by Alex Miller
I believed in our unwritten agreement. He got the floor under the chest of drawers, I got my peace of mind. It was fair. And I like things to be fair. So I stopped worrying about the whole business.
Until tonight.
A situation foreseen by Morris.
Crouching in the straw, trying to keep our feet out of contact with the black ice on the frozen cobbles for a spell, down there in the disused threshing barn last winter, eating our lunch, I explained about the Resident. Morris listened till I’d finished. Nodding along with what I had to say. It was about week three of my new peace of mind and I was feeling very pleased with myself. Telling Morris was, in a way, a boast as much as anything. Like indicating that if he and his wife had been on to this, they wouldn’t have had to move out, but could have gone on enjoying the luxury of their bridal bed. If that’s what it is.
Morris didn’t say anything. I suppose he’d noticed that I hadn’t been carrying out any rats for a few weeks. And when I’d finished he lovingly sliced a segment from his portion of back fat, white, almost luminous stuff, turning it between his greasy thumb and forefinger, examining it with the eye of a specialist, before putting it in his mouth and chewing. His pocket knife poised over the remaining chunk.
When he’d swallowed the fat and washed it down with a mouthful of cold tea, Morris said, casual and interested, ‘What will you do if the Resident gets a companion?’
It took a while. But there they were tonight. And squatting outside the limits of the chest of drawers! I was shocked. I felt betrayed.
‘So this is the thanks I get is it?’ Crazy! Fancy expecting gratitude from a rat! I’m out of practice and they dodged around. It was messy. But there was nothing else for it. I couldn’t have them setting up a new colony right here in my room!
Anyway, they’re both out there on the dung-heap in the rain now.
Maybe Morris will help me to find a permanent solution. Then again, maybe there’s really no such thing as a rat-proof house. Things aren’t going to be the same in here . . . And there he goes now, laughing with her in there, then cough-cough-cough! The storm’s letting up. Blowing itself out at last. It’s late and my candle’s burnt down almost to the tin, the flame wobbling madly, rearing up wide and yellow then almost snuffing itself, filling the air with the smell of candle grease and reminding me of the shelter and the air raids. All that old stuff coming up.
The hole’s still there. I haven’t tried to block it. It’s silent too. I wonder what’ll happen now? Just keep up the war I suppose. The rats won’t stop. They’re congenital colonists. That’s biology.
I’d better get some sleep. I have to be up and out of here before Morris in the morning. I put a set of new shoes on Kabara and Finisher, the gelding, in preparation for today. The Tiger’ll want them saddled and waiting by daylight at the latest. It’s a long ride to Winsford from here.
The scent will be deadly after this storm!
Morris and his wife aren’t awake when I slip the latch on the back door and step out into the darkness. The moon is still bright enough over the oaks in Will’s wood to cast their shadows across the close-cropped turf of Old Ley. Everything’s sodden from the storm and the air is cold and still. I stand on the crest of the ridge and look down into the valley without a name that locals call the Black Valley, and I can see across a vast sweep of sleeping countryside all the way to the silvered waters of Bridgwater Bay and the outlet of the Doniford Stream. Everything is cool and clean! I can taste the air on my palate! There’s the sound of water trickling out of a pipe under the hedge next to me. I have to go. As I turn I startle a blackbird from its roost and it flies out, flat and fast across the field.
From fifty yards away the farm could be abandoned. Dead. Deserted. A settlement left over from another era. The big dark shadows of the cattle shed, the barn, the stable and the house all joined together, their windows and doors facing inward to the yard. Blank walls to the world. Compact against storms and trouble, and against anything else that might come along. Expecting the worst. Their weathered grey featureless stone walls and their grey slate roofs not interested in anything outside. They don’t want to know about it. Keep out! Silent in the autumn moonlight. Been standing there since who knows when? The odd bulge of the disused bread-oven poking out in to the road like the bum of a giant squatting in the end wall of the house.
