Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  What an odd idea. Surely they wanted the foxes to come out, not stay in. “Mr. Higgins why do you have to do that?”

  “You’re a real city rat,” he responded sharply, beginning to feel his patience and enthusiasm for this new hired hand grow short. “Foxes are nocturnal, so when they return to their den after a nights foray, they can’t access it and have to find a new hiding place. This is generally a gorse patch or thicket. Anyway as I was saying, at eleven o’clock he’ll ride out with his hounds and the lads to the covert, where the fox will be hiding. The hounds will then draw the covert and …”

  “This city rat doesn’t know all these terms,” she interrupted, feeling annoyance in her turn: “What’s a draw?”

  Higgins sent his eyes skyward. Strewth! What have they sent me? God give me strength.

  “Oh … they start at one end, snuff their way through, you know, heads down dashing about, until the fox is flushed out into the open at the other. Once it’s spotted he’ll shout: “Tally - Ho!” and take off, the field following in hot pursuit, watching the hounds chase the fox down.”

  He pulled out his watch and checking the time continued: “At the moment we’re mounting Cub Hunts for inexperienced riders, horses and foxes, so you’ll have a chance to get the hang of it.” He stood abruptly. “Come on, I’ll take you to Harry Flegg. His name’s William Henry, but everyone calls him Harry.”

  Mallory jumped up. Was that it? She shoved her cap down hard and stomped after him to where he had a carrier’s cart hitched to the gate post with another patient cob chomping at the nearby grass. She was lucky it was a ride back, but she could see she would have to get used to doing a lot of walking.

  It’ll be all right, just think of it as a substitute for the treadmill at the gym. This is the ‘real thing’.

  The kennel master’s cottage was on the other side of the village so Mallory got more acquainted with her new surroundings. The road was still of medieval width and circled the village green. Mr. Higgins was quite the tour guide filling in the gaps. Not far from the Maypole Dairies store that Mrs. Pogue frequented was a hardware shop. In one corner was the post office. Not much good to me, she thought bitterly. Further down was the Methodist chapel.

  “Mr. Higgins, I thought I would see an old church … you know, big wooden door, prominent steeple, tall spire.”

  “Saint Austell’s you mean. That’s on the far side of the estate. The gentry go there. Lord and Lady Patchford have a private pew. Most of us are Non-Conformist of one stripe or another. We don’t go much for Church of England round these parts. We prefer Methodist. What do you follow Mason? We could do with some help with our Boys’ Brigade on Friday nights. And the football team is always looking for players.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ll have to get myself settled in.”

  “We’re also trying to start up some scouting for the boys, since Baden-Powell founded his new movement just a little over a year ago, so we’re looking for leaders.”

  His sharp eyes gave him closer scrutiny.

  “As I say Mr. Higgins, I’ll have to get my bearings first.”

  Mr. Flegg’s house was a replica of the Pogues, but the last of the row. The hand-over took place on the front step and as the gamekeeper departed, Mr. Flegg invited Mallory to sit on the wooden bench where a colourful assortment of flowers crowded together at their feet: lupins, dahlias some nasturtiums.

  For such a big job, the Master of the Hunt was a smallish man, but he looked wiry and strong. A scaled down version of Mr. Pogue, friendly and down to earth, motivated by his passion, not his position. She could hear the dogs, noisy out back. Would he let her meet them? He noticed her interest.

  “Yes, they start up a racket when they think it’s close to feedin’ time. These hounds of the Guilfoyle Pack are perfect specimens. Some come from the original Meynell stock.”

  “What’s that Mr. Flegg?” Learning more about dogs had a greater appeal than the ‘ins’ and ‘outs’ of catching vermin.

  Finding someone enthusiastic over his favourite subject, Harry Flegg was eager to expound. “Originally it was not a sport. Foxes were regarded as livestock-destroying vermin.” She felt a rush of sickening qualms. Oh no, not that again!

