by James Anson
Mr Faulkner watched him, then came over to check his girth. "Better pull it up a notch for you. Victor blows out - you could find yourself upside down. Move your leg, man!"
Robert glared at him, then shifted his leg so Faulkner could tighten the girth.
"There, that should do it. Just keep with the main bunch. Watch that dun with the red ribbon in his tail - he's a kicker. And watch out for Bodger: he likes to nip in front - nearly fell over the bugger last month. Right, Fred!"
The hunt moved slowly off, cheered on by the local children, trotting down one of the lanes, then off into the open fields; the hounds began to call.
"They've picked up the scent," said Faulkner. "You all right, March?"
"Yes." It was a fine day, Robert thought. He'd forgotten how good it could be to be up on a horse again. He sniffed the air as the hounds began to move faster.
"We're off!" yelled a rubicund gentleman, whom Robert now recognised as the local doctor: he had just heard he was on his 'panel' and wasn't sure he cared for the fact his doctor was a hunting man.
Victor began to pull hard; he seemed to be trying to get up to the front with Piper and Gert, Mr Stebbins' mount. Robert wondered if they normally rode together, then stifled a curse as a madly galloping Bodger cut right in front of him. After a few moments he realised that Bodger constituted a major traffic hazard, as a storm of curses from nearby riders confirmed. However, this had no effect on Bodger, who continued forging ahead to shrieks of delight from Ashley, apparently kept in the saddle by gravity alone.
Robert looked around: apart from himself and possibly two of the ladies present, he wouldn't care to breathalyse this bunch. Victor was now galloping hard on Piper's heels and they were approaching what looked like Becher's Brook, only larger.
"Oh shit!" said Robert.
As the rest of the pack was thundering on his heels there was no chance of pulling up. He looked for a convenient gap; there wasn't one so he sat down hard, as his grandfather had taught him, and prayed. Piper rocketed over the bank ahead of him. Not bad, thought Robert; his rider was no lightweight. Then Victor followed suit. The descent on the other side of the bank seemed to have been modelled on the Cresta Run, but both horses took it in their stride. After that Robert just sat down, enjoyed the trip and left the decisions to Victor.
As they pounded across what seemed endless miles of muddy fields, always with the unspeakable Bodger not far behind, he heard a shout as a rider to his left took a crashing fall. They were now pounding down a muddy lane, then, to Robert's relief as a large muddy clod narrowly missed his left ear, the hounds seemed to lose the scent and circled about, yelping dismally.
"Not a bad run," said Faulkner, looking back at him; his face was liberally splattered with mud. "You kept up well, March."
"Victor seemed to want to," said Robert. Credit where it was due, he thought.
"Yes, Amy and I usually ride together. Ashley!" he roared, "you stay right there!"
Robert winced as Faulkner's voice, guaranteed to carry across ten miles of hunting country, grated on his ear. Faulkner walked his horse over to Ashley and Bodger. Robert could not hear what was being said but Faulkner's gestures offered hints.
"... And take your bloody pony and go!"
Ashley gazed up; his lower lip trembled, and even Bodger quivered. Then, with a howl, Ashley buried his face in his pony's mane.
"You're always rotten to him," he wailed. "He didn't mean any harm. It's not his fault they can't keep up with him." Large tears were splashing down his round face.
Robert, amused, watched Faulkner disintegrate before this attack.
"All right," Faulkner said through gritted teeth, "but the little sod goes on a leading rein before he has someone down. Maud, can you take him?"
"No problem, Mike. Bring him over, Ashley."
Ashley hugged Mr Faulkner's leg thankfully, which transferred even more mud to his person, then led his pony over to Maud. The rest of the hunt had now caught them up, several looking much the worse for wear.
"Faulkner!" roared the doctor, tossing his hip-flask over. Faulkner caught it deftly and took a long drink. He offered it to Robert, who shook his head; he was beginning to feel a deep-seated ache in his bad leg.
There was a shriek of delight from Ashley. "They've found the scent again!"
