Chapter Twelve
As soon as I wakened I knew the weather had changed. A warm south-westerly wind blew gently through my window. Low dark clouds shifted slowly in the sky, close to the brown hill-sides, which were damp now after a night of rain. There came to me the smell of wet soil and tree trunks and I heard the splash of the boy from the farm wading through a puddle at the garden gate to deliver our milk.
Magic had clambered on to my bed and she must have been watching my face for, as soon as my eyes were truly open and I had taken in the scene from my window, she leaped upon me and began to lick my face all over. Her efficient tongue was too much for me so early in the morning and I ducked beneath the sheets, until poor Magic was offended and disappointed and left my bed in a huff.
We ate an extra large breakfast that morning as Mummy said I must be well fed if I was going to spend the day running all over the countryside. We had porridge, cereals, kedgeree, toast and fruit. And then we made our beds and washed up and then, as we hadn’t got up very early, it was time to go. I quickly wrapped myself a package of provisions; a small sausage roll, four biscuits and an apple.
We had a slight argument in the car, because Mummy said I should wear a coat because it might rain; and I said it would be easier to run in just a pullover. But then Daddy settled the matter by saying that, although he agreed with Mummy that I should wear a coat, it was now too late to turn the car round and go back to the Stag’s Head and then walk to the cottage to get one. If it poured with rain and I developed pneumonia it would be my own fault for being pig-headed.
The next moment we turned a corner in the road to find we had arrived. There, outside a lovely long low pub were the Pynemouth Foxhounds, with the huntsman mounted on a superb dapple-grey hunter and the two whippers-in on bay geldings. A shaft of sunlight had found its way through the dark clouds of a moment before, to light the scene with pale gold, to twinkle on bit and stirrup, to glisten on black, brown and bay horses, to brighten the worn scarlet coats and heighten the pageantry of this March meet of hounds. And what a scene it was for my London-trained eyes, what a feast of colour; what a glory of black and tan, of white and gold and lemon. For a few minutes I just stood and looked; for this was my first meet of hounds, a sight not to be easily forgotten.
Presently I began to look at everyone as individuals, to see each person, each mount and each hound separately, to admire their good and bad points as far as I was able. The huntsman’s grey was the best horse there, I thought, until I saw the Master come out of the pub and mount a magnificent chestnut, a light-weight horse with a delicately-cut head, a neck like a Toledo blade and the longest front I had seen on any hunter. The Master, too, was rather magnificent. He was a tall well-built man with an enormous moustache and a powerful Roman nose, and his features looked well beneath the flattering black velvet crash cap which adorned his high brow and iron-grey head. His eyes were blue and merciless and I thought he was probably the most frightening person I had seen in my life. A large portion of the field seemed to be farmers, many mounted on horses without nosebands. There was only a sprinkling of children, but in spite of that it was some time before I became aware of the Lyntons.
They were standing a little apart from everyone else, close to a duck pond on which two ducks swam slowly to and fro, supremely indifferent to the unaccustomed scene before their eyes. Paula was riding Mercury; Donald was on Firelight and Annette was on Jangle. They didn’t seem to know anyone, and they looked shy standing by the pond by themselves. I slipped away from my parents and made my way to them, choosing words as I went. “Look, I don’t think I ever apologised properly about that gate. I am most frightfully sorry . . .” That was how I decided to begin. My throat and lips felt dry; my eyes were on Paulla’s face; I wanted to speak to her first. I was watching her profile; for she was looking at a solemn carthorse standing by a five-barred gate. I wanted to see whether there was annoyance, hate, indifference, welcome or any other emotion written on her face when at last she saw me. I wanted desperately to be friends with them all again. I wanted them to see Magic shaking hands. I wanted them to come to tea in twos as Jon had suggested. I wished those blue eyes would turn and see me. I hesitated to call her name and then the next moment all was lost. Annette saw me, “Let’s go and stand by the pub,” she said, in a loud voice. “Here’s that beastly Warren girl.”
