by Ellis Major
‘Pigs and chicken,’ she told me. ‘The pigs are far less profitable than a few years ago because of the blasted welfare rules. We can’t pack ‘em in like we used to but at least they haven’t gone too soft over the chickens yet.’
“I tried to be sympathetic ‘I expect they will given time,’ I told her and off she went. I’d pressed the wrong button, I really had! Wrong button for me that is.
‘Yes, bloody idiots. Interfere in things they know nothing about. They’re just bally animals and birds. No one else does welfare like we do in the UK. All over Europe they sit and laugh at us and undercut us and steal our markets. If you’re large enough you can survive and scrape a living but even then they throw obstacles in your way. Every time we want to add another chicken shed for another few thousand birds, the Planning people act up or some pillock starts a petition! These bally people! They moan about a bit of noise and smell! Where do they think their food comes from? If they’re worried about smells then what are they doing living in the country!’ Unbelievable, Lance, really.”
“The guys I knew didn’t moan like that. Perhaps farming in Surrey is more difficult, what with all the rich people wanting it to be a garden, or a big, rustic theme park.”
“She’d barely got started. I mentioned hunting and off she went again. ‘Nothing better,’ she shouts – she has this big hearty voice by the way, like Maggie Thatcher on steroids. ‘Nice crisp mornin’, out in the fresh air – you simply can’t beat it. And look at that. These idiotic do-gooders. ‘Foxes are so cute, you mustn’t hunt ‘em. They’re wild animals; they hunt when they’re not turning over dustbins in town. Why can’t we hunt them?’ On and on she went, footpaths, bureaucracy, litter, incredible.”
“I think you were unlucky, Charlie. Or perhaps the women are worse than the men.”
Charlie shrugged. “I’ll try not to be biased against farmers as a breed then. You know what she said when she saw this monster of thing she was going to ride: ‘Isn’t he a lovely boy’. I thought she was talking about the stable lad. Mind you, I’ve never understood horses.”
“So what did you do with her? It sounds as if she spent the whole time moaning at you. Perhaps she thought she’d found a soul-mate. Or did you tell her you were a hunt saboteur in your spare time?”
Charlie paused and held up a cautionary finger. “I think if I’d said that my neck would have been snapped like a twig by those thighs. Boobs on one, thighs on another! Daisy was obviously doing her best on the physical as well as the mental front, bless her soft Surrey curls.”
He smiled affectionately before continuing. “I don’t like horses, Lance, but Daisy knew that. She had some placid, half-dead nag lined up. My plan was to ride like a sack of potatoes and make this Jane woman despise me. That wasn’t hard and she kept pointing out how terrible a ‘seat’ I had. I did not plan to fall off, or rather be thrown off. Something disturbed the bloody animal, it reared up, and off I went.”
“Were you alright?”
“Yes, it was near a hedge and that broke my fall. I thought she was going to wet herself. Guess what she said to me when we got back to the stables.”
“What; something not massively polite I’d be guessing?”
“No, although she was good-natured enough for all her whinging and I’d been written off completely by then. I was beneath real rudeness, somewhere around the level of a dopey dog I should think. She stands there, legs apart and cracks one of those shiny boots with a riding crop. I thought for a minute someone had shot at me. ‘Do you know,’ she says. ‘I ain’t laughed so much since we last played baseball with the chickens and Pa got one in the eye when a head came off.’ Bonkers!”
Lance smiled enough to show his teeth. “Black,” he said. “I do like it black, Charlie.”
Charlie was delighted to have cheered up Lance sufficiently for him to actually prove he had teeth. “I don’t know if she was joking,” he said. “But I don’t think so. She seemed a straightforward type to me.”
“Beware the rural senses of humour Charlie. Two down, one to go, then.”
“Yes, Lance, and that’s where I had my brainwave. Again, it may seem obvious in retrospect and I expect you military types are used to coming up with bright ideas in a flash.”
