In the Beginning... by Sabrina

In The Beginning…

Sabrina

Autumn, 1956

“Good God, Geoff, what on earth is that?” Arthur Maddocks peered over the loosebox door at the skinny bay pony who turned hollow, frightened eyes on him. “Not up to your usual standard, I must say.”

The Colonel grinned. “Poor old boy, isn’t he? I caught his owner beating him for not being able to pull a cart full of heavy firewood. He must be thirty if he’s a day. The RSPCA doesn’t know what to do with him and I thought he quite might like to end his days more restfully.”

Prudence, Arthur’s wife, wrinkled her well-bred nose. “Rather lowers the tone of the place, Geoffrey dear,” she said in her carrying Roedean voice. She ran a careful hand down her full skirt, afraid of getting dirt on any one of its pristine layers. “Heaven knows what your beautiful hunters think!”

The Colonel had tried very hard to like Prudence – after all, she was his only brother’s wife – but was thankful they lived in London and only came to visit occasionally. This was their first visit in three years, and they had brought their two year old daughter Dora, the Colonel’s godchild, with them. The Colonel hadn’t seen the toddler since her christening.

“Not every horse can be a thoroughbred, Prue,” he said cheerfully. “I like to help if I have the space. After all, a life is a life, isn’t it? Horse or human. Anyway, I’m in the process of buying a new hunter so this old chap will have to have a new home, and I know just the one. Did I tell you I bought the farm next door? Follyfoot, it’s called. Funny, ramshackle old place but poor old Dudley wanted to move into a bungalow. He needed the money and I had plenty. I think this old chap –“ he clapped the pony’s rough, hairy neck – “can happily end his days there. Come on then, it’s time for tea.”

The Colonel led them towards his house, the lovely Georgian building whose classic lines Prudence so admired. Inside, Dora’s nanny was keeping the little girl amused reading to her from a story book.

“Don’t want fairies,” Dora insisted. “Want that one.” And she pointed to a book with a pony on the cover.

“We just read that,” said Nanny Wright patiently.

“Want it again.” Dora stuck her lower lip out and let her lovely huge hazel eyes brim with tears, a prelude to a tantrum. Nanny Wright sighed and opened the pony picture book. It was in her best interests to keep the child quiet as Mrs Maddocks hated the sound of children shrieking, and Dora’s shriek could be particularly high-pitched and unpleasant when she chose. It seemed as if Dora deliberately wound her mother up, something Nanny Wright couldn’t understand. Mrs Maddocks was a gentlewoman in the old-fashioned sense, if ever she’d met one. The child was more relaxed in the company of her father, who, heaven forbid, seemed to turn a blind eye to the concept of mud pies and other filthy ideas and would even carry Dora on his back as if he were a horse. Horses! Honestly, it was all the little girl could think about!

The Colonel’s housekeeper Mrs Porter had set tea up on the lawn, and while the adults enjoyed thin cucumber sandwiches Dora played in the garden, being a pony cantering around, getting sidetracked by butterflies and birds.

“I wish we had a garden like this in London. It’s so gorgeous,” Prudence said wistfully, admiring the herbaceous borders and graceful ancient trees. The afternoon sun gilded her fashionable golden hair, expertly arranged by one of London’s society crimpers. Softened by the light and with her face relaxed by the pretty surroundings she looked ethereal; the Colonel could almost like her and understand what Arthur saw in her.

“At my rank in the civil service we’re lucky to afford the nice flat we’ve got,” Arthur told her. “If it wasn’t for Father’s inheritance we couldn’t live in Belgravia. Speaking of ranks and civil service, news for you Geoff old boy. I’m being groomed for the foreign office. They think I’ve got ambassador potential.”

“Arthur, that’s wonderful! And at your young age. Well done.”

“Well, we’re talking years down the track but in the meantime I can look forward to some rather exotic postings in embassies in a lesser role. Dora will grow up seeing the world.”

