New Worlds

by Edited By David Garnett

  “Just because it lasted a long time doesn’t mean it was a good thing.”

  “No argument from me there.”

  “Mr Ames was a Reformist too,” Allie said.

  “Mr Ames?”

  “My late husband. He opened his mouth too much. Some loyal retainers shut it for him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your problem.”

  Susan wasn’t comfortable talking about her husband. Mr Ames had been as much lawyer as farmer, enthusiastically heading the Sedgmoor District Committee during the Reconstruction. He didn’t realise it took more than a decision made in London Parliament to change things in the West. London was a long way off.

  Allie brought Susan plates. Susan slid bacon and eggs from the pan.

  “Fetch the tomato chutney from the preserves shelf,” she said.

  Outside, someone clanged the bell by the gate. Lytton’s hand slipped quietly to his hip, closing where the handle of a revolver would have been.

  Susan looked at the hot food on the table, and frowned at the door.

  “Not a convenient time to come visiting,” she said.

  ~ * ~

  Hanging back behind Susan, Allie still saw who was in the drive. Constable Erskine was by the bell, vigorously hammering with the butt of his police revolver. His blue knob-end helmet gave him extra height. His gun-belt was in matching blue. Reeve Draper, arms folded, cringed at the racket his subordinate was making. Behind the officers stood Terry and Teddy Gilpin, Browning rifles casually in their hands, long coats brushing the ground.

  “Goodwife Ames,” shouted the Reeve. “This be a court order.”

  “Leave your guns.”

  “Come you now, Goodwife Ames. By right of law...”

  Erskine was still clanging. The bell came off its hook and thunked on the ground. The Constable shrugged a grin and didn’t holster his pistol.

  “I won’t have guns on my property.”

  “Then come and be served. This yere paper pertains to your cattle. The decision been telegraphed from Taunton Magistrates. You’m to surrender all livestock within thirty days, for slaughter. It be a safety measure.”

  Susan had been expecting something like this.

  “There are no mad cows on Gosmore Farm.”

  “Susan, don’t be difficult.”

  “It’s Mrs Ames, Mr Reeve Draper.”

  The Reeve held up a fawn envelope.

  “You’m know this has to be done.”

  “Will you be slaughtering Maskell’s stock?”

  “He took proper precautions, Susan. Can’t be blamed. He’m been organic since ‘fore the War.”

  Susan snorted a laugh. Everyone knew there’d been mad cow disease in the Squire’s herd. He’d paid off the inspectors and rendered the affected animals into fertiliser. It was Susan who’d never used infected feed, never had a sick cow. This wasn’t about British beef; this was about squeezing Gosmore Farm.

  “Clear off,” Allie shouted.

  “Poacher girl,” Erskine sneered. “Lookin’ for a matchin’ stripe on your left hand?”

  Susan turned on the Constable.

  “Don’t you threaten Allison. She’s not a serf.”

  “Once a serf, always a serf.”

  “What are they here for?” Susan nodded to the Gilpin brothers. “D’you need two extra guns to deliver a letter?”

  Draper looked nervously at the brothers. Terry, heavier and nastier, curled his fingers about the trigger guard of his Browning.

  “Why didn’t Maskell come himself?”

  Draper carefully put the letter on the ground, laying a stone on top of it.

  “I’ll leave this here, Goodwife. You’m been served with this notice.”

  Susan strode towards the letter.

  Terry hawked a stream of spit, which hit the stone and splattered the envelope. He showed off his missing front teeth in an idiot leer.

  Draper was embarrassed and angered, Erskine delighted and itchy.

  “My sentiments exactly, Goodman Gilpin,” said Susan. She kicked the stone and let the letter skip away in the breeze.

  “Mustn’t show disrespect for the law,” Erskine snarled. He was holding his gun rightway round, thumb on the cock-lever, finger on the trigger.

  From the kitchen doorway, close behind Allie, Lytton said, “Whose law?”

  Allie stepped aside and Lytton strode into the yard. The four unwelcome visitors looked at him.

  “Widow Ames got a stay-over guest,” Erskine said, nastily.

  “B’ain’t no business of yourn, Goodman,” said the Reeve to Lytton.

  “And what if I make it my business?”

  “You’m rue it.”

  Lytton kept his gaze steady on the Reeve, who flinched and blinked.

  “He hasn’t got a gun,” Susan said, voice betraying annoyance with Lytton as much as with Maskell’s men. “So you can’t have a fair fight.”

  Mr Ames had been carrying a Webley when he was shot. The magistrate, Sue-Glare Maskell’s father, ruled it a fair fight, exonerating on the grounds of self-defence the Maskell retainer who’d killed Susan’s husband.

  “He’m interfering with due process, Mr Reeve,” Erskine told Draper. “We could detain him for questioning.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Lytton said. “I just stopped at Gosmore Farm for bacon and eggs. I take it there’s no local ordinance against that.”

