CHAPTER TWO

Mrs. Pogue had made a fat bacon broth for tea. Rental of the house from the estate brought with it the right to use one of the small allotments and Mr. Pogue was conscientious in its cultivation. Consequently, there were always vegetables available, if not much meat. This would not bother Mallory, she had been vegetarian since she was able to decide for herself; although the only one in her family, their meals had worked out all right. The bowls served, Mallory had looked askance then been pleasantly surprised. With the fresh bread it had gone down very well. However, the full fat butter was a problem, having successfully habituated her taste buds to a soy replacement. She wondered how her arteries were faring. Well, from now on she would have to accept what she was given and be thankful for it.

Mrs. Pogue told her she would set out a bowl of post toasties for her breakfast and seeing a bewildered look, showed her the packet. Cornflakes! No problem.

“There’s shredded wheat if you prefer. I shop at Maypole Dairies in the village, an’ they always ’ave a good variety o’ cereals an’ tinned goods. I think a lot’s imported from the United States of America, but it’s good value for money.” She laughed outright as she looked at her husband: “Makes my job easier. Mr. Pogue ’as ’ad to give up on ’is porridge.” They did not discuss lunch, but she thought Mrs. Cummings would be accommodating in that department. If not they would come to some arrangement.

Now upstairs in the small back room, Mrs. Pogue had lit the gas lamp and although the light was not bright, it was enough. Mallory looked about at what was to be her new home, trying to take it all in: plain, whitewashed walls, bare wooden boards, a serviceable wardrobe and a dressing chest, set out with a matching hairbrush and comb. Off to one side was a gently scented pot-pourri. She glanced into the mirror above and saw for the first time what a sight she presented and felt like a stranger to herself.

How things worked in the Pogue household was being carefully explained. It seemed they were all early risers and early to bed. Mr. Pogue would be her alarum and her responsibility would be to keep the copper going. It was expected she would stoke the fire and add water if it looked low. A woodpile was stacked outside against the privy in the cemented yard, but inside there was a coalscuttle beside the pot, if that were easier.

“You can use the ’ot water for washin’. The ’ouse can be a mite chilly that time o’ the mornin’”.

“Mrs. Pogue, can I wash tonight?” She turned towards her to elaborate: “I was in an accident and got very dirty.” Perhaps this would help excuse her appearance.

“Yes, o’ course, the bathroom’s on the ’alf landin’,” she responded, obligingly.

“I have another request too,” Mallory added hastily. “I’m sorry, but the only clothes I have are these. I … err …” frowning, she considered what to say, “… lost everything in the accident. Would it be possible to borrow some? Just until I have the chance to buy new ones?” she added quickly.

Mrs. Pogue’s smile widened as her face softened: “You’re lucky. My son’s away up north in Sheffield. ’e does puddlin’ for the Vickers’ Company at their ’uge iron works in the east end. They specialise in ’igh value steels an’ armaments. It’s very important work for the nation,” she added proudly. “’e won’t be back ’til Christmas an’ you and ’e are about the same size.” She looked up and down. “Maybe ’e’s not quite as tall, but to tide you over I’m sure we can find somethin’.”

“Puddling, that’s new to me?” Mallory questioned.

“Oh, it’s what the men do in the primary production of iron an’ steel, ’afore it’s rolled an’ smelted. They need strength an’ dexterity for that kind o’ work, especially for the castin’ furnace. But ’e tells me it’s mighty ’ot in there. Arnold was fortunate. ’is dad being a skilled forger, grinder an’ assembler, ’e learned at ’is knee, so to speak. ’e was took on immediately. ’appy to ’ave ’im they was … an’ it’s good pay.”

They moved back down the few steps to the bathroom, the landlady collecting fluffy towels and face cloth from a linen closet on the same landing. The room was spacious, with enough area for an elaborate washbasin supported by an ornate castiron stand. Opposite stood what looked to Mallory to be an old fashioned roll-top, ball-and-claw-footed bath. It was made of cast iron, coated with a white, vitreous enamel, but could have been the latest thing for the Pogues. The woman explained, knowing what an advance this was, that if she wanted, there was a hose she could attach to the taps. It had a showerhead at its other end.

An upright wooden chair with holes in the seat stood beside the bath where she could put her clothes and another pegged rug lay in front of it. The toilet was no less elaborate. It was an original Thomas Crapper, a wash down pedestal closet with carved mahogany seat and high-level cistern. This was located about six and a half feet above the pan and therefore fitted with a long chain, a fancy ceramic handle dangled at the bottom. Bloody Nora, will I ever get used to all this? Pulling a chain, a hose for a shower? Mal, don’t be such a wimp, her better self chided her.

“I’ll fetch you some clothes an’ set them out on the bed. Monday is washday so if you put your dirties in the laundry basket, I’ll do them with ours. Not too much mind, my day’s long enough.” She patted her shoulder tolerantly: “You’ll get used to our ways, Mallory. We’re not rough like them small cottages over the ’ill, there. Mind you, Mr. Pogue senior still lives in a tied cottage; from a farm lad ’e rose to position o’ foreman o’ fences an’ drains. An’ I grew up in two rooms.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Pogue. It’s still new to me yet, but I aim to master all this,” she replied with assurance.

“Is it very different where you come from, then?” she responded, intrigued.

Mallory threw out a quick glance in surprise. What did the woman suspect? Don’t get paranoid, Mal. What could she know?

“It was just I saw you upset like … in the sittin’ room. I was about to ask, but Mr. Pogue come in …” she trailed off uncertainly.