“Only in the holidays, Arthur. She must go to school here in England, the expatriate schools are frightful.” Prudence sipped her tea appreciatively. How she’d miss a good cup of English tea when they were in Siam, Australia, Turkey or wherever else Arthur’s employers deemed he would be of assistance. “What about you, Geoff dear? Are you going to stay a bachelor forever? This house needs a woman’s touch.”

The Colonel grinned. “It’s got Mrs. Porter. And I like the bachelor life.” Better to be a bachelor, he thought privately, than be stuck with an ex-Deb Of The Year like Prue. Not that he didn’t have his admirers. And it was his own fault he was so wrapped up in his point-to-point horses last year that he let lovely, gracious Martha, the princess of the hunting fields, slip through his hands and marry Lord Carne.

“So tell us about this farm you bought, Geoff. What are you going to do with it? Be a gentleman farmer?” Arthur rattled his cup against its saucer as he stretched for another sandwich.

“What do I know about farming? I’m a horse breeder.” The Colonel lit his pipe and puffed happily, running a hand through his thick brown hair. “No, I’ll probably use it for broodmares or even livery. Did I tell you I’ve got Slugger working for me now? My batman, lovely chap, saved my life during the War. I found him working as a boxer in a traveling circus months ago – “

Prudence wrinkled her nose again.

“- and I’ve put him in the farmhouse to keep an eye on the property. Poor chap’s had a rough time since the War. His wife died in the bombs over London, and when he came back from the war he rather lost the plot and ran away with the circus. Literally. Wouldn’t we all like to run away from time to time?” he added rather wistfully, although Prudence and Arthur couldn’t conceive what Geoffrey would want to run away from. “Anyway, Slugger and the old pony can keep each other company. I think he needs something to keep him interested and alive.”

Remembering the old pony’s sunken eyes Arthur wondered whether Geoff was talking about the pony or Slugger.

* * *

Slugger wrung the mop out one last time and surveyed his handiwork. Almost up to Army standard, that floor was. The old stove shone with new black, and the dresser had them nice plates the Colonel had sent young Mrs Porter down with. It really felt like a home, now.

Except for one thing.

Slugger sighed and thought of his wife, dead since 1943, hit when a German bomb landed squarely in London as she was on her way to the nearest shelter. Saving a young lass she was, chivvying the girl who didn’t want to leave her love letters behind. That was his wife, always helping others. He wished she could help him now.

He missed the circus from time to time. Oh yes, it was hard work, it was a whirl of one town after another, of people looking askance at you because you were a carny, of living hand to mouth, of learning tricks and how to con people, of spouting patter when you’d rather be quiet. However, it was a family of sorts and it took your mind off young women who shouldn’t have died.

But then it had been time to find roots, and if the Colonel – bless him! – hadn’t been sniffing around the circus with his RSPCA hat on looking for horses being mistreated he wouldn’t have found Slugger. He didn’t find any mistreated horses, either, Slugger was proud to recall. One thing led to another, and the Colonel was looking for someone to live in his farmhouse and start to get the stable buildings back in order. He made it sound a challenge, and to Slugger, after years of boxing and getting hit and hit again, of taking on lads younger and younger and fitter and fitter, it didn’t sound so much of a challenge as a well-earned rest.

He’d die for the Colonel, he would. The finest man in England in Slugger’s books.

Slugger had settled down well in the six months he’d been here. He’d made friends, of sorts, in the village where newcomers took years to be accepted, but was looked on as a bit of an oddity by some and as an eligible bachelor by others. With his cheeky smile, twinkling eyes and thick thatch of brown hair graying at the temples, he had a queue of young and middle-aged female admirers who packed his shopping basket with home-made cakes and jam. Only trouble was, he wasn’t interested. The one girl who mattered in his life was dead, and he wasn’t looking for a replacement. A decade of being punch-drunk and retreating into himself had turned him into a bad conversationalist, and he tended to mutter to himself rather than talk to others.

All in all, the quiet life in the farmhouse after the constant ebb and flow of the circus suited him well. He still spoke to his dead wife, and replied in his head on her behalf from time to time; much less often than he used to, though. Even today he’d noticed the dust under the stove without her having to point it out.

