by Rebecca Shaw
AFTER Dan left, Joy sat pondering the situation with Newcastle disease and what it would mean at Bridge Farm. It would be a terrible shame if their chickens had to be slaughtered; after all, they weren’t any old chickens but a pedigreed flock. It would have to be dealt with very delicately. Thinking of delicate problems reminded her of Duncan. She wondered how he was, striding out over the hills in his steady, relentless pace.
Joy took the photographs she had picked up on her lunch hour out of her bag. There was a particularly striking one of Duncan leaning on a fence looking ahead, apparently oblivious to the camera. She’d caught him in profile and focused on him so that the camera was looking slightly upward at him. Anyone else would have admired the drama of that shot, and briefly so too did she. He really was eye-catching. Almost handsome, with his high cheekbones and…Help! She wouldn’t tell anyone he’d gone. They’d never notice. They all knew how withdrawn he was. She hastily put away the photographs and went to see if Mungo was free for five minutes to talk about Bridge Farm and its problems, not knowing that Dan was already on his way there.
He deliberately pulled up in the lane and didn’t drive into the farmyard, which he would normally have done. The farmhouse was on the roadside with a short path between lawns and flowerbeds leading to the house. There wasn’t a single sound of chickens. His heart sank. Surely they hadn’t already been to slaughter them? He got out of his car and stood listening. A voice shouted from the farmhouse window. “Dan!”
He raised an arm in salute. “I’ve come to see how things are progressing.”
“Thought you were them coming. Come in.”
It was only when he moved nearer that he saw Mr. Bridges had a gun pointing at him. Dan walked toward the house door, realizing as he did so that there was another gun trained on him from an upstairs window.
He went in the house without knocking because the door had mysteriously been opened for him as he approached. In the kitchen with Mr. Bridges were three of his sons, all armed with shotguns. “Mrs. Bridges has made a big pot of coffee. Want a cup?”
“Yes, please. I’m not too late, am I? They haven’t already been?”
Dan felt like a dwarf. Mr. Bridges himself and all three of his sons were well over six feet tall and big with it. Mrs. Bridges was a tiny person shaped like a cottage loaf and looked incapable of producing boys of their great size. He heard big boots clattering down the stairs, and yet another of the Bridges boys appeared, shotgun in hand. “Did I hear coffee’s on the go?” His voice was so like his father’s it was uncanny.
“No, you’re not too late. We’ve shut ’em all away ’cause they’re bloody well not killing ’em. They’ll get killed first. Get yer coffee, Gab, and up the stairs quicko.”
“I am on your side, but I didn’t think things would get this far. Thank you, Mrs. Bridges.” Dan’s coffee was in a pint mug, and he wondered how on earth he’d manage to down that lot and not give offense by leaving half of it. All of them had pint mugs except Mrs. Bridges, who was sipping her coffee from a delicate china cup and saucer. She might have been a tiny woman, but there was authority in her voice when she spoke. “Sit down, Dan. Gab’s watching out. That lovely wife of yours keeping well? And your little son?”
“She is, thank you, I didn’t know you knew her.”
“Not much goes on in Barleybridge that we don’t know about. It may be a sleepy old place, but it doesn’t mean we’re deaf, dumb, and blind. Lovely girl, she is. You haven’t got any more where she came from, have you? These great lummoxes of mine won’t get from under my feet. Gab’s the eldest, so you can find someone for him ASAP. They all need women like your Rose.” There were groans of heartfelt approval of Rose from them all, and the red-haired one said with a good-natured grin, “Shut up, Mum.”
“You’re too good to them all, Mrs. Bridges.” Dan raised his pint pot to her and sipped his coffee. It was steaming hot, rich with cream and a distinct hint of rum. “This is excellent.”
Things became convivial, shotguns were laid aside, and lots of leg-pulling and camaraderie ensued. The atmosphere became quite partylike until the laughter was abruptly halted by Gab shouting from upstairs, “They’re here!”
Instantly the boys left the kitchen, went to other downstairs rooms with windows facing the garden, and when their father shouted “Fire!” they all let off their shotguns into the air. This brought the Veterinary Service’s vehicles to a grinding halt. A great roar of delight went up from the Bridges family. In the midst of it all Mrs. Bridges quietly and calmly began kneading a great mound of dough on her kitchen table, her small, floured hands working it with furious energy.