  “Sport hunting was for deer. The King permitted landowners of large estates to enclose whatever was not needed for agriculture and then it was called a Park. As more and more woodland was cleared, the deer vanished. Hounds bred for the chase at that time traditionally went after hares and such like. They’re clever little varmints, rather than fast. Consequently, a new and improved strain of hound was needed, with enough stamina to keep up … and with a good nose.”

  “So this was why they chose the Basset? Short with strong legs and good chest?”

  “It was indeed. Hugo Meynell set about developing a line to meet the new demands. It needed to be smooth-haired, too. He set up extensive kennels at Quorn Hall just north of us, in Leicestershire and we’ve been very fortunate to breed from some of his original bitches. It cost mind, but it’s been worth it.”

  Mallory felt sorry for the foxes. She had become vegetarian because she did not like the idea of animals being specially bred for eating. Now foxes were no longer steeling, but were being raised for hunting. “I’m definitely out of step with where I’ve landed. What bad luck to be in the twentieth century. Still, it would have been worse to have gone even further back,” she thought disconsolately. In all this inimical ethos, she did not want to find herself losing her moral compass.

  It was arranged she would join the lads tomorrow, before early morning chores and help with the fox holes. Jenkins, who was his whipper-in, would come and collect her from her lodgings, then back to the stable ’til eleven o’clock when everyone would gather in the forecourt. She would strike out with him and the others to the first covert. He reckoned that was enough for the time being. The rest could wait ’til morning. Saturday would be a big day and he would play it by ear.

  Mallory strolled back to the Pogues taking her time. It felt good to be by herself, although by no means alone. Many people were moving about on foot, but constant company had taken its toll on her social capital.

  She spotted the local school down a side road and not far from that was the lending library. Both were small, well-constructed brick buildings, their proportions reminding her of the Gothic movement that had been so popular at the end of the previous century. Wandering over to take a closer look, she observed above the wide school gates in large, wrought iron letters, the name Guilfoyle British School. This she knew meant it was a Nonconformist institution.

  As an atheist, she was unmoved by all this religious zeal, but there had been a time when Spiritualism had quite intrigued her. The wider world of ideas had even led her to dip into philosophy; some basic Aristotle, Rene Descartes and Locke. She did recognise that one of the distinguishing features of mankind from the animal kingdom was his ability to see the world beyond the ego. She enjoyed watching how a dog is the centre of his universe. All animals are like this, but not Homo-Sapiens. We alone can look beyond the self to our empirical creation and the ineffable questions of Epistemology. Anyway, she hoped she was not going to be dragged into a routine of chapel-going every Sunday, once or twice for the experience could be fun, but on a regular basis? She would have to find some way to get out of that.

  * * *

  Mallory was pleased to see that the feeds went quickly and the second mucking out was a zip. One of the lads started to be friendly, asking about her previous work with horses. She did not mind, but realized she must take care with her time-frames. She could not risk getting confused, leading to awkward questions. The Australian location was a pleasure and describing her home State real and satisfying. However, she brought it to an abrupt end, feeling herself falling into a dark mood. Dwelling in the land of memory and crashing into demon thoughts became just too painful. Thinking of her Mum and Dad, Gavin and her friends, overwhelmed her with nostalgia. The sadness left her feeling so inco
mplete, like a whole chunk had been ripped excruciatingly away. She must move herself on.

  The new workmate’s name was Leonard Tricklebank. Everyone called him Len. About the same age as she, but she could tell they thought her younger; of middling height, slim and fair. Now it struck her that most of the youngsters she had met so far did not look very robust and quite a number of them seemed under sized. It could not be lack of exercise so perhaps the reason lay in poor diet. “What about you, Len? Have you been with the stable long?”

  “Oh, I ’ave that. My dad’s the blacksmith ’ere, so I’ve always been around ’orses one way or another … but I ’ave plans.” He looked across at her knowingly, with a sparkle to the pale brown eyes in his tightly chiselled face and winked. “Oh yes. I aim to go places. I’m not goin’ t’ get stuck down ’ere like m’ dad; I’m goin’ t’ move meself up. This is a new century with new things, givin’ birth t’ the modern age … an’ I’m goin’ t’ be part of it. I tell ya, Mason … the day will come …” His pitch fork had been working crazily through this, like he could see it all happening right this very minute.

