continued from
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Surprised to find himself nervous, Stephen pulled the car over to one side, turned off the engine and got out to breathe the stillness of rain-freshened air. It was even better than he'd expected so he reached into the back for his coat, shut the door quietly, and set off down the hill on foot as a sense of homecoming settled about him. The Thorncombes were strangers but - England was pulling him back, switching on the memories of toast and crumpets; memories of raking up great piles of leaves as a child, rolling in them, flattening them, raking them up for bonfires, barrowing them to the compost heap and coming back for more; days when he'd revelled in getting muddy because, even then, he'd known that, for the rest of his life, his adult time, he'd want to be specially neat and clean.
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The drive was now running between a broken fence on the left and a holey hedge. Branches and tractor tyres had been piled loosely across gaps and pinned in place with rusty metal stakes. Old doors had been wired between gate posts and a Jersey cow and her calf stared over a thicket of barbed wire. A bull in another field skulked almost knee deep in mud, its legs and belly caked with clay and the hair at the end of its tail clogged into a heavy lump. Oily water filled the imprints of its hooves round the trough and what was left of the grass had been pounded, flattened, stretched and bruised into nothingness. Stephen frowned. He knew nothing about cattle and the weather was mild still but . . . Were there no winter quarters?
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Another half mile - and the road dipped again, winding into a small cutting. Sparkles of water trickled between huge ferns on the rock faces and splashed from ledge to ledge. Dripping through heavy mosses it was making its way into a paved gully. At the bottom of the incline, the now fast flowing stream spluttered down a grating in a narrow yard but the main thrust of the drive twisted round the front of a stone barn and ended in a moderately sized courtyard where Hugh and a small brown donkey were emerging from the front door of The Hall.
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“Welcome!"Hugh hurried enthusiastically down the last couple of steps, stretching his earth-caked hand towards Stephen for him to shake . "Meet Sam,” he said, with a flourish. But Sam had already peeled off and was looking in a cardboard box beside the open gate to the kitchen garden. “I bought him earlier this week." Hugh shut the gate before Sam moved on to nose among the brussel sprout stumps and empty fruit cages. "He's for my grand-daughters. They're coming to visit but our other donkeys are too old for riding now. I'm only hoping they won’t quarrel over this one.”
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Sam went back to the house.
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“Oh, don’t worry about him,” said Hugh, seeing Stephen look puzzled. “He’ll be alright. He's still finding his way around but he's quiet and calm - just exploring. I hope you don’t mind tea in the kitchen? It’s warm there. We hardly ever use the other rooms.”“Not at all,” said Stephen, thinking it would be perfect. Cosiness, warmth and, with any luck, toasted scones and home-made jam.“I’m afraid Camellia won’t be joining us,” said Hugh, leading the way. She’s got this bee in her bonnet about digging up the drawing room carpet. I tried to persuade her it doesn't have to be done today but, once she’s got herself organised for something, she doesn't like to change tack.”
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“Oh, I’m sorry if this has turned out to be inconvenient,” said Stephen, wondering what Hugh meant about the carpet. “Are you sure . . . . . ?”
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“Yes, yes, of course I’m sure, I don’t want to be mucking around with mouldy old carpets on a Sunday afternoon. I think we should have a break from work sometimes, don’t you?”
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“Indeed,” Stephen said - and he followed Hugh into a smaller yard where the smell of honey fungus drifted from a wood stack and where a door to a tool shed was hanging off its frame and where a row of castellated pig sties were stores for bits and bobs of rubble and broken brooms.“I have no idea,” said Hugh, noticing Stephen was trying not to smile, “why anyone would think it necessary to put battlements on pig sties! And the paint (he meant the paint on the guttering which was brightly green) " - well, that was a mistake."
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Stephen grinned. “Arrow slits too!”
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He was surprising himself. He should have been discomfited by the disorder. Usually he would have been but, this afternoon, he simply couldn't feel out of place. Hugh was so friendly and the idea of warmth was so tempting that he accompanied Hugh through the back porch and into the house without expecting anything but pleasantness. It did smell a bit. Sort of acrid. But there was a gun room on the right. That was probably it. He glanced in, expecting to see a half de-composed pheasant on the table, or the skeleton of a hare hanging from a hook. But no. The room was almost empty. Dusty and sparse but no dead animals.
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“Come on in and make yourself at home,” said Hugh cheerfully, striding ahead and pushing open the door to the kitchen.
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For a moment, Stephen stood there, not daring to move further. The smell had intensified. It filled his lungs. He knew it was already sticking in his hair, probably seeping through his clothes and right into his blood. His sight blurred. He thought he would be sick. He thought he might faint. He'd gone pale. He knew that - because his skin had gone cold and clammy. It tingled. But he gathered himself. Stood straight. Tried not to breath much. Forced his reluctant feet off the ground. And stepped forwards.
* * *
For the next post - Fourteen
For the post before this - Twelve.
