by James Anson
"He's very well," said Lily. "Back working on his allotment all the time. Says the new hip is working a treat."
"That's good," said Michael. "Give him our best wishes, will you?"
"Yeah," said Robert, looking at his slice of pie and cream with pleasure. "You can tell him I've got a new knee, too. Hey, this is great!"
"Thank you," said Lily.
She was somewhat overawed by Robert, as most were at first, but with Michael's encouragement started chatting away to them both, finally departing with a well-cleared plate and blushing happily as she said goodbye to Michael at the door.
"Blasted baby-snatcher," said Robert as Michael returned to him. "Can't you give over for a moment? Nice of the family, though. That cake looks good."
"And who," said Michael, "was giving me all that guff about a poor old guy with a bad hip who was after your scrawny body?"
Robert squirmed. "Had to complain about something," he protested. "Place was driving me mad. Anyway, he gave me some good tips for my onions."
"That reminds me," said Michael. "Ashley will be in tomorrow to show you the cup he's won for that dreadful marrow. He was very disappointed you weren't fit to go up and get it with him."
"Glad he won," said Robert. "He put in a lot of work mollycoddling that marrow. I'm going to let him have a strip of our vegetable garden next year. He wants to try out sweet corn - say's he's going to have to diversify when he takes over the farm. Very forward-looking is Ashley."
"Yes," said Michael gloomily. "Doesn't take after us at all. Damn, it's nearly time to go."
"Now we have some privacy you can give me a cuddle first," said Robert. "And go easy. Don't know your own strength, you big lump.
"Nice that," he said later. "You're good at this, you know. Must be your misspent life."
"Years of practice, just so I'd be good for you," said Michael.
"Liar," said Robert. "Going to be a pain in the neck, you are, with your bloody horses."
"Ah, good evening, Sister," said Michael, getting up hurriedly.
"It's after six," said the sister, "and visitors are not allowed to lounge on patients' beds."
"No, Sister," said Michael cravenly. "I'll be off then. See you, Rob."
"Chicken," muttered Robert.
* * * * *
Two months later at Parsons Farm, Robert, hopping about with the aid of his crutch, was distracted in his search for his notebook by Mrs Paget coming into the room.
"Now, now, Mr March," she said. "You know what the doctor said. You should be resting. Here's Mr Faulkner coming up the path, so I can leave you in his hands. Dinner's in the oven, all ready to serve. See you eat it."
Robert snorted. He had hated his month in physiotherapy, then having to stay at Highgreen Farm for a fortnight while Michael did God knows what in Ireland. Not that Jess didn't cook like a dream, and he enjoyed taking short walks with Ashley, 'running his leg in', but he wanted to return to his old life as quickly as possible.
Then, when Michael did get back, first he spent a couple of days trying to get his car into reasonable condition before taking off on trips all round the Home Counties and even more far-flung places, with no explanation, except that Robert noted his riding-boots, breeches and hunting jacket were always in the car. As this had always been a strong bone of contention between them he didn't refer to it, just glowered at Michael, who ignored him. Now Mrs Paget was treating him like a child unfit to be left on its own.
Good, she was putting her hat on. He listened as she gave Michael a full account of his day in all its boring entirety.
By the time Michael came into the kitchen, Robert was spoiling for a fight and he didn't care with whom.
"That woman," he said, "has to go."
"You're too sensitive," said Michael. "She means well."
He ducked in time to avoid a flying turnip. It crashed rather well into an ornament neither of them had liked but, as a present, had been stuck with.
"Lucky shot," said Michael. "That's solved a problem. Shall I dish up?"
"Might as well," said Robert. "God, it's been a boring day. High spot was the Red Star delivery dropping off four crates for you from Dublin. Put my ear to them all - none of 'em was ticking. What are you doing home? Couldn't you find anything else to hunt?"
"Here," said Michael, putting a plate in front of him. "Get that down you."
"Not hungry," said Robert. He poked it suspiciously.
