by James Anson
"Not in front of them," said Michael, shocked. "Very intelligent, are pigs."
"Well, they don't commit hari-kiri to end up on your plate," said Robert. "Can't understand you lot. You think nothing of galloping across five counties to kill a fox and you're soppy over pigs."
"Odd, isn't it?" said Michael, qualifying his statement with, "I've asked them to accept my resignation as team captain and place me on the retired list." He walked on.
Robert followed him slowly. "You want to talk about it, Mike?"
"Not at the moment," said Michael. "The Three Stags? Beer isn't so good but they don't have a slavering yorkie."
"Right," said Robert. Going to have to discuss this, he said to himself. However, his attention was firmly engaged in trying to shut out Mr Stebbins' monologue on his approaching bankruptcy, his sole topic of conversation (besides his wheat) for the past ten years, and keeping an eye on Sam while Michael played darts, Sam having an unfortunate habit of regarding any other dog who entered the inn after him as a dangerous interloper to be driven away; this applied to much larger dogs, too.
Next morning, however, everything seemed so much brighter, Robert thought as he looked out at the garden. He could hear Michael shovelling away in the stable, the birds were singing, all the cats were out sunning themselves ... He went back into the kitchen and started another round of toast. Michael came into the kitchen, a big fat grin on his face.
"Looks like being a fine day," said Robert. "And what are you Cheshire catting about?"
"Just happy memories," said Michael. "Wasn't a bad night either - and you're blushing," he added with delight.
"Shut your face!" said Robert. "Reminds me, forgot to thump you for leaving me with Fred. He's facing bankruptcy again."
"Is he?" said Michael. "That must be why he's bought a new Volvo. Terrible thing being that poverty-stricken."
"Has he now?" said Robert. "What's it like? Have some more toast. Have you washed your hands?"
Michael held them out and Robert inspected them dubiously.
"It's green," said Michael, after some thought. "You know I'm not interested in cars. Wish we could afford a horsebox."
"And," said Robert, "a car to pull it. I'm not having one fastened on the back of the Merc, and anything heavier than a cockle-stall on yours and it would fall apart."
Michael nodded at that and started on his toast. There was a contented silence, then the telephone rang.
"Oh, God, Mike. If it's London, my leg is acting up. I can't get off the sofa."
"You told Halliwell that last week," Michael reminded him as he picked up the telephone. "Parsons Farm. Morning, Jack. Little bugger. No, don't worry, we can manage. Be damn glad when I can ride again. Yeah, I know you bet you could. Right." He put the phone down. "Jack can't get over to exercise the horses today. Has to go over to Gretton to the police station - there's been another complaint about young Rodney and that damn sports car of his. Lad isn't fit to have a bicycle."
"So what else is new?" said Robert. "Tell you what, I can ride out today. Need the exercise and those two of Maud's are no trouble. Can you hang on till I've finished breakfast?"
"Have to," said Michael. "I'll saddle her up for you."
"Ta," said Robert. "Think you're beginning to appreciate me at last."
"I better had," said Michael. "There's a letter in the post from Mari this morning saying that they've done well in Paris and if you fancy acting as liaison on the trip to Canada the job's yours."
"That's nice," said Robert, "but no. My horse show days are over - unless it's with you. Really made your mind up, haven't you?"
"Yes," said Michael. "It's all right, you know. I'm happy."
"I know that," said Robert. "Could tell last night. Now who's blushing?"
"Too damned clever by half, that's what you are," said Michael. "Well, do I get a kiss before I struggle out to the stable with me groin?"
"Have a job going without it," said Robert. "Don't know why I put up with you. All right, come here then."
"You know," said Michael, licking his lips reflectively, "that's very good marmalade." He dodged hurriedly. "I'd better get the horses sorted out."
When Robert strolled into the yard, after the usual struggle with his boots, he found an exuberant bunch of horses waiting, Jos and Ashley trying to sort them out.
"Morning, Mr March," yelled Ashley cheerfully. "It's half-term so I'll be able to come over and help every day."
"Oh great," said Robert grimly.
