The Price of Butcher's Meat

To Janeites everywhere

and in particular to those who ten years ago in San Francisco made me so very welcome at the Jane Austen Society of North America's AGM, of which the theme was “Sanditon—A New Direction?” and during which the seeds of this present novel were sown. I hope that my fellow Janeites will approve the direction in which I have moved her unfinished story; or, if they hesitate approval, that they will perhaps recall the advice printed on a sweatshirt presented to me (with what pertinence I never quite grasped) after my address to the AGM

—
RUN MAD AS OFTEN AS YOU CHUSE, BUT DO NOT FAINT
—

and at least agree that, though from time to time I may have run a little mad, so far I have not fainted!

Hi Cass!

Hows things in darkest Africa? Wierd & wonderful—I bet—but not so w&w as what weve got here at Willingden Farm. Go on—guess! OK—give up?

Houseguests!

& I dont mean awful Uncle Ernie on one of his famous surprise visits. These are
strangers!

What happened—at last after our awful wet summer Augusts turned hot—not African hot but pretty steamy by Yorkshire standards. Dad & George were working up in Mill Meadow. Mum asked if Id take them a jug of lemon barley—said it would please dad if I
showed willing
. Weve been in armed truce since I made it clear my plans hadnt changed—ie do a postgrad thesis instead of getting a paid job—or better still—a wellpaid husband—&
settling down!
But no reason not to
show willing
—plus it gave me an excuse to drive the quad—so off I went.

Forgot the mugs—but dad didnt say anything—just drank straight out of the jug like he preferred it—so maybe mum was right & he was pleased. In fact we were having a pleasant chat when suddenly old Fang let out a growl. Lost half his teeth & cant keep up with the sheep anymore—but still manages a grand growl. Dad looked round to see what had woken him—& his face went into Headbanger configuration.

—whats yon daft bugger playing at?—he demanded.

Youll recall that in dads demography anyone living outside Willingden
parish is a
daft bugger
till proved innocent. In this case I half-agreed with him.

The DB in question was driving his car fast up the lane alongside Mill Meadow. How he got through the gate I dont know. The HB had to take his chain & lock off after the Ramblers took him to court last year—but hes fixed a catch like one of them old metal puzzles we used to play with as kids. Maybe the DB just got lucky—he thought!

He was driving one of these new hybrid 4 × 4s—you know—conscience without inconvenience!—& when he saw how good the surface was—(
tractor tyres dont grow on trees!
—remember?)—he mustve thought—great!—now for a bit of safe off-roading.

What he didnt reckon on was what George calls
dads tank trap
—the drainage ditch where the lane bends beyond the top gate & steepens up to the mill ruin.

New tourist map came out last year—with
water mill
marked—no mention of
ruin
. Result—a lot of DBs decided this meant Heritage Centre—guided tours & cream teas! After losing out to the Ramblers—dad was forced to accept “bearded wierdies” trekking across his empire—but the sight of cars crawling up his lane drove him crazy. So one day he got to work with the digger—& when hed finished—the drainage ditch extended across the lane—a muddy hollow a hippo could wallow in—the
tank trap!

Most drivers flee at the sight of it—but this DB obviously thought his hybrid could ford rivers & climb Alps—& just kept going.

Bad decision.

For 30 secs the wheels sent out glutinous brown jets—like a cow with colic—then the car slipped slowly sideways—finishing at 45 degrees—driver side down.

—now hell expect us to pull him out—said the HB with some satisfaction.

Moment later the passenger door was flung back. First thing out was a floppy brimmed sunhat—sort posh lady gardeners wear in the old Miss Marple movies. Beneath it was a woman who started to drag herself out—followed by a scream from below—suggesting shed stood on some bit of the driver not meant to be stood on.

She looked round in search of help—& there we were—me—dad—George—& Fang—staring back at her from 50 yds.

—help!—she called—please—can you help me?—

George & me looked at the HB—G because he knows his place—me because I was curious what hed do.

If it had been a man I doubt hed have moved—not without serious negotiation. But this was a woman doing what women ought to do—calling for male assistance.

—reckon wed best take a look—he said—
we
meaning him & George—of course.

He drained the lemon barley—thrust the jug into my hands like I was a docile milkmaid—& set off toward the accident—G close behind—even old Fang got to go.

