by Lex Lander
‘What’s that about back-scratching?’ a member of the group on Hordern’s right butted in: ruddy complexion, bald head cooked pink by too much sun. Most of the introductions had passed me by, but him I recalled as a former Major of Artillery.
‘I was telling our friend here about tomorrow’s do.’
The bald head bobbed knowingly.
‘Ah. Coming, old boy?’ This to me.
‘Well, the Brigadier has suggested it.’ I smiled at Hordern. ‘May I bring, er … a companion?’
Hordern frowned. ‘Companion?’
‘Somebody you know.’ Apologizing, I broke into Clair’s tête-a-tête with two of the wives. ‘The Brigadier has invited me on a boar hunt tomorrow. Could you bear to come?’
In twisting round towards me, Clair’s gaze locked with mine and an ageless message leapt across the divide. It was gone as quickly as it came, like a light flicked on and off, but it required no decoding, nor words to complement it.
‘I’d love to,’ she said.
Hordern could sign-read as well as I. His frown deepened.
‘Like that, is it?’ he muttered. ‘Only to be expected, I suppose. Young man like yourself.’
‘Sorry, Brigadier,’ I said softly, for his ears only. ‘Fortunes of love and war.’
And I really did feel sorry for the old boy, though not sorry enough to sound the retreat and leave the field clear to him. Consequently, when we went boar hunting the next day, Clair and I went as a couple – a threesome actually, since no way was Lizzy letting us (and here I quote verbatim) ‘hog all the fun’.
Six
The track we rode into the forest was rock-hard and bore the faint imprints of the earlier passage of hooves. It clung to the bank of a brown and turgid river for a distance of several miles, before bearing away in an abrupt curve to plunge deeper into the forest. The trees were suddenly taller and more numerous, pressing in, almost intimidating.
It was late morning and the mist that came with the dawn had hung around. It clung to the trees in festoons, like lichen. It was a warm humid mist and it created a cathedral hush in which our voices and the clop of the horses’ hooves was muffled. Our guide, who had introduced himself as Moulay, led on his big bay, we guests strung out behind, paired like a column of cavalry. Clair rode alongside the Brigadier and directly behind Moulay, while Lizzy and I were next in line. Clair sat well in the saddle: ramrod-backed, head erect, taut denimed bottom in an easy rise-and-fall. A more than competent horsewoman, and Lizzy at least her peer, handling her horse with a natural panache that I, on my skittish mare, could not even emulate.
‘She’s been riding regularly since she was four,’ Clair had confided to me, with that special fondness that shaded every mention of her daughter. ‘I’ve lost count of all the trophies and rosettes she’s collected since then.’
Another eight riders came after Lizzy and me. A couple of women, six men, including a certain Mynheer Henrik – better known as Rik – de Bruin, publisher and movie producer, who was turning up in all sorts of unlikely places. A festering abscess in need of lancing. Not a serious rival, just a serious nuisance.
We had travelled from the hotel by coach as a group, the old soldiers, their spouses, the Powers and me. Plus a handful of other privileged souls of uncertain nationality and status. The trip took an hour, our destination proving to be an isolated hacienda-like residence by the River Hachef, on the very edge of the forest where the hunt was to take place. We were met, not by the anonymous Minister, but by Moulay, immaculate in grey jodhpurs and riding boots, and a khaki drill shirt complete with cartridge pockets, all filled. Deadly business lay ahead.
The mist swirled about us as we descended from the coach.
‘It comes from the sea,’ Moulay explained. ‘It will clear presently.’
The Gunner Major patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, old boy, it’s just like home.’
Our coach party was not alone in enjoying the Minister’s hospitality; a number of private cars were lined up in chevron along the drive, and a score or more Europeans in hunting togs milled about the lawn. No Arabs were present apart from Moulay and some household retainers.
After refreshments in the form of mint tea and mineral water, it was off to the “Gun Room”, an annex to the main building and a treasure house of weaponry. The inventory included a rack of crossbows – sinister black contraptions, combining the stopping power of a gun with the stealth of a blowpipe.
With the exception of a blonde middle-aged German, all the women opted out from actually carrying arms. Clair professed to be averse to the wanton taking of life.
