Spring at Brookfield: a novel of the Archers of Ambridge

196 Pages·1975·7.18 MB·English

by  Brian Hayles

Spring at Brookfield
A novel of the Archers of Atnbridge
Brian Hayles
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TANDEM
Spring at Brookfield
‘John,’ said his brother, ‘if you want Doris, you’re
going to have to flatten me first, y’know that?’
‘Any time, mate!’
‘Now,’ said Dan. ‘Tonight. And winner takes all.’
John stared at him, surprise overriding his
mounting anger. ‘You serious? The farm as well?’
‘The lot,’ said Dan grimly, unbuttoning his coat.
John followed suit, more slowly. ‘What about the
loser, then?’ he demanded, narrow-eyed.
‘He gets out, don’t he,’ stated Dan. ‘Right out,
clear out of Ambridge. For good. Brookfield
wouldn’t hold both of us.’
‘Done!’ rapped John, then laughed. ‘You bloody
fool. . . .’
‘In here,’ gritted Dan, and led the way into the
barn.
Another novel of the Archers of Ambridge in Tandem
A mbridge Summer Keith Miles
This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade, be lent,
re-sold, hired out or otherwise disposed
of without the publisher’s consent, in
any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published.
Spring at
B rookfield
Brian Hayles
tandem
First published in Great Britain by
Allan Wingate (Publishers) Ltd in 1975
Published by Tandem Publishing Ltd, 1975
Copyright © Brian Hayles 1975
The Archers series © The British Broadcasting Corporation
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By arrangement with the British Broadcasting Corporation
Tandem Books are published by Tandem Publishing Ltd
14 Gloucester Road, London SW7
A Howard & Wyndham Company
Printed in Great Britain by litho by The Anchor Press Ltd
and bound by Wm Brendon & Son Ltd
both of Tiptree, Essex
Chapter One
With an easy roll of his shoulders, the ploughman tilted the
blade from the furrow, shifted its balance on to the landwheel,
and eased plough and horses round on to the headland with a
jingle of chains and harness.
‘Hyup, Badger! Whoa, Jacko . . .! Whoa there, beauties!’
The two shires stood massively still, the only sound now the
champ of teeth on bit, with Badger blowing and nodding his
broad-blazed muzzle. As they lowered their blinkered heads to
grass, the farmer stretched his aching back, slowly. Half an
acre ploughed and nearly half the day gone; the thin Novem­
ber sunlight sifted gently across the corduroy-true lines of the
furrows, their moist cleave gleaming under the pale sky. A
flurry of lapwings blanketed the turned soil at the lower end
of the field where it fell away toward the misted outbuildings
of Brookfield Farm, and as the rattle of distant gunshots
carried across from the woodlands beyond the village, the pie­
bald wings scattered half-heartedly, almost instantly resettling
to their eager scavenging. Wiping his forehead across his
sleeve, the ploughman stared impassively toward the sound of
the now spasmodic guns. The beaters would be moving
steadily forward through the bracken, heading the scuttering
pheasant towards the guns of the Squire and his guests wait­
ing to end the clattering call of the cocks in a fall of bright
feathers; a fine day’s sport, for some.
He’d been a beater many a day himself as a lad, years
back. It was hard work for few pennies even then, but it had
its pleasures, not the least of which was the beer and cheese
and pickles given in great helpings at midday. For the gentry,
of course, there was something more elegant; the afternoon
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shoot was always said to improve by the number of glasses of
port drunk by the guns at luncheon. But thinking about the
privileges of a landowner wouldn’t get these acres finished; the
ploughman took up the smooth leather traces, and gave voice.
‘Yup, my beauties! Yup now, steady . . .!’
A few lapwings fluttered idly upward at his call. Badger
and Jacko took the strain, and with a deft thrust of his burly
shoulders, the bright blade bit deep into the soil once more,
cleaving its inevitable way.
His gun loaded, Randolph Lawson-Hope rested it, butt on
thigh, and casually scanned the lie of the land behind him;
plenty of clear cover there for shooting on the turn, if neces­
sary. It was his especial skill; even now at the age of fifty-five
he had a reputation as a fine shot, and it was a rare bird that
got past him. As a youngster in his father’s day, he would
often walk as flanking gun to the beaters, taking those birds
turning away from the line of guns they found themselves
being driven into; a choice placing that he was quick to take
up if the allotted gun was too aged or otherwise disinclined
to walk the flank all day long. Now the estate was his, how­
ever, his place was in the line facing the oncoming drive. As
host gun he would call the difficult shots, even though today’s
guests were all experienced guns, many of them having exten­
sive shooting estates of their own. This made the challenge
even sharper, for their appraisal of the day’s sport would be
unrelentingly critical, though good-humoured. But already the
