by Rebecca Shaw
“Put them down! You damn well will not.” He squared up to Dan, prepared to fight for his rights.
Tad Porter materialized beside Dan. “I might have known that lot were thine. They’re rubbish and tha knows it.”
“Since when ’as Tad Porter known better than me? I’ve been in the sheep business for forty years, and I say there’s nowt wrong wi’ ’em.”
“I’d shame to own sheep in that condition.”
Phil Parsons erupted from nowhere shouting, “You’re at it again then, Bernard. I knew them were yours the minute I clapped eyes on ’em. Rubbish, they are. It’s neglect that caused that lameness, and there isn’t a peck of flesh on ’em.” Phil leaned over and reached into the pen, digging his fingers into thick fleece and feeling the spine of one of the sheep. “Skeletons they are. Skeletons.”
Bernard put up his fists. “And you can mind your own damn business. Yer can’t even see ’em wi’ that balaclava over yer eyes.”
Phil shouted, “I may not make a fortune from farming, but I do know neglect when I see it. He’s right, is Dan, they’re not fit for sale. Cruel neglect, that’s what.”
Tad Porter, puffing on his pipe, drew a powerful pull of smoke into his lungs, released it in a pungent cloud, then said, “Trouble is, Bernard, tha’s idle. Phil’s right, it’s nowt but sheer neglect.”
Dan hadn’t heard Tad speak in such long sentences ever before and sensed he was deeply stirred by the condition of the sheep, though there seemed to be another bone of contention mixed with his anger. Dan said firmly, “You know as well as I do they are not in good condition, and I’ve half a mind to get the RSPCA involved.”
By now a small crowd had gathered, hoping for some excitement to add an extra thrill to their day. There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd, and someone who looked as though he might be an animal rights activist waded in with, “Criminal! That’s what. He shouldn’t be allowed to keep animals if he can’t care for them better than this. It’s my opinion he should be prosecuted. Are you willing to put the wheels in motion?” He addressed his question to Dan, but before Dan could answer, Bernard had planted an almighty fist on the man’s nose, knocking him back into Tad and Phil and scattering them into the crowd. Blood poured from the man’s nose, splattering on anyone close to him. Bernard roared, “And you can keep your nose out of it too. I know you from before—you’re another of them do-gooding activists.”
Dan intervened. “Now, now, this can all be settled quite amicably. Let’s not get too excited.” Bernard advanced on Dan, who nimbly skipped out of his way, hands palm upward. “That’s enough. We can’t have a brawl in the middle of the market. I’m doing my job to the best of my ability, and in all conscience I cannot allow these animals to be put up for sale. They are in such poor condition it amounts to neglect, as Phil said.”
Tad Porter stepped forward. “It’s not the first time he’s brought sheep unfit for sale. He’s done it before, but no one does anything about it. Even the RSPCA can’t pin ’im down. You go for ’im, Dan. And while you’re at it, look at ’is dogs.” In a quiet aside, Tad volunteered to take care of Bernard’s sheep for a couple of months, get them up to scratch, sell them, and give Bernard the money. “Can’t abide to see animals neglected like this. I may not like the chap, but his animals aren’t to blame for that. It’s a genuine offer. I feel real sorry for the poor old sods. You tell him.”
When Dan put Tad’s proposal to him, Bernard exploded. “Definitely not. I’m not a charity case. Far from it.” He took up his belligerent position again, arms folded, chest stuck out, bottom jaw jutting. “Do your worst.”
The activist, having stemmed the flow of blood from his nose, said thickly through the clots of blood still blocking his nostrils, “There’s Richie! Come over here; you’re needed. We’ll see what the police think about this. I’ll have him for assault.” He vigorously beckoned the inspector over.
Dan had had no intention of involving the police, but it was now too late. Richie, whom he’d met at Bridge Farm, was coming across.
Mr. Jones rubbed his hands with glee. “I haven’t had such fun in years.”
