The Village Fate

by William Hadley

  Dog and mistress walked to the stables. They sat on a bale and shared her cheese and tomato sandwich first, and then a bag of crisps. The dog only wanted the cheese and the crisps, but he ate the bread and tomatoes so he didn’t hurt Claudilia’s feelings. When lunch was over she coaxed Pumpkin into the stable with the help of some horse nuts, …that’s the name for small nuggets of horse food, not something you cut off a young male horse. That’s called gelding and the first time you see it done it’ll make your eyes water. Then she brushed him before fitting his saddle and bridle.

  Now they had reached Claudilia’s favourite part of the day, they were going for a ride. It didn’t matter if it was raining, cold and frosty or glorious sunshine like today. There was nothing like feeling Pumpkin’s enthusiasm as he strained underneath her, eager to go and just happy to be alive.

  Why can’t people be more like horses, thought Claudilia as they hurried along the lane and into the fields. Once clear of the tarmac she loosened the reigns and gave Pumpkin a squeeze with her thighs. They were off, horse and rider surged forward like an ocean wave on a shingle beach; the big horse’s hooves pounded out a rhythm of pure delight as they raced towards the top of Monk Hill.

  On a clear day Claudilia would see three counties stretched out below her. The fields and hedges made a giant patchwork which had changed little in two hundred years. As she sat on Pumpkin, Claudilia looked towards Warwick castle and wondered what great granddad Gabriel would have made of the view. There were lots of things he would have recognised, the castle for instance and the village church. Both were ancient; the castle dated back to ten sixty eight and it made the church look almost new, it wasn’t built ‘til the mid fourteen hundreds. But there were also things the old farmer would have been astonished by, mobile phone masts, power lines, the size of modern agricultural machinery, and the M40 just visible in the distance.

  The riding was fun but it served a purpose. Each day Claudilia, Pumpkin and Max visited different fields on the estate. Claudilia would inspect the crops and identify different weeds or estimate the extent of insect pests. As they went along she talked to Pumpkin and Max, on horseback Claudilia could cover a lot more ground than on foot. Some farmers had invested thousands in clever cameras mounted on high-tech drones. They needed licences and pilot training. But Claudilia’s thought she saw a lot more by getting out and about on her horse.

  On other days, and this was one of them, she’d take Pumpkin quietly around one of the herds of cattle, or through a flock of grazing sheep. The animals took much less notice of her on horseback than when she drove close to them in the Land Rover. She couldn’t get within fifty yards of them in the truck before the little buggers would take fright and run away. But on Pumpkin, she could walk through the centre of the herd and the cows would just keep munching grass. It was as if she wasn’t there. Claudilia wasn’t stupid however, and she knew not to get between a mother and her calf. She always made sure Max stayed close to her and Pumpkin as they went along.

  Claudilia had been riding all her life, and as she went from field to field she wrote notes in a small book she carried for the purpose. She’d jot down her observations and then talk about them later with their farm manager, Alistair.

  At the furthest point on her ride she skirted around a development of new homes. It was where some affordable housing was being built on the edge of the village. The site boss was Gus Barker, a local man that Claudilia remembered as an odious child at Sunday school. Gus was a few years her junior. He always pulled her hair, and if nobody was listening he would call her names. He wasn’t much better now, almost forty five years later. Gus had never done much with his life, he’d never moved out of the village and never married. He only owned his house because his parents had died and left it to him. For the past few years he had done some building work locally. Now he was the foreman for a local contractor. It wasn’t that he was a good builder, he’d just been around longer than most of the other men, and unlike most of the labour on this site, his first language was English.

  There he was, leaning on his pick-up truck and smoking an impossibly thin role-ups. Gus watched as Pumpkin trotted towards him. As his gaze moved up to study the rider, Claudilia could feel spiders crawling across her skin. He didn’t have to say anything to make her feel uncomfortable, she knew he was scrutinising her, undressing her with his eyes and judging what lay beneath the jodhpurs and jacket.

  “Good afternoon Gus” said Claudilia. … Just because he’s a repulsive little tick, there’s no need to be rude to the snot nosed, piggy eyed, fat legged wart with bad skin and rancid BO.

  “Hello Claudilia, looks like you’re enjoying the sunshine, I wish I could spend the day trotting around on horseback instead of working for a living.”

  Be polite. You can’t just ignore him so be polite, she told herself. “Yes, it’s nice to be out in the fresh air, Pumpkin likes the sunshine and it’s dry for a change.” She replied looking down at the builder. “we’ve had some horrible weather so far this year. It seems to be getting wetter in the winter and hotter in the summer. It’s almost as if the climate’s changing. I’m surprised no one’s come up with a name or phrase for it.