Dan said hesitantly. “I say, you wouldn’t actually…you know, fire at them? Properly, would you?”
“Try me,” came the grim reply from Mr. Bridges.
Matters intensified when Mike Allport gingerly got out of his car, stepped onto the garden path and shouted, “Now, Mr. Bridges, you know it has to be done. Put the guns away and let us get on with it.”
“One step nearer…” Everyone heard the cocking of his trigger.
Mike Allport shouted, “Don’t let me have to get the police in.”
“Get who the hell you like, you’re not slaughtering my flock. Get off my premises, you’re trespassing. Fire!” Mr. Bridges fired another shot into the air, which prompted the other four guns to go off and Mike Allport to get back into his car. The noise was stunning and served its purpose in warning Mike they meant business.
Give him his due, thought Dan, Mike Allport isn’t backing off. But he was phoning someone on his mobile. He was getting the police, no doubt. It occurred to Dan that this put him in an awkward position. Aiding and abetting? Or innocent bystander held at gunpoint? “Shall I go out and have a word? See what I can do?”
Mr. Bridges turned the gun on him. “Don’t move, unless you want a barrel load from this in your backside. You’re here and here you stay.”
The kneading stopped and a quiet voice said, “Steady, Billy, Dan’s not the enemy.”
Mrs. Bridges’s moderate tones cooled the hot atmosphere a little, but Mr. Bridges kept the gun trained on Dan. “I mean it. They are not ruining years of careful breeding all because they think they have a right. Not one of my birds has died, and if they were going to, they would have done so by now. So you keep right out of it.”
“Can I phone the practice? They’ll be wondering where I am. I’ve calls to make.”
“Very well.”
Dan went by the window to get a better signal and dialed in. It was Kate who answered his call. “Hello, Kate. Dan here. I can’t do my calls for the forseeable future today. Can Colin or Zoe do them for me?”
“Are you ill?”
“No, I’m at Bridge Farm and we’re under siege.” As casually as he could, he whispered, “Guns, you know.”
“Oh! my God! Guns! You mean you’re being held hostage?”
“Well, not quite, but I can’t get out and I think Mike Allport has sent for the police.”
“I thought your voice sounded funny. Right. We’ll reorganize things. Let us know as soon as the situation frees up. Take care, Dan. Shall I tell Rose?”
“Under no circumstances. She mustn’t be worried. Do you hear?”
“Right. We won’t phone her. Take care, Dan. Bye.”
The situation didn’t free up, as Kate had put it; in fact, it became worse because the police arrived and Dan pointed out to Mr. Bridges the penalty of threatening a police officer with a firearm.
“To hell with that. This is bureaucracy gone mad, and someone has to take a stand.”
“Where are the chickens?”
“Shut in the big barn at the back with Ben and Gideon on guard. Crack shots they are, like all my boys. Fire!” The salvo of five guns firing at once was deafening.
Mrs. Bridges, placing baking trays and loaf tins in the Aga, said, “Heed what he says. Don’t loose your head, Billy.”
“Better that than dying of shame.” He opened the window
farther and shouted out to a uniformed inspector, “These guns will be put away when those so-and-sos leave my farm. Tell them to leave.”
“They have a duty to do.”
“The murdering beggars have no duty to do here. My chickens are not infected. Full stop. I’m a reasonable man, as you know, but I defend my right as an Englishman to guard my property as I see fit.”
“Now, now, Billy. Let’s have some sense here.”
“Say that to that Mike Allport. He’s the one who needs to see sense. One step out of that car of his and he’ll get both barrels.”
“That’s threatening language, that is.”
“I know it is. Don’t think I don’t mean it. I’m a man of my word.”
Tugging at Mr. Bridges’s jacket sleeve, Mrs. Bridges said softly, “Don’t back yourself into a corner, Billy.”
Dan tried again to ask for a chance to negotiate, but found himself on the business end of Mr. Bridges’s gun. “No negotiation until he’s left the premises.”