Michael chuckled and led over Maud's Poppy. "Like a leg up, Rob?" he inquired.
"I'd prefer the mounting-block," said Robert. "It keeps its hands to itself, thank you."
That was said in an undertone.
"I'll take Bosun," said Ashley hopefully.
"You will not," said Michael. "He's much too fresh and pulls like a train. Jos will take him."
Ashley, outraged, looked at Robert for support. Robert shook his head at him firmly.
Ashley was directed to Fletcher, Mrs Blackett's other mount, a dun-coloured creature with as much vivacity as Flash. Ashley looked at him in disgust, then performed his Pony Express mount, as shown in the current cinema programme. Michael told him what he thought of that manoeuvre and ordered him to stop going 'clk clk' to his mount.
"You're not driving a milkfloat, boy."
Ashley, unsquashed, giggled but desisted.
"Think that's it," said Michael. "Jos, take 'em off along the heath, the roads are getting crowded about this time."
He went and opened the yard gate and they moved out onto the verge, Jos having problems with Bosun, who was convinced a monster was lurking just outside.
Robert looked about, then started up the road towards the church and the lane leading to the open heathland. All he remembered for certain afterwards was the roar of a car engine, something hurtling round the blind corner, Poppy dancing sideways and a scream of brakes. He was lying down somewhere - not a bed, it felt too hard. Where was he?
People bending over him, shouting, a coat or something being wrapped around him.
People running, everything fading, then another sound and he was being lifted: not as hard now. He caught a glimpse of Ashley, pale and tear-stained, then he was moving.
Someone was holding his hand very tightly. Robert managed to focus his eyes slowly. It was Michael, and he looked dreadful.
Why is he looking like that? thought Robert.
"You all right, love?" he asked anxiously, oblivious of the ambulance man tucking a blanket more warmly around him.
"I'm fine," said Michael; he sounded choked.
Robert wondered about that, then tried to move. "Oh God ..." he sobbed with pain, clutching Michael's hand.
"Try and keep still, sir," said an unknown voice. "You have had a bad fall."
So that was it. It seemed very far away. The only real thing was Michael holding onto his hand - and in public, too. Not like him at all, that. And what was hurting so much? Not that damned leg again! They seemed to have arrived; he was being carried down a long corridor. They wanted him to sign a form. Berks, how could he? Tell 'em, Mike will do it. Good, they went away and Mike was back.
X-ray, he was saying. Sounds funny - must concentrate on what he's saying, thought Robert.
"Robert, you've been hurt. Need to patch you up. They are taking you to the theatre shortly. I'll be here when you come out. Understand me?"
Robert tried to nod. Michael seemed to understand because he touched his cheek. If Michael said it had to be done, that was it. Wonder why he looks so awful? Someone was bending over him, there was a prick and everything faded again. Then he was struggling up through layers of cotton wool. Smelt horrible, too, and he was suddenly in a white, horribly bright room that was very noisy.
A nurse bent over him, asking how he felt. He tried to tell her he felt lousy but his voice came out all creaky. Then a man in a white coat began poking him and saying that was fine. It wasn't fine at all! And where was Mike?
> He was back in another damned hospital, he'd worked that out. Leg didn't feel too good, and he seemed to be fastened all down one side. A nurse came back.
"We are going to make you comfortable now," she said brightly.
Heard that one before, thought Robert. Any minute now she'll be swabbing me down with a cold, wet flannel. Anyway, I feel more like a sleep ...
Chapter Ten
Jack Bourton gave up reading the notices on the wall and looked worriedly at Michael, slumped in the waiting-room. He looks like a whipped hound, he thought, clearing his throat.
"Came as soon as I could," he said. "Wanted me at the police station again. Was I going to ask for bail for Rodney? Hell, no, I said, You keep the little bastard. Spell in a cell will do him the world of good. I'll kill the lad if you let him out. I'm going to send him out to my brother in New South Wales. He has a sheep station out there. God-forsaken hole it is, too. Might do Rodney some good, though I doubt it. What did the doctor say? Mike?"
