by James Anson
"Fine day," he remarked.
"Is it?" said Faulkner morosely. "Grab hold of that branch for me, will you?"
Robert did so. "Thorny little buggers, aren't they?" he remarked. "What are they?"
"Gooseberries," said Mr Faulkner. "Can tell you're from London. Find us quaint, do you?"
"Not especially," said Robert. "More like humourless and unwelcoming."
"I'd better put that right then," said Mr Faulkner. "Come on, it's after eleven and I'm fed up with this lot." He led the way indoors.
Robert glanced round with interest. As he had expected, everything was neat and tidy. He glanced at the well-filled bookcases while Faulkner was delving in the fridge and walked over and began to look through the books. He spotted a familiar cover. Yes, he had one, no, three of his books - and not from the public library either. He pulled one out, remembering that he couldn't stand the book jacket.
Must remember to tell Halliwell I'm not having that jerk do another cover, he thought.
Mr Faulkner came back into the room with two cans of beer. "You're not that R. March, are you?" he asked surprised.
"Thanks. Yes, I am. Why not?" asked Robert mildly.
"I thought you'd be much older. It said on the jacket you'd retired from the force. I heard you were a writer but thought you'd be knocking out articles for the New Statesman, that kind of thing - sort of left-wing loony."
"I had to pack it in early," said Robert. "And there's nothing wrong with the New Statesman. I expected you to have a brick-red face, a handlebar moustache, be ninety years old, with a limited intellect and surrounded with pictures of the regiment."
"One of us was wrong then," said Faulkner. "Regimental photos are over there, I look dreadful with a moustache, and was considered incredibly bright at school."
Robert wandered over and inspected the photographs, identifying his host in a very old-fashioned get-up of boots, breeches and Sam Browne.
"An Irish regiment?" he asked. "Thought you were something in the Middle East? Village rumour is that you're a sort of Beau Geste."
"How gratifying," said Faulkner. "Sadly, no, just boring peace-keeping in God-forsaken holes for the U.N. We have had a force there for some time. Would you like a meal? I always make enough to stick in the freezer."
"Yes, I'd like that," said Robert, his curiosity now fully aroused.
"I like your books," Faulkner remarked as they ate. "Better than a lot of the rubbish that comes out. Appreciate the amount of research you do - don't just rehash someone else's opinions all the time. Forgot the wine."
He went out and returned with a bottle. "I'm getting low. I'll have to find some more." He filled Robert's glass. "Working on anything now? I heard one of your books had been made into a film."
"Yes," said Robert. "I wouldn't bother to go and see it. Only the names will be the same - if that - by the time it's finished. If I ever get the bloody proofs finished I'll have another out next year. Hello, puss!" A large cat had entered the room.
"Meet Frobisher," said Mr Faulkner. "He's from the farm really, adopted me. He seems to like you."
Frobisher, purring like an engine, rubbed against Robert's leg.
"I like cats," said Robert. "Thinking of getting one. Plenty of space for it to roam out here. Not like London."
"Inquire at Highgreen Farm," said Faulkner. "They often have a litter there. Tell Jess I sent you - she'll pick you out a good un."
They finished off with cheese and crackers, brandy and coffee. Robert sat back.
"That was very good, thank you," he said.
"You're welcome. How do you really find the village?"
"Very pleasant. Rather slow, but I'll get used to that. I was fed up with the noise and rush in London. Enjoy being able to work here without interruption. I didn't believe there were still places like this: pubs with rafters you can bang your head on, village smithy with a spreading chestnut tree. Does he still shoe horses?"
"Shod mine last week," said Faulkner. "Which reminds me, I'm late taking him out. He hasn't been exercised today. I keep him stabled at the farm. Come on, I'll introduce you to Jess. You can see about a kitten now."
Robert nodded; he was curious about Highgreen Farm. If all the stories he had heard of what went on there were true it rivalled Peyton Place. Faulkner led the way into the farmyard; it looked normal enough - large and muddy, with the usual stack of pungent manure.
"We have the village hop in that barn there," said Faulkner, pointing. "You will hear the music from your house. Ah, there she is. Hey, Jessie!"