  “Goodwife Ames don’t have no bed and breakfast license,” Draper said.

  “Specially bed,” Erskine added, leering.

  Lytton strolled casually towards his Norton. And his guns.

  “Maybe I should press on. I’d like to be in Dorset by lunchtime.”

  Terry’s rifle was fixed on Lytton’s belly, and swung in an arc as Lytton walked. Erskine thumb-cocked his revolver, ineptly covering the sound with a cough.

  “Tell Maurice Maskell you’ve delivered your damned message,” Susan said, trying to get between Lytton and the visitors’ guns. “And tell him he’ll have to come personally next time.”

  “You’m stay away from thic rifle, Goodman,” the Reeve said to Lytton.

  “Just getting my gloves,” Lytton replied, moving his hands away from the holstered rifle towards the pannier where his pistols were.

  Allie backed away towards the house, stomach knotted.

  “What’s she afraid of?” Erskine asked, nodding at her.

  “Don’t touch thic fuckin’ bike,” Terry shouted.

  Allie heard the guns going off, louder than rook-scarers. An apple-sized chunk of stone exploded on the wall nearby, spitting chips in her face. The fireflashes were faint in the morning sun, but the reports were thunderclaps.

  Erskine had shot, and Terry. Lytton had slipped down behind his motorcycle, which had fallen on him. There was a bright red splash of blood on the ground. Teddy was bringing up his rifle.

  She scooped a stone and drew back the rubber of her catapult.

  Susan screamed for everyone to stop.

  Allie loosed the stone and raised a bloody welt on Erskine’s cheek.

  Susan slapped Allie hard and hugged her. Erskine, arm trembling with rage, blood dribbling on his face, took aim at them. Draper put a hand on the Constable’s arm, and forced him to holster his gun. At a nod from the Reeve, Teddy Gilpin took a look at Lytton’s wound and reported that it wasn’t serious.

  “This be bad, Goodwife Ames. It’d not tell well for you if’n it came up at magistrate’s court. We’m be back on Saturday, with the vet. Have your animals together so they can be destroyed.”

  He walked to his police car, his men loping after him like dogs. Terry laughed a comment to Erskine about Lytton.

  Allie impotently twanged her catapult at them.

  “Help me get this off him,” Susan said.

  The Norton was a heavy machine, but between them they hefted it up. The pannier was still latched down. Lytton had not got to his guns. He lay face-up, a bright splash of red on his left
upper arm. He was gritting his teeth against the hurt, shaking as if soaked to the skin in ice-water.

  Allie didn’t think he was badly shot. Compared to some.

  “You stupid man,” Susan said, kicking Lytton in the ribs. “You stupid, stupid man!”

  Lytton gulped in pain and cried out.

  ~ * ~

  It wasn’t as if they had much livestock. Allie looked round at the eight cows, all with names and personalities, all free of the madness. Gosmore Farm had a chicken coop, a vegetable garden, a copse of apple trees and a wedge of hillside given over to grazing. It was a struggle to eke a living; without the milk quota, it would be hopeless.

  It was wrong to kill the cows.

  Despair lodged like a stone in Allie’s heart. This was not what the West should be. When younger, she’d read Thomas Hardy’s Wessex novels, The Sheriff of Casterbridge and Under the Hanging Tree, and she still followed The Archers. In storybook Wessex, men like Squire Maskell always lost. Alder needed Dan Archer, the wireless hero, to stride into The Valiant Soldier, six-guns blazing, and lay the vermin in the dirt.

  There was no Dan Archer.

  Susan held all her rage in, refusing to talk about the cows and Maskell. She always concentrated on what she called “the job at hand.” Just now, she was nursing Lytton. Erskine’s shot had gone right through his arm. Allie had looked for but not found the bullet, to give him as a souvenir. He’d lost blood, but he would live.

  Allie hugged Pansy, her favourite, and brushed flies away from the cow’s gummy eyes.

  “I won’t let they hurt you,” she vowed.

  But what could she do?

  Depressed, she trudged down to the house.

  ~ * ~

  Lytton was sitting up on the cot in the living room, with his shirt off and a clean white bandage tight around his arm. Allie saw he had older scars. This was not the first time he’d been shot. He was sipping a mug of hot tea. Susan, bustling furiously, tidied up around him. When he saw Allie, Lytton smiled.

  “Susan’s been telling me about this Maskell character. He seems to like to have things his way.”

  The door opened and Squire Maskell stepped in.

  “That I do, sir.”

  He was dressed for church, in a dark suit and kipper tie. He knew enough not to wear a gunbelt on Gosmore Farm, though Allie guessed he was carrying a small pistol in his armpit. He had shot Allie’s Dad with such a gun, in a dispute over wages. Allie barely remembered her father, who had been indentured on Maskell’s farm before the War and an NFU rep afterwards.

  “I don’t remember extending an invitation, Squire,” Susan said evenly.