  “That sounds exciting. What do you have in mind?”

  The frenetic activity was held in abeyance for a moment. “I can’t say ’til I’m a bit further along, but I reckon what ya ’ave t’ do is ’ave a plan an’ stick t’ it,” he advised with finality, confident in the truth of his convictions. A few more forkfuls and the wheelbarrow was loaded. He picked up the handles and trundled outside to the steaming pile. Shortly thereafter his head popped back inside and he called out a cheery: “See ya t’morra.”

  This certainly was a time of change, Mallory reflected. Not as adept as Len, she still had one more stall to check. Although her workouts at the gym had kept her fit, she could feel it in her back. As she worked, she reflected upon her ignorance. What had Len been talking about? She decided to correct the situation and the library was the place to start; more discreet than asking people questions. It was not the university, but it would be more like life as she had known it. Stranger in a Strange Land: the title of the Science Fiction novel she had read in high school leaped into her brain. Never would she have thought this could be applied to her. About to wheel the barrow to its corner, she heard her name called and turned to see Mr. Beeson with a woman by his side.

  “There ’e be,” the old man pointed with his pipe and the job done, he left.

  Another new face! The woman approached and Mallory gave a polite greeting, raising her cap as she had seen the others do. Closer inspection revealed a young house maid who returned a deferential bob before she spoke.

  “’er Ladyship ’as requested yer presence in the mornin’ room, when ya’ve finished fer Mr. Beeson.”

  “Very well, but I don’t know my way about. How do I get there?”

  “I’m t’ bring ya t’ ’er, when ya’re ready.”

  “I’m done here, but I’m very dirty.”

  “They usually clean up in the scullery an’ ya can scrape yer boots afore.”

  “All right, I’ll just pick up my jacket.”

  They fell into step and by way of politeness, Mallory asked her name.

  “I’m Dorothy Milligan. Me ma calls me Dora. They already ’ave a kitchen maid named Dora so Mrs. Aldred says I’m to be called Dottie.” She gave a sidelong glance under her lashes at this new young man: so tall, so handsome, not speaking like the others and asked self-consciously: “How’re ya called?”

  “My name is Mallory. Do you know what Lady Patchford wants … Dottie?”

  “Oh no, I’m only a fetch an’ carrier.” She said no more and they entered the house in silence, but her eyes constantly returned to this attractive creature from another country. That alone made the encounter worth savouring.

  At last feeling suitably presentable, Mallory joined Dottie who proceeded to guide her through the kitchen where she nodded to Mrs. Cummings and on to the baize door at the top of the servants’ stairs. This time she turned left along the passage to another baize door which led to the west wing. One more flight and a few corridors later, Dottie stopped and after a discreet knock delivered her charge and withdrew.

  This sitting room was all grace and symmetry; the afternoon sun brought out the amber accents in the Persian carpet and cast the room in honeyed tones. The flowing curves of the Art Nouveau movement were everywhere in a lyrical interpretation of line and space. There were brilliant swirling colours in abundance. It must have represented the latest in interior design and Mallory was stunned to be in the presence of such beauty.

  She had been studying this art as her elective in her second year and could identify what her eyes beheld. Walls covered in the plant motifs of Edouard Vuillard’s custom designed papers. Strategically placed on the delicate side tables of Peter Behrens was Galle and Tiffany art glass, the elongated sculptures of Rene Lalique in their long flowing robes. All this represented what was known then as the ‘Modern Style’, the true interpretation of the artist’s search for inner meaning, minus the heavily stylistic baggage of the pompous Victorians.

