A Rural Affair

by Catherine Alliott

  But rather than stopping for some golly, fancy-seeing-you-here chat, he was off in moments, at a very fast trot down the drive, after the hounds. Angie was beside me in a flash.

  ‘Always, always call him master,’ she hissed. ‘Even if you privately know him as fluffy-bumkins. Even if you’ve shared a pillow the night before!’

  Many heads nodded in severe agreement at this, faces grave. I’d obviously breached a sacred code.

  ‘Oh, OK. It’s just we did share a pillow and he said Sam would be fine,’ I told her airily, clearly disastrously pissed.

  Some people thought this was quite funny and tittered, for which I was grateful, but not Angie. She shot me a withering look and trotted off to join the thrusters at the front. Hard not to join them, actually, as Thumper surged excitedly beneath me, doing an extended trot down the drive. I managed to hold him back a bit, though, and keep some distance. As we went through a gate into pasture we all broke into a canter and I scanned the airborne bottoms of Angie’s smart crowd ahead. I recognized a local actress with pale blue eyes on an iron grey; Hugo, Angus’s grandson, on an overwrought roan, one or two mates of his from Harrow ragging alongside him. Then there were the gays who ran the garden centre and quarrelled incessantly – one was prodding the other spitefully with his whip even now; a judge Dad knew, whose horse was called Circuit so that, if anyone rang, his clerk could truthfully say, ‘He’s out on circuit’; then a very attractive couple I couldn’t quite place until … good God. Simon and Emma Harding. I nearly fell off my horse. Why weren’t they on their honeymoon, for Christ’s sake? Was she going to be everywhere I went?

  I yanked hard on my left rein and sped towards Angie.

  ‘Angie – Emma Harding’s here!’ I gasped as I galloped up beside her. It wasn’t hard, Thumper was pulling like a train.

  ‘I know, bloody cheek, isn’t it?’ she yelled back, instantly on my side despite my earlier jibe, bless her. We cantered along together, the wind whipping our words away. ‘They’re having their honeymoon later, apparently,’ she told me. ‘She clearly means to stick around like a turd on a shoe – bloody nerve!’

  ‘I’m going to out her,’ I seethed into the wind. ‘Just wait and see what everyone thinks when they know it was my husband she was … Holy shit. We’re not jumping that, are we?’

  Up ahead was a sizeable post and rails with quite a few foot followers gathered around it. I spotted Jennie, Dad and my children clustered excitedly. Clearly we were. Sam flew over it, followed by the gays, then Hugo et al., then Simon and Emma. Right. So this was my Becher’s Brook. But, boy, was it huge. Thumper pulled excitedly at the sight of it, and as Angie sailed confidently over ahead of me, I was right on her heels. Too close, actually, but too late to do anything about it because I was already airborne. I clung on to the plaits for grim death, losing the reins as we landed, so that Thumper, given his head, let out the throttle and sped away. As we galloped towards another jump, a small hedge which he took in his stride, I realized something alarming was happening here: I was having trouble staying on board and pulling the reins at the same time. I could do one at a time, but not both together, and certainly not with jumps thrown into the equation. I plumped for staying on board and clung to his mane, which meant that Thumper – who, if he hadn’t been hunting before, was loving every minute of it – had a free rein to take me wherever he wanted, at whatever speed, which was top, and straight to the front.

  Spectacularly out of control I rocketed past Angie, Simon and Emma, the actress on the grey, Hugo and his muckers. Then I cannoned past Sam in pink, who shot me a startled look, then the huntsman and the whipper-in, in mustard. Finally – trust me, it didn’t take long – I shot past the hounds, who scattered like beads of mercury as I galloped through them, ensuring that in five short minutes, I’d broken every single rule in the book.

  When I finally turned an enormous circle way out in the next field – the next county, probably – and headed back, Thumper galloping joyously to rejoin his new friends, Angie’s face was white and horrified. ‘What are you doing!’ she shrieked, appalled.

  ‘Couldn’t stop,’ I gasped, skidding up beside her and jolting to an ungainly halt, hat over my eyes. ‘Bolted.’

  I wanted to die, actually. Knew I probably would soon, too. I felt green with fear, sick as a dog and way out of my depth.

  ‘But you’re making a complete tit of yourself!’ she hissed as, fortuitously, the whole field pulled up, pausing as they drew a copse.

