For a Father's Pride (31 page)

Clifford came to the doorway as he heard the din outside. ‘What the Devil . . . ? Why are you so early, man?’ He tucked his nightshirt into his trousers and swore at his
partner-in-crime as the hounds sniffed and licked at him, bashing his legs with their long, spotted tails.

‘The early bird catches the worm, Middleton – or should I say “the fox” in this case? I see you’ve done the deed, so we should be in for a good day’s sport,
and my hounds will get their breakfast. Just look at them: keen as mustard, they can smell the foxes’ blood already.’ Oversby laughed cruelly.

‘Keep your voice down. I don’t want the lad to hear, for he’s fond of the bloody things.’ Clifford pulled on his boots and laced them up as he sat on the garden wall.

‘Going soft in your old age! It must be that pretty thing of a sister-in-law that’s giving you manners. But I hear she’s to marry the Allen lad. Now what’s she doing that
for, when there’s the likes of me still single?’

‘She’d want nowt with you, you old letch. You bat for the wrong side, for a start.’ Clifford knew that Oversby preferred young men; it was well known, but nobody dared say
anything out of turn. Even though it was illegal, Oversby held too much power in high places.

‘Keep your voice down. I’ve always got a good eye for the ladies, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Aye, well, neither do you. What have you brought a spare horse for? It looks as jumpy as a box of frogs – you must only just have broken him in.’ Clifford looked at the
spirited gelding, which pawed the ground, wanting to be away from all the commotion of the hunt.

‘I’ve brought him for you. You could hardly join us on that nag you’ve got; it’s only fit for the knacker’s yard. You’d be at the bottom of your field and
we’d be halfway to Sedbergh. I’ll not have you made the laughing stock of the hunt.’ Oversby hit his leg with his riding crop as he watched Clifford pull on his waistcoat.

‘I wasn’t thinking of coming with you. I don’t have the stomach for blood sports – there’s nowt pleasant about seeing something live pulled apart by another
animal.’ Clifford had no time for the middle classes with their so-called sport, and hunting had never appealed to him.

‘Nonsense, man. It gets the pulses racing, to feel the horse under your thighs and chase the hounds when they know they are near the kill – there’s nothing like it.’
Oversby leaned down from his grey and whispered into Clifford’s ear, ‘Five guineas says I beat this miserable bunch to the kill; and if you do, I’ll double it.’ He leaned
back in the saddle and watched Clifford look around him at the gathering hunt, weighing up whom he could outwit and outride. ‘Aye, my gelding doesn’t look a bad option now, so get
yourself across its back. The hounds have found the trail.’

Clifford looked up towards the back of Grouse Hall. The hounds were baying in delight as they followed the foxes that had been sent up the gill edge and through the trees.

‘Kitty, bring me my crop. I’m off with the hunt,’ he yelled through the open kitchen door, before grabbing hold of the gelding’s reins. Its eyes flashed and steam came
out of its nostrils as Clifford tried to mount the frisky animal.

‘Hold still, you bastard! You’ll not master me – nobody does that.’ Clifford led it to the mounting steps next to the barn and, with his injured arm holding the
animal’s mane and reins, pulled himself onto the back of the edgy horse. ‘Now that I’ve got you, you’ll do as I say.’ He pulled back on the reins, making the bit
unsettle the creature.

‘Just be gentle with the bit, for he’s soft-mouthed. Don’t damage him.’ Oversby was a horse man and, while he wasn’t above tearing fox cubs to pieces, being cruel
to a horse was another matter.

Kitty came running out of the house with the crop in her hand. ‘What are you doing on the back of that animal? You can’t ride that with your bad arm. It looks like the Devil himself
– just look at him flaring his nostrils. Come down, before you hurt yourself.’ Kitty pulled on Clifford’s boot, pleading with him not to be such an idiot.

‘Out of my way, woman, there’s a stake at risk.’ Clifford snatched the crop from Kitty, brushing her aside, and horse and rider dashed out of the yard of Grouse Hall as if the
Devil himself was chasing them. Oversby and the hunt followed, with a few stray hounds baying in their wake.

The horn could be heard loudly and clearly as the party made its way up the gill and over to neighbouring Uldale, with the hounds baying more and more as they got closer to their prey.

