by James Anson
Anyway, what's the programme for you now?"
"Another month here, then I have to go to Dublin. The army want to look me over for the medical discharge. I'll get a pension of course. How's Piper doing?"
"He's fine," said Robert. "I'm sorry about the army. Will you be coming back to England?"
"Where else would I go?" said Michael. "Always meant to come back to England for good eventually."
"And you'll be able to manage financially?" asked Robert worriedly.
Michael shrugged. "As long as I can keep a roof on the house, my horse fed and the Hunt fees paid, I'll be happy."
Robert sighed. It occurred to him that something needed to be done about Michael's very cavalier attitude to money; he would have to instil some realism into his affairs.
(Many happy years later Robert reminded himself of this but had, by then, almost given up on the problem.)
"You said you were bringing a bottle." The plaintive voice broke in on Robert's musings. "I'm allowed alcohol now you know," it went on.
"In moderation," said Robert, producing a bottle of single malt. Michael happily passed over a glass and a tooth mug. "Once I've got the army sorted out," he said, "I could go back home - don't need any more convalescence."
"Forget it," said Robert. "Your uncle has lent us his place at Bray. I'm surprised to find you have one respectable relative. I'm coming over with you to see you don't overdo things. Rather fancy a seaside holiday - haven't had one in years. You can go off with your bucket and spade while I get on with my writing." He ignored Michael's snort of disgust.
* * * * *
Michael finally passed as 'safe to be let loose' as Robert put it, they flew to Dublin, Michael returning to McKie Barracks while Robert was invited to stay with his history professor uncle. Then Michael appeared with a request that Robert join him in a farewell dinner in the Officers' Mess.
"For heaven's sake, Mike. What will I talk to a room full of soldiers about? Anyway, won't they think it's odd you inviting me?"
"Of course not," said Michael. "You can talk about anything but politics and religion - they're both banned. You can keep an eye on me to see I don't go over the top. Besides, Captain Higgins wants to discuss his theory about Kit Marlowe with you."
"That's all I need," growled Robert. "Another bloody amateur sleuth. You know I hate this kind of thing."
"You're just mad because you have to put on a suit and a tie," said Michael, satisfied he would get his way.
The evening turned out better than Robert had expected, thanks to an excellent meal and a very enlivening discussion with Captain Higgins on his Marlowe theory, which did not include a reference to the plays of Mr William Shakespeare; from that they moved on to the murder of Oliver Fleming and Robert set out the seventeen theories he had evolved so far. By 3 a.m. they had boiled them down to six; then the bar closed and he had to prise Michael away from his colleagues, with whom he had apparently spent most of the evening discussing the distressing incidence of glandular fever in horses and terrible disasters in the hunting field. Robert made a note to get on with his article on mental weaknesses among the horse-riding fraternity.
"I was offered a job," said Michael. "Chef d'Equipe when the team travels abroad.
Think I'll take it. What do you think?"
"Should suit you," said Robert. "Does it pay well?"
"No, but you have a great time. Get to travel as well."
"Oh, god," said Robert.
* * * * *
Robert looked out of the cottage window. It was still raining, he noted gloomily. He could see Michael making his way up the beach. He's walking much better now, he thought, even with that bloody calliper on his leg. Now what are you going to do about him, Robert?
Michael shook the rain from his hair and looked about. "Anything to eat, I'm starving?" he asked.
"Not unless you fancy a rock-hard loaf with baked beans, and I was saving that for breakfast," said Robert. "Know any good chip shops round here?"
"Follow me," said Michael, plunging back out into the rain.
"Mike, it's pouring!"
"Naw, just a light Irish mist, this. Come on, you won't melt!"
After a quick dash through the rain, they found themselves in the White Swan Fish & Chip Emporium. Robert looked about, entranced.
"Didn't believe these places still existed - a sit-down chippy with oilcloth on the tables and plates of bread and butter! They should get a preservation order out on it."
"Yeah, better than propping up old Georgian buildings," said Michael. "Come on, what are you having?"
They settled for large plates of fish and chips and mushy peas, with onion rings, followed by a giant pot of tea and two mugfuls of Guinness.