"Rob, you're underweight, so shut up and eat or I'll inject it into your veins," threatened Michael.
"You're asking for your cards, mate," said Robert, starting to nibble at his food. "So what have you been doing? Halliwell rang: he's coming down end of the week. Said he didn't want me struggling up to London with the new knee. Think his office walls are starting to close in on him again and he fancied an outing."
"Got some exciting news for you," said Michael. "I have a job. You know, off in the morning, back at night. That sort of a job."
"Oh," said Robert. "Well, then, what as - international gunrunner, gigolo, amateur cracksman?"
"You are looking," said Michael, "at the co-partner and chief instructor at Old Hall Equestrian Centre."
"Jack's place!" said Robert. "You're never in business with him? He has even less money than you do."
"Ah, but we are going to put that right," said Michael. "It's simple really. He has land, and masses of stabling he can't afford to use. I have expertise going to waste, and I need money to keep my horses. We are going to have to put in some comforts, of course: covered school, new tack-room, place for our pupils to relax and have a meal and a chat - maybe showers. That sort of thing. Came to us when Jack and I were talking things over.
So I went about seeing old friends and making contacts. Talking to people I know have something similar on the go.
“I know you thought I was just getting some hunting in. Well, I was, but I didn't want to tell you until I had something definite. Then Jack and I went to see the bank manager, and when he stopped laughing he arranged the loan and finance for us. We're going to have Jack's title at the masthead. It's his place and it inspires confidence having an earl in charge."
"Can't think why," said Robert. "He's madder than you are. Think you'll be able to make a go of it, then?"
"Yes," said Michael. "I have all the qualifications for the Board's standards. Going to do a refresher course. Maud Blackett is coming over to teach side-saddle with us. She used to do it years ago. Says it's coming back now. Did I tell you she was teaching Miranda? Shaping well, too.
“An army colleague of mine wants to move over with his family. He's qualified, too. And I'm putting adverts in Horse and Hound and The Field when we need more staff. Can get local people for the stabling and that sort of thing. Decided I'd charge twenty pounds a session."
"You what?" said Robert. "You're sitting there telling me you're going to charge some poor slob twenty pounds for the privilege of sitting on a smelly horse, listening to you criticise his seat?"
"I'm charging," said Michael with hauteur, "for years of experience. Anyway, I know someone who charges thirty pounds, but I haven't won the King George V Cup, so that's out. Reckon we should be out of the red in a year." He paused and gazed into space, obviously seeing it all in glorious technicolor.
"Yeah, you'll be good at the teaching," said Robert. "Taught me, didn't you? And I knew you wouldn't be happy away from the damned horses. Should suit you fine. Look, Mike, if you need some more financing ... Well, I know the book isn't doing well, but I've still got something in the sock. Roof will wait a while longer. Can always pray for a dry winter."
"Thank you," said Michael, "but we should be all right. And I can let you have the money for the roof. Sold my flat in Dublin and that land I had near Glendalough. Bank should have it through in a few days. Have to change it from punts so I'm not sure how much it will be. Enough for a new roof anyway. I'd better go and see to all those boxes cluttering up the passage."
Robert sat thinking f
or a moment then went after Michael, whom he could hear wrestling packing-cases up the stairs.
Then he must have been thinking of settling ... Oh damn.
Robert made his careful way upstairs; while the knee was doing fine, sudden movements were not yet a good idea. Michael had got the cases to his room and appeared to be unpacking a small library.
"Just what we need," said Robert, "more books. Place is knee-deep in them already. Not got any of those stuffed things as well, have you? I'm not having them here, you know."
"I have not," said Michael, amused. "Just more books, some pictures and odds and ends. I got rid of most of the furniture to the lads. Wasn't worth the cost of shipping it over."
"You," said Robert, "have never before mentioned a flat in Dublin, or any land."
"Didn't I?" said Michael. He had started to read one of the books he'd just unpacked.
He looked at Robert, who was bristling visibly. "What are you on about now?" he asked mildly.