Mallory hastened to put her more at ease. “No, it’s all right Mrs. Pogue. “I’ll admit, I was taken aback for a moment. I had been expecting something else you see. Really everything’s OK now.” She forced a smile at the woman, touched by her sympathy, but inside feeling unprotected, over-exposed in this strange world. “I do know where I am and I’m looking forward to working at the stables. I love horses and I’m a good team player.” The words were to support her susceptible ego as much as to convince the woman.

“Oh, you’re into this soccer craze, are you? Our Arnie loves it too. Every Saturday ’e goes with ’is mates to a match. I don’t know which team ’e follows at the moment.

“No, I don’t play football. I meant … I mean … err… I’ll do my best to fit in.”

“No? Well I’m sure you’ll get on up there,” she said reassuringly. “Sir Eustace an’ the Lady Glencora are fair. They try to give us a fair wage for our work.” Her pale eyes roamed the room as she reminisced. “I started up at the big ’ouse when I was a girl, only twelve I was … in the laundry. Of course, it was much ’arder in them days. No runnin’ water, we ’ad to carry it all in buckets; the ’ot and the cold.” She sighed over more than she had revealed and shook her head. “They was very ’eavy days, I would finish up that tired.” She looked back at Mallory un-knitting her brows. “You’ll do very well. Old Jake, ’e knows ’is stuff. Just you mind Mr. Crosby. ’e’s a right stickler for the book. I reckon as ’e feels ’is position a might too much … being so close to ’is Lordship you see. I guess some of that rubs orf.” She gave an abrupt wave of her hand: “Now, now, I shouldn’t stand here gossipin’, it’s gettin’ late. I’ll leave you to your ablutions.”

“Do you still work, Mrs. Pogue?” Mallory was keen to learn all she could.

“Yes, now the children ’ave gorn, I go over to the circulatin’ library three days a week. I’m one of the caretakers at the readin’ room. I really like it. Although I don’t read the books, I do look at the magazines an’ the catalogues.” She let out a wistful sigh: “So many lovely things!”

She observed Mallory more closely, paying attention to the wounds. “There’s some nasty cuts and abrasions you’ve got there lad,” and reached out for his hand, noting the packed earth under the nails and around a very deep gash. There was another one on his forehead. “If you don’t clean them up, you could get some nasty pus in that,” she admonished, as if to a child.

“I’ll be all right, Mrs. Pogue. I’ll give them a good scrub with the soap,” she responded confidently.

“Better than that, I’ve got a small pot of raw honey … the best salve to combat any infection,” she assured her.

“Honey!”

“Oh aye, there’s stuff those bees collect together and so long as you don’t ’eat it, just scrape it orf an’ keep it fresh, it’ll clean up the worst looking lacerations or punctures an’ ’ardly leave a scar! My dad used to swear by it an’ it always worked on us kids.” There was vigorous nodding in the affirmative to accompany this testimonial. “I’ll put it, an’ some dressin’s in your room.”

She left her with the injunction: “You only need a smear mind.”

* * *

Mallory opted for a bath and thoroughly enjoyed it. She had spotted a cake of Pears soap in the small wire tray, brown and translucent, quite the novelty. At the end of her session, when she had begun to feel less defenceless and insecure, she cleaned the bath with a sprinkle of Vim. She would have to buy some shampoo with her first pay and already she missed her electric tooth brush.

Finding a round tin of pale pink Euthymol toothpaste someone had set on the broad rim of the wash basin, she removed some with her index and rubbed it over her teeth, outside and in. With a watery finger she rubbed again to make a froth, not much of one, but her mouth did feel better after the rinse. Wrapped in a towel, she padded back to the room. Mrs. Pogue had remembered to leave her a box of matches on the night table for the lamp, with the honey pot and there were clothes on the bed as promised. She put the soiled things in the wicker hamper as directed, but had washed her underwear which now hung over the chair back, on a towel. However, her new landlady had thought of everything including heavy nailed boots, socks and a pair of severely scuffed leather gaiters. Well, Mr. Higgins can’t complain now. They buttoned up the outside and had a strap to go under her foot. There was a blue and white striped ‘grandpa’ shirt which rather took her fancy and with the serge vest, she felt she would truly look the part.

She attended to her various lesions and was pleased to note that honey did not sting, then donned a roomy night shirt and climbed up into an unusually high bed, reflecting on the contrast this made with the accommodation she had shared in the university residence. A cluttered room, two work stations, each with a centred monitor and keyboard and books everywhere. The desk chair however, had been a comfortable swivel, with a high back. So many hours she had committed to that set-up. Well, her E-mail and SKYPE days were over now. No more Texts and SMS’s, nor would she be down-loading to her MP3 audio file. Her body gave an involuntary shudder of fear. Such a short space of time and so much had happened. Could she live through this? She shook her head. Give it time Mal. See what’s out there first.

Looking around her it was Spartan. Another embroidered sampler on the wall: God Bless This House. Less skilfully executed, perhaps by a more youthful hand? She had to get off the bed to turn down the lamp, but it went out. She could not climb back fast enough, feeling cold and vulnerable. With its glow and hiss eliminated, she was aware of how complete the blackness and total the silence. Being unused to this velvet gloom, the night felt eerie and she, strangely afraid. She yanked the sheet close to her chin and the flower-sprigged counterpane too, trying to hide and thinking: I used to drop off to sleep listening to a sound collage by Christoff Charles or the music of Shane Faye. Now I’m like a scared child, afraid of the dark. But this is a roof over my head and they seem like nice people. At least I did not die in that accident, even if this does seem to be an incomprehensible nether world I’ve landed in.

