The Married Girls

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘Sorry, Johnny. Just making sure you don’t fall off!’

  ‘I won’t,’ Johnny assured him. ‘Can we trot now?’

  ‘No,’ replied Billy. ‘I promised Mummy that Rustler would walk all the way.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Better than all three of us walking, don’t you think?’ laughed Billy.

  When they reached the village green Charlotte was already there with Edie propped up in her pram, watching all the activity around her. Billy dismounted and lifted Johnny down. Charlotte was visibly relieved when she saw her son safe and sound with his feet on the ground.

  A crowd was gathering outside the Magpie. Several other horsemen had arrived, including Sir Michael Bowden the Master who, with some friends, was just getting out of his Rolls Royce parked on the far side of the green. Their horses had already been brought over from his home in the village of Upper Marystoke and were standing patiently waiting with his groom. Seeing Felix ride up on Archie, Sir Michael left his friends and walked over to him.

  ‘Morning, Bellinger.’

  ‘Good morning, Master,’ Felix replied.

  ‘Sorry to hear about your father,’ Sir Michael said as he reached out his hand. ‘He’ll be sadly missed round here. Came to the funeral, but couldn’t stay.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Felix, returning the handshake. ‘As you can imagine it was a great shock to us all.’

  ‘Hear you got married,’ went on Sir Michael. ‘Congratulations. Wife hunt, does she?’

  ‘No, sir, afraid not. She doesn’t ride.’

  ‘Doesn’t ride?’ Bowden sounded astonished. ‘Oh well, you can soon teach her, no doubt. Is that your mother over there? I must go and have a word.’

  Felix turned to see his mother walking across the green. She waved to him, but was almost immediately waylaid by Sir Michael. More riders began to gather, farmers from all round the area; a few strangers, horsemen and -women visiting friends for the Christmas holiday. Felix saw Billy mounted on Rustler and edged Archie over to him.

  ‘Looks a good turnout,’ he said.

  Billy grinned. ‘We always get more when the meet’s here rather than at Upper Mary. See Sir Michael’s here with a crowd.’ He indicated three beautifully turned out gentlemen and a lady being served a stirrup cup by Mabel Barrett. He waved to Mabel and she came over to them.

  ‘Billy,’ she said as she passed up a small glass of port. ‘Mr Bellinger.’ Felix received his port and downed it in one.

  ‘Thanks, Mabel,’ he said, ‘just the thing to set us up on a winter morning.’

  ‘Better still when you get back again on a winter’s evening,’ Billy laughed. ‘Nothing like a hot whisky or brandy to warm the cockles.’ He handed Mabel back the glass. ‘Cheers, Mabel. We’ll be back for another, this evening!’

  At that moment Billy’s father rode up and joined them. ‘Thanks, Mabel,’ he said as she handed him a glass. ‘Your good health.’

  ‘Good morning, Felix,’ he said. ‘Perfect day for it.’

  Felix greeted him with a handshake and agreed. He looked round at the gathered riders. ‘This is something I’ve really missed while I’ve been living in London,’ he said.

  ‘Daphne coming to see us off?’ asked Billy, looking round.

  ‘Doubt it,’ Felix said ruefully. ‘She doesn’t understand hunting. She thinks it’s cruel to the fox.’

  ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t say so here this morning,’ Billy said with a grin. ‘Don’t think it’d go down too well.’

  John Shepherd went across to Sir Michael. ‘Good morning, Master,’ he said.

  ‘John Shepherd,’ Sir Michael said. ‘Good to see you still hunting. Perhaps you’d care to ride with my guests.’

  ‘I’d be delighted, Master, thank you.’

  ‘Come over, I’ll introduce you.’ And John, with a wave to Billy and Felix, went across to meet Sir Michael’s guests.

  As more and more people rode up the general excitement on the village green grew. Many of the villagers came out to watch the spectacle and there were children everywhere, shouting, laughing and jostling, but most of them kept well away from the horses by anxious parents. To his indignation, Charlotte had a firm hold on Johnny’s hand.

  ‘I want to go and see Daddy,’ he cried.

