The more sinister-looking members of the other side, all wearing Fighters Against Racing Torture insignia, were gathered a short distance from the main branch of the saboteurs, blowing on their bare hands, stamping their DMs. The paid-up animal righters, all very studenty and Green-looking, were ignoring them, as though they disliked the body-pierced and dreadlocked crew almost as much as they did the hunt servants. Again, slightly apart from the real anarchists, were a group of the respectable middle-aged middle class, better muffled against the cold than either of the other two groups, but looking no less dedicated to the cause.
The man who had left the poster in the bookshop, and who had called in twice since to see if it was still there, was nowhere to be seen. On the second visit he'd confided in her that his name was Reynard – not his real name, of course, but the one he'd adopted in solidarity with the cause. He had not only had his ears and nose liberally pierced, but also his tongue, which had fascinated Jemima considerably.
'You want to keep neutral,' Tracy had said cheerfully, humping armfuls of' Super Gifts for Christmas' across from the stock-room. 'And he's a right weirdo. Some of them protesters is worse than the huntsmen. More violent. More nasty. You managed to beat Bathsheba Cox and her crew – why don't you just leave it at that?'
But Jemima couldn't. Wouldn't. Anyway, she wasn't particularly worried by Reynard's absence at Fernydown. It was rather a relief. He would probably be as persistent as the deerstalker in canvassing potential members. She didn't want to join any of the groups. She felt fairly confident of making her own protest without the need to resort to violence.
It had been a very strange week.
Matt had been released from hospital the day after the Hennessey. Slight concussion and a dislocated shoulder, along with massive bruising, would put him out of action for some tune. Strangely, Jemima thought, Vincent had reacted extremely badly to this news. Maybe she'd misjudged him. Maybe he really did like Matt. She'd been touched by her father's concern and his apparent need to know every detail of Matt's progress.
To this end, Jemima had called at Matt's house most days, staying to chat and make tea. Matt had seemed grateful, but hadn't wanted to talk much. She wasn't surprised. She was just glad that they were friends again, the embarrassment of the non-seduction night a fading memory now.
Dragon Slayer, however, had fared far better than his jockey: once Matt had been dumped, he'd gone on riderless and beaten Bonne Nuit to the winning post by a short head.
Bonne Nuit actually winning the Hennessey had passed her by in a sort of blur. Gillian, who had one minute been weeping noisily about Matt, was suddenly whooping joyously and had belted off to the winner's enclosure to congratulate Charlie.
The whole thing had become farcical after that. Drew had to remind Gillian that, firstly, she was not supposed to be in the winner's enclosure if she wanted to remain anonymous and, secondly, that as a vicar's wife she should refrain from chewing Charlie's face off. Tina had been strangely distracted, seeming more concerned about Matt's accident than Charlie's victory. Vincent and Maureen were practically doing cartwheels, but stopped when Jemima had said, rather frostily, that she hoped her father hadn't put any money on Bonne Nuit.
'Course not, duck,' Maureen had said quickly. 'We're just dead pleased for Charlie and Drew. That's all.'
Then Jemima had asked Drew where Matt was likely to be and had been directed to the medical centre. By the time she arrived he was being loaded into an ambulance. Tina, surrounded by a posse of paparazzi, was giving some sort of press statement. She'd raised an eyebrow as Jemima panted to a halt.
'It's all right. We don't both need to go with him.'
'No, we don't,' Jemima had said, pushing her way through the viewfinders and scrambling into the ambulance. Matt, still in his breeches and jersey, was blinking dazedly and stared straight through her.
'He'll be fine,' the paramedic said. 'Tough as old boots. Bit confused at the moment, I'd say, and bruised to buggery. Still, we'll whip him off to X-ray just to be on the safe side. Are you coming with him?'
'There's no need.' Tina had lifted her world-famous legs on to the top step. 'He's my responsibility. He was riding my horse.'
Recognising her, the paramedics ignored Jemima completely and started on further intricate explanations of the treatment he'd need. Jemima found herself bundled out of the ambulance with all the ceremony of someone putting out the weekly refuse sack.
'Mustn't crowd the patient,' they'd said, slamming the doors. 'Ring the hospital later for a progress report.'
