Love and the Loveless (7 page)

The huntsman, lean red face and hawk nose, wore a coat more pink than red with many rubbed-out weather-stains. He sat his grey horse, apart from the pack. The hounds were in a rough circle, squatting on their haunches apart from the riders. Two whippers-in, one of them a boy, in red coats, were guarding them. The hounds looked to be smaller than those he remembered at Rookhurst, and of a uniform pale yellow and white in colour.

“Jim’s hunting the lady pack today. Very fast goin’. Look at their feet, like cats’.” A howl came from beyond a group of
outbuildings
, followed by other bayings. “That’s the dog pack—they know the little bitches are out today. Don’t look so serious. You’ll be all right. I shouldn’t try and take your own line, as you don’t know the country. Follow the rest of the field, most of ’m will go through gates, if you have any doubt about your horse. You know, of course, that hounds always have right of way? Never over-ride ’em. I got cussed good and proper once, by the master, for ridin’ ahead of him.”

A butler, followed by three parlour-maids in dark brown
uniform
dresses and starched white caps with long tabs, came out of the house and went from rider to rider with trays holding glasses. After the serving of sherry there came a double toot on the horn, and to the noises of hooves on gravel the pack moved off, between the whippers-in, following the huntsman. Then the master led the field down an extension of the gravel drive and through two towering rhododendron clumps to an iron gate, held open by an old gardener with dundreary whiskers and felt hat in hand. They were now in the park. To the massed mournful singing of hounds in kennels, and the toot-toot-toot of the horn, the huntsman ahead began to trot, and the field behind, spreading fanwise over the grass, started to bob, shake, and struggle with horse-heads. Steady, Prince, steady! But Prince felt the general excitement, so did the rooks which rose cawing out of the oaks, to flap up and float into the pale sky, now clearing of the lower mists, and revealing patches of blue. The colour exhilarated Phillip, and he wanted to shout, feeling so greatly happy. Here he was, following a famous pack, accompanied by a groom with two spare leathers worn like bandoliers, told off by Hobart to see that he, Phillip Maddison Esquire (since he held His Majesty’s commission) was all right; while just in front All Weather Jack, thick-peaked buff cap with
wide polished leather band set at an angle, was trotting
cavalry-fashion
, not rising up and down in the saddle but sitting out the bumps as though screwed to the saddle. All Weather Jack beckoned Phillip to come beside him.

“We’re going to draw Galton Spinney in the middle of the plough you can see half right through the trees ahead. If there’s a fox there, he’ll probably come out at the far end. Anyway, I’ll show you where we can stand and get a view of both sides of the spinney.”

At the end of the park the field waited, while the huntsman jumped a ditch; and followed by hounds and the flanking whips, entered the ploughed field, which lay in steeply laid furrows, causing the horses to stagger at times. Some of the field were making to the left of the park, where it joined a meadow. Others were jumping the ditch. Hobart said, “Follow me.” He put his horse at the ditch, it gathered itself and sprang over, while he clung like a frog. Feeling that everyone knew he was an amateur, Phillip turned Prince’s head and with indecisive pressure of calves hoped he would get over all right. His horse took him over, he lost an iron, it clanged as Prince galloped after the other horse. He pulled at its mouth, loose on the slippery saddle, somehow got his balance, and kicking his boot into the iron, felt steadier. Prince slowed to a trot beside the horse it had followed.

About a dozen riders waited on a hillock immediately
overlooking
the hedge, and the lines of furrows seeming to converge at the oval spinney four hundred yards distant. Phillip watched hounds running into the trees: almost immediately he saw a fox loping between two furrows, coming towards them. Jack saw it at the same time, and yelled “Tally ho!” and pointed. The fox stopped, crouched down, and slunk off at right angles, crossing the furrows to get away from the rest of the field at the edge of the park. “Tally ho!” yelled many voices, as arms pointed at the fox, which began to race. There were encouraging cries from the huntsman, followed by hounds whimpering excitedly as they streamed out of the spinney. The huntsman took off his cap and scooped them on. When they got the scent of the fox they gave tongue. Huntsman blew short stuttering blasts on his horn, followed by a long note: and repeated the
Gone
Away
twice, the final note being prolonged as though triumphantly.

