Life in the Country
Physically tired by the events of the day, but mentally stimulated by the dinner party, Ginger prepared for bed. The wind had got up during the evening and was now whistling around the eaves and rattling the windows. It was a wild night. From time to time rain lashed the small, leaded panes of the mullioned window. Ginger switched off the light, mindful of the blackout restrictions, and felt his way across to where the latch was being shaken by the violent gusts. He knew if he did not secure it, the rattling would keep him awake all night.
Ginger opened the heavy curtains and began to fiddle with the fitting. He had just made it secure when, in the distance, something caught his eye. A light had flashed, flaring briefly like someone striking a match. In an instant it had gone, leaving him wondering if he had imagined it. He glanced at his watch. The luminous hands showed him it was half past one. He stood at the window oblivious of the cold, waiting for a repetition of the incident, but the night remained rain-lashed and wind-swept, the darkness unbroken.
He pictured the scene as he remembered it from looking out that afternoon. The light had appeared to be far out on the salt flats. It was the wrong time for a wild-fowler. Perhaps it was a poacher. He made a mental note to mention it to Cub in the morning.
Feeling suddenly chilly, he drew the curtains and blotted out the stormy landscape. The bed was warm and welcome after the cold night air. Someone had thoughtfully provided a hot water bottle, he realised gratefully. The wind was still howling around the farmhouse as he drifted into sleep.
He awoke the next morning to a gentle tap on the door. Cub came in with a tray bearing a cup of tea and a biscuit, which he put down on the bedside table before going across to fling the curtains wide open. Daylight flooded the room and Ginger screwed up his eyes at the sudden light.
"Did you sleep well?" inquired Cub solicitously. "It was a really wild night last night. I think it brought some slates off the roof."
Ginger told him about the light he had seen in the marshes. Cub thought about it for a moment and then remarked that it was probably poachers. "There's a lot about," he said resignedly, "but I don't know what they hoped to get out there."
"We breakfast in the kitchen," announced Cub, "But don't be too long, because the Guv'nor likes everything cleared away by 8.30," he warned.
Ginger swung his legs out of bed and reached for his dressing gown. "So does Biggles," he remarked, pulling it on.
At 8.15 Ginger presented himself at the kitchen, scrubbed and fresh-faced. The Colonel had already eaten and departed, but Cub was seated at the table, about to tackle a plate of bacon and eggs.
"I see what you meant about the food," remarked Ginger as he helped himself from the hot plate and sat down.
"We keep our own hens," explained Cub. "The bacon came off one of our pigs, too. Life in the country," he remarked sagely, "is very different from life in the town."
There was silence for a while as they savoured the meal. When the last mouthfuls had been consumed, Cub's spaniel, as if by some sixth sense, came out of her basket by the Aga and made her way over to lie at his feet, gazing adoringly at him. Absent-mindedly, Cub rubbed the dog's ears. The terrier, who had been sharing the bed, sauntered over in a much more jaunty fashion and sat down on Ginger's foot, much to his amusement.
"I'm going to take the dogs for a run and see if we can bag a rabbit shortly," Cub announced. "Would you like to come?" Although the query was addressed to Ginger, there was no doubting the dogs had thought it was directed at them. In unison, they rose and rushed to the door, tails wagging frantically.
Having nothing special to do, and thinking that if he was to take the doctor's advice about fresh air, he might as well start immediately, Ginger nodded and rose from the table. He followed Cub through into the lobby which was crammed full of boots, fishing tackle, shooting sticks, hunting whips and waterproofs of all descriptions.
"This should fit you," surmised Cub, offering Ginger a well-worn waxed jacket. He himself was wearing a heavy tweed jacket, breeks and thick woollen stockings.
When Ginger had been kitted out with warm, all-weather gear, he accompanied Cub into the gun room where he watched as Cub selected a side-by-side from the rack, broke the gun with a practised flick and put some cartridges in his pocket. By now the dogs were whining and running round in circles with anticipation. As soon as Cub opened the back door they squeezed through the crack without waiting for it to be fully opened and rushed into the yard, yapping with joy. Cub whistled them back and growled at them until they came to heel. With his tweeds, shotgun in the crook of his arm and the dogs at his side, Cub fitted perfectly into the landscape, thought Ginger, contrasting his own upbringing with that of his companion.
Almost as though he could read Ginger's thoughts, Cub remarked, "I don't suppose you've done much of this, have you?"