Time for a cuppa. Slugger filled the kettle and sat back in one of the kitchen chairs, kicking his shoes off happily. The kettle had just started to whistle and he was measuring tea into the pot when he noticed a flicker of movement in the yard over the way, beyond the peeling white gate sagging on its hinges with the barely-discernable name Follyfoot Farm hanging askew on the top rail.

Strangers! Out here! Slugger pushed his feet back into his shoes and clapped his cap on his head before rocketing out the door.

“”Ere! Wot you fink you’re doin’? This is private property, innit!” He ran to the gate and swung it open on its creaky hinges. The big oak beside it obligingly dropped a handful of ochre leaves at his feet.

There were three of them: a man, his wife and a young boy, a scrap with dark hair and huge brown eyes. The man held up his hand. “Sorry, mate. Just looking for somewhere to kip the night.”

“Well, you can’t kip ‘ere!” Slugger folded his arms, showing off the boxer’s muscles that were still firm.

The man looked at the ground. “Where CAN we kip then? We’re heading over past Leeds. I got a job in the mine starts Wednesday. I just need somewhere to rest for a night. We can’t afford an ‘otel.”

Slugger noticed the man and woman carried a suitcase each. The woman was pretty in her dark way, fashionable hair, a cheeky face. The little boy – he looked no older than four – was solemn and quiet, the dark eyes taking everything in.

It was the kid that did it. No kid should have to be that quiet, that …knowing. It was a look he’d seen on kids during the war, when they’d been evacuated from London. He’d seen it too when families joined the circus and travelling show to try and earn a quid. The look that said it was all strange and frightening, and they’d much rather be back in their bungalow or flat in their own bed with their toys beside them, knowing where they’d be tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.

“Job in the mine, he says.” Slugger peered at the man; he had that slightly grey appearance that longtime mine work gives to any man; a sense of coal in the skin itself. Hard work. Long hours. Poor bugger. Slugger couldn’t turn them away. “Just the three of you?”

“Yup. This is my wife and my son.”

“Yeah, well. Happen I can do better than the barn for you tonight,” Slugger heard himself saying. “I just put the kettle on. Come on in, have a brew and I’ll find you a bed. Only tonight, mind.”

“Only tonight will be fine,” said the man with quiet dignity. He had the same dark eyes as the child; and they looked as honest, too. The woman was more outgoing, flirting with Slugger as he proudly brought forth two more cups from the dresser.

“Wot abaht the lad then?” Slugger hovered over the dresser. “Glass o’milk?”

“Yeah, be fine, that would,” the woman answered, smoothing her son’s rumpled hair.

The boy smiled when Slugger handed him a glass full almost to the brim of creamy country milk, and his face showed pure delight as he gulped its cool goodness. Slugger wondered how long it had been since the family had had a decent meal. “’Ere, it’s almost tea time. Wot abaht bacon and eggs then? Mind you it’s breakfast food really but it’s all I got to hand.”

“Really, we couldn’t,” the man demurred, but his wife said, “Oh yes, my luv, we could. Ain’t had nothin’ since breakfast and the boy’s right hungry.”

Slugger watched as the family tucked in heartily to crispy bacon and slightly overdone eggs. He’d baked two loaves of bread that morning and they ate most of one of them. Even the boy ate a hearty share, his cheeks getting rosy by the fire and the haunted look leaving his face.

“This your farm then mate?” the man said when he’d finished wiping his plate to shiny cleanliness with a slice of bread.

“Nah, it’s the Colonel’s. I’m like the ‘ousekeeper ‘ere till he sorts out wot to do wiv it. Anovver cuppa?”

“Please. Ta. So he don’t need workers then?”

Slugger shook his head. “”E’s talkin’ abaht puttin’ some of his ‘orses ‘ere. One day.”

“Horses!” The wife shook her head as if such things didn’t exist. Slugger had her picked as a city girl, all flash cheap clothes and permed hair. “All this land… you could put a nice ‘ouse over there, be ever so cosy.” She looked wistfully at the field beyond the stable yard. “Nice li’l bungalow.” She slurped her tea gratefully.