Black Prince, said Jack afterwards, had evidently been hunted before. Fighting for its head, the gelding went off at a gallop. Cries of ‘Hold your horse!’ were heard in desperation by its
rider, or passenger, who found himself most insecure as he pulled the reins, the effort causing him to push against the irons, which extended on the leathers at an angle of almost forty five degrees to the vertical, while he tried to balance on the base of his spine. Before him was a cut-and-laid hedge, on the farther side a ditch, and then grazing, details of which he saw clearly and
impersonally
as he went down face first, slowly. Without apprehension, as though it was happening apart from himself, he met the earth, harmlessly, while about him legs and bellies of horses were descending. When he got on his feet he saw riders cantering away.

“Are you all right?” asked Jack, who had turned back. “Good man! Hart will catch your ’oss.”

Phillip was soon remounted and going across the meadow, and through a gate into a ploughed field, the headland of which was still stubble. Three hundred yards off he saw riders jumping a hedge. Throw your heart over first, he remembered the riding instructor saying. Hotly he held back Prince to a canter, and let him have his head two lengths from the thorn-setts. Leaning forward with hands held low by the pommel he found, to his surprise, that he was over; and with exultation followed the hoof-marks across furrows. Another fence in front, this one tall, with several years’ growth sticking up blackly with thorns. Crikey, he thought: it was six feet high, though thin on the two top feet. Some of the horses in front were refusing. When he got up he saw, and heard, All Weather Jack crashing his way through, thorns scratching on leather. Give Prince his head, lean forward and low, lean forward, shut eyes, toes in. “UP, Prince!” Lean back, you fool, down, down, Prince stumbling. Hold up his head! Good boy, Prince! He galloped after the half-dozen in front. Wonderful, wonderful! Clods of earth flying from hooves in front; then sudden checkings, horses reined back. “’Ware wire! ’Ware wire!”

“’Ware wire!” he called over his shoulder, to the groom, alone following. They cantered down field, to a gate at the far corner. Beyond, he galloped down a sloping grassy field to catch up with Jack.

From the rise he saw hounds and pink coats a quarter of a mile away, running strongly; while above the meadow an aeroplane was circling.

There was a brook at the bottom of the valley. The thrusters flew this, he saw, while others turned off to a crossing place for
bullocks made of railway sleepers packed with earth, where the fox had run. He hesitated: indecision tore him: desperately he decided to follow the thrusters, who were now going hard over the meadow beyond.

The aeroplane was now banking over his head. Looking up, he saw two faces. A hand waved. It was a Maurice Farman. It came down to about a hundred feet, and making a slight banking turn, headed diagonally over the meadow. He saw that hounds had also changed direction, having turned right handed; while in front the thrusters were holding back their horses. Now for it! He cantered in a semi-circle, then put Prince at the brook. Prince nearly fell at the far bank, but got up with plunging leaps, while he hung on somehow. Over anyway, water and black ooze on boots and breeches. Then seeing that the thrusters had stopped, he stopped too. A fox was running across their front two hundred yards away. Had it come back, or was it another fox? The aeroplane banked low over it. He saw the fox look up, then head towards the group of horsemen, then hesitate, before turning into a bed of rushes. Meanwhile hounds were running back, in a loop. When they came up the huntsman cheered them on. He saw, as the Farman turned over them again, the fox creeping out of a clump not fifty yards away. Cries of “Tally ho!” and yarring cries came from the group near him. He wished they could have given the fox a chance. A hound circling the clump saw it, and running round, met the fox head on. The fox stopped and looked about, then tried to run away. Its brush dragged with mud. The fox turned to meet the hound, which seized it and shook it, snarling, struggling with it while the rest of the pack came up. There was deep growling like a barrage heard some way off. Then it was over. The dismounted whips were crying to the hounds, cracking their lashes while the huntsman went among them, and bending down, lifted up the limp fox and carried it away, while the whippers-in kept hounds in a circle.

The huntsman knelt to cut off head, brush, and paws. The aeroplane passed very low overhead and made a bumpy landing two hundred yards away. Out jumped two men in leather helmets and coats, and walking forward, were greeted by the master.

“I hope we didn’t head the fox, Master,” Phillip heard one say. He was a captain with R.F.C. wings.

“Not at all! Very sporting effort!”

