The Country Escape

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The Country Escape Page 24

by Fiona Walker


  ‘Je-suuuuuuuus!’ Dougie warbled, like a Swiss yodeller, as Dollar hammered his long muscles with the sides of her hands.

  ‘No religious words, remember? This sports massage will help prepare you for the week ahead. I am fully trained.’

  There was a loud crunch as she bent his arm across his back and leaned on it as though preparing a chicken for deboning. Dougie howled in pain.

  ‘Try to relax.’

  ‘It bloody hurts.’

  ‘We will have intercourse shortly, which will relax you.’ She made it sound like an enema and, for the first time in his life, Dougie found himself doubting he could perform.

  Kat woke herself up with a sharp snore, looked around in alarm and saw that Russ was sitting in the glow of his computer nearby, making changes to the flyer. Save Our Sanctuary had been replaced with Stop The Eardisford Wildlife Slaughter and abbreviated to STEWS in one hundred point red font that looked like splattered blood. ‘Stew’ was not a word she wanted to dwell on this evening as a low bubbling in her belly reminded her that her kundalini had stayed as firmly trapped as her wind. She must have drifted off to sleep, which was not unusual and Russ always graciously said was an important part of the healing process and sexual awakening, but she felt a stab of shame nonetheless.

  ‘That was sooo relaxing,’ she said warmly, to make him feel better, stretching out luxuriously, then regretting it: her body had stiffened from falling off Sri, but her trapped wind was determined to let loose.

  Russ nobly pretended not to hear. ‘I found a magenta printer cartridge in the desk after all – it was below all the unopened bills.’

  Silently wishing he’d found her kundalini – and not mentioned the bills – Kat propped herself up on one elbow. ‘Maybe we should tone down the slogan a bit. It’s a hunt event, after all, and we really don’t know what’s happening on the estate. The equerry could be a lovely old horse-whispering hippie for all we know.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said tetchily, scrolling along the slogan Stop the Eardisford Wildlife Slaughter and adding Man to the end. ‘Better?’

  When Kat said that, no, it wasn’t, Russ adopted one of his huffy expressions and grabbed his knapsack. ‘I’m going to set up camp by the lower stream and see if the otters are back.’

  Kat was quietly relieved that at least she could break wind at will.

  ‘Jeeee —’

  ‘Sssh!’

  ‘Jeeeeshhhh!’ Dougie had vastly underestimated his enthusiasm and performance power. He was on a gold run tonight. The vigorous massage might have deboned the chicken, but there was one notable omission, and it was driving the Dollar higher and higher.

  ‘Ooooh, my good Lord!’ The deep voice rose to a girlish shriek.

  ‘No religious language!’ He laughed, then gasped and cried out a joyous, blaspheming stream of invectives as he exploded inside her. As infinite pleasure points found release through his pummelled body, like a shoal of arrows, he distinctly heard howling.

  Turning his head, Dollar’s breath now hot on his neck, Dougie ignored the fierce bass heartbeat pounding through his ears and listened hard. She’d heard it too, and she rolled out from under him with uncomfortable speed to reach for her handbag and run towards the windows. ‘Wolves!’

  ‘There are no – whoa!’ Dougie spotted the glint of a gun barrel in the moonlight as she crouched into assassin stance at the open window, an ominous click indicating the trigger guard was off and she had something four-legged in her sights. He sucked his teeth, thinking fast. Explaining that wolves – and, indeed, firearms – were strictly licensed in England was going to be far too long-winded. He started to pull on his trousers. ‘Put the bloody gun down and I’ll chase them off.’

  Outside, Dougie found two lurchers, one smoke grey, the other brindle, both howling at a peacock that was standing on top of the shiny silver Mercedes and looking argumentative. As Dougie stepped out of the shadows, the lurchers scarpered and the peacock’s tail feathers went up in outrage.

  ‘Mayura!’ Dollar was laughing with relief at the window and lowering her gun.

  Dougie admired the plumed display and said, in his best Bond drawl, ‘A black-eyed peacock, how apt. Tastes delicious roasted with an olive stuffing.’ He squinted up at her, his swollen eyes aching. ‘How on earth did you get hold of that gun? Please don’t tell me you managed to get it past Customs when we flew in.’

