Brendon Chase

by B. B.

  Bunting swam right across the pool, overarm, then he turned over and swam breaststroke, slowly. The water lapped his mouth. He passed through a cloud of midges, he smelt the rare leafy tang of the woodland water. He skirted the lily beds – once or twice feeling the sinister snaky coils of their roots against his kicking legs. He turned on his back and floated like an upturned chubby boat, staring into the summer blue. Oh, it was heaven! It was heaven!

  The sweat, the dusty road, the burning heat, the flies and briars, all had gone in this cool parlour. He floated dreamily, oaring quietly with his cupped hands like some woodland satyr, staring up, staring up.

  A jay screamed again in the distance, once, otherwise a dreamy stillness settled on this place, this paradise. He drifted into the shadow where the water suddenly felt cold and the dazzle was shut away. Willows overhung him. A waterfowl complained nearby.

  Oh! The keen clasp of the dreamy water! Oh! The cool embrace of the Blind Pool, bearing him up!

  10. The Whiting

  When the whiting’s iron juggernaut came to a standstill with a final gasping hiccup, his first act was to rummage in the back seat for his butterfly net. It was a green one, jointed, Watkins and Doncaster’s best. His second act was to sling across his shoulders the haversack containing (1) a bottle of pale ale, (2) a thick packet of ham sandwiches, (3) a hard-boiled egg and radishes, and finally, wrapped carefully in tissue paper, the leg of a chicken. His ‘old body’ he reflected, was a real treasure. Without her he would be in a bad way. Several people, including Aunt Ellen, had told him so, as if he didn’t know!

  The car was making strange gurgling noises in her intestines, so the Whiting went round to the front and looked at the radiator almost tenderly. She was boiling, poor dear, and no wonder, on a day like this! But later, he reflected, the nearby oaks would cast shade; the old car would cool down.

  He climbed the gate and wandered along the ride, close to the bushes, his eyes – very sharp eyes they were – taking in every detail of leaf and stem. There was a fine sallow bush! Just the place for a purple emperor! Yet he had never seen one in this forest. It was his great ambition to do so. It was the one of the few British butterflies he had never seen.

  He examined the bush very carefully with the close scrutiny of a treecreeper, pulling down the branches so that the pale soft undersides of the leaves were revealed to his penetrating gaze. But all he saw were beetles, strange hammer-headed beetles. He passed on, working his way very slowly, peering like a bird at every little leaf.

  Now and again he scanned the oak tops until his eyes ached. What a fool to leave his green glasses behind. The ‘old body’ could not be expected to remember everything … How still and hot the forest lay under the burning July sun. Oh, for a purple emperor!

  A tawny red butterfly appeared over the bushes and settled on a blossom of blackberry flower. It was a comma, quite a good thing. He made a pass at it with the net and missed, then he pursued it for some way down the ride until it eventually disappeared over some hazels. Bother! It had been a good specimen too … He went on, now down this ride, now down that. The meadow browns were hatching, they were bob, bobbing everywhere; nothing but meadow browns, drab meadow browns. They sat on the warm grass and seemed to look at him out of the cheeky painted eyes at the tips of their wings … He came to a junction of two main ridings. Here the oaks were tall and straight, fine trees. There was sallow too, jungles of sallow, everywhere. What a place for a purple emperor!

  And then … he saw it, quite suddenly he saw it, the glorious regal insect of his dreams!

  It was flying towards him down the ride and it settled for a moment on a leaf. Then, as he advanced, trembling with excitement, it soared heavenwards to the top of an oak. There he watched it, flitting round one of the topmost sprays far out of reach, mocking him, the unattainable, the jewel, the king of butterflies! It was well named the purple emperor – it was truly regal in form, colour and habits.

  The old entomologists called it His Imperial Majesty! They were right, those old boys, it was an Imperial insect, and no mistake. The Whiting stood below looking up at it like a fox watching a pheasant in a tree.