Rose wasn’t quite so sure. She didn’t count it as fun to see her beloved under threat from a bully like Bernard Wilson, and was, truth to tell, relieved to have the inspector on the scene. The activist wanted Bernard prosecuted for grevious bodily harm, and insisted on his right to have him charged, but Dan declined to get involved in charges about neglect, preferring to approach the whole matter on a long-term basis of ensuring Bernard was supervised much more closely and, dare he use the word, educated into a positive attitude rather than being under threat of prosecution.
It all fizzled out after a while because the inspector had to make notes, and Bernard, seeing he was about to be arrested if he didn’t calm down, lost his belligerent edge and was positively meek and mild. Only Phil Parsons and Tad Porter remained to see it through.
Phil said quietly, “His dogs—he breeds beagles—are a disgrace. Disgusting conditions. Broke my Blossom’s heart once when she fancied one and went to have a look. Filthy they were. The RSPCA had a go at him a year or so back; he improved for a while, but they’re as bad as ever, I bet. Honest. He advertises pedigreed puppies for sale in the newspaper, but I bet there isn’t one that’s in good nick. I’m off to the trailer for a coffee; want one?”
Dan nodded. Phil asked Mr. Jones and Rose if they wanted one too and they both agreed. He came back with a tray laden with paper cups steaming with coffee, wooden spatulas instead of spoons, and a mountain of packets of sugar. Very pointedly he’d brought one for Richie too but not for Bernard Wilson. Tad Porter insisted he pay for his own. Phil refused his money. “Don’t be daft, there’s no need.”
“I won’t be beholden to anyone. We’re all of us doing badly; you can’t afford to be generous.” He pushed the money into Phil’s jacket pocket. Phil said gruffly, “There’s no need for that.”
Mr. Jones and Rose took their coffees to a quiet corner and Rose sat down on a wall to drink hers. “I guess I’d no idea being a vet could be so…well…lively.”
Mr. Jones gratefully took a sip of his coffee and then said, “You’ve no idea how much I’ve enjoyed myself this morning. I haven’t been to a market for…well, I can’t remember when, and I want to thank you for taking the time. You’ve made an old man very happy.”
Rose patted his arm. “I’ve an idea you’re not much older than my stepfather, so less of the old.”
“Where is he?”
“Coming to England next week on business. Privately, I think it’s an excuse to see Jonathan. He’s so proud of him, you’d think he was his own grandson. Which he is in a way, but not really.”
Mr. Jones stared ahead at the auctioneer working his way down the pens. “I miss out on life, you know. Megan can’t marry because she has me to look after, and as for my son, well, he won’t marry in a thousand years. He’s…you know.”
Rose thought she knew what he meant and simply answered, “I see.” The tension between them was relieved by her mobile ringing.
“Rose, here.” She listened, then said, “Right, I’m on my way.” She snapped her phone off and said, “Sorry, got to go. Jonathan needs feeding and won’t be pacified with a bottle. I’ll tell Dan. He’ll look after you and see you home. I should have expected this.” She stood up from her seat on the wall, and Mr. Jones thought yet again what a lovely girl she was. So elegant. And so…well, beautiful.
“That’s all right, my dear. I’m sure Dan will take care of me. Hurry home. And thank you.”
“I’ll find Dan for you—”
“No. No. That’s all right, I’ll find him myself.”
“Are you sure, I don’t like leaving—”
“Of course I’m sure. I can manage this thing, you know. Megan can always come for me if needs be.”
HAD Megan witnessed her father’s surprising spurt of independence, she would have been astounded. But at that moment she was more than occupied
with the situation she was facing. Her dogs were not allowed to sleep in the house, but had warm, snug beds in one of the unoccupied stables. From time to time she cleared out the stable, washed their bedding and today, while her father was out, she was painting the inside walls to keep them fresh. She was wearing an old scarf around her head because she always managed to splash paint everywhere and most especially on herself, an old pair of black Wellingtons kept specially for the purpose, old cotton trousers, and a shirt that had seen better days. This job she could do without his continual interruptions, and she was busy singing while thinking about the coming evening when she and Rhodri were going to a classical concert in the old town hall.
She’d promised herself to make plans that would free her from her daily obligations to her da, but so far had not come up with any ideas. Bending down, Megan painted the last corner on the third wall and then turned the ladder round to paint the wall with the window and the door in it. She was adjusting the ladder to enable her to reach the topmost part of the wall when Gab appeared in the doorway.