  Claudilia’s comment either went over his head or he chose to ignore it. He just took another suck on his cigarette, pulling his cheeks in and pinching around his mouth, then replied in his sneering sort of way. “‘I saw you at the committee last night,” said Gus, “you got cakes again. You were very good at it last year. ‘I don’t know how many you sold but I heard you bought whatever was leftover and took them home for yourself. Mind you, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you enjoy a cake or two from time to time.” Gus laughed at his own comment, he thought he was very funny and guffawed until he started to cough. It was the deep chesty cough of a habitual smoker. The builder doubled over, his hands were on his knees and he continued to cough. His face went red and his eyes watered, it seemed he couldn’t get a breath, or that something was lodged in his windpipe. At last he stopped hacking, he stood upright and thumped his chest, once, twice, three times he smacked his palm against his sternum. He was trying to dislodge whatever was impeding his airway. It must have worked because he hawked up a bolus of dark phlegm, then spat it onto the earth beneath Pumpkin. Still he continued to laugh at his own joke.

  Claudilia laughed along with him, but it took a lot of effort. … I don’t want the wheezing little bastard to think he’s got one over me. “Yes, well it has been said I’ve never met a calorie I didn’t like.” she replied and gave Pumpkin a squeeze with her thighs, it was an instruction to move on, away from this horrid little man and back onto the track to the stables. After a moment Max trotted round from behind the pick-up. She craned her neck and Claudilia could see where he’d been. The retriever had deposited an impressive turd in the exact spot where Gus would step when he got into his truck. With luck it would be dark or he’d be distracted and wouldn’t notice. He’d have a reminder of Max on his shoes all the way home. Her dog was an excellent judge of character.

  Pumpkin enjoyed their rides. Most times, after he’d been brushed and his water tub refilled, he could be sure of a polo mint or two. There might even be another apple or the occasional carrot. But today he thought it was all done a bit quick, Claudilia was on auto-pilot as she made sure he was clean and rewarded. “Look like you enjoy a cake or two,” she said to herself. “Why not just come out and call me fatty fatty lard-arse, then stick out your tongue and run away.”

  Some boys never grew up, and it was no surprise Gus hadn’t married. Who’d want a misogynistic pig like him anyway? Yes, she was a bit overweight, she knew it, but damn it she liked her food; and it was up to her if she chose to eat a little more than she needed. Not everyone could look like that stick insect, Mrs Muck, at Muck Manor. But still his comments had hurt, just like when he used to pull her hair.

  After a quick shower and a change of clothes, not everyone appreciates the smell of horses …Good, honest horse sweat,
nothing like it to get the blood pumping, Claudilia busied herself in the garden.

  First she tidied up the stones which the maniac driver had turned into a rockery, then she trimmed the fuchsia and sprayed the roses with a pesticide. The grass would need a cut in a day or two, and she made a note to ask the estate handyman, Robin, to do it for her. After she refilled the feeders and bird bath Claudilia and Max sat in a big chair on the patio. They shared a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits ...I got the tea, he had the biscuits. It would have been a perfect afternoon if Mr Crumble hadn’t turned up. He jumped onto Claudilia’s lap as she was beginning to doze, he circled a couple of times and then settled. Claudilia was almost asleep when she felt a shiver, one which went right through the cat’s body, It’s a telegraph, a warning to any living thing nearby. Run for the hills and save yourself; otherwise pull on a gas mask.

  Thursday afternoon turned into Thursday evening, Claudilia ate a non-descript supper of left overs then veged out in front of the telly. At half past ten she went to bed in her ancient four poster. It was so big it had been built in the room for her grandmother. Laying there in her pyjamas, Claudilia’s thoughts went back to Gus Barker …Oh not like that please reader. Get your mind out of the gutter, I do have some standards. She thought about his comments earlier in the day, and she ran her hands across her body. There were curves, quite a few, but they were firm curves, with perhaps a hint of padding. A lifetime on horseback and every summer helping on the farm had made her strong. Claudilia had real strength, not gym bunny strength. Her strength could move hay bales all day or upend a ewe in the field, in the dark, on a rainy night, and then help her to give birth to twin lambs. Nobody would call Claudilia delicate and she’d always been big boned, but she did own one or two nice dresses, even if she felt self-conscious wearing them.

  Chapter Four

  Day Three. Friday

  Hubert let himself into the kitchen on Friday morning, he found his sister sitting at the table. She was reading The Times and drinking coffee.

  “Morning Sis,” he said, helping himself to coffee and a slice of toast. His little jack Russell, JR, went straight into the lounge and in less time than it takes to shout, “get off that chair you filthy hound” he was on the settee next to Max.

  Hubert and Claudilia’s relationship was comfortable. They were brother and sister, with him just a year older, they’d always been brought up as equals. Both were sent to boarding school aged nine, different schools but with the same philosophy. Academic achievement was important but less than sporting ability. Living in a dormitory house was not easy, but it taught Hubert and Claudilia to co-operate with others. School food was basic but plentiful, showers were only good for you if they were cold. In their late teens the two Belchers had emerged from formal education as well rounded individuals. Each had managed a respectable number of not very outstanding qualifications. As children they knew they were no better and no worse than anyone else. From an early age they had been encouraged to play with the other children on the estate, in the village and from the neighbouring farms. They knew that their fortunate position was just an accident of birth. They happened to be born into the right family at the right time. Their parents had taught them that it mattered more what you did with your privileges, not how you came by them in the first place.