  But the maddening insect would not come down and after a while it floated from sight and he saw it no more. He heaved a sigh. At any rate he had seen it and could now tell the boys – if he ever saw them again – that Apatura iris did occur in Brendon Chase. Now – if only he had an old rabbit to hang up, that was the thing! Or if he could find a puddle or something. Emperors love moisture … If he was to come in the early morning he might have a chance … He pulled out his sandwiches and beer bottle and then found he had forgotten the opener for the bottle, so he had to prise it off with his knife. Oh dear! That old brain of his! It was getting worse, so his housekeeper told him. Only that morning he had come down to breakfast in two waistcoats. He finished his leisurely meal at last and then continued his search.

  He left the main ride and wandered on towards the Blind Pool which he knew lay somewhere on his left. Like Bunting, who was also battling through the Chase not so far away, the Whiting began to suffer dreadfully from the heat. But it did not seem to take him long to reach the little path he knew led to the pool. Why shouldn’t the purple emperor be there? He could imagine it in the hot sun, floating down like a large black and white leaf to drink at the muddy margin.

  As he approached the pool he thought, once, he heard something moving in the underwood on the left of the path. The ferns shook as though some animal was making that way, but after a second or two all was still. A deer perhaps, or a rabbit … When at last he pushed out of the bushes he saw the pool, silent as usual and deserted, though many ripples came widening from under the willows. Waterfowl, no doubt, fleeing into hiding. But there was no fine emperor floating about in the hot sunlight, or drinking the dark green waters, so after a smoke on the bank and another pull at his beer bottle, he made his way back down the path by which he had come. Already the sun was westering. By the time he reached the car most of the butterflies had gone to bed.

  He found the old De Dion awaiting him beyond the gate like a patient horse and she started up at the first wind of the handle, shuddering and roaring and blowing blue acrid smoke from her rear. He threw his knapsack containing the remains of his lunch on to the back seat and his net followed suit. The knapsack fell off the seat on to the floor but he never bothered to look round.

  The roebuck of the Blind Pool

  Then he put her in gear and away he went down the straight white road in a cloud of dust. He had seen a purple emperor! He could think of nothing else. He would try and come again while the hot weather lasted. He would come with a very ripe rabbit and hang it up on one of the oaks!

  The snorting chariot whirled along, and soon the Chase was left far behind. Martyr Bar flashed by, the shirtsleeved Ernie standing at the inn door, on over the bridge, up hill and down dale, whirling along through the evening air which was now so cool and soft.

  White ducks flew quacking dismally almost under his wheels, hens, cats and dogs fled right and left, and the scented evening was tainted with the fumes of exhaust long after the ancient car had passed on its way. And at last he saw the tower of his old church above the sweet-scented lime trees and a minute later drove into the stable yard of the vicarage. It had been an interesting day, a very interesting day. But it was a pity he had not had time to look up Smokoe Joe.

  His old housekeeper came bustling out to meet him.

  ‘Well, sir, so you’ve got back safe and sound. I ’ope you’ve ’ad a good day and brought back all your things.’

  ‘Yes, yes, a very interesting day, but hot you know, terribly hot.’

  The ‘old body’ opened the rear door and drew out a haversack. Then her eyes popped out on stalks and the goitre seemed to bob up and down. ‘Why, sir, whatever … Whatever ’ave you got there?’

  ‘Eh? Eh? What’s that you say?’ The Whiting came bustling to her side. On the back seat was a pair of blue serge trousers, a
pair of socks, pants and vest, and a sergeant’s tunic, a police sergeant’s tunic!

  ‘I can’t understand it, I can’t understand it,’ repeated the Whiting in a feeble voice. ‘I never put them there, I don’t understand it!’

  The housekeeper pulled out the tunic, the breast pocket of which was bulging with papers. A quick scrutiny revealed the rightful owner.

  ‘Sergeant Bunting’s tunic,’ gasped the Whiting incredulously, ‘I’ve never seen him all day. What on earth are his things doing in my car?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know,’ said the housekeeper grimly. ‘I expect it’s some more of your absentmindedness, sir.’

  And that also was what Sergeant Bunting would want to know, as soon as he returned to Cherry Walden, clothed in another man’s trousers.