‘I’m only here because of you’, she said with a touch of shyness. I acknowledged the compliment. Lizzy, though an animal lover, would have given it a go just for the thrill of it, but her lack of experience with guns ruled her out.
‘And you, monsieur?’ Moulay breathed down my neck as I picked up an over-and-under Ruger 12-gauge shotgun from a bench table. ‘What is your choice to be?’
‘These are all shotguns,’ I observed, holding the Ruger to my shoulder. ‘Don’t you also use rifle for boar?’
‘It is not allowed in Morocco,’ Moulay replied, his sallow face expressionless. ‘If you are accustomed to hunting with a rifle, may I suggest the Supervix Sanglier cartridge. For accuracy the Brenneke round is without equal. You will find a full selection of ammunition by the door.’ He nodded gravely and moved on.
I thumbed the top lever of the Ruger to break open the breech. This particular gun has some sophisticated design features, including an inertia-locked trigger fire mechanism, which can be set to discharge either barrel first. Holding it, still broken, in the crook of my arm, I sorted out some of Moulay’s Supervix Sanglier cartridges, recognizable by the drawing of a boar on the white plastic casing. I stuffed five in each of the flap-pockets of my drill shirt.
As we congregated in the garden Moulay addressed us in English.
‘For those who have never hunted wild boar, I must warn you that he is a most dangerous and tenacious creature, especially when cornered. He may look like nothing more than a hairy pig, but he is a killer. Do not under …’ he struggled with the translation, ‘… under-estimate him, I beg you.’ His gaze roved over the assemblage. ‘The other matter concerns your weapons: I am assuming those of you who are taking guns are familiar with their operation, and I will not insult you by talking about the rules of safety. It is usual on a hunt to carry weapons unloaded, we all know this. However, as I have told you, the boar is a savage animal, therefore guns should be kept loaded in the interests of self-protection. Because of this, it is imperative that the safety buttons are always in place. Are there any questions, please?’
No questions. The next step was to separate those who wished to hunt on foot from those who preferred horseback, and the party thus divided into two unequal halves, the riders being in the minority. All the older women opted to remain at the house. A picnic on the river bank had been laid on for them, to be followed by a visit to the nearby mosque of Aakba Amra. Women in general were not encouraged to join the actual hunt, Hordern told me in an aside.
‘The old concubine mentality is difficult to shift, what?’ His tone implied approval not censure.
At a signal from Moulay horses were led out from the stables. As a very occasional horseman I was allocated a young chestnut mare, frisky but good natured. Clair, who rode weekly, was given a stallion; Lizzy, a good-looking bay mare that she stamped her authority on at once. The mounted party was initially eleven strong, excluding our guide, of which four were women. That is, until a Rolls-Royce Wraith showed up, white coachwork stained ochre from the dust. It braked late and ostentatiously in the last few yards before the house, turning every head.
Moulay welcomed the driver with respectful pleasure.
‘I’m beginning to get that haunted feeling,’ Clair muttered as we sat astride our grazing horses, waiting for the off.
Watching Rik de Bruin in green hunting kit, hurr
y off to the Gun Room with the fawning Moulay, I began to get feelings of my own that were nothing to do with spooks.
‘What is it about Lizzy and me that attracts the wrong kind of man?’ Clair mused, breaking into my sour machinations.
‘You make it sound like a regular occurrence. Don’t judge all males by his behaviour.’
She chuckled ruefully and gave me what I interpreted as a fond look.
‘You’re excepted. It’s just that this business with de Bruin is a replay of a brush we had with an oil sheikh while we were in Dubai. Did I tell you we stopped off there for a week on the way here?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, we did, and quite by accident we met this Arab prince from Abu Dhabi. He wanted me to sell Lizzy to him.’
‘Obviously a man who appreciated the finer things of life,’ I joked, then immediately killed my grin when I saw she was not amused. I reached for her hand. ‘Sorry, Clair. That was in bad taste.’
‘It was pretty unsettling at the time, I don’t mind telling you. He made quite a pest of himself.’
‘I can imagine. Do you forgive me?’