So totally worn out, these were the last thoughts to drift through her head as she dropped off into the supportive protection of sleep.

* * *

A loud knock on the door and instantly Mallory was alert. She called out her thanks and said she would be down. It had been a restless night. So much tossing and turning as she had tried to weave together the varied images that had filled her confused mind. They had burdened it with their lack of cohesion and she had wished she could turn them off, but she could not stay asleep long enough. She would wake up with a start; tears of bitter misery soaking the pillow, her heart pounding in her ears and be compelled to throw off the hot covers.

Although for her, this was a hideously early hour, the pastel glimmer of dawn vibrating through the fine weave of the net curtains was a rescue. It provided an excuse to thrust away the tormenting fears of the night and welcome the new day. The relief from the uncertainties that had dogged her like the proverbial hounds was more than welcome.

“We’ll walk together Mallory. ’ere, take this Billy Pot.” Mr. Pogue handed her a cap which would sit flat on her head. “You’ll need this scarf an’ all, ’til the sun burns through.” He stepped out the back door and Mallory followed him into the laneway. The now familiar odour of wood smoke wafted up to her on a wayward breeze that hinted of autumn’s chilly blasts. However, the capricious morning air had a surprisingly soothing effect on her fevered agitation. It was a nebulous morning, with low-lying cloud wrapping the trees in white veils. Above their tops, the sky was still a pale grey.

Mr. Pogue noticed the lad was equally as tall as he, with a long stride and well developed muscles. He expected him to do well, working for Mr. Higgins. They walked in silence, each one coming to terms with what lay ahead. Other figures were on the move through the damp haze, shadowy in their dark suits and caps, a scarf round their neck in the same way, all converging in the direction of the big house. Quickly, radiant sunlight began to gild the upper branches of the tallest trees, evaporating the turbid mists and raising wisps of steam from wet rooves. Then magically, all trace of the morning’s impenetrability was gone.

“I keep straight, but you veer orf to the left. Stay to the right o’ the house an’ you’ll come to a big, barred gate. Be sure to close it behind you. You’ll see the path windin’ up the hill. Stay on it an’ it’ll take you to the stable yard down below. I’m sure you’ll smell the ’orses afore you see ’em,” he affirmed with a nod of his head. “My workshop’s beyond where you go.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pogue. I’ll see you tonight, then.” She waved and walked on, her boots scraping through the long grass which speckled them with dark spots of dew.

Wild mustard seed flowers provided brilliant patches of yellow to relieve the green and just odd clumps of purple clover popped up intermittently. Doubts were beginning to cloud her thoughts and undermine her resolution. Apprehension lay heavy on her heart, sapping the fragile confidence and setting it adrift. Mr. Higgins – how daunting was he for a start? Perhaps, with luck she would be more with Mr. Beeson.

He was right about the aroma. That mixture of dung and saddle soap made her feel good. This would be an environment where she could be self-reliant again. Horses did not change. Tension began to ease from her shoulders and she felt herself breaking free. The head came up and as her lungs filled with the fresh, crisp air she was aware of this clean country environment, not yet filled with the noxes and oxes of the twenty-first century. That was not right. Her eyes scanned the pastoral scene. If she had fetched up north, in Manchester or Sheffield, she would be breathing in the smut of heavy industry and from all those home fires. Not so bad out here after all. She swallowed her concern and her step firmed, the stride growing bolder.

It’s up to you to make of this what you can my girl!

Jake Beeson spotted the lad and beckoned him over. “Mornin’, I ’eard as ya’ got took on. Mr. ’iggins won’t be ’ere fer another ’our yet, so I’ll get ya’ started with the feeds and the turnouts. Follow me.”

Time flew. He introduced her to some more of the lads as she worked her way through and once the horses were in the lower paddock, it was time for mucking out. There were twenty stalls, not all for hunters or, for that matter, in use. They had a few hacks and cobs for the farm as well as for draft work.

“In these two stalls is the carriage pair. They’re the last t’ go out.”

Mallory was impressed. They were beautifully matched, even down to their white socks, front and back.

“These days, it’s mostly fer collectin’ guests from the station. “These stalls is fer visitin’ ’orseflesh. No need t’ bother yersel’ with them just yet.”

It was Mr. Crosby who summoned her first. She was shown to an impressive suite of offices whose small square panes of glass seemed to shimmer in their casements as she approached. Most of the estate business was carried on here.

Mr. Crosby was no more pleasant at this meeting. A supercilious bearing seemed to be his favourite mode of interaction. No matter, she could handle it, although her knees were on the wobbly side. His sceptical gaze travelled over the aspirant. To his lights the young lad did not show a sufficient amount of respectful deference, but it was early days. There were plenty more where he came from. Although, perhaps not. A new thought edged up on him – this drift of lads up north; those big factories and their great ports. They could leave the farm with only the old codgers to do the heavy work. His sigh was long and wistful. How the times were changing and not for the better he would warrant. Only this morning he had read an article in his paper; Sunderland docks had built as much as one million tons of new shipping between 1905 and 1907 and now British shipyards were supplying half the world’s tonnage.

His mind could hardly grasp the enormity of it.

He pulled himself back to the job at hand. “All right Mason. We’ve got you official. You’ll have to work the week before you get your packet, but pay day is Thursday for the estate staff and the stables is so classified. It’s Friday for farm labourers. Mr. Higgins will explain more to you about your duties.

