Animal Instincts

by Alan Titchmarsh

  The path that had once seemed so obvious was now as obscure as the view through the thicket of gorse that caught at his jacket and filled his head with the scent of coconut.

  Maybe soon the way through the woods would become clearer.

  The farrier was satisfied that both Allardyce and Seltzer were fine in the hoof department, and the vet, dropping in for coffee on his way to another patient, had complimented the Master of Fox Hounds on the overall health of his beasts. It was a state of affairs that left Roly Billings-Gore in good heart. In two days’ time the meet would set off from Baddesley Court and he’d have two fit and healthy mounts. He patted Allardyce’s neck, thrust a Polo mint into his mouth on a flattened hand, and went off to do the same for Seltzer.

  “Uncle Roly!” He turned to see Jinty walking towards him with a numnah and a saddle over her arm. She looked troubled. “Are you riding today?”

  “Ah. No. Into town. Man to see about the lead on the roof.”

  “Oh.”

  He looked at her questioningly. Roly might have been everyone’s idea of an unworldly country colonel, but his observational powers were as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Mmm?” Jinty had opened the door of Seltzer’s stable and was beginning to tack him up.

  “You look . . . er, preoccupied.”

  Jinty looked around and smiled at him. “Sorry. Just a lot to think about that’s all.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. Nothing else.” She fastened the girth around Seltzer’s belly, checked the length of the stirrup leathers and led the horse out of the stable into the yard before mounting “I’ll take Seltzer out now, then come back for Allardyce. Sally’s taking Boherhue Boy out this afternoon.”

  “Jolly good. He’s looking fighting fit.”

  “Yes, he’s a fine boy, aren’t you, Seltzer?” She leaned down and patted the horse’s neck. “See you later. Have fun with the lead man.”

  Roly watched her go. He could not put his finger on it, but there was something strange about the girl. She didn’t seem herself at all. Not unhappy, quite the reverse, but certainly distracted. He strolled across the yard and offered the remains of the Polos to Norman and Patsy before reluctantly shambling off towards the house.

  Jinty walked the horse down the drive of Baddesley Court and turned left for a few hundred yards along the Salcombe Road before leaving the thoroughfare and turning down a lane. Flecks of green were beginning to speckle the plum-purple twigs of hawthorn. She urged Seltzer into a trot and felt the fresh morning air biting into her lungs. Images from the night before swam in her head. She could see him standing in front of her, feel his breath again, smell his skin. She had enjoyed making love to other men, but last night. . . . And yet he was talking about selling up and leaving. How could he even think about that when they were so good together?

  Seltzer blew loudly and flared his nostrils, then tossed his head.

  “All right, you can have a run in a minute. Hang on.” The pair trotted on down the lane in the direction of the sea towards a field with a wide track where she knew she could let him have his head.

  Kit had left her feeling alive with passion.

  “Ohhh!” she cried. “What to do?” The horse shook his head again and his tack jingled. “It’s all right for you,” she exclaimed, through her deepening breaths. “You’re cut out to be a bachelor. Simple for you. You can look all you like but you can’t touch.” Then she thought about what she had said, and remembered, again, the closeness of the night before. “Sorry, old boy. Not fair, is it? Just not fair.”

  At the end of the lane the road petered out under an old oak tree, and a gap in the fence led on to a farm track alongside a field of winter barley, whose green shoots perforated the damp brown earth. She turned Seltzer on to the track, squeezed with her legs, pushed her heels down and let him go.

  Seltzer needed no encouragement. She slackened the reins and let him fly. As he got into his stride, she felt the adrenaline rising within her, felt the air rushing past her ears and the thrill of the gallop. The ground began to slope upwards but the horse powered on. She felt the sinew and muscle beneath her, could hear the rhythmic pounding of hoofs on firm ground, and as always felt elated.

  Carefully she steered him around obstacles – a fallen branch, a pothole in the track – taking firm but gentle action with her knees and her hands. Seltzer, for all his speed and power, seemed to listen to her unspoken instructions while he careered on at full tilt.

  The ground began to even out now and Seltzer slowed to a canter, blowing hard. Jinty was panting too: the horse might have done the bulk of the work, but she had expended a great deal of energy in staying aloft and guiding him across the uneven ground. By a hedge at the top of the field she pulled him up and patted his neck. Her cheeks were flushed with the exertion of the ride. She laughed and ruffled Seltzer’s mane, as a thought came to her. “You’re almost as good as he is, but not quite,” she assured him.

  Kit’s sense of purpose was no better defined than Jinty’s. He spent the morning walking the reserve, reacquainting himself with the lie of the land, and looking over the fields that were let to Arthur Maidment. They were well tended, but Rupert Lavery would not have left his land in the charge of a slack farmer. Much of the land was given over to pasture, on which grazed flocks of Devon Closewool sheep. Kit watched as the lambs nudged and fought for their mothers’ milk, their tails shaking like catkins in the breeze.