"They make it from the Liffey," said Michael.
"Hope not - I've smelt that river. God, it tastes like they boiled iron filings in it. Good blow-out anyway," said Robert.
"Great stuff," said Michael, working his way down his jar. "Put this in your horse's mash and he'll leap like a flea. We should be back in time for the hunt next month too," he added, his eyes glazing. "Did I tell you ...?"
"Yes, you did," said Robert. "Don't know why I bother with you - nothing but hay between your ears."
"Don't you?" said Michael. "Well, maybe it's the sexual mystique of the man on a horse -power unleashed and all that sort of thing."
"Been reading Lawrence again, have you?" said Robert. "Give you ideas, that will."
"I know how to blow up railways already," said Michael. "Teach a course on it."
"Mike ..." Robert gazed at him suspiciously; a candid blue eye gazed back. He looked out of the window. "My God, it's stopped raining - let's go."
They walked back along the beach. After a moment Robert heeled off his trainers and began to walk along the tide-line, beachcombing.
"Starfish," said Michael, pouncing. "Want to take it home and dry it off?"
"Put it back!" said Robert. "Poor little bugger; worse than a kid, you are."
They settled by the fire in the evening, Michael staring into the flames. Robert was silent for a while, before he said:
"Look, Mike, I know you fancy going to bed with me."
"More than that," said Michael. "I think it's time we settled down. You know," he grinned, "with an Aga and all."
Robert considered that for a moment. "It's not that I'm not ... attracted to you. God knows why, you're not my type at all - but it just wouldn't work." He got up and began to pace about. "Look, Mike, I'm a bad risk in the living together department - if that's what you had in mind?"
He glanced at Michael, who nodded.
"Yes, I was afraid it was. I always get too involved with my work; it's the way I am. My marriage ... We weren't suited, but that aspect didn't help. Only David kept us together, and when he was killed - there was nothing left. She's remarried, seems happy enough. People said I should remarry, have a family - as though David was a puppy to be replaced. I didn't want a bloody family: I wanted him back!" He stopped and sniffed hard.
"You wouldn't understand."
"I have Ashley," said Michael. "I think I know how I'd feel if anything happened to him." He got up and walked over to where Robert stood. "Robert, I wouldn't make you unhappy for the world. You saved my life and - "
"I don't need any of your gratitude," snapped Robert. "If you're thinking of handing your body over like the maiden to the village squire - "
Michael chuckled and then began to laugh. Outraged, Robert looked at him, then started to laugh himself.
"Oh, hell," he said finally. "I must have sounded like a penny book. Go on, get the whiskey and pour us a dram."
"Tell you what," said Michael as he poured two generous measures. "Let's just see how things go. You know how I feel; you're not happy about it - yet. Plenty of time. I'm a patient man."
"You're going to have to be," said Robert wryly. "And get off that leg: you haven't had your rest today."
"Oh, shit," said Michael.
*
* * * *
Six months later Robert sat on the paddock fence at Highgreen Farm, chewing an apple and watching Michael struggling to get the unschooled hunter into some sort of order. Strong, willing but basically dumb, Robert decided, as the animal again confused its leg change and almost fell over its own hooves. Michael eased it to a walk and came over to Robert; the horse, seeing the apple in his hand, brightened considerably.
Robert sighed and relinquished the unchewed half, patting the soft nose. "There's a good fella," he crooned. "He is trying, you know, Mike."
"I know," said Michael. "That's all that's stopping me advising Jack to have him turned into horse-burgers."
“Mike! Look, if he decides not to keep him, put in a bid for me, will you? Got a lovely nature, haven't you?" He pulled out another apple.
"You're a bad influence," said Michael. "Look, the last thing you need is a dim-witted hunter. Go out on this ejit and you'll both break your necks."
"Not for hunting," said Robert. "Mug's game, that is. I just want a good, sound hack. Be fine for that, wouldn't you, Flash?"
"Flash!" snorted Michael. "Come on, Merrylegs, try and get your act together."