Michael stirred. "Just what I told you on the phone, multiple fractures. They say he's as well as could be expected, which doesn't mean a damn thing. Robert acts like a ball of fire but he's not strong. Has a lot of pain and trouble with that leg. He was saying he's felt so much better since he came to live out here, and now this. I don't know what I'll do if - "
"Now look here," said Jack. "He's going to be all right. They're very good here, you know that. Just you wait, he'll be nagging away at you again in no time. Mike, come home with me. Don't want you staying on your own, and you're nearer the hospital from my place. Jos and I have moved the horses - split them between the farm and my place. You can't be worried about them now, too. Jess will take the animals. Message for you from Agnes. Do come, she says. Nothing will be said. She likes Rob, you know. Very decent little fella, she says. Meets him when he comes over to see my mother to discuss that historical thing they both have on the brain."
Michael nodded. "Thank you, I will. Need to be nearer to Robert. I'd better go home first and collect Amos. He doesn't like going to the farm with the others. And Robert wouldn't want him upset. I'll have him with me."
"Very snooty little beast, isn't he?" said Jack. "Right, when you're ready I'll drive you up there."
Agnes, Countess of Bourton, spoke into the telephone in her usual measured tones.
"No, Charles, I see no reason for you to be so concerned. Yes, I agree, Michael is an embarrassment: he has been one for years. But he has been less of one since he met Mr March. Charles, if you have been promoted this far in spite of Michael being your brother, I fail to see how he can now jeopardise your career - unless the army has come to its senses about you, of course. No, Charles, I see no need to explain that remark. I see. Really? Winifred said that, did she? How like her. Frankly I cannot understand why you permitted your only daughter to get engaged to one of that family. You know our dear Papa's opinion of Lord Carghill. Goodbye, then."
"Charles seems to be getting more paranoid every day," she remarked. "All I can say, Jack, is that I'm glad my dear parents did not live to see this day."
"Your mother would have enjoyed it," said Jack. "Liked nothing better than a good bout of domestic drama. Tiring woman. What's up with the Colonel now, then?"
"The usual," said Agnes. "Winifred saw Mr March's accident reported in the press and she is afraid it will all come out, with a detrimental effect on Charles's career, of course."
"Fella's not a damned pop star," said Jack. "No-one cares who writers live with. Never see anything about that fella, what's his name? Wallace! Do you?"
Agnes struggled with that a moment. "Edgar?" she queried. "Not since he died, anyway."
"There are you then," said Jack. "Only place Mike gets mentioned is in Horse and Hound and The Field - apart from that rubbish about him and the Chaffinch woman. Damned stupid piece! Told you about her cramming that mare last month and nearly bringing down Jessup's gal, didn't I?"
"You did. Twice," said Agnes. "Now, I'll put Michael in the room facing the stables. He should feel right at home there. Do try and keep him off the brandy. Your Uncle Percy said he'd visit next month, by the way."
"Bugger," said Jack. "He's taking it hard, you know. Very attached to Rob. Never thought Mike would settle down."
"More than time he did," snapped Agnes, departing to sort out her domestic situation.
* * * * *
Robert progressed from being as well as could be expected, whatever that may have meant, to spending a restless or peaceful night. His sudden detour into giving cause for concern had Michael at the hospital for one terrible night, then, slowly, he began to mend in earnest.
Robert, of course, would have disagreed with all those statements, especially the ones which said he had spent a peaceful night.
"Bloody impossible, Mike. They are banging bedpans like tambourines in the sluices at 4 a.m. Have to be dead to sleep through that. I'm sick of this place. Food's awful. You look rotten, what have you been doing with yourself?"
"Living at Jack's," said Michael. "You should try Mrs Kedge's cooking. You wouldn't believe what the woman can do to food. Surprised Jack hasn't got an ulcer. Only person who eats well is Amos. She cooks him tripe in milk. We all stand round, hoping for a bit from his dish."
"I hope you're making that up," said Robert. "Oh, hell. Time to go."
On his next round, Robert put it to his doctor with some vigour that he really needed to be discharged, and the sooner the better, as the food was killing him, he had work to do and his family needed him. He didn't point out his family was Michael, of course.