  ‘Of course not, but Seth has contacts in this country that supply us with hand arms when we visit.’

  ‘Why do you need a gun?’

  ‘A rich man has many enemies, Dougie, as you will undoubtedly find out.’

  ‘I’m pretty certain those dogs weren’t after his loot.’

  ‘I hate dogs.’ She shuddered. ‘In India, the pariah dogs carry rabies.’

  ‘Well, here they’re more likely to carry one’s slippers. And if you’re going to pull that thing out every time you see man’s best friend, I wouldn’t recommend a day at a point-to-point.’

  Chapter 22

  The Brom and Lem Hunt point-to-point was among the friendliest venues on the racing calendar. Held late in the season to give its flood-prone course the best chance of being dry, it was a big crowd puller with an end-of-term atmosphere, its attendance boosted by a country fair with gundog and falconry displays, a parade of the Brom and Lem hounds and a novelty charity race, this year in aid of the Constance Mytton-Gough Animal Sanctuary.

  Kat, who had accompanied Constance to the event before her death, could never have imagined then that just two years later her own name would be on the race card. Muddy, gutsy point-to-pointing had been among Constance’s favourite pursuits and she’d owned several winning horses, including the sanctuary’s ancient, milky-eyed pensioner Sid in his heyday. Highly competitive and disciplined, hunt race meetings were an opportunity for amateur jockeys to vie for honours ‘between the flags’, galloping super-fit Thoroughbreds twice around the mile-and-a-half course of nine hefty birch steeplechase fences. The spectators were a far cry from the boozy urban punters who crowded the grandstands on licensed racetracks. Here, on a windy Herefordshire hill overlooking the ancient course that ran alongside the river Lugg, local countrymen, landowners and farmers had already started to gather in human coppices of waxy green and tweedy brown as Tireless Tina’s elderly horsebox swung in through the gates, its cab crammed with children, dogs and a nail-chewing amateur jockey. On board were several of Lake Farm’s more placid retirees to draw visitors to the Constance Mytton-Gough Animal Sanctuary stand, along with Donald, the horse on which Kat would ride the charity race at the end of the day. Before that, she braced herself to endure a great deal of good-natured ribbing about the costume she reluctantly pulled on as soon as they parked.

  ‘I lost a bet with Mags and Russ last night,’ she told a startled Tina, explaining the Animal Magnetism home-made outfit, a pot-bellied deer suit made of padded fake fur with a large sticking-out bottom, fluffy tail and dangling hind legs that made it impossible to sit down comfortably. ‘I won’t even ask if my bum looks fat in it.’

  ‘As long as you’re not planning to ride in it, that’s fine. Very cute.’ Tina smiled encouragingly, then ruined it by dissolving into giggles as she glanced at Kat flailing around in the cab, like an expectant mother in a furry onesie perching on a birthing ball.

  At least the costume took Kat’s mind off the charity race, which had kept her awake the entire previous night. She knew a five-furlong dash after the serious racing had finished was child’s play compared to the terrifying leaps of faith involved in charging around the jumping course earlier in the day, but it was among the biggest dares she’d ever taken on.

  It took her a long time to get from the lorry park to the sanctuary stand because she had so many people to say hello to, her antler head under one arm and a lead rope straining in each hand as the two Shetlands she was towing with her snatched at the grass underfoot. She deflected the teasing valiantly: ‘I know, isn’t it amazing? Mags made it.’ ‘Huge shoulders, ye
s – I’ll have fun with the Portaloos!’ ‘Really looking forward to the charity race, yes.’