Afterwards, leaning on the stable partition, watching Michael carefully rubbing down the hunter while Flash ate his horse nuts with noisy appreciation, Robert realised it was not the most romantic of venues - unless an overpowering smell of horse turned you on.
But ... Michael's hands were having a very definite effect on him as he watched them moving over the glossy coat.
Not fair keeping Mike on a string either, and I bet he's noticed, he thought crossly.
Better get it over with.
"Mike ..." He stopped and cleared his throat. "I don't think this is going to be a good idea but ... I'd like you to stay overnight. And we might consider a more permanent arrangement. See how we go on. What do you say?"
"Well," said Michael, "I would have liked that said with more enthusiasm. Still, it saves me getting a bottle of whiskey and seducing you this weekend like I planned. But honestly, Robert, as a proposal that was the pits! But it was all you! Look, get the handkerchief out of my jacket pocket, will you. It's hanging over there."
Robert went over to it. "Which pocket? Yuck! What's this?" He held up a sticky mass.
"Chuck that away, it won't be worth eating now. No, top pocket inside." Robert pulled out a carefully knotted silk handkerchief. "That's it," said Michael. "Go on, it's for you. Been carrying it round long enough."
Robert unwrapped a small silver ring.
"What's this, an engagement ring?" he asked, turning it curiously.
"No, an Irish wedding ring. Don't think they could afford gold. Found it in my grandmother's work-box. She gave it me. Always said I'd give it to the one I settled down with. You're it, so stick it on and you can get me one later."
Robert blew his nose. "Wish you weren't such a bloody romantic, Mike. I'm not likely to change my ways to accommodate you, you know."
Michael grinned. "I know. Is that all you have to say to me?"
"No," said Robert. "Jessie's in the kitchen, jamming, Ashley's at school, so you can put down that bloody curry-comb and come over here. If you don't think it will frighten the horse?"
"What did you have in mind?" said Michael, coming over.
Robert slid his arms round his neck. "Just this, and if you giggle I'll slay you."
"Who's giggling?" said Michael, returning the embrace. They were both breathing hard when they separated, leaning back against the partition, looking at each other.
"I don't think that's going to be a problem," said Robert. "But remember, Mike, I'm not going to be another scalp in your belt," he warned.
"You talk too much," said Michael, pulling him back into his arms.
* * * * *
A few months later Robert looked up from the malfunctioning toaster. "Wondered where you'd got to, shoving off before breakfast," he remarked. "We're going to have to get a new toaster - there's nothing between black and cream on this today."
Michael, looking remarkably tidy for early morning, beamed at him. "Went to collect my post and some other things," he remarked.
"Anything interesting?" asked Robert vaguely, as he gave up on the toaster and began to slap margarine on his bread.
"Invite from Amy for her next Hunt Ball: she says she's looking forward to seeing you again."
"Forget it," said Robert. "I remember the last one: the buffet was awful and I'm not having that raving nymphomaniac crawling all over you again."
"Getting a mite possessive, aren't you?" said Michael smugly.
"Yes, and you'd better remember it. Want some coffee?"
"Yes. I have a cheque too." He passed the slip of paper over.
Robert sat down. "My God. Have you been flogging our story to The Sun?"
"No, I sold the Manor to the County Council. They want to turn it into a village centre and weekend residential college. Seemed a fair price, so I let 'em have it. Oh, and there's a letter from Charles - he's disgusted and won't be visiting."
"Good," said Robert. "That's a weight off my mind. What do you think? Shall we put in that bid for Parsons Farmhouse?"
"With enough land for a paddock and stabling," said Michael. "Then I can have Piper nearby. It'll stop us falling over each other all the time like we do here and I can stop being an occasional overnight guest."
"I like the order of merit," said Robert. "It should be big enough to keep you out of my way. Still think you'll interfere with my work though."
"Nonsense," said Michael. "I'm going to be very good for you - stop you turning into a cross-grained old recluse too. Oh, this is yours as well." He tossed a bridle over.
Robert stared at him.
"Well, you wouldn't let me bring him in the kitchen," said Michael sadly. "Flash is waiting for you down at Jessie's. I bought him off Jack for you when I knew the deal would go through."