"Oh God," said Robert, but thankfully the banks did not seem as high on this run and Victor dropped back from the leaders. To his deep regret Robert missed seeing Faulkner and Piper come to grief; Piper, for once taking the easy jump, had landed square in a very muddy pond and then apparently settled there with a resigned expression on his calm face. Mr Faulkner had been forced to abandon ship, to the detriment of his clothes, to haul his mount ashore while the rest of the hunt fell about.
Robert sighed with relief as he saw the village coming into view again. When they halted at the green, Maud came over.
"I could take Victor home with me," she said. "The vicarage is on my way."
"Thank you," said Robert. Passing her Victor's reins he dismounted with care and looked about: Mrs Bleavins was leading away a very happy and filthy Ashley and Bodger; Mr Faulkner was trying to wash the worst of the mud off his boots at the pump.
After a while he gave up on them and came over to Robert.
"Enjoy the run?" he asked.
Robert, leaning on the wall and praying the pain in his leg would ease up, stared at him.
"I ..." he began.
The pain peaked. Sick and dizzy, Robert grabbed at his questioner's solid body.
When Robert's head cleared he was lying on a sofa in the back parlour of the Brewers Arms. The landlady and Faulkner were both leaning over him, looking anxious.
The doctor pushed them aside.
"Better get that boot off, Mike. Do it carefully. Didn't realise it was you at first, Mr March. What on earth were you doing hunting without a proper support boot - all that jarring at the jumps!"
Faulkner took out a knife. "You're going to owe Tommy Perkins for a new pair of boots," he said as he began to slit the boot open.
"You watch it with that knife!" said Robert.
The boot was removed very gently. "Why the hell didn't you tell me about this?" asked Faulkner, staring at the swollen, damaged leg.
"None of your damn business," said Robert.
"Well," said the doctor, "you're going to have to keep off it for a few days." He looked round. "Thomas, will you take Diamond home for me and ask Fred if we can borrow his car to take Mr March home? Mike, you can help get him into it."
"I can manage," said Robert aggressively. He got to his feet, managed a few steps and sagged against the wall.
"Don't be an idiot," said Faulkner, settling him back on the sofa. "I'll have the lads carry you out on a chair."
Fuming, Robert was carried out and settled into the car.
"Here he is, John," said Faulkner. "I'll be over as soon as I've stabled Piper."
The car started up, drowning Robert's yell of, "Don't bother!"
Dr Ryan helped Robert onto his own sofa and bandaged the leg. "Now keep off that as much as possible. You have some painkillers?"
"Yes, thanks for the lift home."
"I'll call tomorrow. Here's Mike now."
Robert heard them talking in the hall before Faulkner walked in; he had washed and changed. Robert looked at him without enthusiasm.
"I thought that with living alone you could do with some help," said Faulkner.
"I like it that way, can manage fine."
"Ha!" said Faulkner, looking about. "Any coffee? I could do with a cup."
"You'll have to make it yourself then," said Robert ungraciously.
"I intend to," said Faulkner. "Come on, puss, I'll feed you too." Kasper followed him, purring.
A cup of coffee was placed on Robert's chest. He drank it slowly as a voice rang out from the kitchen.
"What have you got to eat?"
"I dunno," said Robert. "Look in the pantry."
"
I did. It looks like Old Mother Hubbard's."
"There should be some bread," said Robert. "I'm not very interested in food."
"Can tell that - you're so bloody thin. I'll just go down to the farm."
"Faulkner!" yelled Robert, but he had already left. When Faulkner came back it was with a large bag.
"Here we are - bacon, sausages, black pudding, eggs. And I can do you a good chunk of fried bread to go with that," said Mr Faulkner cheerfully.
"I hate fried bread," Robert complained.
"Good for you, puts hair on your chest."
The smell of fried bread began to percolate.
"Here," said Faulkner, as he dumped a well-filled plate on Robert's stomach. "Get that down you."
Robert looked at the plateful in horror; obviously Faulkner enjoyed a keen appetite.
He began to eat slowly. Not bad, he thought grudgingly as he glanced over at the other man, who was pouring tomato ketchup over his, then mopping up with a large wedge of bread. Robert finally pushed his plate away.