“Tell them that.”
Mr. Bridges shouted through the window. “I’ll talk to a police officer, but not to one of them. Tell them to leave.”
They all watched while a conference took place out in the lane. Mike Allport backed up and disappeared round the bend in the road. Mr. Bridges put down his gun and told his boys to do the same. Josh came clattering down the stairs again and, leaning his gun against the table, slouched onto a chair. “You’re not giving in, Dad. Understand?”
“I know, I know.”
The police inspector came in. “Good morning, Mrs. Bridges. Nice smell of baking bread.”
“There’ll be a loaf for your Tina if you behave like a gentleman.”
“Now, now, no bribes.” He laughed, took off his cap and placed it upside down on the table, smoothed his hair where his cap had ruffled it, and said, “I’m to remain impartial, I am. Yes, indeed, impartial. Hard for me though; my dad being a farmer, my sympathies are all with you, Billy.”
Dan spoke up. “May I speak in support of Billy’s actions?”
“You’re…?”
“Dan Brown, vet at Barleybridge Veterinary Hospital. I informed the Veterinary Service that I considered that Crispy Chicken had Newcastle disease, which as you are aware is notifiable. They came out, examined the birds, and in front of me and Bryan Buckland said no way was I right. Over a week later they declared I was right after all, so his birds were slaughtered. Then they began tracing to find out where the disease could have been carried to in the interim. I’d come here straight from Crispy Chicken, having disinfected my boots and my car before I left, which they watched me doing.” Dan tapped the table to emphasize his point. “There is no sign of the disease in this flock; I have Mr. Bridges’s assurance on that. So if after two or three more days there is still no sign, I would say he is completely free. If he can have some days’ grace, it is my opinion that slaughtering the birds on this farm is entirely and completely unnecessary. In fact, it would amount to a crime.”
“Coffee, Richie?” Mrs. Bridges handed the inspector a mug of her special brew of steaming coffee. “I’ve put extra sugar in just how you like.” She turned her back to the policeman and winked at Dan.
Richie forgot about being impartial when he tasted the coffee. “Just how I like it, Mrs. Bridges.”
She smiled and went to get some bread rolls out from the Aga as calmly as if shot guns and police in her kitchen were an everyday occurrence. The rolls were placed to cool on a wire rack at Richie’s end of the table and they noticed him sniff appreciatively. The atmosphere in the kitchen had become relaxed and homely, and the inspector stretched out his legs and sipped his coffee, seemingly enjoying the hospitality.
They all chatted about farming news and the latest gossip in Barleybridge, and the inspector got teased about his Tina, who appeared to be well-known among the Bridges’s sons, and just as they were thinking they were getting their own way without any serious threat to life and limb, Mike Allport drove back and parked in the lane outside the house. Mr. Bridges stood up, dashed to the open window and prepared to fire a broadside, but Mrs. Bridges knocked his elbow purposely, he missed his target, and the shot spattered viciously against the front door of Dan’s Land Rover.
WHEN Joy heard that Dan had disobeyed her orders and, as a result, his Land Rover had been peppered with shot, she went ballistic. “Wait till Mungo hears about this.”
But all Mungo could do was laugh, and he made her furious. She could have hit him she was so angry.
Chapter
• 5 •
It was impossible to resist going out to take a look at the Land Rover. Joy point-blank refused, so she and Rhodri were the only members of the staff who hadn’t seen the holes by teatime that same day.
Dan said, “I can’t think why Joy is so wild with me. We got the result we wanted. They’re giving Mr. Bridges three more days’ grace so long as no one leaves the farm or visits it.”
Mungo, still amused by the whole incident, laughed some more. “Joy’s angry with me too because when she told me what had happened, I roared with laughter and she can’t forgive me for it.”
“She did say I shouldn’t go until we’d got some advice from you, but it was urgent, desperately urgent. However, I suppose there’s a first for everything—I’ve never had a loaded gun pointed at me before.”
Mungo clapped a firm hand on Dan’s shoulder. “Well, it’s certainly made you the hero of the day; just glad you weren’t sitting in the car when he fired. However, I’m not paying to have the door replaced; it’s not worth it. The blessed thing’s almost ready for the scrap heap, anyway. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. I don’t care what I drive, so long as it gets me from A to B.”