  ‘I know!’ I wailed. ‘What shall I do, Angie? Shall I go home?’ I couldn’t look at Sam. I mean, the master.

  ‘No, don’t give up yet. Just keep at the back with the no-hopers. Come on, I’ll come with you.’ She turned her horse’s head.

  ‘No, Angie,’ I said quickly, knowing this was indeed the true hand of friendship. ‘You stay at the front, I’ll go.’

  ‘Well, look, see those stragglers?’ She pointed behind us with her whip. ‘The alkies and the point-to-pointers, the children – you go with them. And for Christ’s sake, don’t come up the front again.’

  ‘Righto,’ I said meekly, hauling on the reins, trying to make Thumper see reason; at least for long enough to let me join the hoi polloi.

  As I rode towards them scarlet-faced, I realized they were laughing at me. But not altogether unkindly, and when they’d all introduced themselves, it became abundantly clear that they were not only hugely friendly, but much more accepting than the smart crowd. They didn’t mind a bit that it was my first time out and I’d broken every rule under the sun; in fact, once they’d dried their eyes and stopped holding their sides, they told me they’d all done it once, and that Angie was a complete pain in the tubes out hunting. She thought she ran the show and was only trying to get into the new master’s breeches. I laughed along rather disloyally, vowing never to be that obvious.

  Off we set again, this time, happily, at a more sedate pace. Thumper, his initial gallop under his belt, seemed to settle; perhaps, like me, recognizing he’d lost the Darwinian struggle and acknowledging his true place with the novices at the back. And I had a rather jolly time of it with my new friends, one of whom was the ravishing redhead who’d stripped off at the meet, a nurse called Polly. Then there was an electrician called Sparks, on an equally sparky ex-racehorse; an old rogue called Gerald with come-to-bed cataracts; Ted the local butcher, his face like one of his cheaper cuts of beef; and my very own painter and decorator, Grant, on a huge coloured cob.

  ‘Grant! I didn’t recognize you in your hat! Didn’t know you did this sort of thing?’

  ‘Yeah, every week. I’d rather spend my money on this than send it down the red lane in the boozer. A farmer lends me his horse. Likes it exercised.’

  I felt rather shamed as we cantered on. I’d always assumed hunting was the province of the hideously wealthy, but these people were not remotely privileged. It was clearly a sport like any other, and although you obviously needed the four legs beneath you to do it, they weren’t all pampered, expensive steeds like Angie’s, but shaggy, workmanlike beasts pulled in from the field, begged and borrowed.

  ‘My brother hunts in Ireland,’ Polly told me breathlessly when we finally drew up on the outskirts of a wood. ‘And over there the kids follow on bikes, donkeys, whatever. You don’t have to have a horse. It isn’t quite like that here, but we’re certainly not the Beaufort. You don’t have to join a queue to get in and you won’t get ticked off for not looking the part. Although I might just lend you a hairnet next time.’ She grinned.

  ‘Thanks!’ I grinned back thinking that this was more like it, and next time I really would look the part: no safety pins, no mud, but perhaps on Agnes, who’d be less scary. Yes, I could do this; but I’d take the slow route, not be in such a rush. The field was moving on again and I gathered my reins to go with them, but at that moment a solitary fawn-coloured hound bustled past me. Thumper, startled, lashed out with his left hind leg.

  ‘Oh God, I hope he hasn’t hit him,’ I said
, turning distractedly, but my new friends had moved on, out of earshot, not at a gallop but a fast trot, in single file across a ploughed field. I was last. Thumper, aware of this, registered his displeasure by lifting his front hooves off the ground when I held him back, but still I held him, because I’d spotted something fawn and inert in the bushes.

  ‘Shit!’

  I was off in a trice, pulling the reins over Thumper’s head, dragging him into the undergrowth. There in the bracken lay the hound: stretched out stiffly, a terrible gash to its head. I gazed in horror. Blood was pouring down its cheek. Oh God, was it dead? I lurched forward, touched it. Shook it. It most certainly was. Either that or unconscious. I felt for a heartbeat. Nothing. I shrank back, aghast. Oh God, I’d killed a hound. Or Thumper had, which was surely one and the same thing. My hand flew to my mouth.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’ I wailed, crouching over it again, stroking its poor fawn coat, the reins looped over my arm as Thumper danced impatiently on the end. ‘You poor thing!’ I whispered. There he’d been, happily running along with his mates one minute, and then, courtesy of yours truly, stone dead the next. Tears sprang to my eyes and I gulped hopelessly, wringing my hands. Thumper cavorted, but I ignored him. In fact right now I downright hated him and spun round to tell him so in no uncertain terms.