I’ve got a good two hours of work to get through before daylight. Finisher and his mate Ashway hear me opening the road gate and they whinny softly. This is enough to start the cows moaning, even though they know it’s too early for them yet. I light the kerosene lamp in the stable and close the door behind me. The soft light reveals the cobbled floor and the ashen stall-trees, their wood polished to a deep honey gloss by the rubbing of generations of hunters and plough horses. It’s warm in here. The air rich with the acid smells of horse dander, piss, dung and meadow hay. Kabara is stationary in the shadows. Watching me. Making no welcome. The two geldings lean out and stretch for my hands, glad to see me. Ashway’s not coming with us. I’ll be riding Kabara, and Tiger will begin the day on Finisher. I get on with feeding them before I do anything else. Kabara and Finisher will need time to eat their fill.
Kabara’s edgy. His breathing is noisy and shallow. It’s the first time he’s spent the night here and he knows there’s something unusual being organised. He’s not sure what’s going to happen to him. But it’s not only that. It’s me too. I just hope he got some rest during the night. He’s watchful. Staring at me and reacting to my every move. Maybe I should let the Tiger know that he has misjudged this stallion’s temperament. Try and explain to him how it’s come about that he’s made this mistake. Do it in a way that doesn’t make him feel that I’m questioning his judgement. Maybe this great horse could come to some harm? I know Kabara’s capable of deciding that no one’s going to get near him. He’s capable of extreme behaviour, of forgetting all his schooling and deciding things for himself. In other words, of being so strong about his life that he becomes a rogue stallion. A danger. And you may as well call that the end of him. But how would I approach the Tiger?
I clean out Finisher’s stall first. Then I go over with my dung-fork and unlatch Kabara’s door. He’s shown no interest in his feed. He is totally alert and on his guard. I hesitate to go in there with him. For almost two months I’ve taken his trust for granted. Now he’s withdrawn it. For the moment anyway, and I’m afraid of him. He keeps moving around, shifting his weight from side to side and from his front legs to his hind legs with a stiff series of short movements. Continuously positioning and repositioning himself, in any split second ready to strike.
I don’t want to die yet but I’ve got to get in there and clean out his stall. ‘Everything’s just normal,’ I say, ‘so there’s nothing to worry about,’ and I edge in through the half-door. My voice sounds watery. I latch the door behind me and we look at each other . . . ‘I haven’t been completely honest with you have I?’—this is not an easy conversation to get started. I feel guilty for some reason. As if these difficulties are my doing—‘There’s nothing I can do about the Tiger,’ I say, starting to fork out the soiled straw bedding closest to the door, picking the clean stuff out and tossing it to one side, his eye following every movement. ‘He’s like you. He can’t be told. He’s got to make up his own mind. And anyway something had to happen didn’t it? I mean Alsop’s no good to you any more, is he? You’ve got to be sold and bought and moved around and all that stuff. Haven’t you? You can’t just sit over there at that place for the rest of your life.’ Talking is making me feel better. I’m not so scared. And Kabara’s tossing his head and snorting at the sound of my voice, instead of jerking around with that menacing insect intensity. It’s an improvement. But I know the truth is really that his history’s not working out well for him. He shouldn’t be skulking around down here between these old farm walls. There’s not enough room, here in this situation, for him to recover from the sort of mistakes he might get forced into. There�
��s nothing grand to meet him on his own ground. He should be standing at a great stable where he’d get his chance to be compared with the best.
But the Tiger’s seen his chance.
By the time I’ve cleaned his stall and chucked in a heap of fresh oaten straw Kabara’s settled down enough to let me start grooming him. I get going on him with the rice-root brush. I have to leave him standing free. I have a feeling he wouldn’t put up with cross-ties anyway. I’ve never tried tying him down or restricting him in any way. I’m no horse-master and couldn’t get him to do something he didn’t want to do. It’s always his decision that settles things one way or the other.