  ‘You can see Daddy from here,’ replied Charlotte firmly. She was surprised to see several children mounted on ponies ride up to join the throng. ‘Surely they’re too young to hunt!’ she exclaimed to Margaret, who had just strolled over to join her.

  ‘No, not really,’ Margaret replied. ‘Billy’s been hunting since he was eight. They don’t go over the big jumps, they’re expected to keep back and if necessary open gates to go through. There are other non-jumpers too, who use gates and go round obstacles, but they gallop with the best of them when they can.’ She looked down at Johnny’s angry face and smiled. ‘Never mind, Johnny, it won’t be long before you can go, too!’

  Not if I have anything to do with it, Charlotte thought vehemently. But she said nothing; that was an argument for some future day.

  The hounds had been brought over from Upper Marystoke and were now corralled in the backyard of the Magpie, waiting to move off, the restless sounds from the pack indicating that they at least were ready. Matt Trinder, the huntsman, sat on his horse outside the yard gate and Colin French, the whipper-in, shooed inquisitive children out of the yard as they prepared to move out.

  The Master looked at his watch and, mounting his horse, held up his hand. The surrounding hubbub gradually dropped to a general muttering as he spoke.

  ‘I just wanted to extend our thanks to our hosts today,’ Sir Michael said. ‘Mabel and Jack Barrett who’ve provided us with an excellent stirrup cup and refreshments. Always good to come to Wynsdown and meet at the Magpie.’ Then he turned in the saddle and raising his voice called, ‘Hounds, please.’

  The gathered riders moved apart, allowing him to proceed towards the lane where Matt Trinder drew alongside him and with a blast of his horn allowed the hounds, already giving tongue in excited anticipation, to stream out of the pub yard behind them.

  Sir Michael led the field away from the green and out along the lane to a drove that led up onto the hill. Billy turned to wave as he and Felix followed in their wake. Johnny waved back, his arms whirling with excitement, as the last of the horsemen trotted out along the lane to the drove.

  ‘Will they catch a fox?’ he demanded of his mother. ‘Mummy, will they?’

  ‘I don’t know, Johnny. We’ll have to hope so, won’t we? Or Daddy’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘They’re hoping to draw covert up by Charing Coppice,’ Margaret said, raising a hand to John as she watched them go.

  It was as they were riding out that Daphne arrived on the village green. Though the green was still crowded, the last of the horses were disappearing up the lane and there was no sign of Felix. She paused and looked about her. All country locals, she thought dismissively; but then she saw the Rolls parked under the trees and her eyes brightened. Well, at least there’s someone of consequence, she thought, and looked around again to see who it might be. It was then that she saw Charlotte, standing with her children, talking to a matronly-looking woman in dungarees and rubber boots. She watched them for a moment before wandering across to join them.

  ‘Hallo.’

  Startled, Charlotte turned to find Daphne standing behind her. ‘Oh, hallo, Daphne. They’ve just gone. Did you come to see Felix off?’

  ‘Not really. I just wanted to see what all the fuss is about. Seems very cruel to me, all those dogs chasing after one poor little fox.’

  ‘You wouldn’t call him a poor little fox if you’d seen what damage he causes round here.’ Margaret turned abruptly to see who had spoken. ‘Kill for pleasure, foxes do. Murder a whole run of chickens and leave the bodies strewn about. Vermin, that’s what they are.’

  Daphne’s eyes widened as she took an involuntary step back.

  Charlotte th
ought Margaret had been unnecessarily sharp and did her best to smooth things over. ‘Mrs Shepherd,’ she said, ‘I don’t think you’ve met Daphne Bellinger, Felix’s wife, have you?’ Adding, ‘Daphne’s from London,’ as if that explained everything. ‘Daphne, this is my mother-in-law, Mrs Shepherd.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, I’m sure.’ Daphne held out her hand and Margaret took it, but her expression didn’t soften. She looked at the woman standing beside her wearing a fitted overcoat and floppy hat, brown leather gloves and a pair of high-heeled leather pumps, and, instinctively, disliked her.

  ‘Of course, you’re a town— come from London,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect you’ve come down in the morning and found your entire flock of hens lying beheaded in your yard, have you?’

  ‘No, of course I haven’t,’ replied Daphne stiffly.