Feeling completely out of sync, she'd drifted back to the winner's enclosure, because she had no idea what else to do. Charlie and Drew were being interviewed by Channel 4 Racing, and somehow Fizz Flanagan was in there too, looking bewildered.
'They think he owns the horse,' Gillian had said. 'I couldn't really say anything, could I? How's Matt?'
'They've taken him to hospital. Tina's gone with him.'
'Nice of her. Poor boy. That was quite a tumble.' She turned to Jemima and hugged her. 'Wasn't that just the most amazing thing you've ever seen?'
'Not really. I thought he was dead.'
'Not Matt, silly. They all fall at some time or another. No – I meant Charlie's win. Goodness! I couldn't believe it. I thought I'd just burst with excitement.'
And that, Jemima thought as she walked across Fernydown Common to take up a stance somewhere between the Greens and the woolly hats, was where the really peculiar part had kicked in. She had actually found it the most tremendous experience of her life. The whole race, except the pile-up when so many horses went down and she'd felt sick, was completely thrilling. She hadn't removed her glasses as she had honestly thought she would. She had been riveted to every heart-thumping minute.
When the first horse fell she'd held her breath, stuffing her fingers into her mouth as others were caught up in the catastrophe and the crashing, slithering mass of legs gathered in momentum and size like an equine snowball. She'd prayed as the huge glossy bodies thumped to a turf-shuddering halt, and then prayed again as they'd scrambled unsteadily to their feet. True, the first prayers had been for the horses. But the second had been for Charlie and Matt.
As soon as she'd realised that both the black-and-white and vivid pink colours were still standing, or rather galloping, she had heaved a massive sigh of relief. She hadn't expected the surge of pride, watching Charlie and Matt as they raced neck and neck, athletic bodies crouched low in the saddle, leaning forward, pushing their muscles to breaking point. She hadn't expected to share the excitement of each forging step, each carefully calculated leap, each perfect landing. She hadn't expected the intensity of feeling – or the rush of lust.
She would rather have had her wisdom teeth extracted without anaesthetic than confess how turned on she'd been. Thankfully Matt's fall had acted like a cold shower. Thinking about it later, it had bothered her considerably that she, who hated everything to do with horse-racing, had found the whole thing so damned sexually arousing. Mulling it over late that night she'd come to the conclusion that she was simply getting old and sad and had been celibate for far too long ... If she wasn't careful she'd be resorting to Maureen's libido kick-start of Fishnets and Cliff Richard videos.
The hunt was stirring. Jemima ducked her head. There would be plenty of time for Diana and Gareth and Kath to recognise her later, she decided. It was simply not good marketing policy to hurl herself across the Common and punch three of her best-spending customers. Right now she needed to get her bearings and control the mounting anger.
Horses were being turned round and reined in, and the hounds gathered together. The protesters immediately stopped chatting and raised their banners aloft. Jemima slid behind a large lady in a tweed mac and wondered what she was actually supposed to do. So far there had been no chanting or shouting as she had imagined there would be, just this sort of silent stand-off.
Suddenly things changed. The Greens, led by a stout girl with a mousy perm, hurled th
emselves across the Common towards the Pickled Newt's car park and stood in a defiant line across the gravelled track. The woolly-hat-and-mitten brigade dodged round them and tore off in the direction of the distant fields.
She tapped the lady in the mackintosh who had been shielding her, on the shoulder. 'What are they doing?'
'Aniseed trail,' she puffed, fumbling through various cavernous pockets. 'I've got mine all mixed up with my bloody hankie. Ah! Come along!'
'I haven't got any aniseed. I didn't bring sweets ...'
'Good God!' The mackintosh had Jemima firmly by the elbow and had struck up a smart jog. 'It's for the hounds. To throw them off the scent. You must be very new. Come along with me. I'll show you the ropes.'
The hunt were pretty angry by now, Jemima noticed, as they tried to edge their horses past the Greens without trampling on any of them. Bridles and bits jangled, and the MFH was brandishing his fist at the girl with the perm who was standing foursquare in his path, and turning almost as pink as his jacket. The Milton St John contingent glared fiercely at the delay as the hounds whirled themselves into balls of brindled excitement.