"Now then, Mr March," said his doctor. "You are going to have to be patient. You are in no condition to be discharged yet. You have four fractured ribs, a broken arm, a displaced shoulder and we had to pin your hip. If you hadn't been wearing protective headgear no doubt that would have needed repair, too. But while you are in here, that knee really does need attention. Have you ever considered a plastic knee joint?"
"I have not," said Robert. "I'm not a bleeding Barbie Doll. Leave the poor bugger alone, it's been mucked about with enough."
"I think you should consider it," said the doctor, moving away.
Michael turned out to be on the doctor's side when apprised of the situation. "Now look, Rob," he began and was treated to a moody scowl.
"And you needn't start," said Robert. "I'm sick of this place. I think that fella in the next bed's got designs on my body while I'm lying here helpless."
"Rubbish," said Michael heartily, after a quick look at the eminently respectable-looking senior citizen reading a copy of The Greenhouse in the next bed. "What's he in for anyway?"
"New hip," said Robert gloomily. "Swanks about it all the time, when he's not going on about his grotty allotment. Surprised he didn't arrange to bring it in here with him."
"Can tell you're getting better," said Michael happily. "Proper little ray of sunshine you must be for everyone."
Robert told him what he thought of him for ten minutes, then looked Michael over critically. "I need to keep an eye on you," he remarked. "Don't look after yourself. Shouldn't you be in Dublin by now?"
"Still on sick-leave," said Michael. "My doctor told 'em I'm in agony. Just hope they never see me out galloping in the mornings. Lads send their best to you and a crate of Irish has been delivered for you - came via the Embassy."
"No doubt you'll help me drink it," said Robert. "Send them my thanks, will you? I'll write 'em as soon as I can get this arm working again. It's still stiff. Are you really packing in the army, Mike?"
"Yes," said Michael. "I'll go over at the end of the month, get the papers signed. Then they can hand me my bowler hat and minuscule pension. Think you can stand having me round all the time? Can always get an allotment and live in my shed like him if you can't." He looked at Robert with tragic blue eyes.
"Fool," said Robert. "Con a saint, you would. Look, Mike, you haven't packed it in because of me, have you? I know what that damned place and those horses mean
to you. Don't want you regretting it later."
"No," said Michael. "I did it for me. Couldn't stand being torn between the two countries any longer, and Ireland isn't home without you there with me. It's time to finish there now. Should have done it before. I'll be glad to be home at last - for good."
Robert smiled at him. "Feel the same about it myself. Just wish this damned ward wasn't so public." He stirred and gasped.
"Rob?" Michael looked at him anxiously.
"'S all right. Just my knee being a bitch. Might consider that plastic job after all."
"Thank God for that!" said Michael. He grinned. "Fancy a cuddle, did you?"
"Yeah," said Robert. "Just have to wait. All right, stop looking like a wounded spaniel and tell me any interesting news."
* * * * *
One month later Robert looked down critically at his 'new' knee. "It's not doing badly at all," he said fairly. "What do you think of it, Mike? Seems funny getting spare parts at my age."
Michael looked at the knee and gulped. "Looks all right to me," he said with an effort.
Robert grinned at him. "You're a real softie where I'm concerned, Mike. And you a big strapping soldier."
There was a knock on the door of the private room.
"Come in," said Robert in a bored voice. "Probably someone wanting to stick a needle in me," he remarked.
A rather pretty young lady entered, carrying a large bunch of flowers, a cake tin and a covered plate.
"Mr March?" she inquired hesitantly. "I'm Lily, Mr Simpson's grand-daughter. We all want to thank you for being so kind to grandfather while he was in here having his hip done. You really cheered him up, he said. So I've brought some flowers - they are from his allotment - and some of mother's peach pie, with cream, and a fruit cake. He said you hated the food. He did too."
Michael got up and gave her a dazzling smile. She immediately gazed at him, mesmerized, Robert, for the moment, banished from her thoughts.
"That's very kind of you," said Michael. "Robert will really enjoy that pie. The food here really is lousy. And the flowers will cheer him up. How is Mr Simpson?"