  ‘Well, when you have, you’ll understand why I’d hunt those vermin to extinction. Only good fox is a dead fox!’

  ‘Only good fox is a dead fox,’ parroted Johnny happily. ‘Dead fox. Dead fox.’

  ‘That’s enough, Johnny,’ said Charlotte repressively.

  The village green was beginning to clear as people went back to their houses. One or two walked out to the drove, following the mounted hunt on foot, and a couple more set off to follow on bikes, but for most of them the excitement of the meet was over.

  At that moment Marjorie Bellinger came across to where they were standing. ‘Daphne, my dear, come to see what it’s all about, have you? Wonderful sight, isn’t it? Better still if you see them in full cry. I wondered if you’d like to walk up onto the hill and watch from there?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Daphne rudely. ‘I’m going home.’ And with that she turned on her high heels and teetered off along the lane towards the manor.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Margaret guiltily, ‘I’m afraid that’s my fault, but she called foxes “poor little”. I was rather sharp with her.’

  Marjorie smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid she’s got a lot to learn about the country.’

  ‘We’re going back to the farm for our dinner,’ Margaret said. ‘Would you like to come too? There’s plenty.’

  Marjorie’s eyes brightened. She hadn’t been looking forward to going back to her empty house. ‘I’d love to,’ she said.

  *

  Out on the hillside the hounds were now drawing Charing Coppice, but although one hound spoke, nothing came of it. Having drawn a blank there, the hunt moved on, out across the open hillside towards another covert.

  ‘Surprised we had no joy there,’ Billy said to Felix as they trotted up the hill. ‘I know there’s been an earth there.’

  ‘Not much scent,’ said Felix. ‘Looks as if we’re headed towards the old quarry.’ He was silent for a minute as they rode, then he said, ‘Was it there you found the crashed plane? Mother said you and your father saved an injured pilot.’

  ‘Yes, we did. Hanging in a tree in Charing Coppice. The plane actually crashed and burned out in the quarry, though. It was your father who went there.’

  ‘Don’t suppose there’s anything to see there, now, is there?’

  ‘No, nothing. The crew are buried in the churchyard, the burned-out plane was removed soon after the war.’

  As they rode across the hillside and approached the next covert, a hound spoke again and with a blur of chestnut and a flash of white-tipped brush, a fox broke cover and streaked away across the hillside.

  Matt Trinder’s horn was at his lips. Gone away! As the hound music filled the air, the mounted field poured out over the hill and away.

  Felix grinned across at Billy as they kicked their horses to a gallop and flung themselves into the exhilaration of the chase. Neck and neck, they careered over the winter turf, following the pink coats of the field master and the huntsmen ahead of them. As they reached the top of the rise they were confronted by a long dry-stone wall. The two horses rose together, landed together and galloped on. The fox sped across another field before it jinked at right angles towards a stand of trees, diving into a bank of scrub and disappearing. The sweating horses and their riders gathered at the edge of the covert to take a breather; and while Colin French whipped-in the hounds, Matt Trinder walked the ground, looking for another exit. He found one some thirty yards away, emerging beneath a mass of brambles, but given away by the well-worn path to its mouth.

  ‘Damn thing should have been stopped last night,’ he muttered, before blowing his horn for the terrierman.

  A pair of terriers were brought and they dived through the undergrowth. Colin kept the hounds close and within a few moments the fox was bolted and streaked away across the open hill. Gone away! The hounds released, the chase was on again.

  Felix moved up the field to ride with John Shepherd, close behind Sir Michael and his friends, the hounds streaming out in front of them. Billy, still aware of Rustler’s relative inexperience, stayed back a little, mid-field. All were galloping, riders and horses exhilarated by the speed, following the lead of the field master as he jumped a gate and led them across a patch of open ground and down into a valley. Billy and Rustler cleared the gate with ease, but as the field began to spread out, Billy found himself beginning to gain ground on the field master. At the end of the defile they were streaming back up the hillside. He could see Felix and his father jumping another wall, but as he followed them he was suddenly aware of another rider coming up close beside him; too close. The man careered past, almost out of control, forcing Billy to change direction, to approach the wall at a slightly lower section. The man cleared the wall, somehow managing to stay in the saddle, then continued flat out, up the hill on the other side. Billy checked Rustler a little as they approached the wall, and knew a moment’s exhilaration as he felt Rustler lift, clearing the wall easily; a moment’s exhilaration, a split second’s horror as he saw a heap of fallen stones on the far side. He shortened his reins, trying to turn the big horse in mid-air, but his momentum was too great. Rustler’s front feet landed on the fallen stone and with a terrified grunt he somersaulted into the ground, flinging Billy high and wide, cartwheeling him, arms flailing, onto the debris of the collapsed wall.

