A Rural Affair (35 page)

‘Just don’t bite off more than you can chew, hm?’

And with that she was off. From a standing start to a canter, as the field circumnavigated the hedge through a series of gates,
then out into open country again. I was on her heels whether she liked it or not. For Thumper had got second wind and seemed
determined to stick like glue to Miss Harding’s mare. And of course she rode right up at the front, so that’s where I ended
up: with Hope and Chad, Simon, who had the grace to look abashed as I came thundering up, the terrifying Mary Granger of the
stony face, who bonked blacksmiths, Angie, whose eyes were round as I yet again rocketed past her horribly out of control,
and then Sam, who, with intrinsic style, was executing a stately collected canter at the head of the field. He raised an ironic,
here-we-go-again eyebrow as I cannoned past, but no more than that. Pulling for all I was worth and travelling at a speed
that made my eyes stream and the wind rush in my ears, I at least managed to turn a circle before I reached the hounds. I
bounced inelegantly back, features jockeying for position, hat over my eyes, everyone staring in wonder, even the children
having never seen the like. Suddenly I found my reins being firmly taken from me. It was Angie, and her eyes were sparkling.

‘Poppy, I’m going to have to take you home,’ she told me. ‘I have
never
been so embarrassed!’

I couldn’t breathe, such had been the exertion of trying to stop Thumper. Such was my terror and lack of fitness. I could
only nod; try to get some air into my lungs. I felt terribly sick. At that moment a grim-faced whipper-in swept past silently
in the opposite direction.

‘One of the hounds is missing,’ Mary Granger, a face like
thunder, informed us, riding up. ‘We’re going to have to hang around here a moment while Martin goes back to look. It’s literally
nowhere to be seen. Seems to have vanished into thin air.’

She rode off to tell the others; to inform the rest of the field. I gazed after her, stricken.

That should have been my moment. Of course that should have been my moment. All I remember, though, was turning back from
staring at Mary’s retreating back, and looking into Angie’s glittering eyes as she held my reins. My own eyes cast wildly
about: I saw Simon and Emma talking to Sam, grave and deadly serious. My throat clenched with fear, my heart with it. I wished
so badly I was not with the thrusters, but with the Pollys and Grants of this world. I could see them at the tail end of the
field, sharing a joke and a hip flask, laughing uproariously, Grant even lighting a cigarette. Please, God, I thought, let
me go to them; I could tell them. Then they could pass it on, like Chinese whispers. But Angie still had hold of my reins
and was telling me in low, measured tones, as one might a child who’s run in the road and scared one enough to yell initially,
that of course it wasn’t my fault, because I hadn’t been out before, but if only I’d gone to her
first
, she could have lent me something more
suitable
.

‘If only you’d asked, you could have had Clarissa’s pony. It’s hunted seven seasons, knows exactly how to behave. You are
a goon, Poppy.’

I listened to this almost in a dream. It was said, certainly, in something more like her usual friendly voice as she relaxed
her grip on my rein. And she was my friend; my good friend, who I could tell, surely? I opened my mouth to speak, but my mouth
was so dry my teeth stuck to my upper lip. By the time
I’d licked them free, Sam had ridden up beside her, mobile clamped to ear, and was talking to her, relaying what he was hearing
to Angie. Angie, who, I suddenly noticed, had a mustard collar to her blue coat. Did that make her a hunt official? Like part
of the secret police? My befuddled mind swam as she bestowed a dazzling smile on Sam, then, realizing the smile was inappropriate,
adopted a grave expression as she listened to what he had to say, as indeed, I did too.

They’d found the hound, stone dead in a copse, apparently. A nasty gash to his head. Kicked, by the looks of things. Someone
had even had the gall to hide him with some bracken.

Angie’s expression was no longer manufactured; there was genuine horror in her eyes as she gave a sharp intake of breath.
Mary Granger, beside us, who was as tough as old rhino hide, put a hand over her mouth. Sam rode off, white-faced. And then
it spread, in a rolling tide, around the field. The hound was called Peddler, it was Mark, the huntsman’s, favourite. He’d
bred him and walked him as puppy. Yes, definitely kicked, and then hidden with a blanket of bracken – no, actually, a shallow
grave had been dug, to secrete it. Never had I felt such fear. Never had my heart beat so loudly or had I felt so surrounded
by a mob. The horses stood steaming, withers heaving, glad of the respite from galloping, and as they tossed their heads and
their bits jangled, it seemed to me redolent of the jangle and click of the
tricoteuse
.