Robert counted to ten. Twice.
"Mike," he said quietly, "I'm all for decent reticence between us, but as your other half and co-owner of this leaking property, I would appreciate knowing if you have any other assets that might be of use to us. Unless, of course, you have a wife and ten children living in a bog somewhere you haven't mentioned to me yet!"
Michael looked surprised. "I just had the flat for a place to doss when I didn't want to live in the barracks all the time. Bought the land years ago; at the time I thought I'd build a house there when I packed in the army - before I met you, of course. Had no idea it would go up so much in value. Never had a wife, and as far as I know I don't have ten children either. And isn't it time you got off that leg and had a rest? Shall I put the coffee on?"
"Why not?" said Robert, making himself comfortable on Michael's bed and collecting an armful of books to look through, carefully putting to one side those he fancied reading himself.
He decided against inquiring if Michael might have eight or nine children just in case he hit a lucky number. First thing Monday he would get in touch with a contractor about the roof, before Michael saw a horse he just had to buy.
He accepted his coffee thankfully and went on reading as Michael looked round the room, opening cupboards and doors in the hope there just might be a place to cram in a few more books.
"Didn't know you went in for Russian," said Robert, peering into one book.
"I don't," said Michael, glancing at the book. "That's Irish, clot!"
"Trust you lot to have a different alphabet," said Robert. "Go on then, read me some - if you can. In English, please."
Michael settled on the bed with the book. "Let's see then," he said. "Ah, this will do for you - very romantic, this. A poet loved a lady, her family said no. Very unrequited.
More interesting that way. Who wants to hear that Tristan and Isolde settled down with six kids and a mortgage?"
"I've got nothing against it," said Robert. "You can stuff the high romance - it doesn't last. I prefer someone who's likely to be sitting by the fire with me in my declining years."
"Pull the other one," said Michael. "It's not me who gets misty-eyed at romantic films! Now, how does this go ..." He began to read the poem.
" Fair Una, you were as a rose in a garden;
A golden candlestick on the queen's table,
Moving before me like a song.
'Tis my black sorrow that you were not married to me.
Fair Una, 'tis you who has bereft me of my senses;
Una, 'tis you who've come between me and God.
Oh Una of the scented blossom, of the ringleted wavy hair, It were better for me if I had been blind and never to have set eyes on you.
"Sounds better in Irish, of course," said Michael.
There was a silence.
"Poor bastard," said Robert. "Is it a true story?"
"Yes," said Michael. "They were not allowed to marry. Her family kept her prisoner on this island. He swam his horse across to see her, then she died. Later he was found dead on the island, too."
Robert went on with his coffee. " Mike, we've never spoken about this and it's none of my business, but I know what your Church thinks of the way we live and you're a good Catholic lad in your own peculiar way. Does it bother you, or does Father Hammond give you a hard time over me?"
"No," said Michael. "I consider myself married/handfasted to you, whatever. Think it worried Father Hammond more when I was sowing wild oats with abandon. We never discuss my private life. And I don't consider what we do a sin. I think Himself will understand - just keep me waiting a while at the gate. I expect you to be there with me, too, keeping me company."
"I," said Robert, "will be inside, playing merry hell about them keeping you waiting. I'm not having that. Mike! You can't get any more books into that cupboard."
Michael regretfully agreed. "Robert, that cupboard in your room ... Do you think - ?" he inquired hopefully.
Later that same week Robert glanced through the account sheets and tossed them back to Mr Halliwell. "Not good, is it?" he remarked. "I was never happy with that book. It was a bitch to write. That's three years' hard work down the drain."
"It's not a bad book," said Mr Halliwell. "It's just not proving very marketable at present. It could well be a sleeper. But I'm afraid there's no chance of a paperback issue at the moment, and you know that's where the profits lie."
Robert nodded a gloomy assent and passed over a plate of sliced cake. Mr Halliwell absently took another piece.
"Have you anything else coming along?" he asked delicately.