"Couldn't eat another mouthful. Was all right, that."
"I'll put the kettle on," said Faulkner. "Where can I sleep tonight?"
"You have a house two miles down the road."
Unsnubbed, Faulkner looked about. "I'll just shift the rubbish off that settee."
"You will not," said Robert. "That's where I'm sleeping. I'll never make the stairs. Use my room." He realised that short of brute force there was no way Faulkner would be shifted and his leg was hurting like hell.
They had coffee peacefully and later Faulkner insisted on seeing him comfortably settled before he went upstairs. Robert lay listening to the clock ticking. Was it always that loud?
At 3 a.m. Robert decided he couldn't stand it any longer and got up to look for his painkillers. He made it to his feet successfully, then fell over the coal-scuttle and a pile of books. The resulting crash brought Faulkner downstairs.
"Rather early to do your aerobics, isn't it?" he inquired.
"Shut up," said Robert, struggling to his feet. He swayed and almost fell again.
Faulkner swore and eased him back onto the couch.
"What were you after, the bathroom?"
"No, my pills. Leg's griping a little. I thought they were down here."
"All right, tell me where they're likely to be."
Robert described their possible location and after a brief search Faulkner was back with the pills and a glass of water.
"Sorry I woke you," said Robert. "Should be all right now - they work fast."
"You could have called me," said Faulkner. "Why didn't you tell me about your leg? I'd never have taken you on that run if I'd known."
"Stupid, I guess," said Robert vaguely. "Kept up all right, didn't I?"
"You did, went very well too," said Faulkner.
"Good." Robert grinned at him woozily as the pill took effect. "Think I'll sleep now."
He closed his eyes.
Faulkner tucked the rug back round him and stayed until he was sure Robert was asleep before returning to his room.
Robert's leg had stiffened completely by the next day. The doctor looked at it critically.
"If that doesn't improve in a day or two we better think about getting you into the cottage hospital for them to take a look at it."
"We will not," said Robert. "It's been mucked about with enough."
"I can stay on," said Faulkner. "See he doesn't do any dancing on it."
"Well," said the doctor, "we will see how it is tomorrow. See he keeps off it as much as possible."
After a hair-raising trip to the bathroom Robert returned to the sofa, washed and breakfasted, while Faulkner cleared up in the kitchen and collected the post before settling himself with a book while Robert looked through his mail.
"Moonshine Film Company," said Robert. "Tickets for the premiere. I'm not going.
Couldn't bear seeing what they've done to my book. Don't believe in all that rubbish anyway."
"If you're not careful," said Faulkner, "you'll end up our local celebrity - to be pointed out to tourists in awe."
"Ha ha," said Robert. "Haven't you got one then?"
"Not since Job Hartly was hanged in 1654, no," said Faulkner. "And that was for carnal knowledge of a chicken."
Robert looked at him suspiciously. "I'm not planning to emulate him," he remarked.
"You'll have to find someone else. You do have some stock characters, mind: vague vicar; blacksmith under the spreading chestnut tree; Mrs Bleavins, the local siren; Irish doctor with a fondness for port. I haven't worked out who the local squire bespoiling all the innocent village maidens is yet."
"Oh, that's me," said Faulkner brightly, looking up from his book, his face bland.
Robert stared at him: wide, candid eyes gazed back at him. "I see," he said. "I meant to ask you, what do you do for entertainment here, apart from the bloody hunting?"
Faulkner sat back and considered. "Old Tyme Dancing, pigeons - the vicar has some beauties - you can learn raffia work and that sort of thing at the Village Institute. They have lectures once a month: 'My holiday in the Isle of Wight in the Spring of 1910', that sort of thing."
"Sounds fascinating," said Robert. "So apart from the beer and fornication, that's it?"
"Just about," said Faulkner. "Better warn you, fornication's a bit limited. Most of the likely ladies already have someone's boots under the bed. You could try growing the largest marrow. That's very popular."
Robert shrugged. "Think I'd rather do raffia work."
"Lunch," said Faulkner. "I'm hungry. I'd better go and get something from my freezer. You'll be all right?"