In a matter of moments, anger had replaced shock around me. How
could
someone? One of the children perhaps, but no, they’d all been through the Pony Club, knew how to behave. And most children
were escorted. And to dig a grave … No, no, unthinkable, it must have been an adult,
they stormed. But what a craven one. Word spread to the back of the field and I saw Polly and Grant and crew stop their laughter
as their jaws dropped in horror. In that moment I also saw Emma Harding’s hard little grey eyes come round to seek mine. I
met them, but only briefly. I turned away, trembling. Then, as I slowly raised my head, it was to see her ride across to talk
to the master. To Sam.

The minutes ticked by. Angie was being sweet now, offering me her hip flask, perhaps feeling guilty for her earlier outburst,
but I couldn’t tell her now, could I? Because why hadn’t I owned up immediately? Suddenly all the prisons in all the world
sprang to mind, the convicts within staring out at me, gripping the bars, plaintive eyes saying: you see? That’s why
we’re
here. Because something happened and we didn’t own up. But accidents
do
happen, terrible ones – hit and runs, lashing out at the wife in an argument. Of
course
we didn’t mean it, but this is where we end up, this is how it happens. I nearly fell off my horse.

The whipper-in, the telephonic messenger who’d found the hound, arrived back. He ignored us and swept on, his mouth set in
a grim line; he headed towards the hounds, who were at a distance to the rest of the field on the brow of the hill. We saw
him canter steadily up to Mark the huntsman, all alone, still working his hounds, still drawing the covert. The last to know.
As the message was conveyed, I saw Mark put his hand over his eyes, and with that gesture I knew I’d hurt someone very badly.
One of the terrier men, on a quad bike, we heard, had picked up the hound, Peddler, and was taking it back to the kennels.
Meanwhile we carry on. The show must go on.

We set off at a lick, and since we’d pretty much exhausted this neck of the wood, were off to the next valley apparently,
having ridden almost a full circle. Sure enough, from our vantage point on the hill I could see the trailers and lorries parked
in a field below. One or two women with children on lead reins were peeling off, saying a cheery goodnight, and I peeled with
them, earning a relieved smile from Angie and even a ‘Well done! Not easy, your first hunt.’

Oh, she was sweet now. Felt guilty, perhaps, for briefly not being a friend. For snapping. And of course I forgave her that;
we all snapped in the heat of the moment. But what about my own, much bigger moment? Would anyone forgive me that? If only
I’d owned up. They would have been shocked and horrified, naturally; but would eventually have forgiven me. Not now, though.
Not half an hour later, I thought, feeling sick to my stomach as I rode back down the zigzag track to the Home Farm beside
Sam’s house. The two chattering women I’d ridden silently back with headed for their trailer, tossing me a breezy farewell,
and I managed at least to respond.

My breath was very shallow as I rode on alone. I thought I’d got to the age when I wouldn’t find out any more about myself.
Interesting, then, that I had, and it wasn’t good.

Dad, Jennie and the kids were huddled by the lorry, sheltering from the wind which had picked up, together with a jolly band
of foot followers. Dan was there, I noticed, on the other side of the field, talking to a couple of local farmers, Angus too,
looking rather splendid in tweeds. Quite a few people had dogs on leads, including Leila in her huge plastic collar. They’d
followed for quite a while, Dad and Jennie told me as I rode up. Great fun, but
exhausting
; wished they’d taken the car.

‘But well done you!’ they cried, as if I was the conquering hero returning, as I finally slid off the wretched, sweaty horse
and handed him thankfully to Dad.

‘You did brilliantly!’ Jennie told me, her eyes shining, one arm circling my shoulders as she gave me a hearty squeeze. ‘Did
you have a good day?’

‘I’m
so
proud of you, love,’ said Dad, beaming and slapping my back. ‘I knew you could do it!’

‘We saw you jump, Mummy!’ Clemmie leaped into my arms. ‘You jumped a hedge and nearly came off and your face was so funny
– like this.’ She made a terrified face, and I managed to raise a smile. ‘And then you jumped a ditch and said the f word,
and there was a shouty man who said, “Bloody woman!” cos you went in front of him!’

‘Lots of shouty men, darling,’ I breathed. ‘Shouty ladies too.’