Kitty shivered in the sharp, frosty air of the morning; she was still in her nightdress with her shawl wrapped around her. The Devil take the man; he’d never listen to her when that fat,
bloated Oversby was around. She looked up at the spare bedroom window. Through the dirty pane she could see Tobias looking at her. There were tears trickling down his face, for he knew all too well
what had happened to his pet foxes. Damn Oversby; he brought nothing but bother whenever he visited.

Clifford trotted along with the rest of the hunt, next to Oversby and Reg Towler, the head huntsman. He didn’t feel easy with the Lunesdale huntsmen, for they were all of
better stock than him, and he had a feeling they were sneering at him having to be given a decent horse to join them. What did they know? They knew nowt about him, and there were some things he
could tell them about their portly benefactor, Oversby.

Clifford decided to break away from the pack and put his horse into a canter as he followed the baying hounds, with their tails wagging and their noses down to the ground, hard on the trail of
the foxes.

‘Get yourself back here, Middleton,’ Clifford could hear Oversby yelling at him as the hounds packed together at the first sighting of a fox’s white brush.

The race was on to catch the fox, and Clifford was going to win it. He whipped his horse, urging it to go faster, jumping a thicket hedge and nearly making the petrified animal stumble as it
landed awkwardly on the other side.

‘Damn you, get up – we’ve to be first at the kill,’ Clifford shouted in the horse’s ear, as he smiled a wily grin and lay almost flat with the horse. It was
galloping like the wind over the heather, through the sphagnum-moss peat bog and down into the pastures of Uldale. The fox darted in front of the pack, running for its life, its tongue red and
dripping as it tried to outflank the hounds and rider. With a jubilant yell, both horse and hounds went in for the kill. Clifford looked behind him, realizing he was the first man there.

As he spotted his rival, Oversby, he pulled too hard on the reins, making the horse stop in its tracks with pain and fright. Clifford lost his footing in the stirrups, holding on for dear life
as he flew over the horse’s head and landed in front of it in a crumpled mess, his legs bent under him on the grassy slopes that led down to Cautley Spout. The horse bowed its head and
sniffed at him. Sensing death, it whinnied loudly and then, dragging its harness, moved off to graze. The hounds sniffed and dribbled around Clifford, their saliva dripping onto his still body, the
thrill of the fox gone, as the chase came to an end and the three lead hounds tore and argued over the few sinews that were left.

‘Out of my way, you bloody things.’ Oversby jumped off his horse and strode among the gathering hounds with his whip.

‘Is he all right?’ Reg Towler came running up behind him. ‘He rode like a fool.’

‘Aye, well, he’ll not ride like a fool again. The silly bugger has broken his neck.’ Oversby knelt down on one knee and gently closed Clifford’s startled eyes. ‘How
the hell do we tell his wife?’ He ran his fingers through his long, fine grey hair.

‘Well, I’m not telling her, poor bitch. He was your friend, and he broke his neck on your horse, so it’s your job.’ The whipper-in spat and whistled for his dogs, as
Oversby knelt with his head in his hands as he thought about what he had to tell Kitty.

‘At least give me a hand with putting his body over my horse. I’ll walk him back over the fell top.’ The rest of the hunt watched from their horses.

‘Here, grab his arms and I’ll carry his legs.’

Both men lifted the body of Clifford over the saddle of Oversby’s grey mare and caught the skittish gelding that had been to blame for his untimely death.

‘I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, mate. You heard her telling him not to go, and now you fetch him back dead.’

Oversby grabbed both horses’ reins and started walking with a heavy heart back over the fell into Garsdale, with Clifford’s body swaying on the back of his mare.

The rest of the hunt watched until Oversby and his burden were out of sight over the skyline, before sounding the horn to gather the hounds and trot back down the road to Sedbergh. It was still
not yet lunchtime, but any appetite for the day had gone, with the death of Clifford. What fools the two men had been, and it had been no sport chasing a hand-reared fox, no sport at all.

Oversby made his way down the fellside following the gill, with two subdued horses and the body of Clifford. He rehearsed the words he was going to say to Kitty over and over again, and they
still didn’t convey the sentiment he wanted. He hadn’t liked the man – in fact he had thought him a fool. A fool who was parted too easily from his money. But at the end of the
day, he’d spent many a good night at Grouse Hall. His heart sank as he smelled the smoke from the fire burning at Grouse Hall, and heard Kitty shouting for Tobias to come in for his dinner.
He stood for a minute and looked around him. An hour or two earlier he was laughing at his hot-headed friend, and now he was bringing home his corpse. It was no day to die on; the sky was too blue,
the air too sharp, too clear and cold, giving you a zest for life.