“Aye, you’d be right sick of a nice little bungalow in t’country in no time, lass,” her husband told her. “I’ll have to get us a flat in Leeds while I’m on the mine so’s you stay nice an’ busy.”

“Aye, all them shops!” She grinned.

“I’ll have to work double shift t’pay for it all,” he grumbled, but met her eye with a twinkle. Slugger gathered the woman could be a handful. Weren’t they all? He smiled, but fondly.

“If you’ve finished I’ll show you your room,” Slugger said. There was one spare bed and God only knew where the boy would sleep! Maybe they could all cram into it together. He led them upstairs to the room with the dainty sprigged wallpaper, and the iron bed that in a pinch could hold all of them.

“Right pretty,” said the woman, dumping her suitcase and looking out the window to the stableyard.

“Champion,” her husband agreed. “But don’t get too comfy, girl. We’re out of here tomorrow, mustn’t take advantage of t’man and his boss.”

The little boy spoke at last. “Mam, c’n I play outside?”

Slugger watched with kind eyes as the lad galloped down the narrow stairs. He’d never be a father now; it was all too late. He followed, opened the door and watched the boy race over to the gate and climb its five bars with the joy of childhood, jumping from the top to the ground. He ran happily up the yard, all skinny legs and too-big shorts and red jersey with a hole in one elbow, peering from stable to empty stable. “Don’t be too long!” he called. “It’ll be dark soon!”

The boy waved and Slugger set the oil lamp alight and put it in the window. It cast a warm, welcoming glow. Slugger rubbed his hands. Now what could he give these folk for supper?

* * *

The family was ready to head out soon after breakfast. Slugger used the last of the bacon from Armstrong’s and the last of the eggs from the Colonel’s chickens but reckoned it was worth it to fill that skinny lot up. They ate ravenously, even the boy managing two eggs and two slices of burnt toast.

He loaned the man his shoe kit to clean his well-worn boots and the woman used a cloth on her own shoes, silly things far too pretty to be tramping the country with. The boy, to Slugger’s amusement, aped his dad and cleaned his own little boots carefully, but not carefully enough to stop him getting shoe polish half way to his elbows. He bore the resulting tongue-lashing and scrubbing from his Ma without a word. Finally he was washed and dried and ready to leave.

“We’ll be off then.” The man nodded to Slugger. “Thanks for the lodgin’, mate. I doan rightly knaw what I’d’ve done withou’ you. We were knackered, we all were.” He held out a hand and Slugger shook it firmly.

“Good luck in the mines,” he said solemnly. Not for worlds would you get him underground! He admired the man’s dignity as he carefully picked up both battered cardboard suitcases – as if they were the finest pigskin! - and followed his family out the door.

He watched them walk off, the boy holding his mother’s hand and glancing backwards, ever backwards to the farmhouse and stableyard. They moved slowly, knowing they had a long journey and there was no point in hurrying themselves into exhaustion. The woman carried one of Slugger’s string bags stuffed with bread and anything else he could spare from the larder.

No sooner had he put the dishes into the sink but the Colonel’s 1950 model Jaguar – in the palest of sky blues – purred to the door. Slugger saluted automatically and dropped a cup into a thousand pieces.

“Morning, Slugger!” The Colonel jumped jauntily out of his pride and joy and waved happily.

Slugger didn’t so much notice the Colonel as the fashion plate who unfolded from the back seat, wearing a dress so voluminous it could have made nice curtains for the kitchen, and heels so pointy you could use them to put the little holes in shortbread. This was the real thing, the Paris original of the high street clothing the miner’s wife had worn. The chap who unfolded himself from the front seat had the Maddocks look about him – Slugger correctly identified the Colonel’s younger brother.

“Slugger old chap, you haven’t met my brother Arthur and his wife Prudence. They’re up from London for the weekend. Thought I’d show them the old place, eh?”

Prudence looked like she’d stepped in something unspeakable and that London was, in fact, where she’d much rather be at the moment. Arthur peered around with keen eyes and was happy to rather absently shake Slugger’s hand.