She turned, and Robert heard his inner voice saying, Coooor! Jessie Bleavins, he decided, would have probably stopped the traffic in Trafalgar Square even now by breathing deeply; in short, she was what some men would call 'a good armful'.
Mr Faulkner walked over to her. "This is Mr March, Jess. He has moved into East Lodge."
Mrs Bleavins beamed at Robert and gave him a quick appraisal. "We heard you'd moved in, Mr March. Getting nicely settled, are you?"
"Yes," said Robert. "Thought I'd like to keep a cat. Mr Faulkner said you might have a kitten to spare."
"Yes, we can fix you up. Mike, get that horse out: he's been kicking his box for hours!"
"I'll see to him now," said Faulkner. He walked over to her and whispered something in her ear. She gave him a quick thump.
"Behave yourself! This way, Mr March."
She led the way into what was obviously the farm shop. "Now, do you fancy any colour in particular?" she asked.
"No, not really," said Robert. "Not keen on ginger ..."
"Well, we have a nice little black and white tom here - you won't want the bother of kittens. Give over now, Lisa, he's got to go sometime and Mr March will give him a good home." She appeared to be parrying something under the counter, then reappeared, giving Robert a splendid view of her attributes. For a moment he didn't see the small black and white kitten she was holding.
"There you are, sir. He's been house-trained. Lisa is a good mother - she's had plenty of practice at it."
Robert examined the kitten critically. "Looks fine to me. I'll have him. Can I pick up some butter and eggs tomorrow?"
"Yes, I'll put some on one side for you. Oh, drat, Mike’s forgotten that old bridle and he'll be sure to need it. I'll take it down to him."
Robert watched her making her way into the stables. Interesting, he thought. I wonder if the horse will be the only one getting some exercise.
* * * * *
The kitten, Kasper, settled in happily and Robert went back to his endless proof-reading. He saw Mr Faulkner occasionally, at a distance, riding a large grey, otherwise his social contacts were limited to Mrs Bleavins at the farm shop and an occasional pint at the Brewers Arms when he felt like a walk into the village.
He wondered about Mr Bleavins - he never seemed to be around. On bringing the matter up at the pub, the only information Robert could glean was of the nudge-nudge variety, or 'now there's a tale', but he was not enlightened further except for the rumour that the beer had boiled over in the glasses on a night Jess was helping out in the bar. He discounted this - the beer was warm enough without outside assistance. The villagers were seemingly not disposed to gossip about their own to an outsider, but he heard enough to gather that his neighbour at West Lodge was considered 'a bit of a lad' and 'you only have to look at young Ashley to see what I mean - and a couple more too!' Robert had not yet met Ashley, whose name sounded like that of a house.
At last Robert finished the proof-reading but had the further annoyance of a visit to London. He did not trust his proofs to the Post Office; they had once lost an entire set on the shortest possible journey across London. He still wondered where they had gone.
Perhaps even now a tribe of Mongol herdsmen in Inner or Outer Mongolia were trying to disentangle his plot.
On reaching London Robert found that his publisher, with whom he had wanted a few words, was out, the parcel being accepted with suspicious alacrity by his secretary.
She kept reiterating that, "Mr Maxwell will not be back today, or tomorrow. I'm afraid he's at an important meeting."
Balked of someone to complain to, Robert took Marion out to lunch instead. They had met many years ago in Art School; he had gone on to the police force, she to an occasionally fraught existence as an illustrator and picture restorer. They had, at one point, discussed marriage, then regretfully decided it would spoil the easy relationship they enjoyed. He was telling her about the village over their lunch.
"Hunt a lot down there, do they?" Marion asked, as she demolished her Chicken Maryland.
"Mad on it," said Robert gloomily. "Not foxes - I gather one hasn't been seen in years; something called a drag. They're having one later this month. People keep asking me if I can ride. I told 'em the internal combustion engine had replaced the horse - don't think they've heard that yet. My neighbour drives the most clapped-out old wreck you've ever seen and has a grey turned out as though he's straight from the Royal Mews. They're a funny lot."
"Well, if you want to get in with the county set you'll have to ride," said Marion.
