The Price of Horses

by Ian Taylor

  * * *

  After making a start on spreading horse manure by hand around the fruit bushes in their orchard, Cath and Angie returned to the farmhouse for lunch. It was heavy work without a tractor, and theirs had been refusing to start for the last couple of months.

  Angie volunteered to do the cooking, letting her mother rest on the sitting room sofa. She wanted to surprise her with something tasty. The problem was she wasn’t much of a cook. Despite countless attempts to turn out something delicious, they invariably ended in disappointment. To make matters worse, her mother always pretended to enjoy them.

  Today the result was no different, the best part of their meal being her mother’s mug of tea, brewed in the old teapot she had brought with her to her marriage.

  "Sorry," Angie said apologetically. "Seems omelettes aren't my thing."

  They spent the next hour working in the orchard, then it was time to make up feed supplements for the recently born goat kids.

  "These goats are bloody hard work," Angie complained as they crossed the yard. "We'd make more money if we kept cattle."

  "Goats use a lot less land," Cath replied. "And the vet bills are nowhere near as high. I like goats. They're characters."

  Angie gave up arguing and went into the barn. She was lifting a sack of supplement on to a sack barrow when she caught a movement in her eye corner. She grabbed a pitchfork.

  "Come out of there!" she yelled. "Come out, you bloody thief! Mam—get the shotgun!"

  Luke emerged from the shadows, limping heavily with a broom as a makeshift crutch. Cath appeared in the barn doorway with the shotgun. The two women advanced on him.

  "You're in the wrong spot, fella!" Angie called accusingly. "We shoot chicken thieves round here!"

  "What the hell are you doing on our property?" Cath demanded to know.

  "I was sleeping," Luke revealed with a smile, making no attempt to advance further. "Guess I'm a late riser."

  Angie probed the shadowy corner of the barn with the pitchfork. "Who's hiding back there?"

  "A gang o' fat rats," Luke told her with a grin. "Eating your feed and laughing like a den o' thieves."

  "What's wrong with the leg?" Cath asked, noting Luke's right foot was raised clear of the ground.

  "Squashed by a two-ton cop," he replied, still smiling.

  Cath stepped forward aggressively. "On the run, are you, eh? We don't want any

  criminals here! On your way, fella! Else I'll report you!"

  "We get a reward if we turn you in?" Angie asked suddenly.

  Luke laughed. "Sure. I'm Lucky Lucan."

  He took a small bundle of notes from his inside pocket. He had nothing to lose, so he made his pitch. "Sy Boswell said you might help me. I can pay." He held out the money, riffling the notes.

  "With stolen money?" Cath said accusingly. "That's not going to happen!"

  He disagreed. "Ain't stolen. I'm owed a lot more'n this." He held out the notes. "Take what you want."

  Angie looked interested. Cath, still wary, lowered the shotgun.

  9

  Five minutes later Luke sat on an old wooden dining chair in the farmhouse kitchen, his jeans on a coat hook and his injured right leg propped on a milking stool. Cath sat on another chair inspecting his swollen knee. Angie perched on the edge of the plain pine table with the shotgun beside her.

  Cath prodded Luke's knee and frowned. "The cartilage is all over the place. It'll take a while to get it right.”

  He grinned. "I've got the rest of my life. Looks like I'm all yours, ladies."

  Cath eyed him sternly. "We've naught worth running off with, y'know."

  He shrugged. "Who's running?"

  "We've a cottage to rent," Angie said suddenly, catching her mother's eye.

  Cath was impressed with her daughter's opportunism. "Two hundred a week," she said. "Take it or go on your way."

  He thought a moment. Was it worth haggling? Sy's name had got him this far. He decided not to push his luck. And his knee was swollen and painful. "I'll take it," he said with a sense of relief.

  He produced a roll of notes, peeled off ten twenties and held them out. Angie reached for them, but Cath beat her to it.

  She stood up. "I'll get a bandage for the knee."