I felt my face turn red. I halted my steps. I stood speechless. Paulla turned her head and saw me. The flicker of a smile crossed her wide mouth; her eyes were indifferent, showing no dislike and no friendship. Annette and Donald had crossed the road and stood by the pub.
“Look, listen, I’m . . .” my voice trailed away.
“Good morning,” said Paulla formally, turning Mercury round and riding across to join the others.
“Good morning,” I answered and my voice was lost in the sound of horn and whip as the Pynemouth Foxhounds moved off to draw the first covert.
“Good-bye, darling. I hope you won’t get wet. If you do, come home. Don’t stay out all day in soaking things,” said Mummy.
“Don’t forget to ring the Stag’s Head at half-past five if you want a lift home from anywhere. Enjoy yourself,” said Daddy.
And now I was following on foot behind the jostling field of horses. I felt light and fit. I suppose playing games at school had kept me in good trim, but, annoyingly, my mind was on the Lyntons, Annette’s scornful voice was still in my ears. Why couldn’t I forget them? They didn’t want me as a friend any more. Next spring, I would have a pony of my own. But, after all, it was my fault the whole thing started. I let their pony get run over and then I hadn’t the grace to say I was sorry. I couldn’t leave it like that for the rest of my life. I must make them see I am sorry about Jingle, I thought, as I trudged down a muddy lane behind a hefty red-faced farmer, mounted on a dark brown cob.
The first covert was a deep dense wood which seemed to stretch for miles. The Master halted the field at one corner, while hounds were put in higher up.
Someone said, “A good scenting day, Geoff, I should say,” and someone else said, “Ssssh!” The sunlight left the skies, the clouds grew darker and thicker; a light breeze stirred the leafless trees.
There was the sound of hounds breaking through undergrowth; the crack of whips, and, now and again, the huntsman’s cheer. Presently a hound gave tongue and my heart beat faster; and then a shout of “War’ Rabbit,” and a discouraging blast on the horn echoed over the March landscape and someone said, “That’s that little devil, Gladsome, I’ll bet,” and someone else said, “Ssssh!”
And then silence, but for the champing and churning of the horses, the creak of leather and clink of stirrup against stirrup, the jingle of bits; and my own heart thumping with ridiculous speed and noise.
And then suddenly a crash of music rent the air. The horn rang out clear in the warm close morning in two thrilling blasts, and the huntsman’s voice was encouraging his hounds and a whipper-in was streaking across the meadow on our left at full gallop. And my heart was pounding with excitement and my eyes were watching the Master, who was gazing into the wood, sitting erect and still like a Roman statue.
Now hounds were running in full cry across the wood and every moment their music was growing fainter in our ears. I wanted to run down into the wood myself, but still the field were waiting, not daring to move before the Master moved; and the other foot followers showed no signs of setting off in any direction. Like everyone else they stayed still. Only the horses champed and churned and showed impatience. I wished I had read more books on hunting and I wished I had brought a map. For once the Lyntons were forgotten as the music of hound and horn rang in my ears.
And then suddenly in one great movement, the whole field set off at a gallop, with the thud of hoofs, and a spattering of mud as they tore away down the side of the wood led by the Master; a mass of thundering horseflesh, growing smaller every moment as they drew farther away from me as I panted in pursuit. Now I realised that hounds must h
ave broken covert, for their cry was clearer and the huntsman was blowing the Gone Away, over and over again, until I thought his lungs must burst. And then I saw the pack racing across a field towards the hills, and I saw the huntsman’s grey not far behind, the flash of scarlet, bright against the brown landscape, bright below the darkening skies, and I longed above all to be mounted too, to be galloping with that throng of horsemen, which I saw, still led by the master, taking a low hedge and streaming away across a stretch of plough on the left of hounds.