I dropped the jug onto the grass. Sods Law—hit a stone & cracked.—O shit!—I said. It was that old earthenware one thats been around forever. I knew the HB would reckon bringing out the lemon barley in anything else would be like serving communion wine from a jam jar. O well—from now on hell have to make do with a plastic bottle!

I set off after them. This was the first mildly interesting thing to happen since I came home—& I wasnt going to miss it.

Woman was thin & wispy—bonnet askew—big straw shoulder bag round her neck like a horses feed sack. She looked so worried I thought the driver must be seriously injured—but now I know its just a couple of notches up from her normal expression of unfocused anxiety. Another thing I noticed—words sprayed on the car door—pro job—elegant cursive script—
Sandytown—Home of the Healthy Holiday.

She was saying—please can you get my husband out? I think hes hurt himself—

—no—Im fine—came a mans voice—really—just a sprain—nothing in the world to worry about dear—
aargh!
—

As he spoke his head had appeared at his wifes waist level. Gingery hair—soft brown eyes in a narrow mobile face—not bad looking even with a bloodied nose—mid to late 30s. He was trying a social smile—till presumably he put more weight on his ankle than it could take.

George jumped up on the side of the vehicle—hooked his hands under the womans armpits—& swung her clear of the muddy sump into dads arms. At 18—G makes Arnie Schwarzenegger look like a hobbit! On our skiing trip last December (yeah that one—when I hooked up with lousy Liam)—I could have rented G out to my mates by the hour. In fact—if you count free rounds of glühwein as rental—thats exactly what I did!

The injured man came next & the HB passed the woman on to me—looking relieved to be rid of her. Thought of making some crack about him preferring men—he still thinks gays should be treated surgically—but decided not time or place.

—youre so kind—many thanks—Ill be fine in a minute—Mary my dear are you all right?—burbled the man.

She said—Oh yes. But your nose dear—its bleeding—

—its nothing—must have banged the wheel when we stopped—he said—rubbing at a mark across his bridge.

Looked very like a footprint to me. I gave him a plus for diplomacy. Made a change from dads Old Testament determination to track all bad shit back to females.

The DB now decided to introduce himself. Unfortunately this involved twisting out of the HBs grip to offer his hand with the inevitable result to his ankle.

—Tom Parker—he said—my wife Mary—
aargh!
—

Another plus—in dads eyes anyway. Had to be English—first thing they taught us in psych school was only the English risk pain for the sake of politeness.

—let me have a look—I said—set him down there dad—

Dad obeyed. Must be a first!

—my daughters had St John Ambulance training—he said proudly. Touched me for a moment to hear him bragging about me—then he spoilt it by dragging you into it!

—when she wanted to go to college—he went on—I told her she ought to sign up for training as a nurse like her sister Cassie—but of course it was like banging my head against a brick wall—

1st time the famous phrase had cropped up in a week. Found Id been missing it!

I said—ignore my father. When he dies were going to build him a head-stone out of cracked bricks. Now lets get that shoe off while we can—

The DB winced as I removed his shoe & sock—then regarded his enlarged ankle with a kind of complacent pride. I was about to offer my not very expert opinion when he forestalled me—addressing his wife—something like this.

—look Mary—some typical subcutaneous swelling—the beginnings of what will doubtless be an extensive ecchymosis—tarsal movement restricted but still possible with moderate to acute pain—a strain I would say—certainly no worse than a sprain. Thank heaven I have always mended quickly. What a laugh they will have at home when they ask how I hurt myself—& we tell them I did it looking for a healer!—

This odd bit of self-diagnosis—with its odder conclusion—confirmed dads suspicion he was dealing with a particularly daft DB—& he burst out—what the hell were you playing at? This is a country lane not a public racetrack!—

Parker replied—youre right of course. But I didnt anticipate even someone as unworldly as a healer would let his driveway fall into such bad repair—

—its worse than bad—its dangerous!—chimed in his wife—The man should be taken to court for letting it get into that condition. How does he expect people to get anywhere near his house?—

& George put his large foot in it by saying with a grin—aye—theres not many get past dads tank trap—

The woman looked at him suspiciously—while dad gave him one of his shut-your-gob glares—then changed the subject by demanding—house?—What house?—

—Mr Godleys house. There—said Parker.

