Consider the Lily (20 page)

The sun was beginning to patch the carpet of ice. Her muscles tightened in anticipation. She told herself to be careful: a lot of ground was sheltered, north-facing and treacherous. Guinevere arched her neck and jumped back on stiff legs. Drops of her drink splattered down Flora’s habit and she handed back the glass to Danny.

There’s nothing like it, she thought, dabbing at the spots of liquid. Nothing.

Matty had retreated to the steps out of the way of the horses and Kit edged alongside her on Vindictive to say goodbye.

‘Good luck,’ said the small figure huddled in a musquash coat.

‘You will take care?’ A matching hat was pulled down over her face so that only her mouth was visible.

‘Don’t worry.’

Matty handed up a packet wrapped in waxed paper. ‘Anchovy paste sandwiches,’ she said. ‘I know you get hungry mid-morning.’

‘Terrific,’ said Kit and stowed them in his coat tail. ‘I’ve never had that sort of treatment before.’ He grabbed Matty’s leather-clad hand and kissed it with affection. Flora, who had just ridden up, was taken in – she had no idea how much easier it was for Kit to demonstrate affection for his wife in public.

‘How kind you are to me,’ Kit said to Matty, whose mouth unclamped in a smile of relief.

Robbie waved from her position at the top of the steps. ‘Think of us back here, won’t you?’

Danny told the whipper-in to bugger off and went to fetch the gun which always came with him out hunting. Just in case.

With a cracking of whips, flushed from drink and cold, they moved off into the rising sun.

Kit and Flora rode up in the front, Kit, from long habit, settled into Vindictive’s rolling stride, confident that his horse liked nothing better than an obstacle-strewn gallop. As he and Flora turned left out of the drive, he looked back to the foreshortened figure of his wife on the steps watching them. Brother and sister raised their whips in farewell.

Hunting fraternities are the same everywhere and were replicated in hunting country all over England that Boxing Day, as recognizable as a Surtees print. So, too, were the rituals, and topics of conversation: gossip about bloodstock and breeding, familiar jokes – and the secret quasi-sexual thrill that pulsed under the hunting coats.

The horses could not be persuaded to walk, and the riders jogged past Jonathan’s Kilns, filed through the narrow hunt gate and then let their horses rip over the turf towards the straggle of beeches at Long Copse.

As always, Guinevere did her convincing imitation of a crab at the sight of an open gate. She sidled up to the opening, pranced as Flora scolded her, and then barged through knocking Flora’s leg on the post as she did so. Then they were away over the mud-freckled turf with the wind cutting across Flora’s cheeks.

The hounds drew at Long Copse. The field watched, tense and expectant, the horses pricked their ears and shuddered in a cloud of vaporized breath.

Then it began. The lead hound had worked his way to the far corner of the copse and sounded. Another took it up, and in a split second the music of a pack in full cry reverberated through the chilled air.

A bowler-hatted farmer in ratcatcher on a roan lifted his whip and pointed to the west. ‘Charlie’s gone over to Horsedown,’ he said to Flora. ‘They’ll be crossing the hedges.’

Flora shivered pleasurably in anticipation.

A surge of horses, a cry from the riders, and the line broke. Everyone went for it together across the field, through the gate and up into Swanthorpe’s territory. Too busy holding in Guinevere to think, Flora guided her over the hedge, then a post and rails.

A delicious, tingling feeling exploded in her chest.
This is what I love.
The sound of hoofs over turf drummed in her ears, the muscles in her legs clenched and rose with the horse, the bruise on her shin ached and swelled. The roan thundered past, bearing the farmer.

‘Charlie’s going to double back,’ he shouted. ‘Stick with me, Miss Flora.’

Panting hard, Flora reined in Guinevere, and together she and her companion picked their way up the grassy rise above the valley floor. Down below, they saw the hounds check and, for a few minutes the pack milled, noses hard to the ground. Again a hound sounded and the pack raced back down the valley.

‘There’s Charlie.’ The farmer jerked his whip, and Flora saw quite clearly the fox climbing up into a ploughed field, its coat almost the same colour as the russet soil.

‘My God,’ said the farmer. ‘He’ll take them over the hedges.’

Flora strained to get a better view. ‘Hurrah,’ she said.

The hedges were a series of blackthorn barriers as high as a horse’s withers. They guarded gaping ditches and were talked about with respect as the biggest in North Hampshire. They took nerve and a steady hand.

