Animal Instincts

by Alan Titchmarsh

“I’m sorry.”

  Kit changed the subject. “Good to have you back.”

  Jess coloured slightly and looked down at her work. “Sorry, I had to go. It just took me longer than I thought.”

  Kit felt unable to ask directly about her absence. “All sorted?” he managed.

  “Hope so.”

  He watched her concentrating on the spraying.

  “Shouldn’t you be wearing protective clothing for that, goggles and stuff – stop it getting in your eyes?”

  “I’d rather just take care. There’s no wind. It’s a still day and, anyway, you can’t see very well through goggles.”

  The conversation stumbled along until, finally, the sprayer ran out of liquid and Jess slipped it from her shoulders and on to the ground. She turned to face him. “You think it was me, don’t you?”

  Kit was startled at the suddenness of her question. “Think what was you?”

  “Who sprayed the dogs in the car.”

  They were facing each other, barely three feet apart. Kit tried to marshal his thoughts and his words. “I didn’t want to believe it was you.”

  “But you couldn’t think of anybody else.”

  “It’s not that –”

  “Once a hunt sab always a hunt sab.” There was sadness in her voice as well as anger, disappointment that he should have drawn the obvious conclusion.

  “No. It’s just that I saw your face – I mean, a face, part of a face – and it looked so like you.”

  “She does.”

  “What?”

  “She looks a lot like me. In a balaclava anyway.”

  “Who does? I’m sorry, I’m not with this.”

  “I can’t tell you. I would, but I can’t. Don’t want to get her into trouble. She thought she was doing the right thing, just like I used to, but she’s been led on, again, like I was.”

  “Who? Tell me who.”

  Jess looked defiant. “No. It’s enough for you to know it wasn’t me. Don’t ask me any more.”

  “But you know what happened to the dogs. Do you want it to happen again?”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I’ve made sure. And, anyway, the hunting season’s finished now.”

  “Is that where you were – sorting things out?”

  Jess nodded.

  Kit felt sorry for her. Here she stood, a small, frail girl with the willpower of a giant. A girl in a world that she seemed by turns to find frightening and fulfilling, standing with him on the cliffs above the foaming sea with her sprayer at her feet.

  He moved towards her and rested his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “How could you think it was me?”

  A sudden gentle breeze took the fair silky hair from the front of her head and lifted it away from her face. He noticed the smoothness of her skin, the rosiness of her cheeks in the chill sea air and the clear, soft blue of her eyes. All at once he could see, with his father’s eyes, just what had captivated him. Without saying a word he opened wide his arms as if to embrace her, and she rushed at him with flailing arms, landing blow after blow on his chest.

  Repeatedly the punches rained on to his rib cage, thump after thump, reverberating deep into his bones, as she bellowed and sobbed, “Why did he have to go? Why?”

  She battered away at him with a desperate rage and he stood, rooted to the spot, like a human punchbag, taking the assault silently and bracing himself against her attack.

  “It’s not fair! It’s not fucking fair!” she howled. “Why? Why?”

  The blows became weaker until eventually the small frame, spent of its force, crumpled against him sobbing. “I’m sorry – I’m so sorry,” she cried. “I . . . just miss him . . . so much.”

  He cradled her in his arms and rocked her from side to side as tears trickled down his own cheeks. “I know, I know.”

  “When you came back, I could see him again,” she muttered. “And I thought that . . . maybe you . . .” She fought back more tears.

  He eased away from her and took her hands, moving them away from her face. She looked up into his eyes and he felt for the first time a kind of warmth, a deep longing that he could not identify. Slowly he lowered his face to hers and kissed her gently on the lips. It seemed the most natural thing to do.

  The breeze picked up. Neither of them spoke or moved for several minutes. Only when her tears had subsided did he release her before picking up the empty sprayer and walking silently with her back towards the farm. His arm was around her shoulders. Slowly she lifted her hand and laid it on his.

  Jinty looked at the new clothes laid out on the bed – two summer tops, some frilly underwear and a pair of black knee-high boots. They had seemed fine in the shops, but now she couldn’t understand what had made her buy them. The tops were too skimpy – she’d look like mutton dressed as lamb – and what had been the point of buying boots in spring – even if they were in the sale? She dropped them into the large carrier bag and put them in the bottom of the wardrobe. She’d hoped that a spot of retail therapy might help raise her spirits. It had not.

  She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, naked and bruised. What a sorry picture. Hair all over the place, face pale and puffy from crying and her thighs, she was certain, were not as trim as they had been and orange peel seemed to be forming on them – certainly when she squeezed the skin together it was there as plain as day, the texture of a plump Jaffa. What a bloody mess her life was. She reached for the phone and with her good hand tapped in the number.

  “It’s Jinty O’Hare. I was just wondering, would it be possible for Guy to squeeze me in this afternoon? No? Whenever he can, then. Yes, that’s fine. Tell him I want it all cut off. Yes. Yes, I know he’ll make a fuss but my mind’s made up. Thanks. ’Bye.”

  She put down the phone, breathed in deeply and went to take a shower. If Jamie Bickerstaffe was around she was damned if he was going to see her looking like this.