When I’ve been over every inch of him with the soft brush I get started on the part he enjoys the most. I rub him vigorously with the palm of my hand, generating heat and bringing his body oils to the surface so that his fine raven coat will glow with all the midnight colours, blue and green and purple in the sunlight! He half closes his eyes and begins letting out the odd moan of sheer pleasure. And I’m grunting and sweating with the effort. Pushing my palm deep into his splendid muscle, holding myself against him with my other arm in order to keep my balance, and beginning to wonder what our disagreement was all about a minute ago. I tell him how beautiful he is. How everyone will stare at him and admire him and fear him. And when I’m doing his shoulder he reaches round and starts grooming me too. I get to work on his full mane then. Hand-picking every hair of it. Strand by strand. Dampening it with water where it needs it so that it will all fall on the near side. And finally back to his coat again. A last polish with a lightly oiled rag, smoothing it with the sweep and direction of the hide and bringing out the highlights under the yellow flame of the lamp. Reaching under his tail and down between his thighs, wiping the tense and bulging globes of his testicles, him grunting and tucking his belly—each ball the size of my clenched fist!—and on down his thighs, in behind the powerful muscles of the stifle and the gaskin, his legs planted firmly. Like polishing living gateposts! Back up over his croup and under the tail, and he’s tucking and wincing again. All that power there for breeding! How much is the Tiger going to insure these ballocks for? If he actually gets to own them?
I get down and start crawling around under his belly. A minute and thorough check of his legs. Looking for anything I might have missed while grooming him, any small sign of a hurt or something that could be a problem starting to show up. But he’s clean. He’s begun feeding, lipping the sweet milled oats and the delicious flakes of linseed cake.
We’re friends again.
I stand and watch him for a moment, relaxed, within striking range of his deadly hooves. And I try to imagine myself telling the Tiger when he comes out all geared up and ready to go hunting this morning: ‘Listen, Boss! This horse is too good for you. You’re not up to him! He’ll get you into trouble!’ I can see him standing there calmly listening to all that coming from me! Advice on horse business to the Master! Me telling the Tiger how to lead his life!
I leave the black horse to it, give him a chance to get a decent feed into himself, and I go in and give Finisher the treatment. What a contrast! I head for the cottage then, for a quick breakfast and change. Morris is having a lie-in. She’s given him his breakfast in bed and I can smell the smoke from his cigarette coming down the passage. He’s making the most of it. Sitting up in bed enjoying himself before he has to get over there and get on with the milking. He won’t mind doing it on his own this morning. He’ll take his time. It’s still early now, but he’s behaving as if it’s late. Letting himself feel the holiday.
I’m starving and the bowl of thick porridge is good. I scoop on heaps of cream and sugar! I’d rather have more porridge, but as soon as I’ve finished she puts down a plate of fried bread and home-cured bacon in front of me. It’s vaguely warm. Been dished up for half-an-hour and sitting on the side of the stove. It’s something of a drawback, this stuff. That pig again! I wait till she’s not looking and then I cut out the areas of blue. I don’t know what causes this deep-blue spotting close to the rind; something to do with the action of the brine, or the copper rivets in the barrel, I daresay. It looks like the bluestone, sulphate of copper, that we put on the sheep to cure foot-rot, and it tastes so bad that it lingers on my tongue for hours. I have to face up to it every morning. She doesn’t like to see any part of that pig being wasted. It irks her. Goes right against her grain. It’s something she can’t relax about. They put a lot of care and hard work into fattening that thing up each year, and the way it all turns out after it’s been cut up and put into the barrel is a point of pride with her. She can’t help feeling criticised by the way I treat it. She’s never said anything, she stops short of nagging me, but she hates to see me picking and poking around with it instead of just gulping it down the way Morris does. I’m not expected to go into ecstasies over it, she’s not an idiot, but I am supposed to enjoy getting bacon with bits of poisonous blue stuff in it.
I hate to offend her.
And this time she catches me trying to slip some of it into my pocket. Well that’s too bad. She pretends she hasn’t noticed and asks me if I want another cup of tea.
But I’ve had enough.