“Here, let me do that.”
“No, thanks, Gab. I’m fine. I’m enjoying doing a job without a single interruption from Da. It’s a pleasure, believe me.” Megan smiled at him so he would know she wasn’t being uncooperative out of unfriendliness. The dogs eddied around Gab’s legs in greeting; he bent to acknowledge them and ruffled their ears, and chucked them under their chins. “Great dogs, these. They know who is and who isn’t welcome, don’t they?”
“They do.” Megan placed the bucket of paint on the top step of the ladder and climbed up to begin painting. “They’re old and they’re wise, you know. Gyp is nine and Holly, ten; you wouldn’t think so, would you?”
“They still work the sheep like young ’uns, though. You’d never think—” A splash of Megan’s paint landed on his sweater.
“Oh, sorry! Here, use this old cloth to wipe it off.”
But as Gab took the cloth from her hand, he gripped her wrist. She looked down in surprise and saw that look on his face, which he kept specially for her when her da wasn’t looking. A blazing look, a daring, passionate look that unnerved her. There was something crude about it, and a boldness of which nothing good could come.
“That’s enough, Gab.”
“No, it’s not enough; it isn’t even the beginnings of enough.” His grip tightened.
“Gab! Let go.”
“Come down.”
“I said, let go.”
“I said, come down.”
“I won’t, Gab. Please. Don’t make a scene. Please let go.” He didn’t, so she tried to twist her arm free, but it made him grip her even tighter.
Balancing on top of the ladder, she couldn’t put all her strength behind pulling her wrist away, so she climbed down; but he mistook her reasons, thinking she was doing it in response to his demand. As her feet touched the ground, he wrapped an arm around her waist and bent his head to kiss her. It was a ruthless kiss, which numbed her lips and stifled her breathing. Megan pressed both hands against his chest and pushed hard.
“Ahhh! I like reluctance; it enhances the chase.” He bent his head to kiss her again, but this time she twisted her head away so he couldn’t. “It makes me all the more determined.”
“Damn you, Gab. Let me go. If you don’t, I’ll—”
“Yes?”
She realized she had nothing to threaten him with. “Just leave me alone. Please.”
Gab released her. “You’ve no idea how I feel about you, have you? It hurts like a great pain in here.” He banged his fist on his chest as he spoke. “Day in, day out. Unbearable. I need you, like a plant needs sun for its very life. I ache for you.”
“However much you feel, it won’t get you anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not my type.”
“Not your type? I’m the eldest son of a farmer who owns acres of land, and even you have to agree I’m attractive to women. I’m a good catch. Do you not feel even the tiniest little bit of something for me? I can have any girl I choose, you know, but it’s you I want. Come on, Meggie, my love, it’s the lad’s day off, your da’s out, so why not? Let me show you what loving can be like. You won’t be able to get enough of me if you give me a chance. Believe me, I know.”
Gab pressed her hand to his lips and then he kissed her wrist, then the softness at the curve of her elbow and then the hollow of her throat, and Megan, briefly yielding to his persuasive lips, could sense the the truth of his saying he could have any girl he chose.
“Ha! The ice maiden begins to melt.” He kissed the hollow of her throat again and nuzzled his face into her neck while his lips pressed kisses on her warm skin. He lifted his head and looked intensely into her eyes. His hand strayed to the buttons at the neck of her shirt and began fumbling to undo them. That was when she came to her senses. Her hand holding the paint brush full of paint jerked into life and she smashed it as hard as she could into his face. Gab, blinded by the wet paint, was so startled he let go of her.
Megan, in charge of herself once more, followed up her attack on him with a vicious punch to his throat. He backed off coughing and complaining. Wiping off the paint as best he could without a mirror, he began to laugh, a roaring bellow of a laugh, till his face grew red and he had to stop. Propped against the door frame, he gasped. “By heck. You’re a harridan, you are. But it excites you, resisting me, doesn’t it?”
“No. You disgust me.”