He pointed up the hillside toward the ruins. From below—the alders in full leaf—that one bit of wall still standing does look like there might be a whole building behind.

—you mean the old mill? Well you could have saved yourself the bother—declared dad—Nowt to be seen up there—all the machinery were taken out twenty years ago—you can see some of it along at the Dales Museum—if youve got time to waste. As for the building—roofs fallen in & most of the walls. Id have knocked the rest down years back only some daft bugger got a conservation order put on it—

—but that cant be right—protested the man—darling pass me the magazine—

The woman dived into her bag & produced a copy of
Mid-Yorkshire Life
. It was folded open at a short peice entitled “Healing Hands”—with a pic of a slightly embarrassed bearded guy holding up what were presumably the hands in question. His name—thisll make you laugh—was Gordon Godley!

—look—said Mr Parker triumphantly—its got the address quite clearly here.
The Old Mill—Willingdene.
Seeing the village signposted as we drove back from Harrogate—a sadly unproductive visit—once it may have been a serious spa town but now it has given itself over almost completely to commerce & frivolity—I naturally diverted & inquired of a young lad the way to the Old Mill. He gave me most precise directions which brought me here. Are you now telling me that is not the Old Mill?—

Im giving you Tom Parker verbatim—else youd miss the flavor. Its like listening to an old-fashioned book come to life!

Dad smiled. You know how much he enjoys putting
daft buggers
right.

—it were once a mill right enough—& its certainly old. But theres not been anybody living there for half a century or more & Ill tell you why. This here is Willing
den
—just the one
e.
Willing
dene
is way up at the northern end of the dale—

If hed been a footie player—hed have set off running round the meadow—whirling his shirt over his head! He just loves winning—no matter who gets beaten. Remember those games of snap we used to play?

Mr Parker seemed more cast down by this news than by his sprained ankle.

—Im sorry my dear—he said to his wife—I should have taken more notice—

Taking all the blame on himself again—even though she was the one with the mag article. Nice—I thought. His reward was her continued terrierlike support.

—it makes no difference—she said—this is marked on the map as a public right of way & someone ought to keep it in a proper condition—

—Charley—said dad quickly—whats the verdict on that ankle?—

I couldnt see any point in disagreeing with the patient.

—I think Mr Parkers right & its just a sprain—I said—a cold compress will help & he certainly shouldnt put any wieght on it—

How was that Nurse Heywood?

—right—said dad—Charley bring the quad—lets get Mr & Mrs Parker down to the house—make them a bit more comfortable. George—you stop here & get the car pulled out of that mud. Clean it up & check for damage. Ill get on my mobile—tell your mother to put the kettle on—Im sure these good people are ready for a nice cup of tea—

I caught his eye & let my jaw drop in mock astonishment at this transformation from dedicated xenophobe to Good Samaritan.

He actually blushed! Then he gave me a sheepish grin that invited my complicity.

I grinned back & headed off toward the quad.

Hes not such a bad old sod really—is he? As long as he gets his own way. Bit like you! All right—& like me too. The fruit doesnt fall far from the tree. But you led the way. If you hadnt stood up to him & gone off to nurse—I doubt Id have had the nerve to hold out to go to uni & do psychology—& now after 3 years—whenever he gets close to driving me mad—I try to think of him as a case study!

But Ive still not told you how the Parkers came to be houseguests.

Thing was—when G pulled their car out of the tank trap—he found it wouldnt steer properly. Winstons garage said they could fix it—but theyd have to send away for a part. Tomorrow—they said—but knowing Winstons Im not holding my breath.

When Parker heard this he said—thats fine. No problem whatsoever. Perhaps—Mr. Heywood—you could give me the number of the inn I saw in
the village?—It looked a comfortable sort of place for us to rest in till the cars ready—

I could see the thoughts running through dads head like hed got a display screen on his brow. Being the most litigious man in the county—in Parkers place hed have been thinking compensation soon as his car hit the tank trap. Locally his views on
daft buggers
are well known—& he even boasts about his various stratagems for discouraging them. But these days—with tourism rated higher than farming in the rural economy—not everyone approves of him—& the enthusiastic gossips of the Nags Head bar would leave the Parkers in no doubt who to blame for their “accident”!