She could not get anything to eat from Cook this time, Jake informed her. Yesterday had been ‘special circumstances’, so he good naturedly shared his thick dripping sandwiches. All this animal fat, my body won’t know what’s hit it, she groaned. There was cold water from an outside pump, located over a stone trough where the horses could drink. “Mrs. Pogue will set ya’ up t’morra, I’ve no doubt,” he asserted.

In fact Mr. Higgins did not appear until after all the horses had been groomed and the stable was closing down ’til feed time. It had felt good working on Burrow. He had tossed his head, shaking out his mane in a sweeping crescent, as if he remembered her. When she came to pick his back hooves he was a tad restive, but some soothing murmurs settled him. Jake gave her another young gelding, a thoroughbred bay called Talbot, with a dramatic blaze between his eyes. He was a sweetheart and she had him eating out of her hand in no time. He took the carrot with the daintiness of a fine lady, his soft lips licking her palm. Charmed, she stroked his nose and received a friendly nuzzle in the ribs.

Now to the encounter she had been dreading. Their last meeting had been so ugly, but she had definitely not been herself nor, it seemed had he. He was as gruff as before, whiskers still all of a bristle in his heavy features, but there the similarity ended. This time he was agreeable, so keen to have ‘the new lad’ working. They parked themselves on some stacked bails of bedding and looked out over the cobbled yard to the leafy woods.

“Their Lordships will soon be riding to hounds on a regular basis. It’s the best hunting in our Midland shires so Sir Eustace will be hosting many lawn meets. The weekend shooting parties have already started and they go ’til November: that’s the grouse. The partridge starts next month and we’ll finish up with the pheasant season from October.”

Mallory watched the pink lips working away earnestly, from within their surrounding thicket of black hair. She could tell his responsibilities weighed heavily on him. Poor man, he needs more life/work balance she thought, but he probably won’t get it, if this is just the start.

“See here Mason, I’m responsible as Head Gamekeeper to maintain a good supply of game at all times. Their Lordships’ day’s sport will always be rewarded with a sufficiently large bag. Me and the lads, we breed and stock pheasants for their coverts and raise most of the species that are popular these days. We help nurture the young game and that means we must destroy the vermin.”

Mallory was not liking the sound of this. Working with the horses was good, even raising cute feathered creatures, but for blood sports…?

“These animals the … err … vermin. What are these … Sir?”

“Oh, you know just local stuff: weasels, badgers, other foxes, not ours of course: hawks, owls. They eat the eggs and young game, prey on the mature, even. To keep up the numbers we must be vigilant. Also, these blasted hiking clubs that are all the go just now, come stomping through the game reserves, making a racket, scaring the wild life, destroying the nests.”

“What has to be done?” she enquired cautiously. Any form of killing was not her scene.

“We need to put up signs, patrol the trails and keep them from straying.” He warmed to his theme. “Now poachers, there’s another threat. They’ll set traps that catch the foxes before their Lordships have had their sport and the tenant farmers do the same too, if their crops are being attacked.”

“Which creatures go for their fields, Sir?”

“The usual: hares, rabbits; woodcock, bustards. The farmers that have chickens, they want to reduce the numbers that might raid their hen houses a night. The farmers who have acres of grain don’t want partridge or pheasants raiding their fields.”

Sounds reasonable enough to me, she thought.

“I tell you Mason, it’s war out there between us and them. We have to watch the woods at night. We’ve given up setting spring guns with triggered wires since they was declared illegal, but without the help of man traps, we need all the hands we can get. These game laws are a bitter source of ugly friction.”

“What happens if a poacher gets caught?” The stomach was beginning to churn, repelled by all this: “Sir.”

“Oh…oh,” he shook his head, grim-faced: “It’s three months in Newgate, or a fine of five pounds if they don’t decide to report it. Anyway, it’s illegal to sell or possess dead game. I tell you, if it’s three of them, at night, with a gun … orf to Australia it is …” at this declaration he nodded his head emphatically: “… could be up to fourteen years! Well, you would know all about that.”

“No, I don’t and I don’t like the sound of it. I don’t want to be involved in apprehending anybody either.”

“No … no, Mason. Don’t go all squeamish. When their Lordships go on a ‘battue’ the lads act as ‘beaters’ going on ahead through the fields to drive the game up into the air. If need be, I have some of them raise a big net, high up to keep the game from flying away. Other than that it’s checking the woods at night and the nests or chicks by day.” He reckoned that just about covered it.

“I’ll take you to meet Mr. Flegg. He’s our huntsman and kennel master and lives in the village. He’s responsible for the physical work of the hunt itself. He’s a good man. He bred all Sir Eustace’s hounds. Can identify every one by their bark and remembers each one’s pedigree. As huntsman, he’s in charge of putting them through their paces on the day of the hunt. In the early morning you will go out with him and the other lads to stop up the fox holes in the hunt area.”

What an odd idea. Surely they wanted the foxes to come out, not stay in. “Mr. Higgins why do you have to do that?”

“You’re a real city rat,” he responded sharply, beginning to feel his patience and enthusiasm for this new hired hand grow short. “Foxes are nocturnal, so when they return to their den after a nights foray, they can’t access it and have to find a new hiding place. This is generally a gorse patch or thicket. Anyway as I was saying, at eleven o’clock he’ll ride out with his hounds and the lads to the covert, where the fox will be hiding. The hounds will then draw the covert and …”

“This city rat doesn’t know all these terms,” she interrupted, feeling annoyance in her turn: “What’s a draw?”

Higgins sent his eyes skyward. Strewth! What have they sent me? God give me strength.

“Oh … they start at one end, snuff their way through, you know, heads down dashing about, until the fox is flushed out into the open at the other. Once it’s spotted he’ll shout: “Tally - Ho!” and take off, the field following in hot pursuit, watching the hounds chase the fox down.”

