Corsican and Douglas, but they were skirted with deciduous saplings, beech, maple, larch and sycamore. Then, as the Wolseley left the main road, they entered an avenue of great oak and beech trees, arboreal patriarchs, set wide apart, so that each followed each in majestic spectacle. Their sheer size and complexity of foliated architecture was a surprise and an astonishment: one felt one had never really seen trees till now, and that now one was seeing too many too quickly.
‘You should come here in the autumn,’ Metfield murmured complacently. ‘I usually make a trip or two out here, then. Some of the colours you wouldn’t believe, much less put a name to. It’s a different world.’
The road here was spaced with wide verges, letting in sun and a fret of sky. But beyond the great trees lay the regiments of pines, dim, motionless and enclosing. Truly a different world. Their deep, pillared glades had an electric presence. At their feet grew dull snowberry and purple-leaved bramble, with the occasional pallor of white campion. And the dividing rides, with their painted signatures, also departed into enclosed dimness, with verges rough with tangled grass, and flecked with campions, and the chalked blue of bugloss. Here, no doubt, the deer lived, though the forest offered no sight or sound of them. It was simply still, and silent, with its own silence; where the trees lived, in tree time.
They turned left into Warren Ride, along which ran a regular though bumpy track. Metfield slowed the Wolseley, not so much because of the bumps as to avoid raising a cloud of soft, reddish dust. A car approaching them without this precaution was trailing a dense and billowing banner; after it passed, for the next hundred yards, they were seeing the trees through a rusty haze.
‘The bastard!’ Metfield exclaimed. ‘One day I’ll do a joker for that.’
‘It’ll be chalk dust,’ Gently said. ‘Coloured with iron. Does it occur anywhere else round here?’
Metfield pondered a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The tracks are mostly marl or gravel.’
‘There was orange stain on the tyres of the caravette.’
Metfield nodded. ‘There’d been rain,’ he said. It was still puddly on Sunday, along by the fence.’
‘Just along there?’
Metfield kept nodding. ‘And I need my backside kicking, sir,’ he said. ‘But perhaps it isn’t too late now. We haven’t had any rain since.’
‘It’s too late for Walling,’ Gently said. ‘I saw his car in town yesterday. It had been recently washed and polished. Though that could be a pointer, too.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Metfield said, through his teeth. And went on nursing the car down the ride.
On the wide verge to the left a number of cars and caravettes were parked, and now and then, as they passed a cross-ride, they caught glimpses of distant strollers; then the verge ended, the trees encroached, and the track became even rougher, ending at last in a thinned-out glade, where two or three other cars had penetrated.
‘This is where we turn off, sir.’
Metfield dropped the Wolseley into second. Short of the glade by about fifty yards was an intersecting ride to the right. At the junction was a stake marked with painted arrow-heads, which the Forestry used to indicate their trails, and recent tracks of vehicles were visible in moist leaf-mould at the entrance to the ride. Metfield turned into it. At once they were in the deep shade of the trees. On one hand were the grey boles of Douglas pines, on the other the pinker shafts of Corsicans. The track was broken by outcrops of chalk and gulches of partly-dried mud; and there were carpets of polished needles which set the Wolseley’s wheels spinning. Metfield pressed on gamely. After a few twists and turns, the track brought them to a view of the sky on the left, where a belt of majestic Scots pines stood a little clear of a meshed fence.
‘Mogi’s Belt.’ Metfield stopped the car before they bore off along the line of the
‘You should come here in the autumn,’ Metfield murmured complacently. ‘I usually make a trip or two out here, then. Some of the colours you wouldn’t believe, much less put a name to. It’s a different world.’
The road here was spaced with wide verges, letting in sun and a fret of sky. But beyond the great trees lay the regiments of pines, dim, motionless and enclosing. Truly a different world. Their deep, pillared glades had an electric presence. At their feet grew dull snowberry and purple-leaved bramble, with the occasional pallor of white campion. And the dividing rides, with their painted signatures, also departed into enclosed dimness, with verges rough with tangled grass, and flecked with campions, and the chalked blue of bugloss. Here, no doubt, the deer lived, though the forest offered no sight or sound of them. It was simply still, and silent, with its own silence; where the trees lived, in tree time.
They turned left into Warren Ride, along which ran a regular though bumpy track. Metfield slowed the Wolseley, not so much because of the bumps as to avoid raising a cloud of soft, reddish dust. A car approaching them without this precaution was trailing a dense and billowing banner; after it passed, for the next hundred yards, they were seeing the trees through a rusty haze.
‘The bastard!’ Metfield exclaimed. ‘One day I’ll do a joker for that.’
‘It’ll be chalk dust,’ Gently said. ‘Coloured with iron. Does it occur anywhere else round here?’
Metfield pondered a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The tracks are mostly marl or gravel.’
‘There was orange stain on the tyres of the caravette.’
Metfield nodded. ‘There’d been rain,’ he said. It was still puddly on Sunday, along by the fence.’
‘Just along there?’
Metfield kept nodding. ‘And I need my backside kicking, sir,’ he said. ‘But perhaps it isn’t too late now. We haven’t had any rain since.’
‘It’s too late for Walling,’ Gently said. ‘I saw his car in town yesterday. It had been recently washed and polished. Though that could be a pointer, too.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Metfield said, through his teeth. And went on nursing the car down the ride.
On the wide verge to the left a number of cars and caravettes were parked, and now and then, as they passed a cross-ride, they caught glimpses of distant strollers; then the verge ended, the trees encroached, and the track became even rougher, ending at last in a thinned-out glade, where two or three other cars had penetrated.
‘This is where we turn off, sir.’
Metfield dropped the Wolseley into second. Short of the glade by about fifty yards was an intersecting ride to the right. At the junction was a stake marked with painted arrow-heads, which the Forestry used to indicate their trails, and recent tracks of vehicles were visible in moist leaf-mould at the entrance to the ride. Metfield turned into it. At once they were in the deep shade of the trees. On one hand were the grey boles of Douglas pines, on the other the pinker shafts of Corsicans. The track was broken by outcrops of chalk and gulches of partly-dried mud; and there were carpets of polished needles which set the Wolseley’s wheels spinning. Metfield pressed on gamely. After a few twists and turns, the track brought them to a view of the sky on the left, where a belt of majestic Scots pines stood a little clear of a meshed fence.
‘Mogi’s Belt.’ Metfield stopped the car before they bore off along the line of the
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