"Yes, just pass me a pad, will you? I've got an idea," Robert replied.
He scribbled away as Faulkner set about preparing their lunch. It's a relief he doesn't natter all the time, Robert thought, even if he hasn't a brain in his head.
The afternoon passed quietly; Faulkner went to exercise his horse, then made dinner, after which they discussed and argued on various matters before listening to a whodunnit on the radio which Robert, to his gratification, solved first. He felt pleasantly tired, settling back on his couch after a wash taken under Faulkner's vigilant eye.
He only woke once, hearing the other man moving about, then fell asleep again until eight-thirty, woken by the smell of coffee percolating.
"How's the leg?" Faulkner asked, bringing him a cup over.
"Lot better. Didn't wake me up at all, aching. First night without a pill."
"Good."
There was a knock on the door and Faulkner went to answer it. Robert heard him greeting Mrs Bleavins and Ashley, both resplendent in their Sunday best: Ashley looked scrubbed and uncomfortable.
"Just dropping off a pie, Mr March," she said. "How's the leg? I remember my gran was a martyr to hers. Ashley, don't pick up that cat! You'll get hairs all over your best suit. Drat the boy! Come on now, we'll be late for the service. Ashley will deliver the cream later."
Ashley gave them a friendly grin and followed his mother out.
"You're not trotting along with them, Faulkner, taking your place in the family pew and all that?" asked Robert.
"No, I went to the seven o'clock at St. Joe's over at Heathdene. Now are you ready for some breakfast?"
"One of those, are you?" said Robert.
"Yes, I am."
"Odd name for a boy, Ashley. Is it a family name?"
"No," said Faulkner, busy slicing bread. "She fell in love with Leslie Howard in 'Gone with the Wind'; hoped Ashley would turn out like him."
"Disappointing for her then," said Robert. "I'd noticed he looks the image of you."
"Doesn't he now," said Faulkner. "It's a face you'll see a lot of in these parts. Great little brat, isn't he?"
Robert shrugged. "Never had much to do with kids," he said.
Ashley, now in his grubby jodhpurs, appeared after lunch with a pint of cream, then stayed talking to Faulkner about the latest Pony Club Meet. Robert watched t
hem together. Yes, it's his kid all right, he thought, and he can't be bothered to acknowledge the poor little bugger. Oh damn ... He realised Faulkner had turned and was looking at him.
"You all right, Robert?"
"Yes, just a twinge. Seeing Ashley has brought the cream, he might as well have some pie too, and ice-cream if you've left any." He couldn't admit that seeing them together reminded him too much of his own lost son; that made him angrier with Faulkner. It was time he started edging the man out of his life; he was making himself far too much at home!
Ashley settled with a plateful of pie and ice-cream, then said his goodbyes and went off to choir practice. They were sitting in front of the fire when Robert remarked: "I can manage on my own now, Michael. Thank you for coming over."
"It’s Mike to me friends. Only my family insists on calling me Michael. And it was my fault you got hurt," said Faulkner. "All right if I stay the night? Then I can take Piper out early. He needs a good workout."
Robert nodded. "I'd better start on some work myself. I have an idea, but I'll need to do some research before I start making definite plans for a book."
"Enjoy writing, do you?" asked Michael.
"I enjoy the research, finding out the facts, then the first draft. After that it's just a long slog. As for the proof-reading, that's a right pain in the arse."
"I thought you had people to do that for you at the publishers," said Michael.
"Don't trust 'em. You should see what they let through. When I write something, it's got to be perfect. I'd like to find something local to write about. Anything dramatic happen in the crime line round here?"
Michael paused a moment before replying. "Few cases of rick burning, amateur highway robbery, nothing for you."
Robert noted the dismissive tone. "What about him, Michael on the wall there?" he said, pointing. "Didn't he do anything exciting? And before you ask I haven't made up my mind about letting you have him back!"
"Ah, found out his name, have you?" said Faulkner. "All the eldest sons are called Michael. No, he led a very secluded life down here."
"Oh," said Robert. "Buried in your family crypt, is he?"
There was a silence.