He watched as the autumn leaves fell silently to earth through the frost-filled air. They twisted and turned towards the ground, making a mottled carpet of yellow, russet and brown. He wished it
was himself thrown over the back of his saddle. Yes, he had money, but he’d no wife to go home to and, most of all, no son. In fact if he was honest, fool or no fool, Clifford had been the
one true friend who had always been there for him, and now he was gone. The bastard never did know when he was well off. Oversby smiled before whispering, ‘Come on then, let’s do it.
You can’t get out of this one, you old bastard.’

Oversby tied the two horses up outside the barn at Grouse Hall and knocked quietly on the half-open door of the kitchen. He gave a soft cough, and Kitty looked round to see who was standing in
her doorway.

‘So, you two idiots are back, then. I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat. Grown men chasing defenceless creatures – you should have more sense.’ She went to the
pan of potatoes that was boiling on the fire.

‘Kitty, Kitty, I’m sorry. I’ve some bad news . . .’

‘What, Clifford’s lost his bet again. That’s only to be expected.’ She banged two plates down on the kitchen table and picked up the pan of potatoes.

Oversby walked towards her and grabbed her arm, making young Tobias, who was sitting at the table, cower with fear.

‘Listen to me, woman. I’m trying to tell you, your husband’s dead.’ Oversby realized that all his rehearsing had been in vain, as Kitty dropped the pan and screamed.
‘I told him to go easy with it – but you know what he’s like. Sit down, and gather your thoughts.’ He placed his arm around Kitty’s sobbing shoulders and guided her to
the chair next to the fire.

‘How did it happen?’ she sobbed. ‘Let me out, let me go and see him.’ She stood up, her legs nearly buckling beneath her.

‘Stay here and I’ll carry his body into your parlour and lay him on the sofa. You’d better make the lad go upstairs; he’ll not want to see him like he is.’ Oversby
nodded to Tobias, who hadn’t moved from the table.

‘Tobias, go upstairs! Go to your room.’ Kitty nearly screamed the words at the frightened lad. Tobias ran out of the kitchen along the dark passage and up to the front bedroom, where
he peered out of the window, watching Oversby struggling to carry his father’s corpse into Grouse Hall.

‘I didn’t know he was going to be so daft on that horse of mine. It’s frisky at the best of times, but he drove it too hard. The bloody thing has a mind of its own.’

Kitty sobbed over the body of her husband. Clifford had been a bastard and a cad, but in her own way she had loved him. Now she was left on her own in the rambling, damp ruins of Grouse Hall,
with his illegitimate son and no money in the bank.

Tobias crept down the stairs and stood quietly, half-hidden behind the parlour door. He peered at the body of his father lying lifeless on the sofa, and at Kitty wailing, while Oversby tried to
comfort her. He didn’t know whether to cry or not, for he’d always been treated like a dog by his father. But now the day he had dreamed of was here: his father had actually died, and
he was free of the tyrant who had made his life a living hell.

Tobias stood for a moment, watching the scene, and then he ran; he ran as if he had wings on his feet. He had to tell Daisy, she had to know. This was important news and he had to share it with
someone he loved.

‘Tobias, what on earth’s the matter? What are you doing here, and where’s Kitty? Does she know you’re here?’ Daisy put down her darning and placed
her arm around the red-faced and panting lad who had just burst into her home.

Tobias was bent double, trying to catch his breath, and coughing and sputtering as Daisy watched him. ‘He’s dead! Clifford, my father, is dead.’ Tobias tried to catch his
breath as he watched Daisy’s face.

‘Don’t talk silly, Tobias; he’ll not be dead. What makes you say that? You shouldn’t say such things.’ Daisy sat the young lad down and told him to get his
breath.

‘He’s in our parlour on the sofa. He fell off a horse and broke his neck this morning. Oversby and Kitty are with him now.’

‘He can’t be. You are wrong – you’ve heard wrong.’ Daisy shook her head in disbelief.

‘He is! The old sod’s dead; he’ll not hurt me again. It serves him right. He had my foxes killed.’ Tobias realized what the death of Clifford actually meant to him: no
longer would he clipped around the ear every five minutes, or shouted at and left hungry, for his persecutor was dead. And Tobias felt jubilant at his death.