Animal Instincts

by Alan Titchmarsh

  He tossed the auction catalogue into the wastepaper basket beneath the desk, and went off for a breath of fresh air.

  He headed for the cliff-top, where the sharp breeze of the afternoon would pump some air into his lungs. He was scrambling down the bank when he saw her climbing up the path along the side of the Yar with a small cage in her hand. Kit approached her with curiosity. She seemed startled to see him, and blushed when he hailed her. “What are you doing?”

  “Just sorting out this little feller.”

  Kit looked into the cage Jess carried in her right hand. It contained a grey squirrel, darting wildly from one side to the other.

  “How are you sorting him out?”

  “Taking him somewhere where he can’t do any harm. Grey squirrels compete with red squirrels and they always win.”

  “Why?”

  It struck her that his questioning was like that of a small child, so she answered him patiently. “No one really knows.”

  “How did Dad manage to get the red squirrel going here?”

  “He started with captive-bred animals and encouraged them to breed.”

  “By keeping out the grey squirrels?”

  “That helped – and a good mixture of trees, broadleaves and conifers.”

  “But don’t the greys just come back in?”

  Jess was warming to her subject and he could see the passion in her eyes. “The reserve is like an island. If you look at all the fields around it there’s not much cover, so once we’d got rid of all the greys in the Wilderness and the Spinney we could just trap any others that found their way in. Like this one.” She held up the cage and looked at the bushy-tailed rodent it contained.

  “What will you do with him?”

  “I’ve got a mate who lives in Kent. Just bung him in a travelling-box and send him there on a train and she’ll release him in her local wood.”

  “Why not just . . . despatch him?” He realised the folly of his question the moment it had left his lips. “Sorry. Didn’t think. But isn’t it a bit irresponsible adding to your mate’s problems?”

  “One or two more won’t make a difference in her part of the world. Greys have been in this country since 1876 – hardly likely to make much difference now.”

  “Are there red squirrels anywhere else?”

  “Not around here. A few on islands in Poole Harbour, and on the Isle of Wight, but nowhere else in the south. It’s only in Wales and further north that they’re still hanging on. And now here.”

  “How many do you reckon?”

  She thought for a moment. “Maybe a couple of dozen. Maybe more.”

  He looked at her and marvelled anew at how she had changed in appearance over the past few weeks. And the shy girl who had peered at him from behind the curtain of the farmhouse window when he had first arrived, had opened up. She also seemed to be speaking to him again after the recent silence due, most probably, to his liaison with a member of the foxhunting fraternity. He had no idea what had brought about such changes in her.

  Jess shot him a quick smile. “Got to get on. Send this one on his holidays. See you at supper.”

  “Er . . . not tonight. I’m out.”

  She didn’t turn round, but kept climbing up the bank towards the farmhouse.

  As the light faded and the lumbering grey clouds ambled in from the sea Kit walked on towards the Wilderness. Large spots of rain started to fall, hitting his waterproof with distinct splats. His hair began to flatten against his head, and he felt the water trickling down his face. He walked on, turning back only when dusk fell and he was saturated yet freshened by the shower.

  Jinty lay on her bed, watching the shadows merge into darkness as the sun set. All afternoon she had dozed on and off, while visions of Kit, Allardyce and Seltzer had pranced about her head. It was a relief to hear household sounds, rather than those of a hospital ward and, in spite of her frustration at not being up and about, she had been relaxed enough to stay in bed and let natural recovery take its course. Soon she would be better. Soon Kit would be taking her out again and she could feel again the thrill of the chase.

  She propped herself up on a couple of pillows, anticipating Kit’s later arrival. She thought about their night of love-making with warm pleasure, and wondered when she would feel up to it again. Looking down at her wounded limbs she sighed and shook her head, then closed her eyes and dreamed again of the man who had turned her life upside down. If only she had not had to put her body through the same sort of somersault. But it was worth it, she hoped.

  She eased her bruised hip so that her weight no longer rested on it, and drifted again into the half-way house between waking and sleeping, wondering how long it would be before he opened the door and smiled his smile.

  Mrs Flanders worked away in the kitchen, relieved that once more the household was eating. As she trimmed away the pastry around the apple pie, she mused on the developing relationship between Jinty and young Kit Lavery. How long would this one last, she wondered. She popped the pie into the top oven of the Aga. Here we go again, she thought. Miss Jinty had seemed to have an unfailing knack for choosing the wrong man, but perhaps this time things would be different.

  Chapter 20: Blind Eyes

  (Papaver rhoeas)

  “The one thing I can’t understand is why your father didn’t make over everything to you several years ago.” Charlotte was picking delicately at a piece of Stilton and a Bath Oliver while Roly dispensed the port. The four of them – Roly, Charlotte, Jinty and Kit – sat around the gleaming mahogany dining-table in the library at Baddesley Court, putting away the last of Mrs Flanders’s huge supper. “That way all this bother over inheritance tax could have been avoided.”

  “That would have been too simple,” Kit replied. “Dad felt that everyone should make their own way in the world. If he’d left me featherbedded he wouldn’t have made sure that I got out there and got stuck in.”

