The Country Escape (20 page)

Still picking pieces of twig out of her hair from her unexpectedly swift short-cut home, Kat found Russ and Mags in the Lake Farm sitting room designing flyers for the point-to-point on his laptop and listening to the Clash so loudly
that even deaf Maddie was hiding at the opposite end of the house.

‘We should call the press!’ Russ leaped up excitedly when she told them about her near miss on the drive. ‘They’ll love it:
New landowner tries to runs down sanctuary owner after she refuses cash bribe to leave
.’

‘I don’t think it was deliberate.’

‘Are
you
okay, love? Were you hurt?’ Mags looked concerned,
piercings clicking as she furled her brows and grabbed Kat in one of her bone-crushing hugs.

‘Take more than a tit in a flash car to frighten Kat,’ Russ insisted. ‘I think we should tweet about it.’

‘How do you know the tit was the new landowner?’ Kat squeaked from the oxygen-starved confines of Mags’s tattoos.

‘She’s right.’ Mags let her go with a pat on the back that loosened
Kat’s fillings. ‘The new squire probably does all his hit-and-runs by sedan chair.’

‘Did you fall off?’ asked Russ, noticing her dusty breeches.

‘Not just now.’ Kat went to the iPod dock to turn down the music, unable to stop grinning as she remembered Sri flying through the woods at full pelt, the most incredible feeling of power and speed, however out of control. It made the Bolt
much more than just a pipe dream: it was a taste on the tip of her tongue.

‘How’s the promo stuff going for the stand?’ She looked at the flyer design on the computer screen. It said
Save Our Sanctuary
with a picture of a fallow deer fawn caught in a snare. ‘I thought we agreed to have a photo of Usha and just general information.’

‘This has more impact.’ Russ turned back to the
laptop and plugged it into the elderly printer, groaning when he noticed that the magenta cartridge was empty. ‘Why didn’t anybody order more?’

‘Because we haven’t got any money.’

‘Let the trust pay for it.’

‘Why should they when you were the one who used it up printing posters promoting your band?’

‘The next gig is to raise money for the sanctuary.’

‘That doesn’t
mean we have to pay to print
all
your flyers, Russ.’

‘Enough!’ Mags looked like she was about to knock their heads together. She had very straightforward relationship techniques, as witnessed by her recent reconciliation with Calum over cider, cigarettes and arm-wrestling after the Vin-the-drummer débâcle.

He set his bearded jaw, dark eyes brooding. ‘I resent the insinuation that
we’re freeloading.’

‘I said enough!’ Mags growled at him. ‘Kat’s right. We’ll buy some ink.’

Kat caught a look passing between them that she studiously ignored, uncomfortably aware that it was more like two parents playing good-cop-bad-cop with a whingeing child than star-crossed lovers.

Since Russ’s revelation about his teenage fling with Mags and its possible long-term effect
on his sexual performance, he had been at great lengths to prove that the old friendship was now purely platonic – which unfortunately seemed to involve him seeing a lot of Mags platonically at Lake Farm, accompanied by loud music. But Kat still couldn’t entirely shake the worry that the hot air and volatile fights between the two indicated sparks from an old flame that hadn’t been fully extinguished
on either side.

This was all Dair’s fault, she thought irritably. The duplicitous, interfering, flat-capped estate manager had been keeping a very low profile lately, no doubt trying to poison a few more relationships between liaising with Seth’s glamorous assistant as they worked out how to eject her from Lake Farm for the right price; she wasn’t holding her breath for her billion.

In the spirit of camaraderie, she now volunteered to cook supper, although the cupboards held little inspiration and her veggie patch had been raided by rabbits again, offering up nothing more than a few well-nibbled spinach leaves. All she had to supplement them with was a can of black-eyed beans, some ancient onions and whatever eggs she could collect, which vegan Russ wouldn’t touch. She
set about chopping onions for a bean fry-up to go with omelettes for her and Mags, listening to the laughter drifting through from the sitting room where they appeared to be making placards.

Mags had brought along some unwanted bottles from the Eardisford Arms, and Russ was already stuck into his third Cloudy Sickbay, a new scrumpy line that had unsurprisingly failed to be a hit. As usual
when inebriated, he was talking about himself a great deal, now nostalgically recalling the liberation of his university’s laboratory animals. ‘The Cumbria ALF were the bravest band of brothers I knew. I kept a lab rat and called it Ken. He lived in my pocket throughout my third year, and came sabbing every weekend.’