  Bearing in mind the sort of day he had had, Kit should have guessed who was on the other end of the phone when he picked it up that evening. His heart sank as he remembered shirked responsibilities and errors of omission.

  The voice with the soft Australian accent spoke gently. “It’s me.” He could see her as clearly as though she were in the room with him and his heart leaped before plunging into the Slough of Despond.

  “I tried to ring you.” He was aware of the defensive tone in his voice.

  “I know. Dad said.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  Heather paused. “I was going to ask you the same.”

  They had always got on so well, spoken so freely, but there was a stickiness about the conversation that had never been there before.

  “Oh, it’s just been mad. I’ve had so much to do, so much to sort out. I even had a buyer lined up but he dropped out. It’s just . . . impossible.”

  “I see.” There was a note in her voice that worried him.

  “How about you?” he asked.

  She spoke very calmly. “I’ve come away for a couple of weeks. Needed to think.”

  Silence.

  “With Marcus Johnson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of me.”

  “But you weren’t there. You didn’t ring. What was I supposed to do, supposed to think?”

  “But I did ring.”

  “Not very often. And you didn’t say much. Didn’t tell me things. It’s as if you’ve become someone else. I just can’t get through to you.”

  There was a long silence before she spoke again. “It’s not very good, is it?”

  “No.”

  “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Serious?”

  “I thought so.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m in a bit of a mess.”

  “You’re not
coming back, are you?”

  He was surprised by her understanding, and even more surprised to hear his own reply. “No.” It echoed down the line.

  “I see.”

  “What about you and Marcus?” he asked.

  “It’s good. It’s fun.”

  He could hardly believe she’d said it so lightly. Just like that. Fun. He listened for further explanation, but it did not come. He hoped that she might persuade him, or argue with him, or show some kind of emotion. But there was no anger, no tears. Instead she calmly said, “I’ll go now, then. Take care of yourself.”

  “And you. I . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. ’Bye.”

  “ ’Bye.”

  And that was it. A relationship built over several years, a friendship, too, ended with one brief phone call. He felt a pall of regret fall over him. He sat back in the chair at his father’s desk and stroked the jay’s feather across the film of dust that had settled on the once polished oak.

  What would happen now? For the first time it seemed quite clear. His life would continue at West Yarmouth. There was no other option. He did not know why, but somehow the responsibility that had settled on him like a heavy yoke since his father’s death seemed lighter now, the prospect brighter. He felt an unreal sense of calm resignation, with which half of his brain could not come to terms, but which the other half accepted without demur.

  Maybe he was going mad. Yes, that was it. He was unhinged. He looked up at the dusty bookshelves surrounding the desk. Time for a clear-out. Time to put his own stamp on this place.

  His thoughts turned to Jinty and his heart sank. Maybe now that Bickerstaffe had gone away it would all be all right. Maybe not. Had he gone away, or would he be moving in once more on Jinty? Or, more to the point, would she be moving in on him? Surely not. She had tried to tell him that there was no way Bickerstaffe would want to run a nature reserve and he had not believed her. He would sort out the farm and the reserve and tell her she was right after all. If she would listen. But, then, as far as she was concerned the reserve did not count for much. “Bugger the reserve,” she had said. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. It was a sort of betrayal that he did not want to accept, did not want to believe.

  But there was another fly in this particular ointment, a financial fly. He gazed out of the window at the distant green fields, and the prospect of a phone call to Arthur Maidment brought him down to earth. He looked up the number in his father’s address book and found it alongside another entry: Marchbanks Bookshop (Nat. Hist.) and a Totnes number. He might as well start that ball rolling, too. Now he was staying here, there was clearing out to be done. He might as well begin with his father’s books. He dialled the number and arranged for the effeminate-voiced man on the other end of the telephone to visit the house the following week and advise on the disposal of the dusty volumes. Then he rang Arthur Maidment and arranged to see him the following morning.

  “Good Lord! Well, ah, yes. Mmm.” It was the sort of comment that Jinty had expected from Roly, so it came as no surprise.

  “You don’t like it.”

  “No . . . ah . . . yes . . . ah . . . well, I . . .”

  “I know, it’s too short for you.”

  Roly stood with his back to the library fire, looking at her quietly, and ordered his words before he spoke.

  “Very short but very . . . attractive. Boyish, what?”

  Jinty’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I want to look boyish.”

  “Only in a . . . ah . . . feminine sort of way. Peter Pan. Puckish. You know.”

  Roly was doing his best, but the sight of his niece with hair almost as short as his own had come as a shock. He was used to her blonde curls and preferred girls to look like, well, girls.

  The library door opened and they turned, still half expecting the two dogs to tumble in. Instead, Charlotte poked her head around its oaken panels and smiled before she had taken in the sight of Jinty and her shorn locks. “Oh. Goodness.”

  “Not you too.” Jinty went across and put her good arm around Charlotte, resting her head on the older woman’s shoulder.

  Charlotte put up her hand and stroked the back of Jinty’s hair. “It looks rather elfin, actually.”

  Jinty scowled. “That’s it, then. I’ve obviously become a fairy. I’ve had Peter Pan, Puck and an elf all in the space of five minutes.” Then she forgot her own vanity and asked after Charlotte’s health.