"No," answered Ginger dryly, "there wasn't a lot of time for shooting in my village. If anything, we would have been on the other side of the fence. Anything to feed the bairns." Unconsciously, the dialect word slipped out. For so long, it seemed, he had been surrounded by southerners and members of the officer class, that the old, familiar but non-standard vocabulary had been buried. Now, thinking back to his beginnings in a small, mining village near Newcastle, the associations had brought it to the surface. "Children, I mean," he corrected himself quickly.
Cub changed the subject by suggesting that they started their expedition in the Long Meadow, which was near the salt marshes. "We might as well have a look and see if we can find any clue as to who showed that light last night, while we're there," he added, climbing a gate into a field and striking off across the meadow.
Although the sun was shining, the wind was cold and penetrating, just like the previous day. Ginger could well believe Cub's description of it coming straight from Siberia across the North Sea. He was glad of the waxed jacket. Cub's cheeks were glowing in the chill air and Ginger guessed he would look as ruddy if he could see himself. 'Well,' he thought, 'there's no shortage of fresh air here, let's hope it does the trick'.
The dogs were snuffling and scuffling in the undergrowth of the headland. Now and again they would disappear. Suddenly, the spaniel flushed a rabbit. Cub slipped two cartridges in the gun, snapped it shut, swung after the rabbit, laying off just the right amount of deflection, and fired, all in one easy movement. The rabbit bowled over and lay still. At a signal from Cub the spaniel retrieved the carcass as he ejected the spent cartridge and emptied the breech. Ginger looked approvingly at his companion. "That was very smooth," he complimented.
Cub smiled deprecatingly. "I've had a lot of practice." He bent down and took the dead rabbit from the dog, telling her what a good girl she was. The spaniel positively glowed at the praise. The terrier had its head down a burrow. Meeting Ginger's gaze, he remarked, "a dog will worship even the most worthless of men." He smiled, slightly embarrassed at the sentiment. "Sorry, the solitude here, the wildness, makes me a bit philosophical at times."
Ginger looked around. The flat landscape seemed to stretch into infinity and the sky was a vast space that dominated the scene. Such trees as clung to a precarious existence in the stark landscape were bent by the prevailing wind. An air of desolate melancholy hung over the marshes. He shivered. Cub was immediately solicitous, asking if he was cold. "No," answered Ginger sombrely, "I think someone just walked over my grave."
Cub suggested that they move on and get the blood circulating anyway. He wanted to see if there were any traces of poachers in the marshes. "Watch your step," he warned Ginger. "The mud is very treacherous. You wouldn't want to get trapped. These flats are entirely covered at high tide."
Cub whistled the dogs. His spaniel came to him immediately, stump of a tail wagging so hard she nearly fell over. There was no sign of the terrier. Cub whistled again, louder this time and more peremptorily. Still no response. "Where has the dratted thing got to," muttered Cub. "Down an earth again, I expect." He ran his eye over the hedgerows but failed to see the animal. "I shall have to find him, Ginger," he muttered. "I shall never rest until I know where he is."
Together they set off to search the undergrowth. Near the edge of the salt flats, just above the high tide mark, Ginger spotted the tip of a black tail waving, the only part of the dog left above ground. Suppressing a smile, he called Cub over.
Cub was less amused. He seized the dog by the tail and pulled. Like a cork popping from a bottle, the terrier shot out of the earth backwards. Clamped in its jaws was a piece of black rubbery material. Now free to move, the terrier shook his prize vehemently, trying to kill it. Cub and Ginger exchanged glances. "What does that look like to you?" asked Cub.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was a piece of dinghy," replied Ginger slowly.
"I'd say you were right," acknowledged Cub, finally retrieving the tattered remnant from his triumphant dog. They examined it carefully. There were no markings to indicate its origin, but its presence down a hole in such an out of the way spot was suspicious to say the least. Cub lay down and put his arm down the hole. "Ugh, I can smell badger," he said, wrinkling his nose. "I can feel it, but I can't get hold of it," he said, groping around in the earth. "My arms aren't quite long enough." He stood up and brushed himself down. "We'd better take this bit home and let the authorities know," he decided. "We'll leave the trip to the marshes for another day."
Accordingly with the rabbit and the piece of dinghy they returned home from their hunting trip. Ginger reflected that it had been an interesting introduction to life in the country.