He pulled out his watch and checking the time continued: “At the moment we’re mounting Cub Hunts for inexperienced riders, horses and foxes, so you’ll have a chance to get the hang of it.” He stood abruptly. “Come on, I’ll take you to Harry Flegg. His name’s William Henry, but everyone calls him Harry.”

Mallory jumped up. Was that it? She shoved her cap down hard and stomped after him to where he had a carrier’s cart hitched to the gate post with another patient cob chomping at the nearby grass. She was lucky it was a ride back, but she could see she would have to get used to doing a lot of walking.

It’ll be all right, just think of it as a substitute for the treadmill at the gym. This is the ‘real thing’.

The kennel master’s cottage was on the other side of the village so Mallory got more acquainted with her new surroundings. The road was still of medieval width and circled the village green. Mr. Higgins was quite the tour guide filling in the gaps. Not far from the Maypole Dairies store that Mrs. Pogue frequented was a hardware shop. In one corner was the post office. Not much good to me, she thought bitterly. Further down was the Methodist chapel.

“Mr. Higgins, I thought I would see an old church … you know, big wooden door, prominent steeple, tall spire.”

“Saint Austell’s you mean. That’s on the far side of the estate. The gentry go there. Lord and Lady Patchford have a private pew. Most of us are Non-Conformist of one stripe or another. We don’t go much for Church of England round these parts. We prefer Methodist. What do you follow Mason? We could do with some help with our Boys’ Brigade on Friday nights. And the football team is always looking for players.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ll have to get myself settled in.”

“We’re also trying to start up some scouting for the boys, since Baden-Powell founded his new movement just a little over a year ago, so we’re looking for leaders.”

His sharp eyes gave him closer scrutiny.

“As I say Mr. Higgins, I’ll have to get my bearings first.”

Mr. Flegg’s house was a replica of the Pogues, but the last of the row. The hand-over took place on the front step and as the gamekeeper departed, Mr. Flegg invited Mallory to sit on the wooden bench where a colourful assortment of flowers crowded together at their feet: lupins, dahlias some nasturtiums.

For such a big job, the Master of the Hunt was a smallish man, but he looked wiry and strong. A scaled down version of Mr. Pogue, friendly and down to earth, motivated by his passion, not his position. She could hear the dogs, noisy out back. Would he let her meet them? He noticed her interest.

“Yes, they start up a racket when they think it’s close to feedin’ time. These hounds of the Guilfoyle Pack are perfect specimens. Some come from the original Meynell stock.”

“What’s that Mr. Flegg?” Learning more about dogs had a greater appeal than the ‘ins’ and ‘outs’ of catching vermin.

Finding someone enthusiastic over his favourite subject, Harry Flegg was eager to expound. “Originally it was not a sport. Foxes were regarded as livestock-destroying vermin.” She felt a rush of sickening qualms. Oh no, not that again!

“Sport hunting was for deer. The King permitted landowners of large estates to enclose whatever was not needed for agriculture and then it was called a Park. As more and more woodland was cleared, the deer vanished. Hounds bred for the chase at that time traditionally went after hares and such like. They’re clever little varmints, rather than fast. Consequently, a new and improved strain of hound was needed, with enough stamina to keep up … and with a good nose.”

“So this was why they chose the Basset? Short with strong legs and good chest?”

“It was indeed. Hugo Meynell set about developing a line to meet the new demands. It needed to be smooth-haired, too. He set up extensive kennels at Quorn Hall just north of us, in Leicestershire and we’ve been very fortunate to breed from some of his original bitches. It cost mind, but it’s been worth it.”

Mallory felt sorry for the foxes. She had become vegetarian because she did not like the idea of animals being specially bred for eating. Now foxes were no longer steeling, but were being raised for hunting. “I’m definitely out of step with where I’ve landed. What bad luck to be in the twentieth century. Still, it would have been worse to have gone even further back,” she thought disconsolately. In all this inimical ethos, she did not want to find herself losing her moral compass.

It was arranged she would join the lads tomorrow, before early morning chores and help with the fox holes. Jenkins, who was his whipper-in, would come and collect her from her lodgings, then back to the stable ’til eleven o’clock when everyone would gather in the forecourt. She would strike out with him and the others to the first covert. He reckoned that was enough for the time being. The rest could wait ’til morning. Saturday would be a big day and he would play it by ear.

Mallory strolled back to the Pogues taking her time. It felt good to be by herself, although by no means alone. Many people were moving about on foot, but constant company had taken its toll on her social capital.

She spotted the local school down a side road and not far from that was the lending library. Both were small, well-constructed brick buildings, their proportions reminding her of the Gothic movement that had been so popular at the end of the previous century. Wandering over to take a closer look, she observed above the wide school gates in large, wrought iron letters, the name Guilfoyle British School. This she knew meant it was a Nonconformist institution.

As an atheist, she was unmoved by all this religious zeal, but there had been a time when Spiritualism had quite intrigued her. The wider world of ideas had even led her to dip into philosophy; some basic Aristotle, Rene Descartes and Locke. She did recognise that one of the distinguishing features of mankind from the animal kingdom was his ability to see the world beyond the ego. She enjoyed watching how a dog is the centre of his universe. All animals are like this, but not Homo-Sapiens. We alone can look beyond the self to our empirical creation and the ineffable questions of Epistemology. Anyway, she hoped she was not going to be dragged into a routine of chapel-going every Sunday, once or twice for the experience could be fun, but on a regular basis? She would have to find some way to get out of that.