Lance’s lips curled at the edges. “We’re expected to think on our feet, yeah. That or get killed. Keeps you focussed.”
“Well, I thought, Pam seems to be a nice friendly girl. Why not see if I can get her to pretend.”
“Pretend to go out with you. Wouldn’t it have been better to actually go out if you liked her? But she lived in Surrey; bit of a pain wasn’t it, either way?”
Charlie grinned. “I didn’t think I’d have got far if I’d tried to be serious. My misfortunes hadn’t gone unnoticed. She didn’t live in Surrey, by the way. She lived in Balham, south of the river.” Charlie said this rather as the genteel chair of a Victorian missionary society would have described darkest equatorial Africa, a benighted hopeless place full of lost souls.
Lance’s nose twitched. “Surrey is south of the river,” he pointed out.
“Oh you know what I mean,” Charlie told him. “That endless hinterland of nothingness before the nice green bits start.”
“I’m sure that sort of description made her your friend for life. Charlie’s guide to chat up, chapter one – needlessly insult the woman on a first date.”
“She thought I was joking. She didn’t realise I wasn’t until we got to know each other better.”
“Lucky for you.”
Charlie snorted. “She wasn’t worried. She’s great fun, Pam. She gives as good as she gets.”
“So what did you say to her?”
“I explained about my cousin and asked if she’d act up a bit, and I bribed her.”
“What, offered her money to be your friend? That’s really sad.”
“No, no! Besides, people do that in clubs all the time when they pay for a private room in ... well, never mind. I asked if she liked a nice meal – not a difficult question when you could tell she didn’t worry too much about her weight. And she loves the theatre. Now these PhD students never have any money so I offered her regular nights out, decent restaurant, best seats and then she could stay in her own room here afterwards, but no hanky panky, scout’s honour and all that. She could go home in the daylight when it would be slightly safer and cabs might go further than Waterloo without a Police escort.”
“She bit.”
Charlie laughed. “She did, but her reaction was funny. You know what she said. ‘You can be rather persuasive, Charlie, when you put your mind to it. I’d have to explain to my parents, of course. They’d be horribly disappointed if they thought…’ She got that far, broke off and went a bit red. Then she went on. ‘Charlie, I’m sorry, that just slipped out. I mean you have admitted yourself that you aren’t the most academically minded person.’ Didn’t worry me a bit because I knew it was a yes. You see the problem I have, though, with a nice, bright girl taking me seriously.”
“If you’ve been acting like a tosser around them then it doesn’t exactly help does it? But it did the trick this time?”
“Yes, Daisy was all smiles. Pam made some comment about how strange it was that we should hit it off so suddenly, how unfathomable were the ways of fate. If I hadn’t been making up the numbers, we’d never have met, wasn’t it lucky Daisy had called me instead of someone else. I thought she was overdoing it but she kept her face straight and Daisy lapped it up.”
“You and Pam really did get on, though?”
“Yes, really. We were good friends.” Charlie’s smile faded. “Even if I was probably a bit of a poodle. It’s a shame she couldn’t do this research of hers closer to home. I hear from her, of course, but it’s not the same as being with someone. I know you’d like her, Lance, and she’d probably be much better for you than me. She’d do a mass of research and know what to say and when. What can I do but listen and make sympathetic noises?”
Lance grunt
ed. “I don’t think that’s hurting Charlie. I don’t think you’re doing a lot of damage to my head.”
“Lance,” suggested Charlie suddenly. “Why don’t you stay here as long as you want? Really. I mean indefinitely? I was thinking as I was telling you that story. What would I be doing right now?” He checked the time. “I’d be asleep, probably, or wondering what to do if I was awake. It’s good to have some company, have a laugh. You never know, you might remember how to do that one day.”
Lance gave this suggestion careful consideration. It had its appeal, undoubtedly. He found he really rather liked Charlie. The guy was an amazing pianist, very well-meaning and did help to stop Lance brooding. “What about rent, bills?” he said.
