‘Help.’
Baptista, her reins flying loose disappearing in a hollow on the landscape, clinging to her mare’s mane. Darcy Dancer that gentleman galloping after her. Petunia blasting farts from her quarters down the hillside. The other side of a ploughed field Baptista’s mare breaking through a briar hedge. Head for that hole. Shield one’s face. The thorns ripping past. One does wish chivalry didn’t accost one at such times. But of course appearances must be kept up even in the worst mêlée. Otherwise the whole hunt could quickly give the impression of a collection of abject cowards.
Baptista hanging half off flying down a long slope, boots out of her stirrups, arms now wrapped around her mount’s neck. At a turf ripping speed up and over a wall and pounding in a cloud of steam across a gorsey field. O my god if I recall correctly from previous hunts over this terrain behind that next wall lies the deepest of ditches. Clearly a lady is about to be in further deep distress. And what a bunch of namby pambies back there. Of course one was as clearly scared as anyone. Knowing Midnight Shadow of old. And relieved to be heading in a direction which happens to be homewards. Leaving far behind silhouetted on the gentle meadow mound a complete ruddy circus of terrified hunt members to whom one does not want to admit ownership of the lethal monster in their midst.
Darcy Dancer nearly catching up Baptista as her mount struggled belly deep thrashing across the ditch and scrambles up the other side, her bun hanging loose from her hair net. Dear me, Petunia is getting stuck. I’ll say that for the dear girl, she’s not easy to shift out of the saddle. And holy ruddy hell while I’m being nearly bucked off with Petunia peering down into this abyss, she’s reaching some sure footing on high ground.
Darcy Dancer back tracking to take a running jump across the ditch. Petunia refusing at the edge. Darcy Dancer catapulted forward over Petunia’s head. In a somersault plunging completely submerged. Picking himself up chill, splattered and battered, soaked to the skin. A gallon of bog water down the throat. Lost my cap. My whip. H two O as Sexton calls it is pouring out the top of one’s boots. Blobs of mud caked dripping from face to feet. And crawl and claw up the sides of the ditch to finally stand at the top. With Petunia galloping loose and Baptista utterly out of sight. A brace of ducks overhead. Minding their own business. As I should have minded mine. And left chivalry to the devil.
Darcy Dancer chasing Petunia across two Irish miles of moorland until she finally stood up to her belly quietly grazing the edge of a bog. And in one long swallow downing the sweet winy contents of one’s port pouch still intact. To lead Petunia back across drier land to the shelter of a quiet glade in some pines. Shield from the chilling breeze. Empty my boots and squeeze the buckets of water out of one’s clothes, numbness creeping into one’s bones. Both of us nearly exhausted.
Darcy Dancer redonning his underwear. Waistcoat, jacket and breeches hanging over the branches of a tree. The matches in one’s pocket too wet to start a fire. Lean against Petunia for warmth. O my god Midnight Shadow may have already killed people only a mile or two away. And all he was trying to do was have a daylight orgasm up the what for of some American lady’s in season mare. Which was exactly what one was thinking of doing to Baptista. Which would be as calming for me in my nervous state of celibacy just as it would be calming for Midnight Shadow.
The crack of a twig and a nearly blood curdling laugh behind him. Darcy Dancer quickly turning around. There mounted calmly as you please, framed by the pine’s boughs, her head back roaring, Baptista. Hair net in place and just a flake or two of mud splattered upon her immaculate person.
‘O you are aren’t you such a mirthful sight I can’t help laughing. I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t, if you don’t mind, think it’s at all funny.’
‘You must forgive me. But you do look so completely ridiculous.’
Baptista popping down to the ground. Standing snapping her whip against her thigh. And there we were. Nice as you please. Together. Alone. In the glade. Me in utter muddy half naked ignominy. My obelisk about as rigid as any obelisk can get without its exploding altogether and conspicuously propping out my rather tattered underwear. Our mounts side by side gobbling up the grass. The foam at the sides of their mouths turning green.
Darcy Dancer struggling on one leg trying to get back into his breeches, hobbling to Baptista’s giggling as he stuck a frozen foot through the wet fabric. Baptista coming forward to lend a hand. And one turns one’s obelisk pointing in her direction and reaches arms around her in playful affection before one falls flat upon one’s face.
‘And what on earth do you think you’re doing Darcy Dancer.’
‘Might we not rest on the grass while our mounts graze a little. They must be exhausted.’
‘Of course I’m appreciative of your efforts to rescue me but I don’t mind saying. You have your nerve. To think I would get down in the mud with you. While people by those distant screams are indicating that their very lives are still in danger.’
Darcy Dancer eyeing her highly undeserved hunt buttons and staring at these lips and large eyes. So full of their past deceits. What utter pish and pother. Who the bloody hell wants to lay hand to you anyway. O god I’ve trod again in the nettles. Always so prevalently sprouting in the garden of one’s carnal desire. Stinging my poor bare feet with the hottest pain. Which they just barely feel being so god damn presently frozen.
‘You are in your primitive way an amusing young lad.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘You would wouldn’t you like to seduce me. Married as I am. That’s shut you up hasn’t it. You are rather handsome you know. But far far too young for me, not physically of course. But intellectually, and actually, if the truth were to be known, I rather prefer men who are brainier than myself and you are but a callow youth. A country bumpkin. While I have been a habituée of sophisticates. You do understand don’t you. Well why don’t you say something.’
‘Because madam I am totally speechless at your pathetically incredible presumptions, but one does allow for them, being as you so regrettably are, of the common mediocrity.’
Darcy Dancer pulling on boots and jacket and striding off to the grazing Petunia. Taking up her reins and prodding her in the ribs and on the run jumping into the saddle. Galloping off and passing Baptista’s mare, leaning out to land an almighty swat on the quarters as the two horses pounded out of the glade breaking branches and trampling the shrubs of gorse and blackthorn.
‘How dare you, come back, come back.’
Hanging from the western clouds a grey veil of rain approaching. And south, a streak of golden sun slicing across the distant meadows and hilltops. With three rainbows blazing one on top of another across the eastern sky. And a faint sound. Huntsman calling the hounds. While she’s back there abandoned. A nice wet trek of a mile or two through uncharted countryside will quick cure her of her sophistications acquired in Manchester. One of course should have flung her down and pricked her arse goodo in the gorse. Her bloody over ample quarters need trimming down anyway. To begin with she arrived late to hunt and then promptly headed the fox into the bog without so much as an apology to the Master or huntsman. And can you imagine anyone getting so full of themselves in the English industrial midlands. I mean one can understand if she said she had spent a few weeks in London rounding off her rougher small town Irish edges and then if she had to go north she could at least have gone to Harrogate which according to my dear Mr Arland does have an adequate preponderance of the better sorts. But for her to now think she was on stage with the top crust in the county well, she would be entirely better off boasting she was a scouse from Liverpool. And at least then be able to be taken as being the genuine article. Too many of those solicitors and shopkeepers on the edge of town whose front gardens have completely gone to their heads, thinking they are as oneself, an actual member of the landed gentry. When hardly yet distinct from tradesfolk. And for the matter of that.