"One of my cousins hunts with the Beaufort - he says you wouldn't believe what goes on at and after Hunt Balls. Seems there's only one thing they like better than a good gallop across country, you know? He says the local papers are full of stories that Lady X, mother of six, has run off with Sir George Griptight Thygh, Master of Hounds, or to quote an article he wrote himself: 'Some of the most sensual romances in England flourish as the participants gallop stirrup to stirrup over the muddy fields.' Humphrey was asked to leave a Hunt Ball and threatened with a horsewhip after he wrote that. It's true too."
"My word," said Robert, "think I'll have to brush up on my canter. Can't see Mrs Bleavins, our local siren, galloping sidesaddle over the fences. Anyway, I'm pretty sure my neighbour has his boots under that particular bed - and plenty of others."
"Reminds me," said Marion. "That painting is of Michael Faulkner, Squire of Larton Manor and that's about all I can tell you. I haven't been able to turn up anything about the gentleman, except the painting is mid-Regency period. He wasn't an outstanding rake or we would have heard of him, I imagine. I hoped there might be something in it for you. Any ideas for your next book?"
"At the moment," said Robert, "I feel as though I never want to see another sheet of blank paper again! Thought I'd never finish those damned proofs. Let me know if you do turn anything up, would you? Pudding?"
"Um ... Bombe Surprise, I think, and good luck with the riding."
* * * * *
Robert arrived home with relief, surprised at how quickly he had come to accept his new home and the village. Kasper welcomed him with enthusiasm. After feeding him, Robert set off to the farm for his usual order. Mrs Bleavins was presiding over a set of monumental cheeses, with a barrel of apples flanking the counter. Robert purchased a wedge of cheese and looked at the apples.
"Early Worcesters, Mr March," she remarked. "Give over, Ashley, do!" she added, absently thumping a small boy who emerged from under the counter to fix Robert with a wide stare from bright blue eyes. There was a clatter of hooves in the yard.
"Piper!" yelled Ashley. Grabbing an apple, he hurried out.
"I'll have a pound of apples," said Robert. He glanced out of the open door; Ashley appeared to be bargaining for a ride, the apple being a bribe for Piper.
"I'll just take him for a gallop, Jess." Robert recognised Mr Faulkner's voice.
Jess turned her attention to Robert again. "Drag hunt's next week, Mr March. If you would like to come I'm sure Mike could find you a horse. Everyone will be going."
"I don't think ..." Robert began.
Faulkner entered, Ashley tucked firmly under one arm, giggling.
"He wanted to stay out," said Faulkner.
"Off you go, Ashley," said his mother. "Homework time." He went reluctantly. "I was asking Mr March here if he would like to go out with the hunt," she continued, as Faulkner took an apple from the barrel and began to crunch it.
"It's not like Rotten Row here, you know," he remarked. "No good coming out with us if you can't jump. Some of the biggest banks in England out there."
His tone indicated he considered Robert an effete townie whose riding was probably confined to the donkeys at Southend. Generations of horse-coping Marchs began to murmur in protest.
"Just you get me a good horse and we'll see if I'm up to it!" said Robert.
Mr Faulkner shrugged. "See what I can do. Jess will let you know if I find one. The Meet's on Friday next, outside the Brewers Arms, ten o'clock."
"See you there," said Robert. He was halfway home before sanity returned. He hadn't ridden since he was - what, fifteen at the most. What on earth had possessed him? No, he knew the answer to that; it was Faulkner looking down his nose at him.
And Ashley's the image of him. Probably still do the droit de seigneur bit around here. Too posh to marry the mother of his son. I know his sort - just because his family have lorded it here for generations. Well, that doesn't cut any ice with me, but for now I'd do well to consult the yellow pages for the nearest riding school and fix up some lessons.
Not too near, either. If Faulkner found out he would probably wet himself laughing.
Mrs Bleavins informed Robert a few days later that a suitable horse had been found for him.
"That's nice," he said hollowly.
The night before the Meet he realised something else; he would have to ring Faulkner.
There was a delay before the telephone was picked up. Mr Faulkner sounded tired.