"Mike, you ... Thanks. We better get that bid in. It is time we settled down properly, with an Aga and all that," said Robert smiling.
Chapter Seven
Michael walked into the warm bright kitchen of the farm they had owned for the last two years. He was wearing his oldest breeches and boots, was unshaven and exuding a strong smell of horse. He carelessly dropped a bundle of leathers on one of the basket chairs and began to make a pot of tea. Trailing in after him came a damp, dejected-looking Border collie, Frobisher and Amos, who normally defended Robert's study against all comers, making one of his rare visits to the kitchen. Amos took one sniff at the dog and departed, hissing vigorously. Michael, now with a mug of tea, settled himself by the Aga with a tattered copy of Horse and Hound. He poked the dog, now steaming happily in the warmth, with his boot.
"You need a bath, Sam," he said, then took a long swallow of tea with pleasure.
The telephone rang and he ambled over to it.
"Parsons Farm. Ah, the BBC is it? Sure an' now Mr March is away at the moment. You're talking to his stableman ..." Michael went on, lying happily in a brogue that would have raised eyebrows in Moore Street, Dublin. Mission completed, he replaced the receiver.
The door flew open.
"My God!" said Robert. "What has that dog been rolling in?" He flung open a window. "No wonder the cats joined me."
He was giving off danger signals of a very high order as he searched, muttering, in the fridge then the freezer.
"We are out of orange juice," he remarked aggressively. Michael, who had been watching him with interest, poured another mug of tea.
"You drank the last at 3 a.m.," he remarked tranquilly.
"Engraved on your memory is it?" said Robert, tipping the leathers off the chair and settling himself in it. He accepted the mug of tea. "Knew it was a mistake settling in together. I'm sick of sleeping with someone who always smells of horse and vapour rub."
His remark, however, lacked bite.
"You spilt some on me and I'd just got off to sleep with my bad back," said Michael sadly. "You c
an always move back into your own room, you know," he offered.
"Nothing doing. I need someone to talk to when my insomnia's bugging me. Who was that on the phone?"
"Beeb. I gave them the message as instructed: said you'd be out till very late."
"Just as well," said Robert. "Mood I'm in now I'd tell 'em what to do with the script changes they want. You need a shower - and take that damned dog with you."
"Finks, those cats are," said Michael as he finished his tea and went to the bathroom.
Hearing the shower start up Sam, barking happily, rushed after him.
Robert sighed and began to forage through a stack of cake tins. "If you've eaten the last of the cake, Mike ..." he muttered. "No, still some left." He stretched out and began to slurp his tea, listening to the sounds of splashing and woofs of delight from the bathroom.
Michael appeared shortly thereafter, looking distinctly cleaner in his bathrobe and holding a tin of Deep Heat. He looked hopefully at Robert.
"Isn't life romantic," said Robert. "Come here then." He surveyed the heavily bruised shoulder and back. "I told you to watch that bloody horse. I knew he was a bad 'un. If Jack Bourton sends you another like that you're sending him right back! Bloody teeth marks, too."
"Bound to get the odd rogue," said Michael placidly. "Um, that feels better. How's chapter seventeen coming on?"
"It isn't," said Robert glumly. "I just tore up fifteen pages. Feel like sticking my head in the oven."
The telephone rang again.
"Answer it, will you, Mike, and please don't do your Old Mother Riley impersonation."
Michael picked up the receiver. "Morning, Mr Halliwell ..." He glanced at Robert, who shook his head violently. "No, Rob has his 'Do Not Disturb' notice up. Can I give him a message? Right." He scribbled on the pad by the telephone. "Good, I've got that.
Yes, he's up to his elbows in paper. I'm fine. Well, yes, a horse did try to splatter me over the yard - hazard of the job. Oh, Robert and I will probably be up at the end of the month. Right, I'll tell him. Bye."
Michael headed into Robert's study, where he found him glaring at a pile of papers with Amos draped round his neck like a sort of live fur tippet. Michael paused to tickle Amos under the chin.