  Cath began the massage, shaking a few drops of sweet-smelling oil on the swollen area from a small brown bottle, then gently working the oil into the flesh around the knee. After a few minutes' massage she wrapped the knee tightly in the bandage, then she and Angie helped him across the stackyard and past the deep litter houses. He supported his weight on a walking stick that Matt had used when prodding tardy cattle on their way to fresh pasture. The stick was redundant now, as were the cattle, sold off soon after Matt's death.

  They arrived at the cottages, but before they went any further Luke stopped them,

  looking puzzled.

  "I dunno if this is, like, normal for you, but I saw we'd gone a very round-about way to get here from the house. Why didn't we come here directly? Why all the dodging round the sheds?"

  "We kept behind the farm buildings," Cath explained. "We don't want Charlie seeing you."

  Cath's response gave him cause for fresh concern. "Who the hell's Charlie? Is he your fella?"

  "Charlie's got nothing to do with us. He's the weirdo in the sawmill." Cath pointed in

  the direction of the mill, which could not be seen from where they stood. "He spies on us with his telescope."

  Angie laughed. "We're the only females in his life!"

  He suffered a twinge of anxiety. He didn't want any more confrontations—and certainly not with a gammy leg. "Sawmill Charlie don't own this farm then?"

  "No, thank goodness," Cath replied with undisguised relief. "He's too damn near as it is!" She gestured at the cottages. "Which one d'you want?"

  He laughed. "I've a choice?"

  "They're both pretty much the same, inside and out," Cath told him.

  "I'll take the one by the train lines."

  An intercity passenger train hurtled past as they were talking. Cath noted his reaction, the energy in his gaze focused on the train.

  "I thought you'd have wanted the quieter cottage," she remarked.

  "I like movement," he confessed. "Any kind o' travel. It's been in the blood since the day my people arrived in the world of time."

  Angie was surprised by his strange reply. She was going to ask where his people lived before they arrived in time, but the opportunity passed as Cath unlocked the cottage door.

  He hobbled ahead of them through the ground-floor rooms. He could see at a glance that the house was getting rundown; areas of plaster had become loose and chunks of it had fallen behind the sideboard and sofa, which were the only items of furniture in the sitting room, apart from a couple of scuffed dining chairs and a cheap extendable table.

  The kitchen, like the sitting room, was basic, with a deep old-fashioned porcelain sink and an old free-standing Belling cooker fed by bottled gas. Although he had never been a regular house dweller, he could see they would need to spend a fair bit of vongar before they could attract a long-term tenant.

  "You're the first to rent the place this year," Cath announced, trying to hide her embarrassment at the neglected state of the place.

  He wasn't surprised. He smiled at his companions. "The first, am I? Let you know

  if the jacuzzi works."

  "What d'you expect for two hundred quid—a valet?" Angie quipped.

  He knew they were ripping him off, but he was in no position to argue. In spite of his dislike and deep distrust of all gorgios, he felt a rare moment of sympathy for his companions, who were obviously short of money and struggling. But the emotion passed as quickly as it had arrived. They were farmers. If they sold up tomorrow, they would be worth at least double the value of his heist of T'ang horses. Much more if they had a large acreage.

  He knew his assessment was accurate because he had been looking at the prices of land for a good few years and had bought
small blocks of grazing land and a remote hill farm already. The price he had paid was well below the national average—in some parts of the country the figure had climbed to more than 10K an acre. He had quickly become aware that only top businessmen, some of them billionaires from China and the Middle East, could afford it. Talk about an invasion!

  He realised that if you had worked a patch of land all your life it must be hard to part with it. Your own spirit had merged with the soil that you walked on every day. But it also meant you had to care for it because it was an extension of your life. If you didn't care what did that say about yourself? It said you had no respect for life. You were simply into making money.

  And what did you do with the money? You could always become a country gent and buy venomous snakes for a laugh, for a bit of Barney Rubble.

  Swallowing his sudden anger, he led the way up the steep staircase, using the handrail and the stick to swing himself up three steps at a time. The women behind him shared a look of surprise at his strength and agility.