The field was now moving up the plough where, a few seconds ago, Flora had seen the fox. The horses floundered – and then they were out, bearing left across the grass that led to the first of the hedges. Itching to follow, Flora watched the scarlet arc of the Master’s coat as he soared over the first obstacle. A grey followed, ridden side-saddle and, after that, the whole field made a gigantic charge.

After the first hedge, two horses galloped on riderless and after the third there was another. Flora breathed in sharply. ‘Ye ancient gods, go on, Kit. Go on, Father. DO IT.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said to the farmer. Away she went down the slope in a hail of mud.

Rising and falling like a wave over the hedges, Rupert’s bay pounded over the ground in between. The hounds bayed, high and excited. Then, as the stallion rose for what must have been the seventh or eighth time, he appeared to stop in mid-air, a powerful, scarlet-topped icon, before crashing down. Spinning in a lazy parabola over his horse came Rupert.

Splayed over the hedge, the horse lay quiet for a terrible moment, then struggled frantically before crashing with a scream onto its rider below.

Matty fought the desire to retreat to her bedroom and remain there for the rest of the day. But it was Boxing Day, the house was full of guests and Mrs Dawes was treating her to sighs and long silences. In addition, Polly’s nanny was apparently being sick in the servants’ cloakroom (‘A little bit sinister, don’t you think, Mrs Kit?’ commented Robbie), and the baby appeared to have taken against Robbie. Babies had more sense than she had supposed, concluded Matty. The day stretched out, milestoned by domestic crises.

‘I had no idea,’ Matty confided to Mrs Pengeally over coffee, ‘that running a house was so full of problems. Everywhere I turn I trip over someone’s hurt feelings.’

This was quite a speech for Matty, and a measure of her irritation. Mrs Pengeally looked magisterial – something she was not often able to do as the vicarage was small and, worse, understaffed. ‘Dear Mrs Dysart, if I can be of any help do let me know.’

‘For instance,’ Matty fiddled in her cuff for her handkerchief, ‘Mrs Dawes does not wish to serve tea in the drawing room for no other reason than that it has always been served in the library.’

Mrs Pengeally’s mouth had sprouted a coffee fringe and she scrubbed at it with her serviceable handkerchief. ‘Ask her advice first,’ she said. ‘I always think that works.’

‘Does it?’ Matty retrieved hers, delicate, lace-edged, from her sleeve, unaware of the glances Mrs Pengeally was directing at it. ‘Mrs Pengeally, I’m sorry to be bothering you with all this.’

‘Nothing to it, my dear.’ Mrs Pengeally helped herself generously to the sugar. ‘Take it from an old hand.’ And over a second cup, Mrs Pengeally proceeded to demonstrate just how old a hand she was. So grateful was Matty that she offered to take her out to see how the hunt was going.

It was midday by the time the pony trap was ready. After the log fire in the drawing room, the cold was vicious and, despite lap rugs, both women shivered as Jem, the stable boy, urged Billy into a fast trot.

‘There they are.’ Matty pointed up the road where a glimmer of scarlet was visible making its way towards the hedges. The horn sounded; unmistakable and provoking.

‘Off they go,’ said Mrs Pengeally through her handkerchief, and the colour whipped into Matty’s face. Forgetting her fear of horses, she half rose in her seat.

‘Take care, Mrs Dysart. You’ll upset the cart.’

‘Can you see my husband, Mrs Pengeally?’

‘I think he’s there, up at the head of the field.’

Matty leant foward and tapped Jem on the shoulder. ‘Drive up the road, please, Jem.’

The thin, sharp air was alive with baying, pounding and whinnying, shot through with the rounder note of the horn which made Matty shiver inside.

‘Go on, Jem,’ she urged, and Mrs Pengeally clutched at her hat.

At the crest of the slope, the road veered round to the right and, as they went round at a smart clip, they heard the scream from the direction of the hedges. High and full of agony.

‘Oh, no,’ Matty gasped. ‘Oh, no.’ The pony jerked up his head and skidded round the corner.

‘Don’t look.’ Idiotically, Mrs Pengeally tried to cover Matty’s face with her hands, and as Matty struggled free, she knocked Jem and Billy missed his footing. The trap slewed to a halt, one wheel spinning on the verge, the other rammed into the ditch.

‘Let go, Mrs Pengeally. Let me... go.’ Matty fought free of the other woman, fell down from the trap and ran towards the gate into the field.