  Aged thirty, and having attended university before settling into farm work, Hubert went to Australia for six months. He came home with a suntan, an outback hat and a fiancée. Marie was a very distant cousin and the youngest daughter of a cattle farmer in Queensland. Soon after being married Marie produced the first of their children, Helen was now seventeen, and finishing her A levels at the local sixth form. She planned to go to The Royal Veterinary Collage in Hatfield.

  Claudilia had often wondered if the money spent on their education had been worthwhile. She usually concluded that children benefited more from a loving family and a stable homelife. As a girl she’d enjoyed playing hockey and the school had encouraged it, possibly more than the local comprehensive would have done. But she hadn’t played much since leaving St Patricia’s school for daughters of the rich and gullible, and now she couldn’t remember where her faithful old stick was stored.

  With the coffee and toast finished the two Belchers left the cottage with JR and Max. They climbed into Hubert’s old Range Rover. In places it was inches thick with mud. In the ten years he’d owned it, Claudilia could count on the fingers of one hand how many times the car had been washed. The odometer read close to two hundred and eighty thousand miles, and it spent almost as much time in the workshop as it did on the road. Claudilia had begged Hubert to change the rotten old rust bucket, it was costing a fortune to keep going but Hubert just smiled and patted the dashboard. He refused to hear a word against her, “She’s gone to the moon and half way back, don’t you think she deserves a few rattles and scratches,” was all he would say.

  It was a short drive through the village, across Upper bridge and along the Warwick road to Macintosh Energy. Maggie Macintosh …Her name is Mrs Muck, now get it right will you, had insisted a wide barrier of trees was planted between the house and the working area, so she could look out from Macintosh Manor without seeing the large digestion tanks or tractors coming and going all day.…bloody stupid name for a house just a bit bigger than a postage stamp. Anyway Manor houses need grounds and ornamental lawns, death watch beetle in the attic, a ghost or two helps, as does wood worm older than Australia. To be properly authentic, there should also be a leaking roof in the west wing.

  Chapter Five

  Maggie wasn’t Angus’s first wife. Victoria Mackintosh had died aged forty seven, from a rare cancer which had taken her after a short illness.

  Angus and Victoria met at university and married soon after they graduated. Victoria worked as a legal secretary until their first child, a son they called Angus junior was born. When young Angus was four he started at an independent pre-school, and Victoria was thinking about returning to work. And she would have too, but a few weeks after their annual skiing trip Victoria discovered she was expecting again. Their daughter, who they named Holly, may not have been planned, but was very welcome when she was born at the end of that summer.

  For Victoria and Angus the family was complete. But they didn’t want to raise their children in central London. There was too much noise, traffic and pollution. They felt they were living too far from the countryside which they had both enjoyed as children, and they missed their parents who doted on young Angus and Holly. When Holly was a year old they began planning to move out of London. They wanted somewhere commutable but also with green fields, some woods nearby full of birds and a garden bigger than the little patch of grass they owned in Richmond.

  Driving north to visit their parents for a long overdue spring holiday, Victoria and Angus had broken the trip with an overnight stay at the Belcher Arms. Angus had discovered it online and been impressed with the menu and reviews. The welcome was warm, the locals weren’t too hostile and the family room was well equipped and comfortable. But the real reason for choosing the Belcher Arms was that it accepted dogs.

  Angus junior had been nagging for a puppy, one of his friends at school had got one at the beginning of the school year, and eventually Dad had surrendered. Hamish was a Christmas present from Victoria’s parents, a small ball of sticking out white fluff which had grown into an adorable West Highland terrier. Grandpa called him Hamish and the name stuck. Angus senior had complained he would be a nuisance, he’d stop them from going anywhere and make the house smell. Victoria said a puppy was no more of a nuisance than two young children, and if he wanted to know about smells he should try changing the occasional nappy.

  Hamish was supposed to be the children’s dog. But pretty soon it became evident that he’d formed a special attachment to Angus senior. While he tried to claim the dog was a hindrance, the older Angus wouldn’t go anywhere he couldn’t take “his” dog. There was even a tartan bed for the little chap next to his master
’s desk in his London office. Hamish spent hours looking down through the floor to ceiling windows where he could see Tower Bridge and HMS Belfast, people were the size of ants and all day they scurried back and forth. The secretaries loved to fuss him and had a never ending supply of gingernut biscuits. Hamish liked gingernuts, that’s another thing he in common with Angus.

  After their night in the pub, where the menu and the welcome lived up to the reviews, and before the rest of the family were awake, Angus dressed quietly and walked Hamish out of the village. They went across the bridge and along the lane which they’d take later on their way to the motorway. It was a cool crisp morning in early May, flowers were in bloom and bees could be heard in the hedgerow. Angus and Hamish walked for about ten minutes before they reached The Manor. A rambling house set back from the road with a paddock and a few outbuildings. A land agent’s sign was nailed to the fence, Angus took out his phone and snapped a picture of the details. As they drove out of the village, after a breakfast which was a heart attack on a plate, Angus pointed out the Manor to Victoria. She agreed it looked like a fine old house, and it would be a great place to bring up children.