I embraced my son, who’d toddled up for a hug, his head buried in my thighs as he gripped my knees fiercely. Visiting rights,
obviously; perhaps more lenient ones for women with children. Dad would bring them. Or Jennie. In new clothes I wouldn’t recognize.

The children both scampered away to join a few village kids they knew, who were also waiting for parents, kicking a ball around.
Dan had joined in, big kid that he was himself. Just Dad and Jennie, then.

‘Killed a hound,’ I gasped.

They both turned. Dad had been throwing a thin blue rug on a steaming Thumper.

‘I did,’ I managed. ‘I killed it. Dead.’

‘How?’ Dad had gone pale.

‘Thumper kicked it. Left it in the bushes. No one saw. Didn’t own up. Need to move. France, probably.’

I’d already thought it through as I rode back. Down near Toulouse, a little place called Gaillac. I’d been there once on
a school trip, years ago. Pretty. And I’d open a little shop, like that woman in
Chocolat
who had a secret. No one would know me. I’d be a mystery, an enigma, me and my two small children. Yes, a chocolate shop.

‘Oh, God.’ Even Jennie, totally un-horsy, knew this was bad.

‘The house will sell quite quickly,’ I gabbled on, ‘always getting things through the door from estate agents. And the children
will be bilingual, huge advantage.’

‘Do shut up,’ she told me, taking my arm and sitting me down on the lorry ramp. Dad, who’d rugged up Thumper and tied him
to the side of the lorry, came to join us. He sat down.

‘Sure no one saw?’ he murmured.

‘No.’

‘Right. Then stay shtum. These things happen.’

I thought this over a moment. Suddenly I was on my feet, furious. I pointed my finger at him; it waggled a bit. ‘You see?
That’s where I’ve got it from! My criminal tendencies! It’s learned behaviour! That’s what you’ve taught me, what
you’d
do!’ I glared at him accusingly.

‘Well, no, actually. I’d have owned up at the time.’

‘Would you?’ I crumpled instantly, aghast. ‘Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that. Oh, Dad, I wish I had!’ I wailed. ‘But
in the heat of the moment – so many scary people, so fierce-looking … And it’s a bit late now, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly, after the event. Just let sleeping dogs … well.’ He stopped awkwardly realizing where that was going. ‘It’s a serious
occurrence, though, in the hunting world, Poppy.’

‘
I know!
’ I quaked.

‘Oh, piffle,’ said Jennie staunchly. ‘They’ve got hundreds
of the bloody things. And let’s not get too carried away here;
you
didn’t kill him, Thumper did. At least he didn’t kick a child.’

‘Would have been better,’ I said gloomily.

Dad nodded in sober agreement. ‘She’s right, Jennie.’

‘Which just shows how bloody stupid the whole thing is! I mean, they’re out to kill an animal anyway, aren’t they? And it’s
only a bloody dog. Christ, I wish it had been Leila. She escaped, incidentally, joined the pack, briefly.’

‘Really?’ I raised my head. Even in my despair this was diverting.

‘Oh, yes. Was galloping joyously in the middle of all those dogs in her zany collar, looking very Vivienne Westwood, until
your dad managed to persuade a guy on a quad bike to nab her. And you think you’ve blotted your copy book.’

I knew she was trying to make me feel better but as I drove her car home later, Jennie having gone with Dan, who’d come in
his Land Rover, my father returning with Thumper, I felt the world was on my shoulders.

‘Chatham House rules, OK, love?’ Dad had said, before he left.

‘What are they?’

‘Mum’s the word.’

‘Oh. OK.’

Mum’s the word, I thought gloomily. Until somehow it leaked out. Which it would. And then heaven knows what the word would
be. Murderess? Coward? Witch? I cringed behind the wheel. Clemmie was making Archie laugh in the back, imitating me. ‘Mummy
riding,’ she was saying, holding imaginary reins right up under her chin, eyes and mouth wide with terror, bouncing in her
car seat. And Archie was laughing as only a two-year-old can: as if he was going to be sick.
I tried to count my blessings, which seemed to me to be just two. Those two in the back. No chance now with Sam of course;
I’d blown that entirely. In fact I couldn’t quite imagine what planet I’d been on to allow it to cross my mind. He was so
far out of my league, with his smart friends and his manor house, he was practically in a different stratosphere. And did
I want all that, anyway? Imagine having to hunt every week. Having a near-death experience on a regular basis with all those
terrifying people. No. I purred down my lane. That whole way of life was not for me: it was too fast, too glamorous,
too much
.