“Miles from anywhere,” he said cheerfully, squinting into the blue sky distance with interest. “How do you cope, old chap?”

“Eh? Wot? Well, I like the quiet, don’t I sir?” Slugger grinned.

“One would have to,” muttered Prudence. “Not that it’s quiet here in the country. Those wretched birds. I swear they woke me at five.”

“Now, now, Prue,” the Colonel chided. “I’m sure you have noises in London that would wake me before the dawn too. It’s just a matter of what one’s used to. Where’s Dora?” He glanced into the car but the child had darted out behind her mother and was nowhere to be seen.

Slugger noticed a toddler trotting happily down the track the family had gone just minutes before, dressed in a very white frock spotted with pale pink flowers, frilly petticoats, and matching white shoes. He glanced at the woman and decided not to say anything for a moment. What sort of mother dressed a kid all in white to visit a farm? He shook his head. The kid would be fine; there was no danger in the next field save – ha! – ancient cowpats.

“Dora!” Prudence screamed, glaring at Slugger as if it were his fault the child had escaped. “Dora! DORA!”

“Darling, don’t shriek,” Arthur said mildly. “She won’t have gone far. Children like to explore and this is all very new for her.” He glanced slightly anxiously from side to side, however.

“It’s DIRTY,” Prudence hissed. Slugger took immediate offence. The woman was standing on his very nicely scrubbed stone path, and there was nothing dirty about it.

“She’s probably just looking for horses,” the Colonel put in helpfully, lighting his pipe. “After all, the yard is full of stables.”

“Horses! Geoffrey, it’s all you ever THINK about!” Prudence turned on one spike heel leaving a white scrapemark on the stone. She strode to the edge of the rise and saw her daughter trotting happily down the hill away from her and towards some itinerants heading for the next rise. “Arthur! Get Dora back this instant!” She pointed.

Dora had seen the people quite far ahead of her and noticed to her delight one of them was a child. She rarely got to play with children of her own choosing; her mother chose her playmates. The little boy looked interesting; she rarely played with boys as Mummy said they only liked playing in dirty mud or with guns, both of which were apparently bad things. She started to run towards them, kicking up dust with her elegant little shoes. She tripped once and fell face down in the dirt, but was so excited at the prospect of catching up with these fascinating strangers that she didn’t stop to howl but simply ignored the little graze on her tiny kneecap and cantered on.

The boy saw the flash of white movement out of the corner of his eye, stopped and turned. His mother pulled up sharply. “It’s a girl,” he said loudly. “She’s pretty.”

“Come ON,” his mother urged. She clocked the Jaguar and the posh people and surmised that one of them was The Boss, and the last thing she wanted was trouble.

“But she’s pretty.” He watched her watch him, her eyes solemn, her thumb heading towards her rosebud mouth, her face framed by bobbed brown hair topped with a huge white satin bow. She was so pink-and-white, like a picture book princess, unlike any little girl he’d ever seen in real life.

“Come ON, Steve!” Catherine Ross gave his arm a tug. “You don’t mess with Quality. Remember that, son!”

He took one last, regretful look and returned the little girl’s wave as his mother quickened her pace and almost made him run.

Arthur Maddocks ambled towards his daughter, Prudence in mincing pursuit, her heels wavering dangerously in the dirt. He swung Dora onto his shoulders and she screamed in delighted surprise. “Is a boy, Daddy!” she managed finally. “Is a BOY there!”

“He’s gone now,” Arthur said, and it was true. The Ross family had walked swiftly over the rise and out of sight.

Dora’s face fell. This place was so wonderful – all that grass all long and soft and spongy, and a boy to play with, just once -! But now Mummy was rushing up, telling her how naughty she was to run off, and that the little boy was bound to be dirty and have germs and wasn’t the sort of NICE little boy she should play with and now her dress was filthy, absolutely filthy and oh God, she was BLEEDING…

Dora started to cry. Her knee wasn’t really sore but once Mummy started fussing over it it suddenly started to hurt, but not as much as the thought of losing a potential playmate, one who could roll down the grassy hills with her like the children in the stories that Nanny read to her. Daddy cuddled her all the way back to the farmhouse, and she wondered if the children in stories had Mummies like hers. If they were allowed roll down hillsides, they probably didn’t.