"I'm still working on my murder mystery," said Robert, "but that's as much for the research as anything else. It wouldn't be a commercial book if I did crack it - which I will. To get a bestseller, I suppose I’d have to write one about little green from Mars, or Venus. Did you know that this part of Gloucestershire is on the same latitude as the Bermuda Triangle?"
"Is it indeed?" said Mr Halliwell doubtfully. "I'm afraid the idea of extraterrestrials in the area lacks conviction."
"I know," sighed Robert. "Wouldn't be able to tell them from the locals."
Used to Robert's libels on his neighbours, Mr Halliwell declined to comment. "Then what else have you in hand?" he asked briskly.
"Just a couple of short stories," said Robert. "And 'the book', of course - that's what Mike calls it. It's a sort of rag-bag of impressions I've been doing of the village and places around here. Started as a relaxation to take my mind off the morbid stuff I was researching and I started to get interested. Mike kept telling me these stories. He's a great storyteller in lots of ways. I started to look into them, to catch him out as much as anything, but quite a lot was true and those that weren't had a lot going for them. It's very disorganised at the moment. Care to take a look at it?"
"That's what I'm here for," said Mr Halliwell. "Well, that and to get out of my incredibly stuffy office in this lovely weather."
Robert handed over a large heap of manuscript and made some more tea. He gave Mr Halliwell a cup, after thoughtfully refilling the cake plate. Then, picking up a large wedge of cake and a mug of tea for Michael, he made his way stablewards. He found the light of his life with a hoof tucked between his knees; he was picking it out and whistling tunelessly.
"Tea," said Robert, passing the mug over. Michael wiped a hand on his breeches and accepted it with the cake. Robert lit a cigarette, ignoring Michael’s reproachful glance.
Piper's lungs were probably in a better condition than his own any day.
"You know, I shall always think of you this way," said Robert with resignation. "And I hope you have him securely tied. I heard about Jack losing the seat of his breeches last week. Wouldn't want you to get your attributes damaged."
Michael chuckled. "I've got a double hitch on Piper," he said. "Thanks. I can do with this. How's Halliwell? Pity he doesn't ride."
"Have a heart," said Robert. "He's already got nervous prostration from dealing with difficult authors."<
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"More likely from you," said Michael. He released the horse. "There you are, Cuddles," he said affectionately. "Got nice clean feet now."
"Yuk," said Robert. " Michael, I've been thinking ... You and Jack really need an accountant. Neither of you has any real experience of business and besides ..." He paused tactfully.
"Go on," said Michael. "What were you going to say?" He was bristling.
"Only that you wouldn't want to be disturbed from your important work with the horses for boring things like double entry bookkeeping," said Robert, lying with conviction.
"You could be right," said Michael. "But it has to be someone who knows about horses, mind. I'm not having some wine bar yuppie who looks at Piper and works out how much he'd go for as cats' meat!"
"Agreed," said Robert. "I'm going back to ask Halliwell about it. He might know someone. Better get back anyway. I'm hoping to do some business for myself in there."
Mr Halliwell was still poring over the book when Robert returned to the kitchen.
"More tea?" Robert inquired. "And what do you think of it?"
"I think it has possibilities," said Mr Halliwell, "and it is very suitable for the market at the moment. I was afraid at first it would be wishy-washy, but you are your usual astringent self. However, at the same time, your fondness for the local people and the countryside does come through strongly, without undue sentimentality I'm happy to say. I'm especially taken with some of the historical pieces. Though after reading the story about the church statues I will keep the light on tonight. Is that a true story - a local legend?"
"I'm not really sure," said Robert, smiling. " Mike told it to me one dark night when the wind was moaning round the house. Tell you the truth, I looked over my shoulder a few times on the way to bed."
"And these water-colours complement the text perfectly," said Mr Halliwell. "Is the artist a local person?"
"Very," said Robert. "He's probably picking Flash's feet out across the yard by now. I got Mike to do 'em for me when he was in a receptive mood."