  Other fields grew turnips, but there was one, in a sheltered hollow, in which rows of women were bent double. Kit walked along the wire stock fence that led towards this sheltered patch of land, and saw that they were cutting daffodils. Among the glaucous blue-grey spears of foliage, the acid yellow buds sat plump and firm in their papery sheaths. The women worked deftly, slicing through each stalk with a knife, bundling the flowers together with elastic bands and dropping them into trays, which were carried to a trailer in the far corner of the field. Devon daffodils. Kit wondered what the field would look like if they had been allowed to flower where they stood, and turn the blue-green sea of foliage into a cloth of gold.

  His reverie was broken by the voice of Arthur Maidment. He had come up behind Kit, having walked along the other side of the fence.

  “Nice sight, eh?”

  Kit started. “What? Oh, yes – sorry. You made me jump.”

  Maidment carried on. “Want to grow more of ’em next year. Thinkin’ of turnin’ that field over to ’em as well.”

  “I see.”

  “You any nearer decidin’ what to do?” Arthur Maidment was not a likely candidate for Diplomat of the Year. Having spent a lifetime refining his brusque approach, he now had it honed to perfection in the manner of a well-sharpened machete. “I shall need to know soon.”

  “Yes.” Kit was unwilling to share his knowledge with Maidment until the time came when he had to. To tell him now that he was unlikely to be able to buy the land might be burning his boats prematurely. He would play his cards close to his chest. Neither did he want Maidment informing the rest of the village as to what was about to happen. “You’ll know as soon as I do, but there’s a lot to sort out yet, I’m afraid.”

  “Lease is up soon, you know.”

  “Yes, you said when we last met.”

  Under Kit’s direct gaze, Maidment shuffled off, grumbling gently under his breath.

  Kit climbed the hill towards the farmhouse and reflected on the size of his inheritance-tax bill. If he managed to sell the farm and nature reserve for the sum intimated by the estate agent, he would have enough for his stud. But somehow his heart wasn’t in it any more.

  He used a wheelbarrow to take the headstone to the grave, which somehow seemed fitting. It was not a large piece of granite – barely two and a half feet by eighteen inches. Perhaps its size and the brevity of the inscription were the reason why it had been completed so quickly by the monumental mason in Lynchampton. Or perhaps the man had got on wel
l with Rupert and didn’t want to keep him waiting.

  Kit did not tell Jess and Elizabeth that it had arrived. He wanted to perform this particular ceremony on his own. He pushed the unevenly balanced barrow down towards the Spinney; the two women were cutting down hazel coppice in the Wilderness and would not see him.

  As he neared the grave he lowered the front of the barrow gently, and let the granite slab slide on to the soft grass, along with the spade. The patchwork of turf that covered the low burial mound would soon knit together, dampened by spring rain. He dug out a narrow trench at the head of the grave, then walked the stone towards it, slid in the base and heaved it upright. He eyed it to make sure it looked reasonably level, then pushed the stony earth back around the base with his foot and firmed it with his heel. With his hands he scrabbled around in the soil, levelling it and removing any large stones until, finally satisfied with his work, he stood up and looked at the stone and the legend it bore:

  RUPERT LAVERY

  1938–2000

  WHO MADE

  HEAVEN ON EARTH

  He had not intended to have anything except his father’s name and dates carved on the stone, but Elizabeth’s words, read so quietly at the graveside, seemed almost to have written themselves into it.

  He stood for several minutes, then turned and looked in the direction the stone faced. The sun was needling its way in one narrow shaft of brilliance through a dense welter of cloud to highlight the crinkled waves below.

  Even the weather seemed to behave appropriately for his father. He turned back to the stone, which was no longer bare and grey. It was decorated at one corner with a splash of bright yellow. The first brimstone butterfly, woken from its winter hibernation by the warm Devon air, had settled to bask in the sunshine.

  Kit watched as it batted its fragile sulphur wings to and fro, before fluttering off over the turf and away towards the Spinney. His father was no longer the master of all he surveyed; he was now just part of the scenery. Kit smiled to himself. Rupert would have liked that.

  Chapter 14: Devil’s Bit

  (Succisa pratensis)

  “Come ’ere, you daft bugger!” Titus Ormonroyd was out walking with Nell, while his horses, Mabel and Floss, and the hounds were left in the care of Becky, the kennelmaid. Titus was glad of a break. His tattered Barbour flapped in the breeze as he breasted the top of the cliff, and he held tight to his greasy tweed cap with one hand and his shepherd’s crook with the other as Nell bounded ahead of him in search of rabbits.

  He whistled, a short, piercing blast, and the dog turned at the cliff edge and came bounding back to him.

  “You come over ’ere, come on. Stay away from that edge.”

  The dog, her bright pink tongue hanging from the side of her mouth, jumped up at his leg in response, but Titus met her nose with the flat of his hand and a stern “No!” Nell, now wearing a crestfallen expression, put her tail between her legs and looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.

  “Aw, don’t look at me like that. You’re not to jump up, right?”

  Nell, sensing a breakthrough in the sympathy stakes, wagged her tail slowly and put her head down at his feet. Titus bent to stroke her and she rolled over on her back, her legs in the air and her paws folded in submission.