  ‘You stupid stupid horse!’

  I cast about desperately for help. One by one the hunt was disappearing across the ploughed field over the brow of the hill and, horrified as I was, I couldn’t help feeling relief. For something else was building in my breast. Some other, weighty emotion. Terror. I was fairly sure that up there in the litany of hunting sins, this was the most heinous. Forget not having the right kit. Forget not addressing the master correctly, overtaking him, the whipper-in, the pack; this was the black cap. Not just for the hound, but for me too.

  Dry-mouthed, I stared at the empty horizon. All gone. No one even in the distance. But if I was tempted momentarily to get back on and just turn and belt for home, for the safety of my cottage and a nice cup of tea, I resisted manfully. No. What I’d do, what I’d jolly well do, was get back on and catch up with them. Yes. Tell them exactly what had happened. Fess up.

  Heart pounding and feeling very fluttery and sweaty-palmed, I somehow, with the help of a log, got back on a prancing and distressed Thumper – but not as distressed as I was, oh God no – and around we spun. We galloped off across the middle of the sticky plough, then through a gate and sharp left across a meadow. The riders in the distance were going at speed now, and I realized I’d have to leap a ditch or two along the way to catch up. But ditches were nothing to me now. Risking my own neck was a mere trifle. In fact breaking it was hugely preferable to what was about to befall it.

  In a trice I was steaming up a grassy hill beside Polly, the nurse. A good person. A nice person. Think of the hours she worked, the minimum wage, the bedpans. She’d understand. And maybe it wasn’t dead, after all? Maybe she’d administer mouth to mouth?

  ‘Polly –’

  ‘Oh, hi, you’re back! We were worried about you. Gosh, you must have jumped those ditches – well done!’

  ‘Polly, I –’

  ‘Holes on the right!’ she shouted in warning as we careered past a badger set.

  Thumper swerved violently to avoid the craters in the ground, and of course I was doing my level best to stay on, let alone speak. And with every furlong we galloped, we were getting further away from the poor dead hound. One of many, of course. So many. Look at them all streaming out ahead. Heaps of them, so of course he wasn’t missed. But I must impart my intelligence. Must divulge the grave news. We were jumping now, a series of little blackthorn hedges, not very big, but as I landed beside Polly’s huge grey, I screamed, ‘I’ve done something – I must tell you!’

  She swung around. Only, to my horror, it wasn’t Polly at all; it was Emma Harding.

  She looked annoyed at being yelled at, mid-jump. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She glared. ‘I hope it wasn’t you on the crops back there.’

  ‘What?’ We’d straggled to a halt before a massive hedge that not even the thrusters could jump.

  ‘Someone went on the crops, and you were specifically told to keep to the edge.’

  I gazed in wonder. She’d slept with my husband for four years, wanted my children’s inheritance, and now she was telling me not to trample a few Weetabix seedlings?

  ‘And you should have a red ribbon on that horse’s tail if it kicks.’

  I went pale. Did she know? Had she seen?

  ‘He doesn’t kick,’ I heard myself splutter.

  ‘Well, he nearly got my horse back there. I saw him lash out.’

  ‘You barged into me,’ I retorted. ‘And how dare you even begin to lecture me about how to behave when you have behaved so abominably, so despicably, you – you hussy!’

  All my rage, all my pent-up emotion flooded out as I regarded her up on her grey mare with her carefully painted face. So much I wanted to say seethed and jostled within, but which words to choose? Surely I could do better than hussy? Strumpet, perhaps? As I struggled to find a twenty-first century expletive I was capable of uttering, she watched disdainfully. Her red lip curled as she looked me up and down.

  ‘Just don’t bite off more than you can chew, hm?’

  And with that she was off. From a standing start to a canter, as the field circumnavigated the hedge through a series of gates, then out into open country again. I was on her heels whether she liked it or not. For Thumper had got second wind and seemed determined to stick like glue to Miss Harding’s mare. And of course she rode right up at the front, so that’s where I ended up: with Hope and Chad, Simon, who had the grace to look abashed as I came thundering up, the terrifying Mary Granger of the stony face, who bonked blacksmiths, Angie, whose eyes were round as I yet again rocketed past her horribly out of control, and then Sam, who, with intrinsic style, was executing a stately collected canter at the head of the field. He raised an ironic, here-we-go-again eyebrow as I cannoned past, but no more than that. Pulling for all I was worth and travelling at a speed that made my eyes stream and the wind rush in my ears, I at least managed to turn a circle before I reached the hounds. I bounced inelegantly back, features jockeying for position, hat over my eyes, everyone staring in wonder, even the children having never seen the like. Suddenly I found my reins being firmly taken from me. It was Angie, and her eyes were sparkling.