“You mean you’re disgusted with yourself for fancying me just then, just a tiny little bit. I felt a small surrender, I did.” He grinned a lopsided grin, which confirmed for her his attraction to women. He was going to add something, but they both heard the sounds of a truck turning into the yard, so Gab stuck his head out of the door to see who it was. It was the feed.
Megan climbed the ladder again, dipped the brush in the can of paint, and continued working on the rough stone surface of the stable wall. She trembled inside herself, shocked at finding just how vulnerable she had been for that moment. Her mobile rang, so she rubbed her hand on her trouser leg and fished it out of her pocket. “Hello?”
“It’s Da here. I’m ringing to say I’m lunching with Dan at the Askew Arms, so don’t worry about me.”
“You are?”
“Yes. He’s bringing me home afterward; Rose has had to go home to feed the baby, you see. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Have a good time.”
“You sound funny, odd like.”
“Bit breathless. I’m at the top of the ladder painting the dogs’ stable. Enjoy, as Rose would say.”
“I can come home.”
“No. No. There’s nothing the matter at all. Be seeing you. Enjoy. ’Bye, Da.”
Megan stuffed the phone back into her pocket, picked up the paintbrush again, and carried on with her painting. By the time the truck driver and Gab had unloaded the bags of feed, she’d put the last brush stroke on the wall and was ready for lunch. She stood for a moment admiring her handiwork, thinking there was something enormously satisfying about completing a job like this. Washing out the brush under the outside tap, Megan thought about her da having lunch with Dan.
BUT her father wasn’t thinking about her at all as he sliced through a very tender piece of steak. “I must say, Dan, I do appreciate you taking time to have lunch with me. Most considerate. What’s happened about the chap with the sheep in such poor condition?”
“I’ve put three of them down. The rest are just about well enough to travel back. I’ve officially reported him.”
“So you should too. They were a disgrace to the farming community.”
“Tad Porter’s taking them on, and he’ll sell them and give Bernard what he gets. More wine? There’s no love lost between them; but being a farmer, Tad puts the animals’ welfare first, even though he finds profit a thing of the past.”
Mr. Jones proffered his glass to Dan with a nod. “Thank you.” He took a sip. “Remarkably good wine
cellar they must have.”
“It was Lord Askew who introduced me to this wine. It’s a good choice, isn’t it?”
“You’ve dined with Lord Askew?”
Dan agreed he had, but only the once. “He paid for it too, even though I was rude to him.”
“Can’t stand the chap, myself.”
“You have to know how to handle him. Believe it or not, I think he desperately wants to get on with people but doesn’t know how.” Dan saw Lord Askew approaching their table.
“The man’s a damn fool.”
Dan tried to catch Mr. Jones’s eye to warn him Lord Askew was coming up right behind him.
“A damn fool he is, that Lord Askew. A big, fat, blustering, self-opinionated fool. I’ve no sympathy for him.”
Dan cleared his throat, looked behind Mr. Jones, and said, “Good afternoon, my lord.”
Mr. Jones paused and then slowly put down his fork and painfully turned his head to look behind him, thinking Dan was joking. But, by God, he wasn’t. For once in his life, Idris Jones was dumbfounded.
“Afternoon, Brown. Saw you in the market—thought I’d lunch with you, but you have a guest.”
“You’d be most welcome…” Dan moved his chair to make room.
“No, no. Be so kind…to introduce us.” He nodded at Mr. Jones.
“This is Idris Jones, Beulah Bank Farm.”
“Never seen you here before.”
Lord Askew received a brusque reply. “You’re right, you haven’t.”
Lord Askew moved forward and offered his hand to Mr. Jones and pumped it with comradely vigor. “Good afternoon to you. You do right to get out and about despite your infirmities. Stunts the mind—makes one inward looking, selfish even, and one’s view of life becomes…distorted, don’t you know, if one doesn’t make the effort. You’d better mind this chap,” he pointed at Dan, “he’s dynamite once he gets on your case. He’ll have you climbing mountains before long. Enjoy your lunch.”
The restaurant manager, appalled by what he knew Lord Askew must have overheard, had been hovering nervously during this conversation and was relieved to be free to lead Lord Askew to the table he’d reserved for him.