  Wishing Russ and Mags would arrive to help – they’d still been face-painting one another in the Lake Farm kitchen when she’d set off with the animals – Kat delivered the ponies to their pen by the sanctuary stand while Tireless Tina hauled on her baby papoose backpack and gathered up her other children to take up her stewarding role amid loud promises of ice creams and an each-way bet if they behaved themselves. The point-to-point was run by an army of volunteers made up of the Brom and Lem’s followers and supporters, regimenting the car park with military skill, charming all-comers to part with cash at the race-card stand, manning number boards, gates and enclosures, and keeping up a welcoming commentary. MFH Miriam, a hint of lace fluttering tantalizingly from the neckline of her tweeds, was supervising the horses and jockeys with a band of jolly ladies; Babs and Bill Hedges were manning the bar with red-faced cheer; the earthmen lurked excitedly by the fences ready to pack back parted birch as well as scooping up fallen riders and catching loose horses. Soon the hunt staff would be mounted in their red coats ready to steward horses on and off course, the huntsman blowing his horn at the start of each race to see them away.

  High on the hill amid the burger vans, trade stalls and bookies, Cyn and Pru were already manning the sanctuary stand, which was decked with banners and posters, along with the collecting tins and boxes of STEWS flyers that Kat and Russ had delivered last night before unwisely heading to the Eardisford Arms.

  ‘Why on earth are you dressed as a deer?’ Pru demanded disapprovingly. ‘We had T-shirts printed.’ She’d matched hers with sensible moleskins and lace-up shoes, her German-helmet hair so shiny you could almost see the clouds reflected in it.

  ‘I lost a bet in the pub last night.’ Kat’s head ached from too much Dutch-courage cider. She also had an unpleasant recollection of Russ betting at least a hundred pounds on her winning the charity race.

  ‘We’re both going to have a little flutter on you later,’ Cyn announced cheerfully, making her feel even more anxious. ‘And we’re definitely fluttering on the film star in the Men’s Open.’

  ‘What film star?’

  The sisters showed her the list of runners and riders in the race card, among which was listed a bay seven-year-old called Kevin Spacey.

  ‘I think that’s the horse’s name,’ Kat pointed out kindly.

  ‘Below that.’

  ‘Property of the Eardisford Hunt. Oh, God, don’t let Russ see this.’ The jockey was the Honourable D. J. H. Everett.

  ‘Vaughan Everett’s son,’ Pru breathed reverently. ‘He was born in the hunting field and his father’s a master. The family rarely use their title, but he’s an hon like Con. This young chap rode point-to-points many times before he was distracted by acting. We are in for a real treat.’

  ‘It is the same man?’ Kat was astonished, remembering the taut buttocks the entire village had enjoyed watching in action recently. The rumours had being doing the rounds for almost a week now, but nobody could substantiate them, and those who had met Dougie simply reported that he was very affable, knew his sport and had a brace of black eyes. Now they all had definitive proof that he bore the golden ticket of celebrity, the gathering crowds were agog to see the newcomer in action, and gossip blew around the course faster than the blossom and twigs being spirited along in the sharp wind.

  In the flapping sponsors’ tent, flirty Brom and Lem joint-master Frank Bingham-Ince was courting VIPs with largesse and champagne as he played down the loss of his best hunting country to the Indian billionaire and his celebrity huntsman. ‘The English sporting estate is no longer just a playground for aristocrats and oligarchs – the rupee outclasses the rouble by a country mile these days. And Eardisford’s modern maharaja clearly hires his staff to act the part. What are the odds he’s got Rowan Atkinson as his manservant, Vinnie Jones as a henchman, and Dame Maggie Smith will be installed in the Dower House before you know it?’ He chuckled pompously. ‘Mind you, if Dougie Everett’s as corrupt as his father, we’re in for trouble. Vaughan was notoriously bent in Westminster. He’d exchange anything for a peg at a good shoot.’

  At the sanctuary stand, one of Russ’s comely teenage cousins was touting Brom and Lem Hunt raffle tickets. ‘Have you heard about Dougie Everett riding in the Men’s Open? I am beyond excited!’ She fanned herself with her ticket book. Dressed in the customary young-farmer-chic uniform of denim hot-pants matched with a nip-waisted tweed waistcoat, chunky knee-length tan leather country boots and a fur headband with her blond mane piled above, she was pink-cheeked with delight. ‘Is it true he lives, like, practically next door to you, Kat?’

  ‘So I believe.’ Now sweating heavily in her butch Bambi outfit, Kat secretly regretted not wafting around to the watermill with a basket of eggs earlier in the week.