  ‘Poppy, I’m going to have to take you home,’ she told me. ‘I have never been so embarrassed!’

  I couldn’t breathe, such had been the exertion of trying to stop Thumper. Such was my terror and lack of fitness. I could only nod; try to get some air into my lungs. I felt terribly sick. At that moment a grim-faced whipper-in swept past silently in the opposite direction.

  ‘One of the hounds is missing,’ Mary Granger, a face like thunder, informed us, riding up. ‘We’re going to have to hang around here a moment while Martin goes back to look. It’s literally nowhere to be seen. Seems to have vanished into thin air.’

  She rode off to tell the others; to inform the rest of the field. I gazed after her, stricken.

  22

  That should have been my moment. Of course that should have been my moment. All I remember, though, was turning back from staring at Mary’s retreating back, and looking into Angie’s glittering eyes as she held my reins. My own eyes cast wildly about: I saw Simon and Emma talking to Sam, grave and deadly serious. My throat clenched with fear, my heart with it. I wished so badly I was not with the thrusters, but with the Pollys and Grants of this world. I could see them at the tail end of the field, sharing a joke and a hip flask, laughing uproariously, Grant even lighting a cigarette. Please, God, I thought, let me go to them; I could tell them. Then they could pass it on, like Chinese whispers. But Angie still had hold of my reins and was telling me in low, measured tones, as one might a child who’s run in the road and scared one enough to yell initially, that of course it wasn’t my fault, because I ha
dn’t been out before, but if only I’d gone to her first, she could have lent me something more suitable.

  ‘If only you’d asked, you could have had Clarissa’s pony. It’s hunted seven seasons, knows exactly how to behave. You are a goon, Poppy.’

  I listened to this almost in a dream. It was said, certainly, in something more like her usual friendly voice as she relaxed her grip on my rein. And she was my friend; my good friend, who I could tell, surely? I opened my mouth to speak, but my mouth was so dry my teeth stuck to my upper lip. By the time I’d licked them free, Sam had ridden up beside her, mobile clamped to ear, and was talking to her, relaying what he was hearing to Angie. Angie, who, I suddenly noticed, had a mustard collar to her blue coat. Did that make her a hunt official? Like part of the secret police? My befuddled mind swam as she bestowed a dazzling smile on Sam, then, realizing the smile was inappropriate, adopted a grave expression as she listened to what he had to say, as indeed, I did too.

  They’d found the hound, stone dead in a copse, apparently. A nasty gash to his head. Kicked, by the looks of things. Someone had even had the gall to hide him with some bracken.

  Angie’s expression was no longer manufactured; there was genuine horror in her eyes as she gave a sharp intake of breath. Mary Granger, beside us, who was as tough as old rhino hide, put a hand over her mouth. Sam rode off, white-faced. And then it spread, in a rolling tide, around the field. The hound was called Peddler, it was Mark, the huntsman’s, favourite. He’d bred him and walked him as puppy. Yes, definitely kicked, and then hidden with a blanket of bracken – no, actually, a shallow grave had been dug, to secrete it. Never had I felt such fear. Never had my heart beat so loudly or had I felt so surrounded by a mob. The horses stood steaming, withers heaving, glad of the respite from galloping, and as they tossed their heads and their bits jangled, it seemed to me redolent of the jangle and click of the tricoteuse.

  In a matter of moments, anger had replaced shock around me. How could someone? One of the children perhaps, but no, they’d all been through the Pony Club, knew how to behave. And most children were escorted. And to dig a grave … No, no, unthinkable, it must have been an adult, they stormed. But what a craven one. Word spread to the back of the field and I saw Polly and Grant and crew stop their laughter as their jaws dropped in horror. In that moment I also saw Emma Harding’s hard little grey eyes come round to seek mine. I met them, but only briefly. I turned away, trembling. Then, as I slowly raised my head, it was to see her ride across to talk to the master. To Sam.