Dora was still sniffing and getting into trouble for wiping her nose on her pristine white sleeve when Uncle Geoff – who was good fun – lifted her up and sat her on the gate, holding her firmly while she got her balance.

“Look, Dora!” he pointed down the hill to where one of his grooms was leading the old pony towards them. “What’s that?”

“Horse, Uncle,” she breathed.

“Good girl! Shall we go and say hello?” He heaved her onto his shoulders and she clung to his hair as he trotted down the path, neighing convincingly. Her parents could hear her giggling as they glanced helplessly at each other.

Slugger scratched his head. A horse! Bloody great brutes they were. One end kicked and the other end bit. What on earth did the Colonel expect him to do with a horse? Sighing, he thought he’d better find out, and, hands in pockets where brutish horses couldn’t bite them, followed the Colonel to the pony.

* * *

Dora had fallen asleep in the Colonel’s living room, curled up kittenishly in a corner of his big squashy sofa. Only reluctantly had they prised her from the pony and tempted her back into the Jaguar for the short drive to Uncle Geoff’s. Mrs Porter’s splendid chocolate cake, with real chocolate, had been the clincher.

“She’s a good kid,” the Colonel said softly, smiling at the smears of chocolate on Dora’s cheeks.

“She is,” Arthur murmured back. “Lots of spirit.”

“She’s a tomboy,” her mother rejoined disapprovingly. “Always wants to be outdoors and mad about wretched ponies. I do hope she grows out of it before she starts school.”

The Colonel was startled. “Heavens, Prue, she’s only two!”

“One must think ahead.”

The Colonel muttered something that sounded like writing to the Queen for the hand of Prince Charles while there was still time, but surely, Prudence thought, she must have misheard. “Geoffrey dearest, we must be heading back home now. We’ve a cocktail party this evening.”

The Colonel rose. “Lovely to see you, Prue dear,” he said, hoping the lie wasn’t too obvious. Why, oh why, couldn’t his brother have married someone just a BIT more down to earth?

The brothers embraced clumsily. “Good luck with the overseas jobs, Arthur.”

“Thanks, Geoff. I’ll miss old Blighty. I’ve really enjoyed coming back here this weekend. It’s been marvellous catching up with you.” He gave his older brother a last clap on the back, as if he were a favourite hunter. “Sorry we didn’t get the chance to go for that ride.” Their eyes met and both acknowledged Prudence’s boredom on all matters horsy.

“Well, heaven knows when you’ll get it in now. I’ll miss young Dora growing up. She’ll be a fine girl, Arthur, don’t you worry. And don’t,” he whispered, “let Prudence ruin her.”

“Try my best, old boy,” Arthur hissed back.

“Arthur! Come along, we must get Dora into the car before she wakes. Nanny. Nanny!” She chivvied poor Nanny Wright, laden with bags, into their car.

Arthur picked up the sleeping child, who didn’t move as she was lifted up, put tenderly onto the back seat and driven silently away.

The Colonel chewed on his pipe, sucked the smoke, watched the big black car cruise with a powerful hum out of sight. “Sweet child,” he said to nobody. “And she’ll grow up all over the world and probably not remember a single thing about this weekend.”

* * *

Slugger watched the pony as it nuzzled into its water bucket. The grooms had brought feed and bedding, and Slugger, when he wasn’t boxing, had helped the circus lads with the liberty horses so he knew the rudiments of horse care. Those liberty horses were flippin’ great brutes – he’d once had a bruise for a month from a liberty hoof - and once this skinny bugger got its strength back it’d be a flippin’ great brute an’ all.

“Ah well, yer company I expect, ain’t yer?” Slugger patted the pony’s neck and the animal turned liquid eyes on him and nudged his hand with a muzzle that felt like velvet. Slugger grinned, weakening. The pony was a softie. “An’ there’s only one o’yer. It’s not like the Colonel’s gonna fill this place wiv ol’ nags, is it?”

The end