* * *

Mallory was pleased to see that the feeds went quickly and the second mucking out was a zip. One of the lads started to be friendly, asking about her previous work with horses. She did not mind, but realized she must take care with her time-frames. She could not risk getting confused, leading to awkward questions. The Australian location was a pleasure and describing her home State real and satisfying. However, she brought it to an abrupt end, feeling herself falling into a dark mood. Dwelling in the land of memory and crashing into demon thoughts became just too painful. Thinking of her Mum and Dad, Gavin and her friends, overwhelmed her with nostalgia. The sadness left her feeling so incomplete, like a whole chunk had been ripped excruciatingly away. She must move herself on.

The new workmate’s name was Leonard Tricklebank. Everyone called him Len. About the same age as she, but she could tell they thought her younger; of middling height, slim and fair. Now it struck her that most of the youngsters she had met so far did not look very robust and quite a number of them seemed under sized. It could not be lack of exercise so perhaps the reason lay in poor diet. “What about you, Len? Have you been with the stable long?”

“Oh, I ’ave that. My dad’s the blacksmith ’ere, so I’ve always been around ’orses one way or another … but I ’ave plans.” He looked across at her knowingly, with a sparkle to the pale brown eyes in his tightly chiselled face and winked. “Oh yes. I aim to go places. I’m not goin’ t’ get stuck down ’ere like m’ dad; I’m goin’ t’ move meself up. This is a new century with new things, givin’ birth t’ the modern age … an’ I’m goin’ t’ be part of it. I tell ya, Mason … the day will come …” His pitch fork had been working crazily through this, like he could see it all happening right this very minute.

“That sounds exciting. What do you have in mind?”

The frenetic activity was held in abeyance for a moment. “I can’t say ’til I’m a bit further along, but I reckon what ya ’ave t’ do is ’ave a plan an’ stick t’ it,” he advised with finality, confident in the truth of his convictions. A few more forkfuls and the wheelbarrow was loaded. He picked up the handles and trundled outside to the steaming pile. Shortly thereafter his head popped back inside and he called out a cheery: “See ya t’morra.”

This certainly was a time of change, Mallory reflected. Not as adept as Len, she still had one more stall to check. Although her workouts at the gym had kept her fit, she could feel it in her back. As she worked, she reflected upon her ignorance. What had Len been talking about? She decided to correct the situation and the library was the place to start; more discreet than asking people questions. It was not the university, but it would be more like life as she had known it. Stranger in a Strange Land: the title of the Science Fiction novel she had read in high school leaped into her brain. Never would she have thought this could be applied to her. About to wheel the barrow to its corner, she heard her name called and turned to see Mr. Beeson with a woman by his side.

“There ’e be,” the old man pointed with his pipe and the job done, he left.

Another new face! The woman approached and Mallory gave a polite greeting, raising her cap as she had seen the others do. Closer inspection revealed a young house maid who returned a deferential bob before she spoke.

“’er Ladyship ’as requested yer presence in the mornin’ room, when ya’ve finished fer Mr. Beeson.”

“Very well, but I don’t know my way about. How do I get there?”

“I’m t’ bring ya t’ ’er, when ya’re ready.”

“I’m done here, but I’m very dirty.”

“They usually clean up in the scullery an’ ya can scrape yer boots afore.”

“All right, I’ll just pick up my jacket.”

They fell into step and by way of politeness, Mallory asked her name.

“I’m Dorothy Milligan. Me ma calls me Dora. They already ’ave a kitchen maid named Dora so Mrs. Aldred says I’m to be called Dottie.” She gave a sidelong glance under her lashes at this new young man: so tall, so handsome, not speaking like the others and asked self-consciously: “How’re ya called?”

“My name is Mallory. Do you know what Lady Patchford wants … Dottie?”

“Oh no, I’m only a fetch an’ carrier.” She said no more and they entered the house in silence, but her eyes constantly returned to this attractive creature from another country. That alone made the encounter worth savouring.

At last feeling suitably presentable, Mallory joined Dottie who proceeded to guide her through the kitchen where she nodded to Mrs. Cummings and on to the baize door at the top of the servants’ stairs. This time she turned left along the passage to another baize door which led to the west wing. One more flight and a few corridors later, Dottie stopped and after a discreet knock delivered her charge and withdrew.

This sitting room was all grace and symmetry; the afternoon sun brought out the amber accents in the Persian carpet and cast the room in honeyed tones. The flowing curves of the Art Nouveau movement were everywhere in a lyrical interpretation of line and space. There were brilliant swirling colours in abundance. It must have represented the latest in interior design and Mallory was stunned to be in the presence of such beauty.

She had been studying this art as her elective in her second year and could identify what her eyes beheld. Walls covered in the plant motifs of Edouard Vuillard’s custom designed papers. Strategically placed on the delicate side tables of Peter Behrens was Galle and Tiffany art glass, the elongated sculptures of Rene Lalique in their long flowing robes. All this represented what was known then as the ‘Modern Style’, the true interpretation of the artist’s search for inner meaning, minus the heavily stylistic baggage of the pompous Victorians.

She could hardly believe it. This room was a perfect museum. The fitness of the materials to reflect both function and decoration was consummate. Her eyes feasted on these matchless prototypes as they had existed before the onset of rampant commercialism and industrial ornamentation. Unfortunately, following this development the name had changed to Art Nouveau, sprouting the roots of its downfall. But, in the centre of it all, seated on a reclining sofa was the captivating figure of Lady Glencora Patchford. Mallory was knocked out by her elegance.