  Charlotte warmed to her subject. “But didn’t his father leave him the farm?”

  “Yes, but under exactly the same circumstances.”

  “Well, I think it’s surprisingly ill thought-out.”

  Roly grunted. “Mmm. Not really.” He put down his glass of port.

  “Sorry, dear?”

  “Offers a child a sort of freedom, what?”

  “Hardly freedom being stuck with all this to sort out,” offered Charlotte.

  “No. Roly’s right. If Dad had left the place to me in trust, I’d have been honour-bound to carry it on.”

  “And isn’t that what he wanted?”

  “Oh, yes, but he wouldn’t force his own convictions on to me.”

  Charlotte looked at him as though he’d lost his marbles. “Sometimes I wonder about your father . . .”

  Jinty said quietly, “I think I see what you mean. By not making West Yarmouth over to you in trust, he gave you the choice of staying or not staying. He left you free to lead your own life.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who’ll buy?” enquired Charlotte, taking a sip of her port.

  “Well, I think I’ve found someone. Or, rather, the estate agent has.”

  She leaned forward. “Really? Who?”

  “I don’t know. Some guy who works abroad a lot. Keen to buy the place without even setting eyes on it. At least he’ll have to keep it as a nature reserve now that Elizabeth has stuck her oar in.”

  “Mmm? What?” Roly raised an eyebrow.

  “Had a visit from English Nature. She wants them to declare the place a Site of Special Scientific Interest.”

  “Ah. Mmm. Could affect the price.”

  “I don’t much mind that. I’m all for Dad’s work being recognised, and if the reserve were declared an SSSI that would do the trick. I just wish she hadn’t gone over my head.”

  “And is your buyer, ah, keen?”

  “I don’t know. The estate agent says he wants to keep it as a reserve–”

  “He’ll have to now,” interrupted Roly.


  “– but more information than that I don’t have.”

  Jinty’s eyes sparkled. “What a mystery!”

  Kit looked at her, sitting at the table with a thick knitted sweater draped over her shoulders, her patchy hair held back with clips. His heart missed a beat.

  “ ‘Mystery Man Buys Devon Nature Reserve’ – I can see the headlines now. Probably going to turn it into a theme park when nobody’s looking.”

  “Not if it’s an SSSI,” said Roly seriously.

  Charlotte looked across to Jinty. “I think you’re beginning to feel better.”

  The commotion outside the door distracted them, and they turned to see Mrs Flanders entering with a tray of coffee and two yapping dogs.

  “Lancelot! Bedivere! Come here!” Charlotte patted her leg and the two balls of fluff bundled over in a yapping scrummage to tug at the leather tassels on her shoes. “Stop it! Come on, now, lie down.”

  Kit looked across at Jinty, who fought bravely to suppress her laughter. Charlotte caught her eye. “You’re not to laugh. They have to be disciplined.”

  Roly coughed and looked at her sternly.

  “Yes, dear, I know. But I do try, and they’re such lovely boys – aren’t you?” She bent down as the two dogs rolled on to their backs in a paroxysm of pleasure. “They just like their mummy to tickle their tummies, don’t they?”

  Jinty’s eyes rolled heavenward, and at the same time she rose from the table and walked over to the fire, nodding at Kit to join her. Roly and Charlotte remained at the table – Roly to finish his cheese and Charlotte to dispense motherly love.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “A bit better. Must be Mrs Flanders’s cooking. I think I’m actually beginning to wake up. Feel a bit bruised, though – aches and pains.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I might go out tomorrow.”

  “Isn’t that a bit soon?”

  “Oh, I could do with some fresh air.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Follow the hunt.”

  Kit looked stunned. “You’re mad!”

  Jinty grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll only go to the meet. I won’t follow them for more than a couple of hundred yards. I’d just like to see a horse or two, that’s all.”

  “Well, you be careful – one bash on that arm and you’ll be back where you started.”

  “Yes, Nurse!”

  Kit frowned at her.

  “I was wondering . . .” she said “. . . would you come with me?”

  “To the hunt?”

  She nodded.

  “I’d rather not.” He hesitated. “Would you mind?”

  Jinty looked crestfallen. “And I thought you’d do anything for me.”

  “I would. I will. But it’s just that . . .” There was a frightened look on his face that surprised her. Then he brightened and spoke with mock gravitas: “Do you realise it’s more than my life’s worth even to associate with you? If I go to the meet I’ll probably be excommunicated. I mean, you’re talking to the owner of a nature reserve here.”

  “And a potential Site of Special Scientific Interest.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Kit sipped at his coffee.

  “Do you think I’m a Site of Special Scientific Interest?” whispered Jinty.

  Kit spluttered into his cup and, as Charlotte and Roly looked up, he cleared his throat and replied, softly, “It’s not the Scientific bit that interests me.”

  “You sure you wouldn’t like to come upstairs for a quick site inspection?”

  Kit’s eyes gleamed. “You really are feeling better, aren’t you.”

  “Maybe another day. Still a bit battered for that. But I just wanted to see if the interest was still there.”