The head, or mask, was given to a lady; the brush to someone else; and a pad each to the flyers, who said they had come from Lincoln. Then the carcase, borne aloft by the huntsman, was flung to the pack, during which the Master blew his horn and everyone gave a sort of mad screaming cheer. Anyway, Phillip thought, the fox had taken many birds and rabbits, and now had copped it. He drank port from Jack’s parsnip-shaped crystal flask, taken from a leather container strapped to his saddle, and ate a pork sandwich. After which they set off to draw another covert. When he tried to mount, Phillip felt his legs to be sloppy, as though they had been taken off and stretched, and put back in not quite the same way as before.

Soon it began to rain, and the afternoon went dull. Scent having failed, the huntsman blew four slow looping notes. It was the end. Phillip and Jack emptied the port flask, then hacked back to the house. Tea was waiting for them. There was a jolly party around a table, with whiskeys and sodas, as soon as tea was finished, and cigars.

“What about Fenwick? Aren’t you meeting him somewhere?”

“Yes, in Sleaford, in the market square, at five.”

“It’s past that now. I’ll run you there. My ’bus is outside. We’ll say goodbye to our host and hostess, shall we? Good show you put up today, Phil.”

“All thanks to you, Jack.”

“A pleasure, my dear fellow. Here we are.”

They said goodbye, and went out into darkness. The Mercédès stood in the rain, covered by a sort of tarpaulin. How nice to have a servant like that, thought Phillip, to bring your car to you. Jack asked the driver if he had had tea, to be told yes, Mr. Deane had looked after him well. What a fine world it was, when the butler looked after visiting servants, while their master looked after their friends in the house. Everything was done so easily, everything fitting into place. What a bore he had arranged to meet Fenwick, so different from the people with whom he had spent the day. Still, as Jack had said, it was not the thing to disappoint others.

They were soon into Sleaford. A somewhat dour Fenwick, wearing sodden leather helmet with straps loose and dripping rain, was standing by a horse trough, in the dim light of a lamp-post. The Matchless motorbike and sidecar stood near.

“Thought you were never comin’,” he remarked, when Captain Hobart had driven away. “I’ve been out five times to look
for you. My friends have kept back tea; still, better late than never.”

“I thought you were going to see your friends, and then we were going to play billiards afterwards.”

“Aye, thet’s the idea. I’ve got to know two bonnie lassies, if you don’t object to female company?”

“Not at all, if they play billiards!” said Phillip, facetiously.

“Aye, thet they do! Reet well! Let’s get out o’ t’ mirk.”

He led the way to a small pub down a side-street. Harry Lauder Bonnie Lassies somehow didn’t go with knocking on a side-door in a dark alley. What sort of place was it? Very soon he was glad that he had not blurted out his thoughts. The place within was clean and well-kept, the people simple and homely, with two daughters. After tea they made up a
four-handed
game of billiards. One partnered him, but he was a rabbit, and lost the game to Fenwick, who was an expert, and his partner. He saw with some relief that the girls drank only ginger beer, while he and Fenwick had hot Irish whiskies with lemon and sugar, and glass rods to stir the steaming concoction.

After some rather thumpy music at a piano in another room, they had supper of gammon and spinach, followed by apple pudding and cream. Long before this Phillip had taken a liking to Fenwick, who was not, as at first he had imagined, a rough character, but a simple, honest-to-God decent bloke. Darky seemed to be quite keen on the elder girl, whom he had met a month before through asking a Sleaford policeman where he could get a quiet game of billiards. He explained that he wanted to keep in form, for his Oddfellows Lodge championship after the war, but didn’t want any posh hotel, only a nice quiet place, homely like. The policeman had recommended the local Oddfellows Lodge, headquarters at the Silk Inn, “and here I am”, said Fenwick, with quiet triumph, as he looked at the plump red shining face beside him. “Eh, lass?” She glowed with pleasure, so did the face of her father, coming in from the bar with two more steaming Irish whiskies.

On the way home, driving into the darkness of the flat and lonely countryside, Fenwick said, “What did you think of my lass?”

“Jolly nice,
mein
prächtig
kerl!”

“Aiy, ah’m reet glad to hear you think she’s bonny.”

The two-cylinder engine clattered past trees spectral beside the beam of the acetylene lamp. After some minutes he said,
“You won’t tell any of the lads aught about the Silk, will you? I mean, I don’t want anyone else to come sniffin’ around the Silk Inn!”