  Bunting, floating under the willows of the Blind Pool, heard a cracking of sticks from across the water. He turned over like a big white porpoise and held on to a willow bough. Water beetles tickled his legs. He stared out from under the leaves. Good heavens! Somebody was coming through the bushes! And then, as his heart beat faster, he saw a green butterfly net waving over the underwood and a second later the squat figure of the vicar appeared. He saw him stand awhile gazing round; once he looked in Bunting’s direction but did not see him. What a bit of luck! Though had the Whiting arrived on the scene a couple of minutes earlier, he, Bunting, would have been basking like a shark in mid-water. But what if the vicar saw his uniform and clothes? They were tucked under some hazels on that side of the pond not far from where the vicar stood. He saw the Whiting light a cigarette and sit down on the ferny bank. And all this while the unfortunate Bunting dared not move as, with every movement, ripples lapped outwards betraying his position. At last the Whiting got up and tossed away his cigarette and disappeared into the trees. He had gone! Thank heavens!

  Bunting heaved a sigh of relief. How very awkward; he would have looked extremely foolish had the Whiting caught him there, swimming stark naked in the Blind Pool!

  Bunting had been in the water for the best part of an hour and he was glad to get out. Bother the old parson. Fancy him coming like that!

  He tiptoed gingerly through the ferns to where he had left his clothes. Then he stopped as if shot. His shirt was there, and his boots and helmet and white gloves, but that was all. The rest of his garments – his blue serge trousers, his tunic, his vest and pants – had gone!

  The unfortunate man was so aghast he could not move. Wildly he looked about him, perhaps some animal had taken them, perhaps … he felt a cold clutch at his heart – perhaps the Whiting, in a fit of his notorious absentmindedness, had taken them! Feverishly he seized his shirt and put it on before that, too, was spirited away. He was shivering now, not with cold, for on such a day that was impossible, but with agitation.

  He put on his boots and helmet and then began to search wildly all along the side of the Blind Pool, under every bush and tree, behind every reed clump. But no trace of the missing garments was to be found. It must have been the vicar. But why, in heaven’s name, why should he have taken them?

  Some cruel trick was being played upon him. What was he to do? How could he, a Sergeant of Police, return to Cherry Walden clad only in his helmet, shirt, boots and gloves? He would be looked upon as a madman!

  The hapless wretch was beside himself. What was he to do? What was he to do? he kept repeating to himself.

  Evening was coming; already the sun had lost its power, gnats played their fairy fountains above the still waters, ringdoves cooed sweetly up in the oaks.

  His plight seemed more and more desperate. Should he try and find Smokoe Joe and borrow some trousers and a jacket from him? No, it would be all over the county. And he did not know which way to turn for Smokoe Joe’s abode. There was nobody in Yoho whom he knew, besides – the shame of it! No, that was impossible …

  He sat down on the bank and tried to think calmly. He thought of everything, a skirt of leaves or grass, a thick branch carried fore and aft, all these he thought of. At last he could only come to one conclusion. He must get out of the forest, find his bicycle, and go under cover of darkness to Ernie at The Martyr. Ernie would lend him trousers. But would Ernie hold his tongue? Would it not be better to go home as he was, clad only in his shirt, boots, helmet and gloves, all the way to Cherry Walden?

  No, there would be a moon later. It rose soon after midnight. Once the moon was up he might be seen. No, it was Ernie or eternal disgrace. And first, trouserless, he had to get out of the Chase. A painful business.

  A little after midnight Ernie, sleeping soundly beside his wife, was awakened by the rattle of a stone against his window. He grunted and turned over. Somebody wanting a drink, a drunken rustic perhaps. Again came the rattle of gravel. Ernie got out of bed. ‘Who’s there?’

  A dim whiteness was seen below among the bean rows.

  ‘Ernie, is that you?’ came a husky voice. ‘It’s me, Sergeant Tom. Come down at once and let me in; summat’s happened, summat bad. I’ve lost me clo’es.’

  11. The Coming of Bang

  Now, as you may have guessed, the author of this scandalous practical joke was not the poor absentminded Whiting. He had not even been aware that Sergeant Bunting had been in the forest until he was informed of that surprising fact by Bunting himself on the following morning.