  She could hardly believe it. This room was a perfect museum. The fitness of the materials to reflect both function and decoration was consummate. Her eyes feasted on these matchless prototypes as they had existed before the onset of rampant commercialism and industrial ornamentation. Unfortunately, following this development the name had changed to Art Nouveau, sprouting the roots of its downfall. But, in the centre of it all, seated on a reclining sofa was the captivating figure of Lady Glencora Patchford. Mallory was knocked out by her elegance.

  It was obvious that the fashion she was following was extravagant and ostentatious, but she had to admit, Lady Patchford suited it down to a ‘T’. She must have been wearing a ‘health’ corset to achieve that perfect S-bend shape. Her dress was made of such a fine worsted cloth, in a deep forest green that it positively shimmered in the mellow, afternoon light. The bodice front was pouched and trimmed with delicate cream coloured Nottingham lace, high at the neck then flowing down to the waist. Lady Patchford was still of the old school however, presenting the heavy ‘monobosom’ look through the use of slight padding over her chest. The gigot sleeves, with only a dainty fullness over the shoulders, tapered to the wrist. They extended to cover the back of her expressive hands.

  The bell-shaped skirt of the dress was slim over her hips, falling to the ground in the fashionable semi-princess line. A darker, green satin braid encircled her waist and streamed down the front towards the hem in two ribbons, to meet another decorative band just above it. There was a slight rustle of fine underwear as she turned to her visitor, that pleasant froufrou sound so beloved of her generation and so expensive to achieve.

  “Yes, Mason, come in.” She regarded him closely, seriously. “I wanted to see you before the Cub Hunt tomorrow.” Her exquisitely refined face looked dejected with a gaunt greyness; her eyes, the colour of pale jasper, red-rimmed with dark smudges below them. She had spent a restless night in which the little sleep she had achieved had been filled with dreams of hostilities and almost unbearable antipathy. “The Lady Nigella insists upon attending. I’ve tried to dissuade her, but there is no getting through. I want you to be sure that everything is absolutely perfect with Burrow.” Her face grew pained in appearance from the stark lines, deeply etched, by a sense of impending disaster.

  “Of course Your Ladyship, I …”

  “There is no ‘of course’ about it,” she expostulated as her lips tightened with controlled impatience. “You must check the saddle, no interference, nothing under it. The girth no weaknesses. The hooves no stones. Nothing extra in his mouth.” Her slender hand slashed forcefully through the air. “If there is any repetition of yesterday’s incident … I shall hold you personally responsible. Do I make myself clear?” The hammering in her ears gave the early warning of an approaching ‘turn’.

  “Absolutely, but … Your Ladyship,” her mind was uncertain, confused, “… surely, you are not anticipating … sab
otage?”

  Lady Patchford was taken aback by this acuity. She wanted her minion to do her bidding, not understand it. A flash of indignation lit her eyes to a shimmering hazel and her jaw set a fraction harder. “I do not have to explain my reasons to you young man, but I do want you to report to me afterwards. You may go.” Her slim arm waved in dismissal, but as she was about to turn away she added: “Do not discuss this with anyone. You are answerable to me, no-one else.”

  “Yes Your Ladyship,” Mallory acquiesced, her voice low as she retraced her steps. Outside she stopped to take stock. What a turn up? Whatever could be going on? Was there ‘malice afoot’? Whatever, she had struck a nerve back there for sure. She supposed it really was a question of ‘theirs’ not to reason why’ … but all the same, these seemed very odd people.

  She looked about. Crickey, how to get out of this joint? She tried to recognise a landmark and opted for the shortest distance to a staircase. Since she had ascended before she would be pretty right if she went down.

  “What are you doing here?” The voice was peremptory. Hells bells, what now? She halted and stood self-consciously in the middle of all this opulence knowing how out of place she was and the thought: ‘standing cap in hand’, sprang to mind. This time she had run up against the butler. His boot-button eyes were hard, his mouth twisted in a superior sneer. Flushing faintly under this critical gaze she drew a shaky breath.

  “I’m trying to find the exit … I mean my way out … Sir.”