The gate catch was frozen but Matty pulled at it with a strength she was not aware she possessed until it yielded. Then, forgetting she had not run properly for years, she tore full tilt over the uneven ground towards the untidy knot of people by the hedges.

It was over when Matty arrived. The bay was already down, the broken bone in its hind leg protruding through the skin. Beside him lay Rupert, arms and legs assembled in strange positions, blood rushing with horrifying speed from a cut on his face.

Matty pushed her way through the ring of people, knelt down and took Rupert’s hand. It was a useless thing to do, but the voice in her head dealing with the emergency said it was important, and she cradled it, cold and limp, in her own as if her life depended on it. She shifted closer to the object lying on the turf that was her father-in-law, and mud smeared over her frock.

The stallion screamed again, and feet ran to and fro. Matty continued to stare at Rupert, focusing on the blood-embroidered face and listening to the snoring breaths. More hoofs pounded across the field and Kit, hatless and mud-covered, shouted, ‘Where’s the gun?’

Danny came running from the direction of the gate with the rifle. He split it, loaded and handed it over to Kit who knelt beside the horse.

‘Easy, boy.’ Matty knew with dreadful clarity that Kit was almost crying. ‘I’m coming. I’m coming.’ He piloted the gun to the horse’s head and fought to keep it on target as the stallion reared his head. ‘Help me, Danny,’ he said.

‘Get back,’ shouted someone else.

‘Help me,’ said Kit.

And Matty continued to cradle Rupert’s hand and to gaze into his face until the gun went off and the screaming ceased.

It required four men to carry Rupert across the field.

One of the spectator’s cars raced back into the village to warn the doctor, and Robin Lofts was waiting at the house when the procession arrived. He took Rupert’s pulse and ran a professional eye over the angle of his legs. He noted the pallor, the breathing, the wet patch where urine had leaked, and asked to be shown the telephone.

Rupert’s children waited as Robin worked. The odours of horse, mud, and disinfectant from his bag filled the library where Rupert had been taken, and the lamp threw a dim, sinister light over the form on the sofa.

‘What do you think, Dr Lofts?’ Flora grabbed Robin.

‘It’s serious,’ he said, ‘and he must get to hospital as soon as possible. The ambulance is on its way from Fleet.’

Kit moved towards the sofa and looked down at his father. Wanting something to do, he bent over to wipe the saliva off Rupert’s chin.

Barrenness and death, thought Matty.

An extra loud breath from the injured man brought Robin back to the bedside. Breath soughed in and out of Rupert’s nostrils, and a fresh clot of blood appeared in one.

‘Quick,’ said Polly in a high, panicked voice. ‘Quick. He’s dying. Do something!’

The traditional gardener is at pains to make his garden neat and tidy before winter is set in – but if he wishes to maintain a habitat for wildlife, habits must change.

I sympathize. Controlled neglect is difficult to learn after a lifetime of being tidy, but it is worth it. At least, I think so. A heap of leaves left
in situ
provides a winter base for hedgehogs, and food for birds. Dead stalks provide homes for insects, damp corners a refuge for frogs, toads and newts – and they pay for their keep by banqueting on your slugs and aphids. If you spread the winter digging over the season, hungry birds can feast on the exposed cut worms, or pests.

It is symbiosis between garden, animal and human – a back-scratching arrangement which is easy to effect, offers constant theatre and gives me rare pleasure.

Thomas and I make a point of taking winter walks, and we look out for the fieldfares and redwings who work in gangs on hawthorn berries in hedgerows, what remains of them. Did you know that long-tailed tits are easier to see in winter than at any other time, especially in birch woods? The trackmarks left by animals in the frost and snow remind us of the secret life that continues out of our sight.

Winter has its compensations.

Very often our walks take us past the church. When I was little I often scrabbled around in the graveyard and poked around the building. I don’t know what I was searching for. Perhaps it was clues to the past. Looking back, it provided a crucible for my tastes — fusty, a touch lugubrious, and very English.

The village is proud of its church whose original was mentioned in the Domesday Book. Subsequently, it featured a vaulted chancel and a stone tower that was so heavy the walls buckled outwards. In 1846 it was restored. Apart from a new bell frame and altar rails, nothing much has changed since then – an odd repair here and a patching up of the fabric there. The older limes in the avenue were planted in 1759, the younger ones by the Burial Board in 1879 and, until comparatively recently, it was the custom to sing carols from the top of the tower on Christmas morning.