A distant horn echoed eerily across the dead winter fields, hanging like a mourning wail on the air. The hounds were instantly alert, then, ignoring the whipper-in, started to lope away in the direction of the noise.
'Millie and Frank,' the mackintosh said proudly. 'Well into their seventies. Been saboteurs for years. Frank can throw a whole pack off the scent better than anyone I know.'
The hunt were trying to recall the hounds, control their horses and get past the Greens at the same time. Jemima, who would have loved to watch, found herself dragged unceremoniously through a five-bar gate.
'Stand here,' the mackintosh commanded. 'And throw anything that comes to hand if the sods get through.'
Throw? Anything? 'But it might hurt the horses.'
The mackintosh looked pityingly at her. 'Grass. Twigs. Clods of earth. And not at the horses – at the bloody riders once they start moving. Anything to irritate them and slow their Progress. Aim at their chests — we don't want any hospital cases just yet. You must have played cricket as a gel, surely?'
Jemima hadn't, but didn't feel it was the best time to admit it. The mention of hospitals, albeit in the future, was a little unnerving, too.
All around her the anti-hunting strategy was unfolding. The Greens had obviously delayed the start for as long as possible and were now involved in jeering and banner-waving. Those who didn't have banners made do with their fists, while the woolly hats misled the hounds and stirred up general confusion. Reynard's chums, as far as she could tell, did very little except stand and glower in a sinister fashion.
The hunt's foot followers were exchanging verbal blows with the Greens. As the horses were prancing prettily, and the hounds still yelping in the direction of Frank and Millie's hunting horn, nothing had happened yet.
'Gives the fox a chance to escape,' the mackintosh said. 'It's about all we can do really. That and let everyone know what our feelings are. We don't do violence but –' she nodded her headscarf towards the body-pierced brigade, 'they might.'
'And you don't approve?' Jemima, who was absolutely freezing, felt that as long as the violence was directed towards the hunt members and none of the horses or hounds got hurt, it probably wouldn't matter too much.
'No point in sinking to their level. It gets you nowhere with the press and that. Television has to be neutral, see. They can't afford to upset anyone, so for every shot of the fox being ripped to shreds they always show one of the hunt sitting blamelessly on their horses looking put-upon while the hoi-polloi run riot. And then there's letter-bombs and stuff like that. We don't want anything to do with that.'
Jemima didn't either. For the first time she began to question the wisdom of allowing Reynard to put up his poster. Maybe she should have contacted one of the more legally run groups. Had her collusion now marked her down as a potential terrorist as well as a purveyor of pornography in the village? It certainly wasn't an auspicious start to her first year in business.
'Now!' The mackintosh stooped down and tore at a handful of dried grass. 'They're getting through! Throw something! Now!'
Jemima, very doubtful about this tactic, wavered. The first phalanx of the hunt, having outmanoeuvred the Greens' road-block, was trotting towards the gate. The mackintosh hurled her tussock of grass with deadly accuracy. It hit Gareth James-Jordan neatly in the middle of his chest.
'Oh, I say!' He squinted down his long nose, then spotted Jemima. 'Oh, hello, there. Nice to see you again. Lovely day for it.'
'Years of bloody inbreeding,' the mackintosh snorted. 'I'm sure he doesn't know where he is half the time. Nice man really. Probably thinks he's out for a ride. Not her though!'
The next clump of grass bounced off Kath Seaward's shoulder. Jemima turned her head away quickly.
'Fucking antis!' Kath yelled as she trotted smartly through the gate. 'Should have been drowned at fucking birth!'
'You didn't throw,' the mackintosh said. 'You're not entering into the spirit at all.'
Half the hunt and most of the foot followers had got past the Greens and through the gate. Ignoring the banner-waving and the shouts, they streamed behind the hounds across the grey-baked furrows.
Why couldn't they just enjoy doing that, Jemima wondered, and not have to kill anything at the end of it?
Bugger!' The mackintosh was suddenly agitated. 'That looks like trouble.'