  ‘OhmyGod, that is, like, so cool,’ the cousin gasped, fishing in her pockets for lip gloss. ‘I read in Heat that his engagement with Kiki Nelson is off. I am so in there.’

  When Kat headed back to the lorry to fetch the rest of the Lake Farm menagerie, an oversized fox was sitting on the ramp smoking a roll-up and texting. In her orange fake-fur hood, face paint and eye-mask, her figure corseted into a spectacular hour-glass, Mags was barely recognizable, although a few piercings and the quiff of her Morrissey tattoo still peeped from the Lycra.

  ‘You look amazing!’ Kat whistled.

  ‘Heard there might be photographers here for this Hollywood star,’ she rasped. ‘Game of you to dress up too, Kat. We thought you’d wimp out, my love.’

  ‘A bet’s a bet.’ She stomped up the ramp, wishing she’d stuck to her guns and refused gimmickry, but Mags could be very forceful and it had been a master-stroke to get the pub regulars to offer donations to the sanctuary if they all dressed up today. It had already raised a healthy cash injection to buy splints for broken-legged pheasants, although they appeared to be a badger down.

  ‘Russ is shouting at one of the nastiest bastards in Shropshire.’ Mags cackled, grinding out her cigarette and getting up to follow Kat into the lorry, then jumping aside as Kat flew straight out again with an over-eager alpaca, tugging a reluctant goat behind her.

  Mags untied Sri, who barged down the ramp in their wake, blue eyes boggling as she looked from giant fox to deer with loud, suspicious snorts. ‘I told him to stop, but he won’t listen as usual, and I don’t want to ruin my outfit by breaking up a fight.’ She stepped away from the spinning mare now, eager to preserve her satin thigh boots.

  ‘Should we rescue him? Here, let me take her.’ Kat stepped forwards to take Sri, who gaped in horror at her deer bottom.

  Mags gratefully claimed the goat. ‘It’s fine. The nasty bastard is my second cousin, so he won’t hurt Russ.’ She watched as Kat was towed off by whinnying Sri, an alpaca loping in their wake. ‘Put your deer head on, my love! Photographers, remember?’

  Standing patiently in the last partition of the horsebox, pulling lazily at a haynet, Tina’s wise-eyed old eventer, Donald, watched as Mags hung back to check her reflection in a nearby wing mirror before following, fox brush swinging jauntily.

  Chapter 23

  Dougie Everett’s name might have been on more spectators’ lips at the point-to-point than Bill Hedges’ increasingly potent cider cup, but his arrival was so low key that nobody noticed him. Dark glasses covering the still yellow bruising around his eyes, baseball cap crammed low over his nose, he was dressed in the buff country livery of caramel moleskins and checked shirt, with his official pass on his dashboard. Having parked his ancient and very muddy Land Rover in the shadow of his trainer’s horsebox, the first sight to greet him was a wide-shouldered deer hurrying towards the course leading an alpaca and the weird-eared skewbald horse he recognised as the same one he’d seen Kat Mason riding, a distinctive Indian breed whose name he couldn’t remember.

  His phone rang. It was Dollar. ‘Where are you? I’m in the public car park.’

&n
bsp; ‘Just arrived.’ He watched a curvaceous fox passing, trailed by a goat. ‘Don’t think much of the runners for the first. I’ll come and find you.’

  Jumping out of his car, Dougie spotted a man dressed as a badger waving his arms behind a nearby Hilux. His day was getting more surreal by the minute.

  The badger was squaring up to a shaven-haired terrier-man, with British Defence League tattoos, who was selling Patterdale puppies out of the back of a pick-up. Only one was left, yapping furiously from the back of the box at the badger, who had claws fashioned from curls of brown plastic cider bottles and was loudly demanding to know the justification for removing the puppies’ tails. ‘Docking is cruel, unnecessary butchery!’

  The dog breeder lit a cigarette and watched through a plume of smoke as Dougie approached with a polite nod to admire the remaining Patterdale puppy, trying to scrabble its way out of the box, tiny tail gyrating while Badger Man ranted about the cruelty of terrier work and tail docking. ‘It’s illegal and barbaric!’

 

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