  “Oh, I’m improving. I still can’t believe what happened. I still miss my boys, but life goes on, doesn’t it?” She glanced at Roly, raising her hand to show that it lacked a glass.

  “Ah. Yes. Gin?”

  “Yes, please. But what about you?” Charlotte looked at Jinty with concern in her face.

  “I’m mending.”

  “No, I’m not talking about that. I mean you and Kit.”

  “Ahem.” Roly cleared his throat noisily. “Tonic?”

  “Of course.” There was irritation in Charlotte’s voice at Roly’s reprimand. “I’m not being nosy, just concerned.”

  A knock at the library door heralded the appearance of Mrs Flanders.

  “Telephone, ma’am. Lady Millington.”

  “Oh, not again. What does she want at this time of night? If it’s trouble with her daily help again I shall scream. I’m not a domestic agency, really I’m not, but she seems to think I’m the only person who has any grasp of staff management.”

  Charlotte collected her gin from Roly before raising her eyes heavenward and closing the library door behind her.

  “She seems to be pulling round,” Jinty observed.

  “Mmm. Slowly. Getting better,” Roly agreed.

  Jinty turned to look at the fire, and Roly planted his squat body in the chair opposite.

  “Things not too good?” he asked.

  Jinty remained gazing at the flames. “Not really, no.”

  Roly took a sip of his whiskey. “Lovers’ tiff?”

  “Not sure. Might be more than that.” She came and sat at his feet, leaning back on the rough tweed of his trousers.

  “Want to talk?” He rubbed his finger lightly across her shoulder.

  “Don’t know, really. Think maybe I’ve been a bit selfish.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Jamie Bickerstaffe wants to buy West Yarmouth.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “I said Kit couldn’t possibly sell to him. Kit said he had to – he desperately needs the money – and I threw a wobbly.”

  Roly listened attentively.

  “I thought I was doing it for the right reasons. Jamie’s not into nature reserves but I couldn’t make Kit see that, so I upped and left. Truth is, I don’t think I’m over Jamie as much as I thought I was. Do you think I’ve been stupid?”

  “No. Just human.”

  “But wrong?”

  “Hasty.”

  She turned to face him. “But supposing Jamie actually buys West Yarmouth? What then?”

  “Won’t happen.”

  “How do you know?” She turned round to face him.

  “SSSI.”

  “Site of Special Scientific Interest. I know. Kit told me – about Elizabeth Punch’s plan.”

  “Mmm. Not strictly.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Not, ah, strictly Elizabeth’s idea. The SSSI.”

  “But she contacted English Nature. Kit told me.”

  “Yes, but she had advice.”

  “Who from?”

  “Ah . . . me.”

  Jinty thought at first that she was hearing things. She laid her hand on Roly’s knee and looked up at him. “You advised Elizabeth Punch to contact English Nature?”

  Roly took a sip of his whiskey.

  “But why? I don’t understand. She hates you. Hates hunting.”

  Roly shook his head and smiled. “ ’Swhat they call détente, I think.”

  Jinty gazed at him bewildered.

  “Coalition.”

  “I do
n’t understand.”

  “When Rupert died there was . . . ah . . . concern that the son might not feel so well disposed towards the estate as the father. Three hundred acres. Rather . . . er . . . important. All sorts of possibilities. Housing. Prairie farming. Shame to let it all go.”

  “And you wanted to do something about it?”

  “Not just me. One or two of us.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “Soon after Rupert Lavery died.”

  “But that’s meddling.”

  “Yes. Best interests of the countryside.”

  “How could you be so sure?”

  “Heard rumblings. Seen how fast estates sell down here nowadays. Diversification. That sort of thing. And knew there were lots of . . . ah . . . Jamie Bickerstaffes about.”

  “But you didn’t know about Jamie in particular.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, not at first. Came across a few things. Year or so ago.”

  Jinty rose to her feet. “What sort of things?”

  “His . . . ah . . . business.”

  “But you never told me.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t want to meddle in that. Your life. Nothing to do with me. Not my place.”

  She glowered in exasperation. “You never interfere with my life, do you?”

  Roly smiled gently.

  “So did you know that Jamie Bickerstaffe wanted to buy?”

  “Suspected he might.”

  “But why Jamie? Why would he want to buy West Yarmouth when he’s abroad so much? All his dealings seem to be in foreign countries so why has he suddenly taken an interest in Devon?”

  “Nature of his business.”

  “Foreign securities?”

  “Foreign development.”

  “What sort of development?”

  “Golf courses.”

  Jinty looked at him, open-mouthed. “But he never told me.”

  “Not in his interests. You might have queered his pitch.”

  Jinty muttered, “Bastard.” Then, more clearly, “And the estate agent?”

  “Part of the . . . ah . . . system. Probably gets more commission on this sort of deal.”

  “But if West Yarmouth has an SSSI slapped on it . . .”

  “Bickerstaffe won’t buy.”

  “But somebody else might.”

  “Only if they respect its status. It’ll take a year or so to come into force, but English Nature can act faster if they need to.”