‘You’re da boss, Russ!’ Mags must have heard the story a dozen times,
but ruffled his hair with motherly pride. ‘Did you name him Ken after Livingstone?’

‘Loach,’ he said darkly. ‘I watched
Kes
a lot as a student. I had a thing about falcons I needed to get out of my system.’

While Kat half listened, pulling herbs from the pots on the windowsill, Mags started to argue that it was Ken Russell, not Loach, who had directed the movie. ‘
Tommy
was a work
of genius.’ It soon turned into one of their trivia-trading arguments, which Kat found impenetrably boring.

Leaving them bickering over it while the onions sweated, she went out to check on Sri. She’d washed her off after her exertions but the horse had to be fed before she was turned out. All of Russ’s residents on the wildlife wing needed feeding and watering too, and the chickens were
hiding in the bushes in the back of their run, chuntering furiously, which she guessed meant Heythrop had been on the prowl again. The libertine fox was certainly alive and well, if recent evidence was anything to go by: they’d lost two chickens this week, and the lurchers were out on regular scouting missions following his scent runs. Kat worried for their safety now that the estate was so busy,
dreading the thought of the Eardisford keepers taking pot shots if they got too close to the pheasant-rearing pens. But Constance had always said lurchers were forces of nature:
You will never confine them, Katherine. Simply distract them until danger passes, like the best type of man.

The two Lake Farm lurchers were already out on walkabout again. She called in vain, but they were out
of earshot.

The geese and ducks had left yet more eggs, all of which she gathered up, along with some dandelion leaves to reassure Russ she’d been foraging, making a mental note to take more eggs around to Bill and Babs the following morning.

The sun was setting so low over the lake that its red beams shone right through the house from front to back, turning it into a light-box.
She could see the two figures in the sitting room silhouetted in it, apparently locked together in an embrace. Stepping back in surprise and dropping three eggs, Kat shielded her eyes to try to see better, but the sun was totally blinding her.

She hurried inside.

‘… and then I told the jumped-up bastard to stick his hunting horn where the sun don’t…’ Russ was cackling while Mags
rummaged in her handbag for a cigarette. They were sitting a respectable three feet apart.

‘You all right, love?’ Mags caught her startled face in the door.

‘Fine!’ Kat relaxed, feeling silly. It must have been a trick of the light. This was definitely all Dair’s fault for sowing the seed of doubt in her mind.

‘Sure?’ Russ blinked at her. Then his eyes slid to Mags.

‘Sure! Bean, chervil and wild garlic fricassee coming up.’

‘Great.’ That look was exchanged again. Indulgent parents. Kat registered it with renewed surprise.

‘I hope that’s not the vegan dog eating these dropped eggs?’ came a familiar nasal Scottish drone from the still-open door.

Kat flashed a big defensive smile at her small, tweedy Iago. ‘Dair. How amazing – I was just
thinking about you.’ Behind her, Russ cranked up the Clash again.

Dair’s cap peak was practically resting on his upper lip as he stood framed in the door, but his chin seemed terribly pleased. ‘Good thoughts, I hope?’

‘If you’re into hard-core sado-masochism, maybe.’ Moving away from ‘I Fought The Law’ booming behind her, she noticed Ché desperately wolfing up the broken yolks on
the doorstep by Dair’s feet.

The mention of sado-masochism had sent Dair hurrying back out to the yard. ‘I brought your peacock back,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘He was pecking hell out of a Mercedes parked outside the mill house.’

‘Thanks.’ She followed him out. ‘He thinks his own reflection’s a love rival. He’s longing for a mate.’

Dair let out a loaded sigh, clearly
identifying with Trevor’s plight. ‘Is your lovely friend Dawn coming to the point-to-point?’ he asked.

‘She has a hot date with some decking at home, I’m afraid. Brawny landscape gardener. Huge biceps.’

Pursing his lips in silent disappointment, he headed towards his car to release the peacock, who was occupying the back seat like a
grande dame
heading for a ball and pompously ignoring
Dair’s gundogs in the boot on the other side of the metal grille, both barking at him furiously.

Watching Trevor eye up the gear stick, Kat remembered what Dair had said he’d just been pecking: the silver car that had almost run her off the drive had been a Merc.