  The two first-floor bedrooms were as sparsely furnished as the ground floor rooms, with inexpensive double beds, chipped wardrobes and rickety bedside tables. To the women's further surprise, he chose the bedroom that overlooked the railway lines. He lay on the bare mattress watching Angie as she knelt in the window seats hanging clean curtains at the two small windows. One of the windows faced the railway, the other the farm buildings. Cath sat on a bentwood chair that needed a coat of dark oak stain.

  He frowned at his companions. "I'm trusting you if I tell you my name. I hope you don't use it against me."

  "I'm Cath," Cath volunteered, "and the worker in the window is my daughter, Angie."

  "I'm Luke."

  "How d'you know Sy Boswell?" Cath asked.

  "Same clan," he replied. "My purodad—that's my grandfather—married a Boswell. But we'd got Woods and Bucklands and Lees blood before that. How's Sy know you?"

  "His sisters come here fruit picking."

  "You must be one o' the last," he mused, "giving farm work to gypsies. It's mostly gone to foreign work gangs now."

  "I'm old-fashioned, I suppose. I believe in loyalty. Gypsy travellers have done seasonal work at Cuckoo Nest for years." Then she added, after a pause, "I don't think we have a big enough acreage to attract foreign crews."

  She stood up as Angie finished the curtains.

  "Lie still," she advised. "Keep your weight off the leg."

  He looked awkward suddenly. "Y'know, it ain't all that likely, but the gavvers might come looking for me."

  He had to warn her, but his words left a tense silence in the room. She stared at him thoughtfully, then seemed to reach a decision.

  "The police don't hassle law-abiding farmers."

  The look she gave him conveyed the clear implication that she would not give him away. He was impressed. She was a very rare gorgio. A glance of mutual respect passed between them, with an added hint of curiosity on her part.

  She turned to leave. "I'll bring some food and bedding later."

  He smiled. "I'm your prisoner, doc."

  * * *

  When they had given the goat kids their extra feed and moved the nanny goats' tethers so they could reach fresh browsing, Cath and Angie returned to the farmhouse. They prepared food for themselves and their new tenant which they would cook when the farm work was done for the day.

  Cath looked worried. "Maybe we shouldn't have started this."

  "Why not?" Angie objected. "He's got money. We don't."

  "He's trouble." Cath realised she was giving voice to feelings she didn't yet fully understand. Powerful emotions were rising up in her that she hadn't experienced for years. She was anxious but oddly elated, which left her feeling confused.

  "Can you show me anyone these days who isn't trouble?" Angie replied with unassailable conviction. "The bank's onside when you're making a profit, when you're not they lean on you like you're a problem schoolkid that can be bullied into line. The neighbours are happy to help out, but only with a mind to getting hold of the land if we go under. Elephants have more compassion."

  Cath was surprised to hear such cynical thoughts from her daughter. She had obviously been keeping her feelings hidden for some time.

  "He's still trouble." He might force me to face myself, she thought. Will I be strong enough?

  Angie smiled. "He's good-looking trouble though. Nice change from Charlie Gibb, ain't it?"

  "We'd better be watchful," Cath warned. "If Charlie thinks there's something going on he doesn't know about, he's sure to come snooping."

  "He's an example of what I just said. The neighbour with a mind only for his own profit. The human race sickens me."

  Cath was privately appalled. Her daughter was only sixteen. What would she be like by the time she was thirty? Was there such a thing as a state of innocence these days? Was there just the despair of the wise and oblivion of the rest, with only a howling emptiness between?

  "You're too young to be so gloomy, Angie. At least we have each other."

  "That's true. We can give each other a big hug while we sink into the abyss."

  * * *

  Charlie crouched in the sawmill loft, scanning the farm through his telescope. He searched the orchard, the area around the deep litter houses, the stackyard. Nothing amiss there.