“I don’t want any rent.” Charlie smiled. “You have some money do you?”
“Of course, I saved a good chunk of my pay. I can get by for a while. I could sign on but I don’t feel right about doing that.”
“The only extra cost because you’re staying is food,” Charlie told him. “And drink, of course. We can split the food bills and buy our own booze. How about that?”
Magda, dusting in the corridor, smiled. Her reputation as a non-alcoholic was safe. She doubted if the staff in the local ‘purveyor’ would sniff at Lance or mutter under their breath.
“Sounds more than fair to me, Charlie,” Lance replied. “I’d say that’s generous to a fault. You could let rooms here for a fortune.”
“Why would I want to do that? Who knows what sort of weirdo would turn up?”
Lance snorted. “Right. Charlie.” He paused. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a good bloke, or am I the first?”
Charlie was surprised. “Not really, not when they’re sober anyway. There’s no reason they should though. Why would they? It’s not something you really talk about is it? Perhaps you are the first. Anyway, you helped me out once. It was a long time ago, I know, but what difference does that make?”
Lance stared straight at Charlie for several seconds, several very focussed and unsettling seconds.
“Never mind all that bollocks,” he said. “Doesn’t mean you had to do anything for me. I didn’t even recognise you. I say it again, Charlie, you’re a Good Samaritan.”
“That could partly be from what you did.” Charlie stared at the table. “Who knows?”
Lance snorted abruptly. “Don’t make more of it than it was. That little sicko Klarte would have got caught sooner or later. You know what happened to him do you?”
Charlie shook his head. “No idea. Do you then?”
Lance nodded. “He joined up too. He was out there, never at the same time as me.”
“Did he get killed or wounded?” Charlie had a vision of a legless Klarte – he wouldn’t have wished horrendous wounds on anyone, but Klarte would have been his first choice if someone had to suffer them.
“No, the little turd never grew up. Never saw any action but he killed a prisoner.”
“Jesus,” Charlie muttered.
“Yeah, Court Martial, got banged up for a few years. Nothing like he deserved.”
Charlie shivered. Lance couldn’t help but notice.
“Yeah,” he said. “That sort of thing! Stupid fucker does the rest of us a load of favours. Killing the locals – not the best way to win a lot of hearts and minds, Charlie.”
Charlie nodded. “I can see that, although I do think a couple more encounters with Mrs Fotherington wouldn’t do any harm. She has no heart but you could play tricks with her mind.”
Lance half smiled. “Happy to do my bit, Charlie.”
Chapter 3 – Mortality I (Year 1 – June)
As far as Charlie was concerned, it was a red letter day. Lance had been staying for around a fortnight. He’d just managed to squeeze four nights out of a bottle, and his exhausted appearance had begun to fade. Even better, Charlie’s Bentley was being delivered, repairs completed.
Charlie had ventured back onto the social scene a few times but had pleaded weakness after his feigned illness, arriving home no later than one thirty. He was of the view that it would be inhospitable to leave Lance at a loose end the following morning as well as all the previous evening. Lance and Charlie’s circle were not yet ready for each other, so there was no question of Lance being taken along. Charlie’s instincts told him the mix would be no better than oil and water.
There was a plus side to all this restraint. Through the combination of more civilised hours, and two brief encounters with Lance, even Mrs Fotherington’s acidity levels had been diluted – or at least their open verbal manifestation.
All in all, then, Charlie was a cheerful soul as he flicked through the paper. Lance was sipping a coffee and Magda hadn’t even arrived!
“Lance,” Charlie exclaimed. “Had you seen this? Lord Suffrage has popped his clogs.”
“Never having heard of the bloke, I can’t say I was looking out for it. Mate of yours was he? OD on heroin or drown in champagne?”
“No! And not exactly a friend, although I knew him. He was nearly a hundred, Lance; not bad?”
