6
It was Brigant, of all people, who alerted us to the intruders. I say ‘of all people’ because he was the last person I’d have expected to raise the alarm. Generally he minded his own business and kept matters very much to himself. He was the type who noticed a lot but said little in the way of comment. Moreover, he wasn’t usually to be found roaming about at the crack of dawn, which was when the advance party made its appearance.
Brigant had taken a while to adapt to his new circumstances. In the days following his undignified arrival he’d remained hidden inside his tent, lost entirely to the world at large and displaying no obvious sign of life. I soon decided that he must be a recluse by choice, but Hartopp had different ideas. He felt responsible for the welfare of his passengers, and gradually Brigant’s prolonged torpor became a cause for grave concern. Apparently, his recent history was rather discouraging.
‘Brigant was never a good traveller,’ Hartopp explained. ‘We had to stop the boats on countless occasions during our voyage.’
Hartopp, Isabella and I debated what we should do. In my opinion it was best simply to leave Brigant alone until he’d made a proper recovery, but I was overruled by Isabella.
‘We can’t just leave him,’ she said. ‘He looked very peaky when he landed, and he might be even worse now.’
So it was that I found myself in a small deputation heading for Brigant’s tent. It stood in the middle of the field and, by default, I was his nearest neighbour (hence my involvement). The tent was an unglamorous affair: a ridge tent, with a wooden knob at the top of each pole. Its canvas walls flapped limply in the wind as we approached. We paused and listened, but heard no sound; then Hartopp spoke quietly.
‘Brigant?’
His enquiry brought no response.
‘Brigant?’
Again nothing.
‘Perhaps he’s asleep,’ I said.
‘Perhaps,’ answered Hartopp. ‘Even so, it’s a bit worrying.’
‘I really think we should have come sooner,’ said Isabella.
We watched as she leaned in close to the tent.
‘Brigant?’ she called softly. ‘Brigant?’
There was a low groan from within, then a hoarse voice demanded, ‘What’s all the noise?’
‘Oh, hello, Brigant,’ said Hartopp. ‘We’re just seeing if you’re alright.’
‘I’ll survive,’ came the reply.
‘We’ve brought you some biscuits.’
I thought I heard the onset of a second groan, but it was quickly suppressed.
Instead, the voice murmured a weak, ‘Thank you.’
The three of us waited. From inside the tent there came a further series of groans, faint cursing and exasperated puffing; then, at last, Brigant’s gaunt head appeared in the entrance.
‘Morning,’ he said, to nobody in particular.
‘Afternoon actually,’ said Isabella.
She was dressed as usual in dazzling crimson, but Brigant seemed unmoved by her splendour.
‘I stand corrected,’ he said, before emerging fully into the daylight.
‘Well,’ said Hartopp cheerily. ‘Glad to see you out and about.’
He presented Brigant with a tin of biscuits and assured him there were plenty more where they came from.
‘Let me know when you need replenishing,’ he added.
Brigant was evidently overwhelmed by this act of generosity. He stared speechlessly at the offering while Hartopp went and fussed around the tent, tightening the guy lines and so forth. There was little to adjust, in fact, but the work kept Hartopp busy for a few minutes.
‘That’s better,’ he announced finally.
‘Thank you,’ uttered Brigant for a second time.
Hartopp smiled, and said he’d better be getting back to the north-east.
After he’d gone, Brigant peered doubtfully at his biscuits.
‘Many more of these,’ he said at length, ‘and I’ll go down with scurvy.’
‘Oh,’ I said, with surprise, ‘I think they’re quite nice.’
‘Maybe they are,’ said Brigant, ‘but you probably haven’t had to live on them for the past year and a half.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Still,’ said Isabella, ‘it was kind of Hartopp to bring them over.’
‘Yes, if you say so,’ conceded Brigant in a weary tone. He put his hand to his brow and closed his eyes for several long moments, then he opened them again and focused properly on Isabella.
‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘Isabella.’
‘I’m Brigant.’
‘Yes, so we heard,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ said Brigant.
He gave me a nod, then turned and peered at the elegant white tent that shimmered in the distance.
‘Alright for some,’ he remarked. ‘Very posh.’
‘It belongs to Thomas,’ said Isabella.
‘Is that Thomas the Proud?’
‘Just Thomas,’ she said, ‘as far as I know.’
I was beginning to warm towards Brigant, in spite of his rather blunt manner. He looked across to the west, where Hen was busily engaged in some task or other.
‘Who’s that fellow?’ he enquired.
‘His name’s Hen,’ I said. ‘He was here first.’
‘Really?’ said Isabella. ‘I thought Thomas was.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘Not in so many words,’ she said, ‘but I always assumed he was here before anyone else.’
‘That’s debatable,’ I replied. ‘In any case, Hen was the first to settle so he has the prior claim.’
‘But…’
Isabella got no further because she was suddenly interrupted by Brigant.
‘Does any of this really matter?’ he snapped. ‘After all, it’s only a blasted field we’re talking about!’
I glanced at Brigant with astonishment. Plainly he didn’t share my idealistic vision of the field: a place chosen especially to fulfil its purpose; a place where momentous events would unfold and come to fruition. In Brigant’s view it was merely a ‘blasted field’. During the silence which followed his outburst I wondered if his judgement was possibly correct, and if maybe I’d been deceiving myself from the very start. When I considered the question in any depth, I realized that nothing of significance had happened in all those weeks since my arrival. There’d just been sunshine, rain, and more sunshine, accompanied by a slow trickle of newcomers. The facts were irrefutable: the sparse population was barely enough to put us on the map, let alone stir up great events.
Isabella’s expectations had similarly failed to transpire. She’d envisaged a vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, with flags flying and pennants fluttering aloft. It was a vivid picture, and I could easily imagine the scene she’d painted, but as yet it had come to little.
Nevertheless, she remained optimistic.
‘Well, whoever was here first,’ she said, ‘I think we’re all fortunate to have such a lovely meadow.’
Her words seemed to smooth Brigant’s ruffles.
‘I suppose it’ll do,’ he said at length.
Brigant may not have been impressed by his new surroundings, but there was one feature that definitely caught his interest.
‘I see we’ve got a bit of a slope,’ he observed.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘It’s hardly anything really. Almost imperceptible.’
‘A slope’s still a slope,’ said Brigant.
He looked up the field towards the wilderness in the north, then turned again and gazed south.
‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Always a good test, a slope is.’
I wasn’t sure what he meant by this remark. Over the next few days, however, he gradually expanded on the subject. In conversation, he began making reference to the ‘lower field’ and the ‘upper field’, as though the Great Field was somehow divided into two halves. The slope, apparently, was an integral part of this division. Any land that lay to Brigant’s south was the lower field, while the upper field was the land that lay to his north. The line between the two halves was completely arbitrary, of course, yet Brigant persisted in distinguishing one from the other. Furthermore, I noted that he tended always to favour the north. He could often be seen strolling around in the upper field, as he called it, but he seldom ventured southward.