I dive into my room and put on my clean pair of breeches. I’m not finished over there yet and time’s getting on. As I head back across the field the sky is a streaky grey over the Quantock Hills and the light is on in the farmhouse. Going into the yard I can hear the Tiger down towards the orchard feeding his sows, squealing and screaming and yelling going on. And the Diplomat’s woken up too, the slow smash of his horns on the tin going for another day.
It’s time for me to saddle up.
The Tiger gets extra-finicky on hunting days. And today more than ever, with his first ride on the noble stallion in the offing.
Ashway watches us while I put the gear on the other two. He knows all about it and wishes he was coming with us. There’s everything you can think of to go on Kabara, and it’s not a straightforward business to get it adjusted correctly. The long-shanked pelham bit with a curb mouthpiece belongs to Alsop. It’s a severe piece of equipment if you want it to be, and in the excitement of hard riding it’s easy to hurt the horse with it. For maximum comfort it’s got to sit just nicely behind his incisors, but low enough so that his lips aren’t drawn back by it. I take plenty of time to set it just right, making sure the feeling of it in his mouth doesn’t make him want to chew and tongue it in order to try to get it into a more comfortable spot. I like to see his head still, his gaze relaxed, and no distractions. The Tiger has made up his mind that he wants a standing martingale rigged on him too. But this is not necessary either to improve his bearing or to control him. Kabara’s stance is without fault, he flexes at the poll naturally and from pride, giving the appearance of alertness and intelligence; a naturally aristocratic bearing. The martingale will irritate him and complicate matters if anything does happen to go wrong. Getting into difficulties on a horse that’s got straps and buckles and extra bits and pieces of harness hanging all over it is more dangerous than if he’s only wearing a saddle and bridle.
But it’s the Tiger’s way to tie things down.
I leave the martingale as loose as I dare. Even then it’s a distraction for the big horse. Whichever way I look at it, the Tiger’s going to tell me to tighten it a notch or two, so the looser the better to begin with. Finisher’s harness falls into place of its own accord. Always adjusted to the same holes, the dark wear-bars across the leather tell me exactly what to do. But with Kabara it’s still a matter of style and opinion at this stage. Like his ownership, unsettled. No routine to call on. Anybody’s guess you might say, and one idea pretty much as good as another.
We’re ready at last.
I lead them both out into the yard by the bridles. And we wait. The three of us. Facing the closed kitchen door. Me in the middle. On parade! I’m wearing my cap, my Harris tweed jacket and my clean corduroy breeches. I’ve given my leggings and boots a rub with hoof oil. Not too
bad!
There should be someone to take our picture!
It’s a masquerade for me.
And here he comes! Right on cue! Flinging the kitchen door open and striding towards us. Backed up by Roly-Poly standing in the doorway and with her arms folded. Expecting the worst. Hoping for it! And he’s not carrying his stick. It’s his riding-crop this time.
‘Good morning, Boss.’
Wearing his pale, fine-twill tailored breeches with the expensive buckskin strapping. Black bowler, brown boots and leggings and a coat and tie. His coat done up by the top button, showing most of his waistcoat underneath, tight over his gut. It’s the tailored breeches that are a sign to those who know! Too smart for a tenant farmer. A giveaway to his secret dreams! That other person; hunting squire Westall!
He’s gone round behind us without a word. But I know exactly where he is because Roly-Poly’s following him every step of the way with her toad-wife gaze. She’s all set to start tut-tutting and ooh-aahing and nodding her squat head the minute he finds something wrong with the way I’ve done things.
Not a word out of him yet!
I’d like her to be disappointed.
We have never spoken to each other. I tried a ‘good morning’ on her once, but she looked away, letting me know she hadn’t heard. And the time Morris and I shifted her hen houses for her she supervised the manoeuvre, which took us all morning. But she didn’t speak to me once. Everything went through Morris. She even asked him if I wanted sugar in my tea! She’s an extremist. A fanatic about what she holds to. And I’m a headache for her. A long-term illness. A nagging irritation. Something not right about the place. She feels in her bones that people like me and Alsop shouldn’t be allowed. We ought to be banned if governments did their job properly.