  He looked at her fresh-scrubbed face. “Oh, it’s still there.”

  “So what about tomorrow, then?”

  “Mmmm?” He was lost in thought now.

  “The hunt. Will you come?”

  The troubled look again.

  “Of course, if you’re not that bothered about being with me . . .” Jinty added.

  “Yes. Of course I’ll come.”

  She smiled triumphantly.

  “Just promise me you won’t tell Mesdames Punch and Wetherby,” Kit begged.

  She looked him in the eye with all the sternness of a schoolmistress. “There’s about as much chance of me telling them that their lord and master went to the meet as there is of Charlotte leaving all her money to the Cats’ Protection League.”

  He kissed her forehead lightly and whispered, “I’m having such a problem with you.”

  She looked at him steadily. “Good.”

  That night he lay awake for more than an hour before drifting off to sleep. His head swam with problems and pleasures. Who was the mystery man, Bickerstaffe? He would make enquiries. It was time he knew a bit more about him.

  Chapter 21: Fox and Hounds

  (Linaria vulgaris)

  Kit rose early – earlier even than Elizabeth – and opened his curtains to discover a clear, dry day. At least they’d not get a soaking. The sun was nudging up behind a distant clump of oak trees; a robin busied itself ferrying nest material into the cloak of ivy on the wall beneath his window, and a blackbird sped off in the direction of a thick hedge, its alarm call cutting through the still morning air like a cleaver.

  Kit went to the bathroom to shower and shave, and then came back and stood in front of his father’s wardrobe looking for something suitable to wear for the hunt. The prospect filled him with fear and made him feel guilty – even guilty at wearing his father’s clothes. What did one wear to hounds? Tweed plus-fours and a check jacket, he supposed. But there was no way he was leaving the house in that sort of get-up. He caught sight of himself, naked, in the full-length mirror of the wardrobe door. His body was still lean and fit, but the tan was fading fast – soon he would be the same pasty colour as his new countrymen. He turned away and took from the chest of drawers a new pair of Levi’s 501s and a chunky knitted sweater he had bought in Totnes. Then he studied himself again in the mirror – not exactly the landed country gent, but comfortable at least. He closed the door of the tall oak wardrobe, and tiptoed down to the kitchen in his stockinged feet.

  He sawed a thick slice off a loaf of bread, buttered it generously and spread it with marmalade, then made himself a cup of coffee, being careful to take the kettle off the stove before it whistled. Perched on the kitchen table, he ate his makeshift breakfast.

  At six thirty he pulled on his father’s old Barbour and wellies, and slipped out of the back door and across the orchard.

  Jess watched him go from her bedroom window, the bed covers pulled up around her ears. When he was out of sight she rose and got dressed, ready to begin another day.

  The meet was scheduled for noon at Lynchampton House, home of Major Watson who had taken on the role of Master for the rest of the season.

  Kit had arranged to meet Jinty at Baddesley Court at ten, but until then he’d have to kill time. He was cheered by the prospect of a walk along the cliffs – a three-hour tramp to shake off the torpor induced by lack of regular exercise and lack of purpose.

  He took the westward cliff-path, striding out across the dense, tufted grass, peppered with rabbit droppings, until he came to the rugged finger of rock called Grappa Point. The wind freshened and he looked down the sheer cliff-face to the tooth-like rocks below, watching as rolling breakers smashed into a million droplets of spray, before draping the granite with a veil of rainbow mist.

  He inhaled deeply, drawing in the salty air as though it were an opiate. Gulls wheeled around the rock, bickering with one another, erupting into a cacophony of sharp cackles, then gliding off once more on the back of the sea breeze.

  Nesting gannets occupied the perilous cavities of Grappa Point’s towering pinnacles, clinging determinedly to their footholds and seeing off all attackers who tried to invade their territory. The noise of the colony was deafening as,
time and again, marauding rivals were repulsed with sword-like bills and fearsome battle cries.

  Kit walked on for more than an hour, passing Mr Maidment’s Pennypot Farm, an untidy cluster of buildings nestling in a shallow dip in the land, and eventually striking inland towards the village of Lynchampton, the spire of its church pushing up in a slender pyramid from the rolling acres of green that surrounded it. He could hardly believe he had been away for ten years, so familiar were his surroundings, and so easily did his sense of direction guide him along the way. High Devon banks loomed up on either side of the lane he crossed, already flushed with green as hawthorn shoots burst out of their brown winter scales to open fragile lime green leaves in the early spring air.

  On a high knoll between church and sea he stopped and looked about him, more acutely aware than ever before of the difference between his two lives: the one in the southern hemisphere and the other in the north. The south offered warmth and relaxation, a lotus-eating way of life, a life with well-defined priorities. Work, yes, but an emphasis on play. At four o’clock in Sydney Harbour you could hardly move for boats, men going out for the evening with their crates of beer, restaurants thronging with folk intent on enjoying themselves. Wasn’t that better than the work ethic here? The Maidment work ethic: living to work rather than working to live. He came up with no definite answers, but only knew that he no longer seemed to have a choice.