He sniffed. ‘The one on the right is a bit more balanced, from what I hear. He farms further west but sits on the county council with Reeves, so is likely to support him. The chairman is new to me but I understand he is some sort of industrialist just outside Brecon. Not a good show, my boy, I’m afraid.’
The usher motioned for Simon and his father to leave the court because, as witnesses in the case, they were not allowed to hear previous evidence. Once in the busy entrance chamber outside, however, Simon left his father, who would be called first, and slipped away up the stairs to the public gallery, where his mother had already taken her seat. He was anxious to hear the prosecution’s case and he had asked Mrs Fonthill to sit at the back and to save him a seat at the end of the row.