‘Who is the new tenant at the mill?’ she asked.

Dair might be ridiculously cagey and two-faced at times, but at
least she could rely on him for occasional gems of gossip. ‘His name is Douglas, although he’s about as Scottish as the Isle of Wight.’ He opened his car’s back door and a streak of turquoise feathery pique shot out. ‘And he is to be referred to as “equerry” for reasons that seem to confuse him as much as they do me.’ He turned back to her, eyes locking on her chest as usual. ‘I met him yesterday.
Bit of a lightweight, I thought. He’s some sort of stunt rider, I believe.’ He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘You’ll probably recognize him.’

‘I don’t know any stunt riders. Why would the estate need one?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ He inclined his head towards the gales of laughter coming from an open window, overpowering even the Clash for volume. ‘I’m just looking out for your
interests, Kat. Nobody wants to see you hurt.’

‘Something’s burning in here!’ Russ called.

‘Been burning for bloody years,’ Dair muttered under his breath, but Kat had already dashed back inside to rescue the blackened onions. She doused the pan with Cloudy Sickbay cider, but it was beyond help, plumes of noxious fumes billowing from the bubbling, charred mess.

‘I’m on my
way to the pub for a pot roast.’ Dair peered inside before he left, waving a hand in front of his face. ‘Perhaps I can offer you a lift.’

‘No, you can’t.’ Russ appeared from the sitting room and marched to the door where he loomed over the little tweed-capped one. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

‘Peacock.’ Dair made it sound like an insult.

‘Dair very kindly brought Trevor
back.’ Kat opened a window, eyes streaming. ‘He says someone’s moved into the mill, an actuary.’

‘Equerry,’ Dair corrected.

Russ’s thick eyebrows shot up. ‘
Equerry?
I thought only the royal family had those.’

‘The job title is indeed somewhat contrived.’

‘Is he ex-military?’ demanded Russ, suspicions alert.

‘Mmm, I believe so. You probably know him.’

Kat could tell from Dair’s chin that he was having a moral battle, clearly desperate to reveal more. ‘He’s a trick rider apparently.’ She leaned over the kitchen counter towards them. ‘Isn’t that right, Dair?’

Dair cleared his throat, unable to resist baiting Russ. ‘It would be more accurate to term him a professional huntsman.’ He dropped the verbal match into the fireworks and stood back.

Russ exploded just as predicted. ‘Hunting fucking
what
?’

Dair’s mouth turned down thoughtfully. He was clearly pleased with the result. ‘He will be responsible for all mounted sport within the estate. I can say no more than that.’

‘But we’re not talking gymkhanas I’ll bet,’ said Mags, coming through from the sitting room and reaching up to put a protective hand on one of Russ’s
big shoulders. ‘That’ll be why they’ve banned the Brom and Lem from Eardisford land. They’re starting up a new hunt of their own. I’ll get straight back and ask Calum what he’s heard. There’s bound to be talk. What’s this guy’s name?’

‘Douglas,’ Kat started to chop more onions, not quite knowing how to react to the news, which Constance would have celebrated with tears of joy, and to Russ
was like a declaration of war.

‘He calls himself Dougie,’ Dair revealed, chest puffed out proudly as he pulled out his trump card, unable to keep the disparaging tone from his voice. ‘Dougie Everett.’

‘The same name as the actor?’ Kat looked up in astonishment, wiping away the onion tears.

‘See how you’ve upset her?’ Russ raged at Dair. ‘The idea of animals being slaughtered
all around us for sport is too much for poor Kat to bear, you bastard.’

‘I resent the impli —’

‘Really, I’m not crying because of —’

‘Russ, don’t wind yourself —’

‘Eighhaaarghhhhh!’

They all swung around to see Trevor the peacock at the door in full display, head on one side. He forced his way inside. Behind him, a mangy dog fox was sitting boldly in the centre
of the farmyard, a bald cuff around his neck where a snare injury was scarring over.

Later, while Russ was plugged into the farm’s dial-up internet connection – which was slower than communicating with semaphore but enabled him to email his hunt saboteur connections with the heads-up about Eardisford – Kat went in search of her dictionary to look up ‘equerry’ and read that it was
an officer of honour, from the French ‘
écurie
’ meaning stable, or ‘
écuyer
’ meaning squire. As she pondered why Seth would need an officer of honour, the second batch of onions burned.