The other foot followers had not come in my direction and now I was alone. My throat was dry, my breath was coming and going in short gasps. For a moment I could not run any farther. I found a gate and sat on it, watching the hunt becoming mere dots in the distance. My ears still rang with the music of the chase and my heart was with the riders galloping easily across the wet March fields. Next year, I thought, I shall be one of them. And I saw myself galloping too on a black gelding, lightly built, swift and sure-footed.
Presently I heard the pattering of feet behind me and, turning around, I saw that a hound was approaching me with an apologetic smile on her charming white and tan face. I got off the gate, bent down and called softly, “Gladsome, come on, Gladsome, good girl.” It was the only name I knew and she seemed to answer to it. At least she came right up to me with a little squirm of apology and then she sat down awkwardly at my feet, smiling at me with deceitful brown eyes.
“You ought to be with the others,” I told her, wondering how I should say that in hunting language, so that she could really understand me. I pointed in the direction that hounds had taken only a few moments earlier and said, “Go on. Get on to him. Oik, on to ‘im.” But that didn’t sound quite right and it certainly had no effect on my lazy companion, who eventually rose gracefully to her feet and started to nose round my pockets, hinting that I might spare her a piece of sausage roll.
Of course, I gave in, and we shared my lunch and then, feeling much strengthened, we set off in search of the hunt.
Every moment the clouds grew darker and the sky more overcast, and then it started to rain, and of course I thought of Mummy’s advice and wished I had a coat. Grown-ups are always right in the end, I decided. One might as well listen to them in the beginning, instead of imagining that one knows best. For a few moments we sheltered under a tree, but Gladsome – if it was Gladsome – was soon bored and set off again and I followed her. We walked round the headland of the stretch of plough which the riders had crossed at such speed. It was very wet and my shoes were soon plastered with mud and rather heavy too.
Presently we met a farm labourer standing by the hedgerow with a mackintosh over his head.
“Getting wet, aren’t you? The ‘unts’s up by Lampton-on-the-Hill,” he said.
“Thanks, is that far?” I asked.
“’Bout four miles, I suppose -- by road that is – a bit shorter if you cut across the fields,” he told me.
I said, “Gosh!” because that sounded a long way away, and then he said why didn’t I stay around because that old dog fox never went far. He always ran in a circle and soon he would be sneaking back to the first covert.
“They’ve never got ‘im to run far from home, never. ‘E always makes ‘is way back again, and if this rain doesn’t spoil the scent they’ll all be coming back soon. And I reckon that old bitch you’ve got with you knows that, too,” the farm labourer finished up.
“I might as well wander back to the wood then?” I suggested.
“That’s what I would do if I was you, miss. Get under a good old tree and shelter for a bit and, when it eases, slip back to the first covert, said my adviser.
I thanked him profusely, found a tree farther up the headland against the hedge and waited there patiently for the rain to stop, so that I could make my way back to the first covert without becoming any wetter.
I wondered whether the Lyntons would still be there when hounds came back. I felt sure Paulla would never be left unless Mercury fell or something awful happened. Gladsome glanced at me reproachfully and then wandered off up the hedgerow. The rain fell faster on the waiting fields, straight from the dark skies untroubled by wind. The air grew colder and I stamped my feet to keep them warm and beat my hands together. And all the time my eyes searched the grey landscape for a flash of scarlet, for the sight of a galloping horseman or a sign of hounds, and my ears waited for the ringing notes of the horn, which had sounded every winter over this stretch of English countryside for centuries.
Chapter Thirteen
I was standing by the wood when they came back. The rain had stopped and a light mist was drifting over the sleepy fields, down from the wet hillsides.
In my impatience I had imagined the horn a score of times, but now the sound was real and I could see dark crash caps and bowlers and an occasional topper bobbing up and down as the riders rode back down the muddy lane.
I thanked God for the farm labourer and watched Gladsome – if it was Gladsome – make her way guiltily to rejoin the pack, which was eagerly approaching the first covert.
I could see Paulla, Donald and Annette well up to the fore. Jangle looked tired but Firelight and Mercury seemed sprightly still. They must have seen me as I stood beneath the trees, the sole remaining foot follower.