  “Susan, Susan, things could be so much more pleasant between us. We are neighbours.”

  “In the same way a pack of dogs are neighbours to a fox gone to earth.”

  Maskell laughed without humour.

  “I’ve come to extend an offer of help.”

  Susan snorted. Lytton said nothing but looked Maskell over with eyes that saw the gun under the hankie-pocket and the knife in the boot.

  “I understand you have BSE problems? My condolences.”

  “There’s no mad cow disease in my herd.”

  “It’s hardly a herd, Susan. It’s a gaggle. But without them, where would you be?”

  Maskell spread empty hands.

  “This place is hardly worth the upkeep, Susan. You’re only sticking at it because you have a nasty case of Stubborn Fever. The land is worthless to anyone but me. Gosmore Farm is a wedge in my own holdings. It would be so convenient if I could take down your fences, if I could incorporate your few acres into the Maskell farm.”

  “Now tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I can either buy from you now above the market value, or wait a while and buy from the bank at a knock-down price. I’m making an offer now purely out of neighbourly charity. The old ways may have changed, but as Squire I still feel an obligation to all who live within my bailiwick.”

  “The only obligation your forefathers felt was to sweat the serfs into early graves and beget illegitimate cretins on terrorised girls. Have you noticed how the Maskell chin shows up on those Gilpin creatures?”

  Maskell was angry now, but trying to keep calm. A vein throbbed by his eye.

  “Susan, you’re upset, I see that. But you must be realistic. Despite what you think, I don’t want to see you on the mercy of the parish. Robert Ames was a good friend to me, and…”

  “You can fuck off, Maskell,” Susan spat. “Fuck right off.”

  The Squire’s smile drained away. He was close to sputtering. His Maskell chin wobbled.

  “Don’t ever mention my husband again. And now leave.”

  “Susan,” he pleaded.

  “I think Goodwife Ames made herself understood,” Lytton said.

  Maskell looked at the wounded man. Lytton eased himself gingerly off the cot, expanding his chest, and stood. He was tall enough to have to bow his head under the beamed ceiling.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had...”

  “Lytton,” he introduced himself.

  “And you would be... ?”

  “I would be grateful if you left the house as Goodwife Ames wishes. And fasten the gate on your way out. There’s a Country Code, you know.”

  “Good day,” Maskell said, not meaning it, and left.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “That’s the second time you’ve taken it on yourself to act for me,” Susan said, angrily. “Have I asked your help?”

  Lytton smiled. His hard look faded and he seemed almost mischievous.

  “I beg pardon, Goodwife.”

  “Don’t do it again, Lytton.”

  ~ * ~

  By the next day, Lytton was well enough to walk. But he couldn’t ride: if he tried to grip the Norton’s left handlebar, it was as if a red-hot poker were pressed to his bicep. They were stuck with him.

  “You can do odd jobs for your keep,” Susan allowed. “Allie will show you how.”

  “Can he come feed the chickens?” Allie asked, excited despite herself. “I can get the eggs.”

  “That’ll be a start.”

  Susan walked across to the stone sheds where the cows spent the night, to do the milking. Allie took Lytton by the hand and led him round to the chicken coop.

  “Maskell keeps his chickens in a gurt prison,” Allie told him. “Clips their beaks with pliers, packs they in alive like sardines. If one dies, t’others eat her. They’m cannibal chickens...”

  They turned round the corner.

  The chicken coop was silent. Tears pricked the backs of Allie’s eyes. Lumps of feathery matter lay in the scarlet-stained straw.

  Her first thought was that a fox had got in.

  Lytton lifted up a flap of chicken wire. It had been cut cleanly.

  The coop was a lean-to, a chickenwire frame built against the house. On the stone wall was daubed a sign in blood, an upside-down tricorn fork in a circle.

  “Travellers,” Allie spat.

  There was a big Gypsy Site at Glastonbury. Since the War, Travellers were supposed to stay on the sites, living off the dole. But they were called Travellers because they didn’t like to keep to one place. They were always escaping from sites and raiding farms and villages.

  Lytton shook his head.

  “Hippies are hungry. They’d never have killed and left the chickens. And smashed the eggs.”

  The eggs had been gathered and carefully stamped on.

  “Some hippies be veggie.”

  The blood was still fresh. Allie didn’t see how this could have been done while they were asleep. The killers must have struck fast, or the chickens would have squawked.

  “Where’s your vegetable garden?” Lytton asked.

  Allie’s heart pounded like a fist.

  She showed him the path to the garden, which was separated from the orchard by a thick hedge. Beanpoles had been wrenched from the earth and used to batter and gouge the rest of the crops. Cabbages w
ere squashed, young carrots pulped by boot heels, marrows exploded. The greenhouse was a skeleton, every pane of glass broken, tomato plants strewn and flattened inside. Even the tiny herb patch Allie had been given for herself was dug up and scattered.