"Mr Faulkner? Sorry to disturb you," said Robert insincerely, "but what about a saddle? And I haven't got a red coat." Perhaps, he thought, 11 p.m. is a bit late to ring.
Still, wake the sod up.
"You don't wear hunting pink for a drag," said a cool voice, "and as a non-Hunt member you wouldn't anyway. Sure you want to go?"
"Of course I bloody want to go," said Robert. "But what should I wear?"
There was a definite whispered suggestion in a female voice and then a hand went over the mouthpiece from the silence. After some scuffling Mr Faulkner spoke again:
"Oh, come as you are. I'll fix up the tack. Good night."
Robert was dubious about 'come as you are'. He surmised that Mr Faulkner had something else on his mind - or in his bed - which prevented him giving the query the proper consideration. He couldn't see himself riding in any degree of comfort in blue jeans, and his cords were too good to ruin on a horse. He consulted Mrs Bleavins, who informed him that Mrs Perkins' Tommy was a small lad, and he wasn't wearing his riding clothes now, having taken up with those awful motor bikes. She was sure she'd lend him what he needed.
After an interview with Mrs Perkins (butcher's shop) and the cost of three pounds, Robert had coat, breeches and boots; they fitted tolerably well, except for the boots which were on the small side. Still, I don't expect to do much walking, Robert thought.
He arrived at the Meet, a little late, to find the village green opposite the Brewers Arms awash with horses and riders. They all seemed in a very jocular mood, probably because the fact most of the riders were clutching large pints of ale; the village apparently did not go in for a genteel stirrup-cup. He saw Mrs Bleavins hurling Ashley up onto a pony the spitting image of the one in Thelwell's cartoons: its name appeared to be Bodger. She walked over to Robert and pressed a foaming tankard into his hand.
"As it's so warm we thought a nice glass of beer would be best," she said.
Oh yes, thought Robert, I can feel it swilling about me as I go over those banks. Why am I here?
In answer, Faulkner appeared, leading a chunky brown cob. It looked docile enough.
Robert viewed it with distrust. Mr Faulkner, hat on the back of his head and pint in his free hand, beamed at him expansively.
"Meet Victor," he said. "Goes like a lamb. Amy from the vicarage rides him, but she's laid up this season. Just see that he gets enough exercise. You haven't got a ha
t?"
"No," said Robert. "I don't wear a hat. Ever."
"Have to have a hat. Fred!" Faulkner bawled. "Lad here hasn't got a hat!"
Fred, whom Robert recognised as a local farmer with the habitually morose expression of his kind, ambled over. He looked at Robert.
"Mavis," he ordered, "go and borrow your brother's. It should fit him."
"Fred's the Master," said Faulkner. "Here we are, stick that on. You should get your hair cut: you'll never get a decent hat to fit with all that lot flopping about."
Robert resisted - with difficulty - the urge to push Faulkner's pint mug down his throat.
"Now, Ashley," Mrs Bleavins was saying, "be a good boy and do whatever Michael and Mr Stebbins tell you. You stay close to them, Mr March, and you'll be all right."
"You don't need to worry with Victor," said Mr Faulkner bracingly. "He's done this run dozens of times: a three-year-old could take him round. But don't get too close to Piper's heels - he won't like it."
"Pity Amy's missing the season with that fall," said Mrs Bleavins. "Still, they say when that leg's out of traction she'll be good as new."
"Still can't understand how they fell at that bank," said Faulkner. "Not like her at all, that. Just time for another pint before we're off."
Robert wished they would all just shut up and get on with it.
"The hounds!" yelled Ashley.
Robert looked at the mass of dogs which erupted onto the green; they struck him as a motley, undisciplined crowd and he was glad he'd left Kasper safely locked up. Everyone was hurriedly finishing their drinks while Mrs Bleavins and assorted helpers collected glasses. Riders began to mount their horses:
Robert looked at Victor sternly. "We haven't met before, Victor, but be warned: I know too much about horses!" He decided to swallow his pride and use the mounting-block; his leg, already complaining in the too tight boot, wasn't likely to stand for the normal method of mounting.