To Jemima it looked very much like Reynard. Wearing a sort of dung-coloured blanket and a Rasta hat, with his straggly beard splaying in the wind, Reynard had appeared from nowhere and was gesticulating wildly. The anarchists, obviously fired by the presence of their leader, had taken over where the Greens had failed. In a mass of ill-fitting jumpers and camouflage gear, they hurled themselves into the gateway, prostrating themselves across the path. The dozen or so riders behind Kath and the James-Jordans yanked their horses to a halt.
Get down!' Reynard grabbed at Jemima's reefer jacket. 'Form a human shield and then kick out at the bastards!'
'Don't!' The mackintosh tugged at Jemima's other sleeve
'They'll trample all over you! And you stop that! Stop!'
The body-pierced brigade had no intention of taking any notice, Those who weren't already on the ground were lashing out at anything in sight with a selection of broken-off branches, boots, and fists. Jemima, half on her knees next to Reynard, heard the wail of sirens.
'Fucking filth!' Reynard hissed through bad teeth and the tongue stud. 'Wasting pounds of taxpayers' money! Always on the side of the aristos! Bastards!'
The whole thing had turned very nasty. Jemima, shaking off Reynard's grubby grasp, scrambled to her feet and straightened her glasses. The mackintosh was nowhere to be seen. The Barbouts were exchanging blows with the anarchists and the remaining members of the hunt had dismounted and joined in. The siren wail grew louder and the first police car bounced across the Common.
'Jemima!'
'Sod off!' Wanting to get as far away from Reynard as possible, she scrambled over the prone protesters. She had absolutely no intention of being arrested for public disorder. She wanted to save the fox, that was all. This violence, as far as she could see, was going to achieve nothing except a criminal record to go with her other misdemeanours.
'Jemima!'
It couldn't be Reynard – he didn't know her name. Ducking through the worst of the brawl, her heart almost stopping at the sight of three police cars disgorging their occupants, she squinted through the heaving mass.
Wearing a leather jacket and dark glasses, Charlie was beckoning to her from the Aston Martin. 'Come over here! Quick!'
Not on her life! He was on the other side. True, he wasn't in hunting pink – but he was a follower. And not even a foot follower. He was no doubt going to watch the kill in comfort. Against violence she may be, but she wasn't going to swap sides at the first sign of trouble.
'Jemima!' He lean
ed even further from the window. 'You're doing no good here. Come on!'
She shook her head. The fighting was becoming more intense. There were bodies sprawled across the dead brown grass and on the Pickled Newt's gravelled forecourt. 'No wonder you were so against me putting up the poster! You're one of them!'
'I'm not one of anybody – and unless you want to get arrested or killed or both, just get into the bloody car.'
Reynard, having escaped from the punch-up in the gateway, was bearing down on her. Taking one look at the baseball bat which Reynard was trying to push into her hand, she leapt for the Aston Martin.
'Get in and hang on,' Charlie yelled, revving up and bouncing across the Common before she'd even closed the door.
Concertina'd in the passenger seat, her glasses digging into her forehead, she tried to maintain some dignity. It wasn't easy. Pinballing between the Aston Martin's well-worn leather seat and its roof she was pretty sure her bruises would soon rival Matt's. Eventually she managed to sit facing the right way round and untuck her boots from the hem of her skirt.
Once her spectacles were back in position, she glared across at Charlie. 'I can't believe you did that.'
'Did what?'
'Kidnapped me.'
As they were bouncing across the rutted field at 90, Charlie didn't look at her when he answered, 'I didn't bloody kidnap you. I rescued you from Trev Perkiss.'
'Who the hell is that?' Jemima's teeth clattered together with each juddering jolt.
'Your anti-hunting mate. Lives in a council house with his mum on the Tiptoe road. Reynard I believe he calls himself on these sorties. He's Colossus for the bypass punch-ups — Colossus of Roads — I don't think spelling was ever one of Trev's strong points. Oh he's also been known as Atlas on anti-nuke campaigns and he was Bes for his poll-tax rioting. Never one to keep all his gods in one basket is Trev.'
Jemima exhaled. 'He's a professional rabble-rouser?'
'He's a professional prat,' Charlie said kindly, swooping off the ruts and into a meadow surrounded by hawthorn bushes. 'Now hang on again and don't shout.'
Jumping to Conclusions Page 37