Neither had realized that Rhodri was standing behind them listening to their conversation.
“I’ve come to see the hero, I have.”
Mungo moved aside so Rhodri could see the holes in the door and, with a broad grin on his face, said, “He’ll never live it down, will he?”
Rhodri instantly realized the kudos Dan would have driving to the farms. Every owner would have heard the story of the siege and no doubt embellished it with excessively heroic deeds by Dan.
“Bit childish, if you ask me.”
Dan, deflated, said angrily, “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”
“Always wanting to be the center of attention, you are. If it isn’t wrestling mad dogs to the ground and dealing with the injured cat, when you’re farm animal and not small, you’re seeking media attention with all your heroics. At gun point, my eye. Old Bridges wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You were there, were you?”
“No, but I’ve heard the story a dozen times this afternoon. The whole of Barleybridge will have heard by now, and any minute the press will be sniffing around. Everyone in Barleybridge knows you were instrumental in getting Lord Askew back on our books. ‘Magic he is with horses,’ they all say. Magic! Ha!” Rhodri stared at the holes, ignoring Mungo, who looked angry and as though he was about to intervene. “’Spect you’ll have Rose hanging on every word, typical American making a sensation of the smallest thing.”
“For your information, Rose is English with an English passport, and has her feet firmly on the ground. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this backlash from you, Rhodri, but I wish you’d stop it. It’s turning into a bloody vendetta, and none of it is my fault.” Dan spun on his heel and went back inside. He stormed into the staff room, boiled the kettle, made himself a mug of tea, and too late realized he’d picked up Rhodri’s mug. So what? he thought.
Joy was leaving to go home when she paused at the back door and saw Mungo having a go at Rhodri. She only heard the gist of the conversation, but it sounded as though Rhodri was being told not to be so childish, to pull himself together, and get his life sorted out. Rhodri stomped over to his car and drove away. Mungo came back in, his face ugly with temper and in no mood for Joy to say, “He didn’t deserve tha
t. It should be Dan getting told off for disobeying me, and I bet you haven’t said a word about that.”
“And you, Joy, need to remind yourself who is in charge here. You may be practice manager, but you’re not managing me. Dan’s done nothing to cause Rhodri to be so unpleasant, and if there isn’t an improvement in his attitude, I shall be having something serious to say about it. Right?”
“Oh! That’s how things are, is it?”
“Yes.” Mungo raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Joy looked away. She was so furious with him she knew she’d say something she’d regret, so she reined in her temper and answered, “No problem at all. See you tomorrow.”
Joy rushed home, hoping Duncan would have returned, but he hadn’t and her bad mood sat badly on her all evening and kept her awake till the early hours.
RHODRI, however, couldn’t rein in his temper. He drove home like a madman, rushing red lights, mounting the curb on corners, going through pedestrian crossings when he shouldn’t, and in general behaving like a driver from hell. He screeched to a halt outside his house, dropped his door key onto the gravel and unwittingly kicked it under the car as he got out. He went into the shed to get a garden hoe to reach under the car and hook it out, trapped his fingers in the shed door, and eventually arrived on his doorstep in despair.
Not even Harry could disperse Rhodri’s gloomy mood. Still, Megan would be there for dinner that night. He was doing soup followed by a gutsy salad; some toffee ice cream, which they both adored; and then coffee, though no, it would be tea because Megan preferred it.
Having a shower, changing his clothes, and organizing the meal went a long way toward assuaging his distress. By the time he was setting the table, he was singing “Bread of Heaven” and feeling more like himself. How he longed to have Megan for his own. To have Megan to come home to, Megan to go shopping with, Megan to sit watching TV with, to love and to cherish. This terrible need he had was what had driven him to say what he’d said this afternoon. Dan seemed to have just about everything. A star of the practice and a star at home because it was obvious that Rose adored him. You only had to see her face when she looked at him; there was passionate hunger there and a look on her beautiful face that came close to reverence. And a son, Dan had a son. He, Rhodri, didn’t mind what he got, boy or girl, so long as it was his and Megan’s.