Hounds picked up the line a few yards from the woods and raced in amongst the trees in full cry. I wished I had taken up my present position earlier for then I would have seen the old dog fox return.
This time the riders did not hang around outside but they plunged into the wood as well and were soon out of sight. I made my way round the edge at a jog trot until I found a suitable place to stand – a corner from which I could see two sides of the wood and a wide stretch of country. Hounds seemed to be running round and round in circles and I could hear the crashing of undergrowth as the field followed at a brisk canter. I was on the downwind side of the covert, which, according to the books I had read on the subject, was the most likely place for the fox to come out.
Presently I saw Paulla cantering along a track on the outside of the wood and I imagined she must have been sent to mark a point – this is to watch for the fox to appear and then halloa him away when he has properly broken cover. I turned to look at the other side of the wood, because I was taking my viewpoint seriously in the hope that I might halloa the fox away and nothing was going to take my eyes off my self-allotted task – or so I thought. When I looked back again it was just in time to see Mercury give a colossal shy, twisting in the air so that she finished facing the other way, and to see Paulla fall off into the wet rough grass. I forgot instantly that I was marking a point, I forgot about the hunt, the fox and everything except that I must dash forward and help Paulla, who seemed to be winded.
I rushed along the track, losing one of my shoes in a deep patch of mud on the way, and just as I was near the groaning body, the fox started to break cover and then seeing me turned and went back. At the same moment Paulla recovered and leaped to her feet in time to see the retreating fox creeping stealthily back into the wood.
“You headed him. Stand still, you idiot,” she shouted. I stopped dead, suddenly aware of how silly I looked with one shoe off and one on.
“I didn’t mean to. I mean, I thought . . .” I began.
“Ssssh. Shut up for goodness’ sake,” said Paulla, mounting Mercury, who had stayed close at hand eating grass, and galloping on up the track to her destination.
I hopped back and found my shoe and started to make my way back to my viewpoint; and then I heard hounds running in my direction and the field in pursuit. Filled with a sense of guilt I dashed into the wood and stood hidden amongst the trees. I heard the pack break cover on the line of the fox and then turn back, and then I heard someone say, “Something must have headed the old devil, blast it! Can’t see why he should have doubled back otherwise.”
Too late I realised that probably as a result of my hiding, Paulla would get the blame for heading off the fox.
Presentl
y I went back to my viewpoint, but the charm and excitement of the day was at an end for me. Everything I do is wrong, I thought dismally, I might as well go home now[KW2].
Evening was in the air as I started back down the lane; the mist was growing thicker, hanging over the fields like a shroud, clinging to the hedges and the tree tops, lingering in the farm yards. My feet were very wet and rather cold; my legs were suddenly tired; the sleeves of my jersey felt clammy against my skin. A moment before I had noticed none of these minor discomforts as I stood waiting expectantly for the fox to break cover. But now they added to my sense of dreariness. It’s a long walk home, I thought, and I don’t know the time. I must find out so that I can telephone Daddy. Surely if anyone accuses Paulla of heading the fox she’ll say it was some silly foot follower. No one knows me but the Lyntons so it wouldn’t be telling tales. Anyway, no one else knew I was there so they wouldn’t be able to identify the foot follower. I’m sure that’s what she’ll say if she is accused, which she probably won’t be, I told myself. Anyhow that fox deserved to live. He gave them a good run before he returned to covert, and I hope they pack up soon and leave him in peace. I wondered whether, when the time came, I should tell my parents about my mistake; probably not, I decided.
I reached the road at last and stopped a young cyclist to ask the time; it was five o’clock. A few minutes later I heard the huntsman blowing the long sad blasts on the horn which mean “long leave the covert,” and I knew hounds had finished for the day, I hurried on, because I did not want the Lyntons to overtake me on their way home. I even ran a few steps every now and then.
Riding With The Lyntons Page 9