  Hooves thundered past as the rest of the field jumped the original part of the wall in safety and continued on up the hill. Some of them saw a man down, but riders often fell and they left him to get to his feet again and galloped on. Only the non-jumpers, who were going to use the gate further down, paused before the wall and opening the gate, trotted through, ready to canter on up the hill. One of them saw the fallen horse and gave a shout. As they reached the place where Rustler lay on the ground, he tried to regain his feet but staggered as his forelegs gave way beneath him. For a moment they stared in horror at the horse before they saw his rider, spread-eagled and unmoving on the ground.

  22

  The hounds reached the trees. Felix and John grinned at each other as they rested their horses outside the copse.

  ‘Good run,’ said John.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Felix agreed. He turned in the saddle and looked out across the country, spread patchworked below them, bathed in winter sun, and he knew a moment of deep satisfaction. He’d made the right decision. This was where he belonged. He turned to say as much to John, but found him looking about him, searching the field for the sight of his son.

  ‘Can you see Billy?’ he said, a note of anxiety in his voice.

  ‘Said he was going to hold back a bit,’ Felix replied, ‘though I doubt he needed to, Rustler seemed settled and was going well.’

  ‘Can’t see him,’ said John.

  ‘Someone coming up the hill now,’ Felix said, ‘not Billy though.’

  A rider was galloping up the hill and John knew a sudden stab of fear. He didn’t recognise the man, but he could see the panic on his face as he started shouting.

  ‘Man down! Horse down!’ bellowed the man. He reined in his horse and approached the Master, who’d turned abruptly at the sound of shouting. ‘Man
down!’ panted the man. ‘Man and horse. It’s bad!’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Sir Michael.

  ‘Don’t know him!’ cried the man. ‘Big chestnut horse. Broken front legs. Needs to be shot.’

  ‘And the man?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. But he ain’t moving.’

  ‘It’s Billy!’ cried John, and wheeling Hamble about, headed off down the hill.

  Felix paused only to say, ‘Sounds like Billy Shepherd, sir,’ to Sir Michael, before he, too, set off back down the hill.

  They reached the wall and found another rider, dismounted, standing over the still form of Billy.

  John leaped from Hamble’s back and knelt down beside his son. Billy was lying face down on the ground, his head and upper body resting on the pile of stones that had once been part of the wall, one of his arms bent back at an impossible angle.

  Taking his other hand, John felt for a pulse. He found one, but it was faint.

  ‘Billy,’ he said, looking down at Billy’s bruised and lacerated face. ‘Billy, son, can you hear me?’

  Billy gave no response, simply lay, as unmoving as he’d been found.

  ‘There’s a pulse,’ said John, looking up at Felix. ‘He’s still alive.’

  ‘Andy Lawrence has ridden over to Dunns’ farm, yonder, to call for help,’ said the man, whom John now recognised as Sam Burns, a butcher from Cheddar. ‘And Barry Linton, who was here with his children, he’s taken them back home. It’s Horace what rode up to warn the Master and I...’ he glanced down at the inert Billy and shivered, ‘I waited with him.’

  ‘We need to get him to the farm,’ John said. ‘It’s the nearest place.’

  ‘May not be a good idea to move him,’ Felix ventured as he bent down and picked up Billy’s riding hat which lay some feet away. ‘He’s obviously out cold, so he’s had a knock on the head. There may be other injuries we don’t know about.’

  ‘We can’t leave him here,’ John said. ‘It’s too cold to leave him here.’ He looked round about him and saw a pile of sheep hurdles, stacked by the gate. ‘We can carry him on one of those,’ he said.