day was going badly. Reggie Hardisty, on his left flank at
number 6, had hardly had a bird rise to him all morning, and
he’d make no bones about it over lunch. The shoot could well
end as a total disaster, and the thought of failure ached in
Lawson-Hope’s very bones. He looked along the line of guns;
they were still, relaxed and waiting, ears tuned keenly for the
first sounds of the distant unseen beaters due to advance
through Bramble Wood. A frown gathered behind the Squire’s
narrowed eyes and his face tightened bleakly at the fact that
so far less than 200 birds were hanging in the gamecart. The
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bag for this drive had better be good-or his head keeper
would get a tongue lashing he’d never forget!
The under-keepers, Henry Adsall, Bill Forrest and his eldest
boy Ted, had the beaters already strung out, ready and wait­
ing for George Nugent’s signal when he returned from the
line of guns. The head keeper looked all along the line to left
and right, sharp eyes missing nothing, before turning back to
face Henry’s quizzical stare.
‘Fit to be tied, he is,’ growled Nugent. Then with a sweep
of his arm and a piercing whistle, he set the line of beaters in
motion. ‘If anything goes wrong this time,’ he added, ‘the
Squire’ll have my guts for garters . . .’ He was moving for­
ward with the line now, watching its progress with fierce eyes.
‘So God help anyone who lets me down, that’s all!’ There was
no need to say more; beaters and keepers alike knew that
George Nugent’s temper didn’t stop at words, as would the
Squire. Even at sixty years he could strike a younger man
down with one blow from those massive fists, and few men
chose to take an argument further than that without good
reason; it went without saying that George Nugent was well-
respected, especially with several pints under his belt of a
Saturday. While he ruled the line it moved steadily and with­
out flagging or racing; even Walter Gabriel didn’t try any of
his usual tricks, having tasted the head keeper’s knuckles only,
two weeks back and still bearing the marks to show for it.
The chill breeze brought the sound of the beaters to Lawson-
Hope’s keen ears, and he tensed, judging their distance. They
moved steadily closer, their quiet advance punctuated by the
sharper rattle of their sticks on treetrunks, stumps and saplings.
They were still half a mile away; there’d be minutes to wait
yet. Again he looked down the line, his pale eyes squinting
keenly. Charles and Digby were chatting quietly to their ladies,
a situation that Lawson-Hope reluctantly tolerated; his own
wife, Lady Hester, would never dream of accompanying the
guns however fashionable it might become, for which he
thanked God. And then his eye fell on Anthony. The Squire
had kept his son at the stand to his immediate right for both
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of the morning’s drives, not out of a sense of pride but as a
goad. He looked at the slender boy and coldly tried to assess
the sum of those eighteen years. The face was Hester’s, especi­
ally the eyes; slightly too bright, almost feverish, ready to dis­
solve from laughter into sadness at the downturn of that soft,
sensitive mouth, in her so moving, in the son so weak. So too
the lank fall of hair on to the pallid forehead —‘quite romantic,
like the times’ as Hester so fondly put it as she presented
Anthony to her salon jackals. That was his place, at the town
house in Chester Square among the city set. His presence
here was like salt rubbed into an open wound: Dear God,
prayed Lawson-Hope agonisingly, why couldn’t it be his
brothers here instead! Shamed in the same instant by his own
weakness, he glowered curtly at Anthony only to find that the
boy wasn’t even aware of his father’s intense stare. Languidly
watching the trees ahead, the boy smiled slightly at a red
squirrel skipping from branch to branch; it paused, apparently
surveying the elegant death-trap below, then disappeared into
the bole of a half-dead oak. Lawson-Hope swung his gaze to
his front; all else was swept from his mind as he concentrated
on the approaching moment of the kill.
Anthony threw a sidelong glance at his father and saw only
the stone-eyed statue of the man who, five years before, had
laughed so good humouredly at Anthony’s first ungainly efforts
to land a trout. Now, his reflexes triggered only by the seasons
and their sports, Father lived for horse, gun and rod as though
seeking a personal tally against Nature. It had been so dif­
ferent before Sarajevo. . . .
‘Mark over!’
The Squire’s sharp cry of warning brought Anthony
abruptly back to the present, but the first lone bird was not for
him. He watched the pheasant glide forty feet above the
nearly vertical twin barrels of Digby Wentworth’s gun, then
cartwheel from its line of flight in a disjointed tangle of limbs
and feathers, finally falling into the bracken behind him. A
split second later came the crisp sound of Digby’s shots. The
row of guns were fully alert now; from inside the spinney
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