Mollified, she squeezed my hand.
‘It’s behind us now. I just don’t need history to repeat itself with our Dutch friend.’
‘At least here you’re not on your own. Not anymore.’
We moved at a canter into the bosom of that hushed, mist-scrolled forest, strung up and alert as army scouts on patrol behind enemy lines. Only Lizzy was impervious to the general tension. Agog with excitement, she chattered on, an undamable stream.
‘Are we really and truly going to hunt wild boar?’ she said, glancing yet again at my shotgun in its saddle scabbard. ‘I mean, it won’t be just some old porker they’ve let loose to give us a bit of sport?’
‘Cynicism doesn’t become you,’ I said, grinning.
‘How do you know what becomes me?’
An intended comeback was nipped off as my nag momentarily quickened her pace, her hindquarters levitating painfully out of synchronization with my descending seat. Lizzy hooted with friendly derision.
‘You’re sitting all wrong,’ she crowed. ‘You’re all stiff, and you’re holding your reins too short. Let them out a bit.’
She demonstrated, and I liberated a few inches of rein. The mare, given her head, settled into a noticeably more even stride.
‘You see,’ Lizzy said smugly, then soberly, ‘Do you think we’ll see a boar soon?’
‘It won’t be like that. They don’t pop out from behind a tree and say “Yah, can’t catch me,” you know.’
Lizzy doubled over her mare’s arched neck in a spasm of mirth.
‘Obviously,’ she said, on recovering. ‘Everybody knows boars can’t talk. They do this …’ Letting go of the reins – and it says much for her horsemanship that she retained absolute control – she stuck her thumbs in her ears and waggled her hands.
Now I was laughing and compelled, quite spontaneously, to view Lizzy from a different slant. She was at that pinnacle of innocent beauty, that transient season of her life which is like a shooting star, rising to a glorious zenith before the protracted earthward slide to decline, decay, and oblivion. Surely, at rising sixteen, she was not so innocent as to be unaware of the impact of beauty such as hers on the male of the species. Not to mention the responsibility that goes with it.
‘You don’t insist I call you Mr Melville, do you?’ was next in the continuing catechism, after only a brief lapse.
‘No. Just Melville will do.’
More amusement.
‘That makes you sound like the family butler. Melville!’ For a kid raised Down Under, she managed the hoity-toity modulation beautifully. ‘Dissect me a raspberry, my good man.’
‘I’ll blow you a raspberry, if you don’t watch out.’
She ducked under a low branch without any moderation of pace. ‘I can’t call you Melville. Mummy would go ape. Can’t I call you Alan?’
‘Sure, but not Al,’ I said. Though I would even live with that if she insisted. She had that effect. ‘If you’re not careful, I’ll call you Freckles.’
‘Don’t imagine you’d be the first,’ she said with an ear-to-ear grin.
At this point in the badinage, Moulay called a halt. As we reined back, the sun parted the mist and the rags of grey gathered themselves and fled. The temperature immediately climbed several degrees.
Moulay, facing back down the column, announced, ‘We are coming to the place where the boars sleep during the day …’
As if to prove him wrong about the ‘sleep’ part, a snuffling was heard in the undergrowth beside the track. A moment later a boar, not much bigger than a terrier and covered with bristly mud-coloured hair, sallied forth and shot through the space between Moulay and the Brigadier, like a runaway go-kart. Clair’s mount reared up, forelegs paddling, but her reactions were swift and composed: she reined in, calming him with a monologue of equestrian balm. The distraction enabled the boar to make good its escape, zigzagging from cover to cover, its progress punctuated by a succession of squeaks and snorts. Though I had yanked my gun from its scabbard, the opportunity was lost. Even Moulay, faster still on the draw, failed to get off a single shot. The squeaking and crashing faded, and Moulay shrugged resignedly.
‘As I was saying, we are at the place where boars are to be found.’ This triggered a swell of laughter. ‘Anyhow, that one was not much more than a baby. We are looking for much bigger game.’
In front of me, Hordern flexed his shoulders and muttered, ‘I should damn well hope so.’
