‘Sir I order you to leave the field.’
‘I certainly will not. Not for the pansy likes of you me boyo.’
‘Sir, that insult I shall deal with in due course and I repeat, I order you to leave the field. You left a man injured, having jumped over him.’
‘Bugger off. Wasn’t he minding the beauty behind him instead of the danger in front. Daft fool’s better off left. He was already half dead in the head before ever he came off his horse.’
As the loud shouting match continued, other hunt members distancing themselves from the scene of disciplining. The hunting field is always the perfect place to hurl an insult if you’ve got one reposing in your bonnet. You damn silly fucker. You stupid ass. You absolutely ox witted obtuse unthinking noodle noddled nincompoop. You jerk. Very American that last. But effective. But then when one finally turns for home at the end of the day, one is supposed to forget all that was said and done. And as one invariably does, to sit fireside over one’s whisky in smouldering fuming utter indignation and wrath. I’m sure rage must release into the blood a lot of unpleasant chemicals. But I suppose one must take it as refreshing that fox hunting gives rein to the basic instincts. And to quote the Mental Marquis. Especially the tendency incited by the blood spattered hounds at a kill for a gendeman to fish out his pole to put same plunging up some likely lady.
‘Tally ho.’
The fox. Dug, shouted at and disturbed out of its hole. We’re off. Pounding. Just as I was bloody well hoping to see a really good fight for a change. One in which I might be the observer instead of the observed. No one giving a tinker’s damn now, about the poor maimed and perhaps dead left in the wake of these present aerial sods flying behind down this hillside. And up on high ground again. See the red of the huntsman on the far hillside. And one can make a very neat detour here.
‘O do please get out of my way, won’t you.’
Copycat Baptista, of course, knowing I was taking a short cut, cutting in front of me. As if she were the one who knew this country well. Thinks she’s such a fine horsewoman. Ruddy cheek. And listen to her pedantic English hunting references.
‘I say, the hounds are feathering on the fox.’
Instead of saying the damn silly mutts have decided to go off in a dozen different directions. And that ruddy howl just emitted is her ruddy horse imcompetendy stepping on a straggling hound. I’ll soon bloody well show that overly endowed rump of hers a clean pair of heels. Come on. Petunia.
Darcy Dancer slamming his whip across Petunia’s quarters. The mare in three vast strides overtaking Baptista. As the two mounts nose to nose head for the same low spot in a vastly high wall of boulders. With so much mud flying it was rather difficult to perceive how dirty the dirty look Baptista gave one was as I cruised past her on this brief stretch of flat meadow. Baptista bending her neck to growl.
‘Keep out of my way. You wretched boy. Damn you.’
‘And you get out of my way. You wretched girl.’
The pair of horses thundering abreast across the pasture. A stone’s throw to go. To the wall ahead. The ground gently rising. Sun’s rays flashing across the fields. A massive double rainbow arched on the horizon. Hoofs still stretching over the grey lichen encrusted outcroppings of granite, peeking up out of the emerald green. Baptista hissing out words she must have picked up hunting with the Quorn or Beaufort. Or some equally esteemed hunt in Leicestershire. Or elegant one in Gloucestershire.
‘You fucker Kildare, fuck off.’
Darcy Dancer swerving his horse away. Petunia’s hoofs, carving a thick wave of turf up out of the ground. Foam flying from her mouth and landing in little lumps of froth in the grass. Baptista’s nag rising up into the sky. And disappearing. With a scream. Down the other side. Which was down and down. Deep into a ditch halfway to hell. It does help so to know the countryside well at such times. And to be able to smile deeply inside one’s soul. Instead of plummeting into a chasm of bog water.
Darcy Dancer dismounting. Stepping to take a peek over the wall. And down into what is the very deepest gulch in this parish. Good lord. Her wretched animal is flapping on its side like a fish out of water. Gasping for breath. Legs atremble in its death throes. And she with her tresses strewn from under her disturbed hairnet and hat, is spreadeagled drowning next to him. Of course there was nothing for it but to be chivalrous. And slide down the bank into the abyss. I do damn myself sometimes for being such a gentleman. Drag her ashore under the armpits. Pour the water out of her boots. Slap her face back into consciousness. Mumble the last rites over her rapidly dying horse. And wonder how soon others would catch us up if I had the temerity to revive her further with an attempt upon her virtue to end my long excruciating bout of celibacy.
Of course Petunia ran off to graze in some longer grass she spied in the corner of the field. And Baptista’s half submerged horse now dead. Its lips hanging loose away from its teeth. A fore leg snapped in two and the bone poking whitely from the brown bog water. I fell dragging Baptista out of the deeper mud and then attempting to further drag her up the impossibly steep bank, came crunching down my two knees landing on each of her shoulders. Which did not make her make an awfully nice sound.
‘O God I can’t move my legs and you’re trying to kill me.’
We both of us slipped back down three times before I got a foothold and lugged, dragged and tugged her heavy carcass to safe grass again at the top. Where it appeared her legs could again miraculously move and instead of thanking me for saving her life.
‘You did that deliberately, letting me jump that wall.’
Luckily three stragglers, with the previously creamed foreign gentleman’s horse in tow, arrived. And I took the opportunity to be immediately gone. Until two parishes away, horse foamy mouthed, steaming in sweat, one finally caught up. But damn silly ineffectual hounds lost the scent. But my god what a wondrous mêlée was in progress. Whips snapping and the air smelling of hot leather. The Mad Vet and Master entangled on the ground. Gouging at each other’s ears and eyes. Rolling over in some splendidly deliciously fresh cow flop. O god, my stomach so bloody well paining me with laughter that I fell off Petunia as she reared away from the two embroiled figures. Their fists beating on each other’s backs rather ineffectually as they clutched. Gloves blackened with dung. Who would believe that some of these same human beings might actually know who Tiepolo is or that Meissen is preferable to some other crockery. Even though they might not know a Neapolitan table top on a Chippendale frame. The lady reporter, who proves to be a good rider, is of course stunned out of her senses to witness the unbelievable physical rudeness in progress. And eyebrows raised, she’s putting quietly back in her pocket her notebook. Clearly not needed when events are seared on the mind.
‘Stop stop gentlemen. Disgraceful behaviour. In front of the ladies. Disgraceful.’
The secretary wagging his riding crop over both the protagonists and pushing back some of the local grinning populace. Who must have materialized acrawl out of the thicker hedgerows or from behind the larger mounds of moss and granite. And were now most contentedly pulling forelocks and nodding to hunt members as they took up discreet ringside positions watching the gentry punch each other to pieces. As more hunt stragglers arrived up the hill. Followed by a loud bellowing voice.
‘Ah much jolly nice. Not even a fox roused and yet mucho beaucoup frappe, I see.’
The Mental Marquis taking a swig from his brandy pouch. Not even offering one a drop. And his nerve. To assume such a nonchalant indifference having written members of my staff letters. I’m simply never going to let him land his airplane in one of my fields. But one must suppose that together with his aerial acquaintanceship with the downed Master, the Royal Air Force is here in strength. And dear me, we are taking sides aren’t we.