It was obvious that the fashion she was following was extravagant and ostentatious, but she had to admit, Lady Patchford suited it down to a ‘T’. She must have been wearing a ‘health’ corset to achieve that perfect S-bend shape. Her dress was made of such a fine worsted cloth, in a deep forest green that it positively shimmered in the mellow, afternoon light. The bodice front was pouched and trimmed with delicate cream coloured Nottingham lace, high at the neck then flowing down to the waist. Lady Patchford was still of the old school however, presenting the heavy ‘monobosom’ look through the use of slight padding over her chest. The gigot sleeves, with only a dainty fullness over the shoulders, tapered to the wrist. They extended to cover the back of her expressive hands.

The bell-shaped skirt of the dress was slim over her hips, falling to the ground in the fashionable semi-princess line. A darker, green satin braid encircled her waist and streamed down the front towards the hem in two ribbons, to meet another decorative band just above it. There was a slight rustle of fine underwear as she turned to her visitor, that pleasant froufrou sound so beloved of her generation and so expensive to achieve.

“Yes, Mason, come in.” She regarded him closely, seriously. “I wanted to see you before the Cub Hunt tomorrow.” Her exquisitely refined face looked dejected with a gaunt greyness; her eyes, the colour of pale jasper, red-rimmed with dark smudges below them. She had spent a restless night in which the little sleep she had achieved had been filled with dreams of hostilities and almost unbearable antipathy. “The Lady Nigella insists upon attending. I’ve tried to dissuade her, but there is no getting through. I want you to be sure that everything is absolutely perfect with Burrow.” Her face grew pained in appearance from the stark lines, deeply etched, by a sense of impending disaster.

“Of course Your Ladyship, I …”

“There is no ‘of course’ about it,” she expostulated as her lips tightened with controlled impatience. “You must check the saddle, no interference, nothing under it. The girth no weaknesses. The hooves no stones. Nothing extra in his mouth.” Her slender hand slashed forcefully through the air. “If there is any repetition of yesterday’s incident … I shall hold you personally responsible. Do I make myself clear?” The hammering in her ears gave the early warning of an approaching ‘turn’.

“Absolutely, but … Your Ladyship,” her mind was uncertain, confused, “… surely, you are not anticipating … sabotage?”

Lady Patchford was taken aback by this acuity. She wanted her minion to do her bidding, not understand it. A flash of indignation lit her eyes to a shimmering hazel and her jaw set a fraction harder. “I do not have to explain my reasons to you young man, but I do want you to report to me afterwards. You may go.” Her slim arm waved in dismissal, but as she was about to turn away she added: “Do not discuss this with anyone. You are answerable to me, no-one else.”

“Yes Your Ladyship,” Mallory acquiesced, her voice low as she retraced her steps. Outside she stopped to take stock. What a turn up? Whatever could be going on? Was there ‘malice afoot’? Whatever, she had struck a nerve back there for sure. She supposed it really was a question of ‘theirs’ not to reason why’ … but all the same, these seemed very odd people.

She looked about. Crickey, how to get out of this joint? She tried to recognise a landmark and opted for the shortest distance to a staircase. Since she had ascended before she would be pretty right if she went down.

“What are you doing here?” The voice was peremptory. Hells bells, what now? She halted and stood self-consciously in the middle of all this opulence knowing how out of place she was and the thought: ‘standing cap in hand’, sprang to mind. This time she had run up against the butler. His boot-button eyes were hard, his mouth twisted in a superior sneer. Flushing faintly under this critical gaze she drew a shaky breath.

“I’m trying to find the exit … I mean my way out … Sir.”

Mr. Baldwin ignored the excuse and continued to regard her with frosty disapproval. “I asked: What are you doing here? Answer me!”

She was hating her defensive tone, but knew she had to soldier on: “I was here to see Lady Glencora and …”

“Don’t make up tales.” His disbelieving gaze said, ‘what a likely story’. “You belong below stairs,” he barked as anger sharpened still further in his voice: “Bent on theft more like. Get yourself back where you should be and don’t let me see your face up here again … and it’s ‘Her Ladyship’ to you. If you don’t show respect then you’ll be shown the door.”

For a dizzying moment a flash of insolence struck Mallory’s blue eyes as she tilted her chin to deny this accusation, but it died just as soon. Her position was undeniably weak, there being nothing she could say to convince him … and I’m supposed to be making a go of this? Considering silence her best form of extrication, she turned to leave when he bellowed out: “Not that way you oaf! Have you lost your brains as well?”

What an encounter. She did not want to see his face again, either. At last she recognised the servants’ door and pushed through to the backstairs. Down the passage and on to what she thought would be the kitchen, but it turned out to be the washhouse. No-one was about, but in the fading light she could just discern a row of brick, set pots along one wall. They had up-graded to heating by coal, judging from the number of neatly arranged scuttles. There were several large wooden tables for sorting and folding. Above those, drying racks had been suspended from the ceiling if laundry could not go outside. Large packets of starch and Reckett’s Blue were stacked on shelves next to solid cakes of Sunlight and Carbolic soaps, plus bottles of vinegar. Close by stood the dollies for pounding. Two big mangles filled the opposite wall with numerous galvanized tubs. No, she definitely would not want to be doing women’s work. Give her the outdoors any day. Peering through into an adjoining room she saw the boards set up for ironing. It looked to be a separate undertaking and since the piles were huge, she reckoned it must be the full-time job for quite a number of women. No way, she would stick with her masquerade.