Talk of bigger game reminded me of the unwelcome presence to the rear. I looked back, affectedly casual, exchanged a nod with the Gunner Major, his sun-scorched pate now protected by a Panama hat. De Bruin was at the very tail of the column, partnering the German woman. Our eyes met. No warmth in his gaze.
Clair backed up her horse and eyed me worriedly.
‘Alan, you mustn’t get involved in this,’ she said, her voice lowered. ‘I’ll fight my own battles.’
Far away across the forest a sputter of gunfire blighted the stillness. As it died away to a concert of echoes, I said clearly and precisely, ‘Not while I’m around to fight them.’
She smiled her gratitude and tiny creases radiated from the corners of eyes and mouth. The bloom of youth, so patent in Lizzy, was gone from Clair for good, but the impression of health and vitality and joie de vivre, compensated for most of those thirty-eight years. As a woman and as a person she had much to offer. If only I represented half as good a bargain.
‘I sure appreciate it,’ she said, reaching out and letting her fingertips make momentary contact with my arm.
Moulay, who had been casting around for signs of more game, came trotting back.
‘Let us continue, ladies and gentlemen,’ he called out.
Claire offered a moue of regret and returned to Hordern’s side. Lizzy, who surely never missed a trick in her life, said to me, ‘Do you like my mother?’
‘What do you think?’ I said evasively.
She gave a little snort. ‘I think you like her a lot, sport.’
With the dispersal of the mist the heat was building to its usual noon crescendo, so I stripped off my windbreaker and knotted the sleeves around my waist. Taking my lead, Lizzy pulled her sweatshirt over her head. Underneath she had on a tank top that stuck to her torso like polyfilm, accentuating the rack of her ribs and the impressive swell of her chest. It was the kind of garment that isn’t designed to be worn with a bra, and her nipples prodded saucily at the tissue-thin cloth. And, by God, wasn’t she aware of the effect on me? She arched her back in deliberate emphasis of her womanly wares, flicked me a loaded glance with those smoky eyes that were mature ahead of their years, and with a knowing smirk kneed her mount forward. I hoped she never gave that kind of look to the wrong kind of guy.
Whereas previously we had cantered, now we proceeded at a walk. Every so often Moulay would signal a halt and spend a minute or so
peering at the ground and listening with a cupped ear. The heat grew oppressive during these periods of inaction, and the shade afforded by the greenery overhead diminished as the ground rose and the ilex oaks thinned and became intermingled with the thinner foliage of the junipers, cedars, and Aleppo pines.
Moulay wasn’t about to repeat his earlier mistake; his gun was out and at the ready. The crack of a dead branch, loud as a pistol shot, brought him to a standstill, the rest of us closing up to form a compact mass behind him.
On cue, like an actor making his entry on stage, a boar obligingly appeared. No panic-stricken dash like the other, but trotting out from a patch of shadow to stand in the centre of the track. He could almost have been defying us to encroach further on his domain. And any resemblance between this boar and the little fellow was pure genetics. This boar was not only much heavier and greater of girth, but it carried weapons in the shape of a pair of tusks curving upwards around its blunt snout. The all-over black bristle hide looked tough as armour plate.
The boar’s stunted legs trembled as it tensed for the attack. Moulay was cutting it fine, drawing every last ounce of drama from the situation. I was reaching for my own gun when he fired, two rapid shots, like cracks of thunder, that ripped the beast apart in a gush of blood and tissue. Death must have been instantaneous and a tribute to the efficacy of the Brenneke cartridge, for the boar didn’t even squeal as it collapsed, a mound of shattered meat. It was almost anticlimactic. This wasn’t hunting the way I understood it.
While the shots still reverberated through the trees, a great commotion arose. The crackle of scrub and salvoes of breaking branches were superimposed on screeches and grunts and the drumming of many trotters on hard earth.
‘Look out – here they come!’ Moulay’s shouted warning was redundant for they were already in our midst: great and small, adult and young, tusked and tuskless, a whole community of boars on the rampage. Confusion among us was total. Horses wheeled and bucked, adding their whinnies to the general clamour. A woman screamed, a man bellowed, guns blared. Then the boars scattered, fanning out into the forest. The real hunt was on.