  “You little tart – I should’ve called you Fanny, not Nell.” He tickled the dog under the chin. “Come on!” The dog rolled over and on to her feet, then shot on ahead of him. It would be a few months yet before she was well trained enough to stay to heel and would not need to be put on the lead at any sign of a distraction.

  Titus looked at his watch and at the darkening sky. A quarter to four. It would probably be raining by six. Time he turned back.

  Jinty was tired. Having given Seltzer a good run for his money in the morning, she had gone out on Allardyce in the middle of the afternoon. Most days she could manage the two of them quite happily, but the activities of the night before had left her lacking her usual energy. As she walked the horse along the firm sand of the beach, her thoughts turned to Kit. Would he call her tonight? Should she call him? They had left each other without making any arrangements. It had not seemed necessary. But now she wondered what would happen. Where did they go from here?

  Allardyce showed his impatience with the dull ride and yanked at the reins. Jinty read his thoughts. “Just a short one today, old lad.”

  Allardyce strolled on, nodding, seemingly picking up the vibes from his rider.

  “Go on, then. We’ll have a quick burst.” The horse sensed the instruction through her body, and she hardly needed to move her limbs to have him bounding forward across the long, firm arc of sand that stretched around the bay. The tide was out, having left in its wake a wide crescent of fudge-coloured racetrack that Allardyce was only too happy to make use of.

  As the beach buzzed by, Jinty relaxed her legs and allowed Allardyce to slow to a steady canter, then into a walk as she turned him up on to the narrow, sandy track that led through the lower dunes to the cliff-top.

  She did not see the dog running towards them – it was lost in the clumps of marram grass on the dunes – but Allardyce, normally well used to hounds, was startled by the sudden yapping at his hoofs. He whinnied and reared. Jinty fought hard to keep her balance and stayed in the saddle, only to have Allardyce turn in a half-circle and shoot off towards the steep cliff-path ahead.

  She struggled to hold him back, pulling alternately at the left and right rein, but Allardyce was having none of it: with the wind up his tail he bounded up the path like a mountain goat, trying to plant his hoofs among the rocks that speckled its flinty surface.

  Titus, whose head had risen above the long grass, took in the scene at once and yelled at his dog. Nell, panicked by the fleeing horse, was only too willing to return to her master, skittering across the loose sand in the direction of his voice.

  Jinty fought for control, trying to pacify Allardyce with her voice, which would only come out in stertorous bursts. “Steady, steady’.” she gasped, as the horse clambered higher and higher. The beach had receded below them now, but the horse showed no sign of slowing down.

  Titus stood among the dunes below and stared anxiously as horse and rider scaled the cliff-path. His heart thundered in his chest as he watched Jinty endeavour to control her mount.

  Gradually, the steep path began to flatten out, and the horse slowed a little. “Yes . . . yes . . . there’s a good boy . . . Gently, gently . . .” Allardyce’s pace was finally slackening and Jinty was succeeding in reining him in – until the horses’s right foreleg struck a rabbit hole.

  His head went down, his shoulder followed and Jinty was over his head, bouncing down the cliff like a rag doll.

  On his return to the farmhouse a postcard was waiting for Kit. It was propped up on his father’s desk against the pot of pencils. He bent down to look at the picture. It was the rear view of a couple of naked men standing on a stretch of white, sandy beach. ‘Australian Beach Bums’ was the caption. He smiled and turned over the card.

  Just a line to remind you of home. Bloody hot here but not complaining. Wackatee’s colt is coming on well. It’s taken us ages to name him but we’ve called him Sundance because that’s what he seems to do. Went to the Johnsons’ for supper. Great fun. Marcus is a good laugh and cheering me up. Wish you were coming back soon. Missing you and looking forward to hearing from you. Lots of love, Heath X

  He turned the card over again and looked at the picture. Marcus Johnson was obviously doing his bit. He felt a pricking of jealousy, then chastised himself for his own misdemeanors. And anyway, Marcus had always had a soft spot for Heather, but she’d made it plain that he was not her type. So far, at least. He slipped the card into one of the pigeon-holes in the desk and did his best to forget about it before he showered and went downstairs to make himself some supper.

  He sat at the kitchen table with a plate of cheese on toast and a mug of tea, wondering whether he should call Jinty, or whether he should leave it for a day
.

  Perhaps if he appeared too keen he would frighten her off. But, then, she had seemed as carried away as he had the previous evening. Surely she would be waiting for him to call.

  He rang Baddesley Court, but there was no answer. Odd. Usually Mrs Flanders was there even if everyone else was out. He shrugged and hung up.

  An hour later he left the house to go and call on her. He couldn’t believe she wouldn’t want to see him and wondered why the telephone remained unanswered. As he drove up the drive of Baddesley Court he saw the Billings-Gores’ car draw to a halt outside the front door. Roly got out and glanced at the approaching vehicle. It was then that Kit realised something was wrong. Roly’s face was drained of all colour and his expression was one of profound despair. Charlotte remained in the front seat, her head in her hands.

  Kit stood at the foot of the hospital bed, trying to equate the prone, battered figure with the beautiful girl he had held in his arms. All feeling seemed to have left him, except for one of overriding concern for her life.