  The lights in the farmhouse kitchen were on, which was normal for late afternoon. But something had changed—he could feel it in the air. The two cottages, was that it? Ah, yes, there were brown curtains in that upstairs room last time he looked—and now they were green. But he hadn't seen anyone going in to change them. He lowered the telescope.

  "What are you up to, Cath Scaife?" he muttered. "Who've you got in there?"

  He scanned the cottages again, but there was no sign of movement. If there were new tenants in occupation there was no evidence of a vehicle, which was a mystery in

  itself. No one ever came down to these parts without a vehicle. There was no public transport for five miles—and then only four buses a day. He felt annoyed and frustrated, as if they had deliberately chosen to torment him with some new secret development.

  "Gonna keep my eye on you, Cath Scaife," he cried, loud enough to scare a pigeon perched on the end of the roof ridge. "You got something going on you think you can hide from me! But I'll find it out." He descended to his office, his lips drawn tight in vexation. "Ain't no one ever been born that can fool Charlie Gibb!"

  * * *

  Luke hobbled cautiously from the cottage with the aid of the walking stick, doing his best to keep his weight off his right leg. He had lain on the bed with the idea that he might sleep, but he was unable to relax. The thought occurred to him that he should have a key for the cottage door, and he set off towards the farmhouse to ask for one. He had never bothered about keys before, but with gorgios like Sawmill Charlie around it was best not to take any chances.

  Cath and Angie appeared, going into what looked like a tractor shed. He set off to join them. At the same time Charlie approached the farm through the boggy strip of willow wood that lay between Cuckoo Nest and the sawmill. Just in time Luke spotted the tall figure in the eye patch and floppy hat and ducked into a nearby doorway to watch.

  Cath and Angie were attempting to start their old Ford tractor.

  Angie shook her head. "It's no good. We'll have to get someone out."

  Cath sat on a toolbox and lit a cigarette. Angie helped herself from Cath's pack.

  "They won't come," Cath said despairingly. "They know we can't pay 'em."

  "We should buy a newer one. Why don't you talk to the bank?"

  "I can't see the bank being willing to help. I can't repay the loan interest on time as it is."

  Charlie appeared in the shed entrance. He paused, ogling the women with his good

  eye. "Machine trouble, eh?" He emitted his eerie laugh. "You'll be able to afford a new one now."

  Cath was taken aback. "What the hell d'you mean, Charlie? D'you know some
thing we don't?"

  He made a wild guess, hoping that out of falsehood the truth might emerge. "Sold one o' them cottages, ain't you?"

  "What makes you think that?" Angie asked. "Not that it's any of your business."

  "New curtains. No vehicles. Reckon someone's paid you a big fat cheque and they'll

  be moving in the first o' next month."

  "What kind of fantasy world do you live in?" Angie asked the albino accusingly.

  "We're just decorating the place, Charlie, that's all," Cath said. "Doing a few repairs. Might have a mind to sell once we've finished. But it's not likely to happen till next spring, if ever."

  He didn't believe her. No one was going to buy a house stuck between a farmyard and a railway line. She was going to try to let them again, though she wasn't prepared to admit it. Not that she could charge much rent the state they were in. Four hundred a month at most. Had she offered them to a housing association? If she had, she'd have to put central heating in. Townies couldn't cope with open fires.

  He decided it was time to make his pitch and to see how she reacted. "If I was a partner here I could fix that tractor. I'd do more'n that. I'd get the bank off your back. You wouldn't need to be letting those cottages. I'd knock 'em down and build new ones away from the lines."

  "That's none of your business, Charlie," Cath said firmly, trying to hide her growing

  anger. The idea of building new cottages had existed from her husband's time. The albino knew she couldn't afford to build them. He was rubbing her nose in her penury.

  "I'd make the place pay," Charlie insisted with a crooked grin. "I'd be a good farmer."

  He waved a sheaf of papers at them. "You sign these and there ain't no more problems. I can service that machine and the pair o' you just as easy."

  His eerie laugh seemed suddenly more menacing.