  I will not attempt to describe that harrowing scene or what passed between them. Suffice it to say nobody suspected the boys. I will qualify that statement by saying that, at least, nobody but the Whiting suspected the boys, but then, he also vaguely suspected himself. Nor will I attempt to describe, in detail, how the outlaws, bound for a swim in the Blind Pool, heard from afar the gurglings and splashings as of some large beast of the forest disporting itself in those sacred waters; or how Robin Hood, scouting forward with stoatish stealth, saw with his own eyes the never-to-be-forgotten spectacle of the Sergeant of Police bobbing like a bloated white walrus among the fair lilies. It would be tedious to recount the manner in which the neatly piled clothes were stolen with true Red Indian technique, or how the Whiting was also observed and the whereabouts of his car discovered. The placing of the sergeant’s garments on the back seat was the work of a moment and both the departure of the Whiting and – best fun of all – the furtive-footed Bunting, were watched from the shelter of the impenetrable forest. It would be unseemly to describe how those three shameless villains had to roll among the fern to stifle their cries of mirth as the unhappy policeman pedalled rapidly away in the dusk of that summer night, his shirt tails flying, his white-gloved hands gripping the handlebars, and his naked hairy legs whirling madly round as he sped from sight.

  In those far-off days there was little traffic on the roads after nightfall, but it is possible, nay probable, that some wandering lovers spied that apparition rushing by, as they lingered in each other’s fond embrace among the honeysuckle.

  The Chase had the reputation of being haunted by the Martyr. No doubt Sergeant Bunting would give renewed authenticity to the rustic legend, though it would take a deal of imagination to mount the Martyr on a bicycle, in place of the more orthodox headless horse.

  July dragged on in sullen heat. The trees seemed to pray for rain; the little horse ponds outside the Chase shrank until only flaked and cracked hollows, like empty dishes, rewarded the maddened cows when they came to drink.

  There were cases of sunstroke in many of the villages; the old people died like flies. Great heat kills quicker than cold. It was only natural therefore that the outlaws haunted the Blind Pool. Sometimes they slept during the greater part of the day and went by night to its magic shores and discovered a new ghostliness upon its sleeping waters.

  It was there, under the full July moon, they saw their first badger and her farrow. They met her face to face down a riding and the little cubs scattered with urgent squeals. It was by the Blind Pool that Robin first glimpsed a purple emperor, drinking on the pond edge before the midday sun had topped the trees.

  Th
ere it hovered upon the very margin, its wings widespread, showing all the glory of its purple sheen. And in the nearby sallows Little John disturbed the female, a vast insect like an outsize white admiral, but in her swift flight through the sallow wands she eluded him.

  One disquieting fact was now apparent. Their ammunition was running low. There were still forty rounds in the worn red box which they kept hidden in a crevice of the oak, but they had to face the fact that the time was not far distant when there would be no more. And meat they must have.

  There was no more ammunition at the Dower House and to make a journey into Brendon to the gunsmith’s there would be fraught with peril. Besides, they only had fifteen shillings between them. ‘No, chaps, it’s no good,’ said Robin Hood one evening as they lay discussing this very problem by their camp fire, ‘the time is coming when we shall have to get our meat in some other way, by snaring or deadfalls or something. After all, the early outlaws hadn’t any guns; they had to rely on their bows and arrows and their traps. We’ve got lazy – we haven’t tried to snare any rabbits, though we’ve brought the snares with us, and we haven’t made any deadfalls. It’s about time we did something about it. Heaven knows what month it is, still less what day; we haven’t any means of telling. We can only go by the signs we see. But by the look of the trees the summer’s getting on. Banchester will soon be breaking up. It must be long past Speech Day anyway.’

  ‘We’ll set some snares tomorrow,’ said Big John, ‘it’ll be fun too, and we’ll make some deadfalls out of logs, though we shan’t catch rabbits in those.’

  ‘What’s the use of setting ’em then?’ asked Little John.

  ‘Why, for pelts of course; there must be no end of good fur knocking around – badgers, foxes and stoats and things. After all, stoats are ermine.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s no use starting to trap yet,’ said Robin, ‘for pelts I mean. They aren’t in good condition until the fall.’