Out into the fresh air at last: Good grief where am I? This was the other wing of the house so, turning herself around, she struck off in the direction of what she thought to be the village, keen to test her orienteering skills. By now twilight was almost at an end; the sky an unperturbed silver and through the encroaching shadows she recognised Featherstone Copse. If she skirted around she should come to the lane Mr. Crosby had taken and see the orchard.

The evening air was still soft with daytime’s warmth as restless bird-life pumped their wings against the remaining thermals. The last few Ravens were hastening to find their roost for the night. She should hurry too. Mrs. Pogue had not given her a time, but it must be getting late. Her pace quickened and rounding the bend she saw the welcome sight of roof outlines in the creeping darkness.

Like Mr. Pogue before, she entered through the scullery to find the two of them seated at table, at supper.

“Thank the Lord. We was wonderin’ if we should go look for you lad.” Mrs. Pogue jumped up in a flurry.

“I’m sorry to have caused you concern,” Mallory hastened to apologise. “I didn’t mean to be this late, but I got a bit lost,” she added by way of avoiding further explanation. “Please sit and finish. I’ll just go wash and hang up my things.”

Mrs. Pogue was relieved, not annoyed and smiled as she regained her seat. “I’ve put your plate in the oven … we’ve not long been started.”

“Thank you Mrs. Pogue. I’ll be right back.”

She was down again quick smart feeling very hungry; the smells so appetising. Tonight her landlady had prepared thick slices of black pudding with fried onions and potato, with lardy cake and custard for desert. With the meal over, Mallory made the offer to wash up. Both Pogues looked at her in amazement then Mrs. Pogue spoke up.

“Of course not lad, you’ve ’ad a long day an’ earned your rest.”

Right, women’s work!

Mr. Pogue sat in his easy chair and started his pipe whilst his wife completed her chores and both were interested in Mallory’s narration of the day’s events. She explained how Mr. Jenkins would come by to collect her, but was worried she might oversleep.

“I can lend you my old carriage clock,” Mr. Pogue offered. “I’ll get it now ’afore I forget.” He returned with a most handsome example of a French clock manufactured by Brocot, in the popular gorge case that had the slim carry handle on top. Mallory was fascinated by the chronometer escapement mechanism which was exposed through the glass sides.

“It’s a reliable little thing,” Mr. Pogue asserted with pride. “My dad was give it for services rendered, by Lord Patchford a few years back. ’e passed it on to me when ’e retired.” He set it down in the centre of the table.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” she admired, noting the delicacy of the roman numerals, yet with no loss of clarity.

“It chimes on eight bells. You can see the date: 1897.” He turned it to show her. She accepted the clock with thanks and then excused herself. She needed a bath and an early night.

“I’ve ’ung some more clothes for you in the wardrobe. Just a few to see you through ’til you can buy your own. They was sittin’ in the trunk so they’ve not been long aired, but I thought as you wouldn’t be too fussy over that,” Mrs. Pogue confessed: “Not just for workin’, like.”

“You’re very thoughtful Mrs. Pogue … and no, a little mustiness won’t faze me.” She would jump at anything on offer. This was heavy physical labour and she had worked up a good sweat in no time.

“What’s that ‘phase me’?” she frowned.

“Oh, sorry … err…r, inconvenience me,” she tried to clarify. Not only out of time, but out of words too. Linguistically challenged, she laughed to herself.

Back in her room after a refreshing bath she put on the night shirt and stretched out on top of the bed. Her body could not relax. The muscles were still knotted from the unaccustomed exertion and quivering from unfamiliar demands. She kept the gas lamp going, not yet ready to face that inky blackness despite the dry, grittiness of her eyes and noticed how green her skin appeared in its weak light. She had to admit she was beginning to feel afraid of the nights – and the silence.

Is this like solitary confinement? What did they call it, sensory deprivation? Whatever, it was unnerving. She must think of other things. There was this Harry Flegg. Now here was a confronting thought. Could she handle all this blood sport? The ethos of fox hunting went totally against her principles. No, she would not be pulling the trigger, but she was helping to set up for the animal’s demise. From the other perspective, what alternatives did she have? She could leave. What to do? How to survive? She felt the loneliness of it all creeping over her.

Mal, see this through; get some money behind you and then look for something else. Face reality … this reality anyway. You have no skills, no professional networks to give you support. No friends or relatives. No one! Can you afford to be so high-minded and censorious? Her body began to feel warm and heavy. She knew it was time to call it a day. Those five bells would come all too soon. The eyelids flew open. Hells teeth! There was Lady Patchford.

Don’t want much, she grumbled to herself. Yes she got you the job, but she’s not paying you for this extra surveillance work. She laughed again. She should have told her: ’all right, but it’ll cost you double!’ Now there would have been a transaction to make her eyes pop out. She jumped up off the bed to turn down the light and was quick to jump back in. At last she was alone with herself and there would be no distractions ’til morning. Instead of the languor of sleep, she began to experience a feeling almost of panic as though an invisible fist were tightening its grip on her heart. Teardrops glistened in her lashes. Was there no escape from this solitude; this imprisoning isolation? Memories loaded their weight on her and she did battle with the demonic voices in her head. There would be no Deus Ex Machina here to come to her rescue and resolve her crisis. How long could she endure a life-sentence of heartache? Ah Mum. Oh Dad. No more was her life a strong thread woven with the others into that wonderful tapestry called family, like the Pogues. The squeeze tightened, suffocating her breath, making her light headed. The worst was to know there was no end in sight. She must go it alone. The oppressive silence was almost more than she could bear.

Where can I find the courage? She took some deep lungfuls of bracing air as she listened to the tick of the clock in this disturbing quiet. Time could never speed up for her. She would never catch up.