“Great news, Charlie, although he still ended up dead. Pissed off at missing the century I reckon.”
“Yes, I can imagine his last words – bugger it, out for ninety eight! Still, as you say, he’s past caring now.”
Charlie put down the paper and stared unseeingly out of the window. He was lost in reminiscence. “Brownflag House, that was the place. I’ve not been there for a bit, but it feels like the end of an era, a chapter in my life finished.”
“That’s the way it goes, Charlie. Mind you, one door closes and another door opens.”
“Yes, I suppose. He was John Warburton’s great uncle three times removed or something. I used to go there a lot when I was a kid. We had some fun up in that attic of theirs. What with John having hay fever we often had to stay indoors as his parents were great believers in homeopathy. I don’t know how they did it but the staff kept that attic spotless. I suppose they were all devoted to His Lordship though.”
“Old retainers, so that’s half the battle,” Lance muttered. “Some people can still inspire, even so. My CO was one. You want to do your best for them because you know they’re doing their best for you - fighting the wankers in the MOD.”
“Like picking up mercury with a fork.”
Lance sighed. “That’s about the size of it. Useless overpaid tossers!”
Charlie suddenly smiled. It was time for a distraction. “It was a bit unfortunate, Lance, my last visit.”
“Oh yeah? This another one of your ‘incidents’ is it?”
“It was; short but memorable.”
Lance leant back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Well come on then, spit it out.”
Charlie definitely enjoyed telling a story. He’d never much realised it before. If you’re in a noisy crowd where most present bray louder than you for attention then that’s hardly surprising. With Lance, Charlie had found a ready audience and a man who seemed to find the darker side of his tales oddly funny. Furthermore, Lance didn’t seem too fussed about whether Charlie was telling the truth or embroidering it outrageously. Charlie guessed that Lance welcomed any distraction to keep his thoughts away from the ‘dark side’. Charlie had privately christened his friend’s whole military career with this soubriquet and found it stuck – in his own mind at least.
Here was another chance to amuse, and if accuracy happened to be a casualty, well, sod it!
Charlie sighed, mournfully. “Things happen Lance; I mean accidents. You can hardly blame an unfortunate chain of events on the person who had that one initial misfortune, can you? Lady Suffrage did do exactly that, though, to yours truly. Most unfair.”
Lance raised his dark eyebrows. “Lady Suffrage,” he grunted. “Sounds like something out of the Edwardian era.”
“Bit of a tartar, the woman. She survives him, of course.” Charlie laughed. “Or perhaps I should say that he did not survive her.”
Lance smiled. “Not
bad Charlie. It sounds as if I must have heard that somewhere before. Oscar Wilde was it?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Even if it’s not an original thought, it fits. She was rather an offensive woman. Let me set the scene. I was playing tennis. I’m not too bad but not every smash goes where intended. Look at Wimbledon - it happens to the best of players. My shot was wayward, I accept, but how was I to know that the under footman, Marshall, should be approaching with a laden tray? After that it was a sad series of unfortunate coincidences. It was pure chance that the ball would hit the centre of the tray. But Lance, get this, what sort of idiot comes near a tennis court with priceless eighteenth century glassware, passed down through eight generations - intact.”
Lance’s smile had widened. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!”
“And the ricochet, Lance! Blame me for the original shot and all your glassware being smashed if you really must. But the ricochet? Absolutely no way could that be laid at my door. Sadly, it hit Lady Manningtree on the side of the head and knocked her glass eye out! Was it me to blame when her eye rolled into the rough and was then seized by Isabel Hardy’s ill trained mutt of a retriever?”
Lance snorted. “I can see your point Charlie. Bummer that it wasn’t a Chihuahua.”
“Yes, it would have got tired quicker even if it had been bothered to move off its mistress’s lap in the first place. We had a bit of fun, chasing the damn dog all over the garden, up until Colonel Hargreaves made his unfortunate error.”