glowed through lush creepers. It was even larger than he had surmised the night before. He counted eight shuttered windows on the first floor, another eight on the second, one of them the room he had slept in. They were bisected in the middle by four long, narrow windows reaching from top to bottom. These were clearly over the stairwell. Elaborately built brick chimneys adorned the roof. No belfries, he noted with relief. Two wings extended at right angles either side, symmetrically facing one another. More windows, more shuttered rooms. He found at the back a set of crumbling stables, doors swinging loosely.
Joe had had little truck with horses. His grandparents had given him riding lessons when he was eleven as a birthday present but he had enjoyed neither the riding nor the associated equine myths and conventions. The people who looked after horses seemed like a different species. He preferred football and footballers. But now, faced with empty stalls, he felt the absence of a horsy presence. Stray bits of straw and hay lodged in corners, scattered grains of corn, the pommel of a disintegrating saddle upended on the cobbles, a stirrup rusted with age, were the only mementoes of the life there had once been. All that remained was silence and hollow emptiness. It filled him with desolation and despair. He sank into a corner and wept, mourning his past and fearful of the future marching inexorably into the present.
Lonely though it had been, he regretted leaving the life he had carved out for himself on the cliff and contemplated his new situation with growing resentment. He had no wish to stay with these people who were off-hand, unwelcoming and rude, insensitive to his plight. He made a half-hearted attempt to return to the river but failed to find his way through the thick woods. It was useless, all useless.
He returned to the kitchen as the light was failing. Otto and Randolph were preoccupied, attending to an iron cauldron bubbling on the stove and a hunk of meat roasting on the spit.
‘That’s your deer.’
Randolph pointed towards it and threw more vegetables into the pot. A wave of nausea overcame Joe and he bent down to hide it, swallowing the vomit that had risen, sickly and sweet, into his throat. He felt embarrassed by his squeamishness, accustomed as he had now become to killing, skinning, cooking and eating animals, his only companions in the wild nature he had inhabited. But there had been a plea in the deer’s eyes as he bashed its brains out that haunted him. He would have preferred never to eat meat again but knew this was impractical. God, or whoever was in charge, had willed that living things preyed on one another. Divine distribution. He remembered with nostalgia the neatly packed lines of supermarket meat that concealed their association with the animals from which it had been cut.
‘You don’t have to eat it, if you don’t want to.’
Joe looked at Otto in surprise. How did he know? The other boy came in, relieving Joe of the necessity of replying.
‘I’ve hung the rest.’
Meredith was short, stocky and tough. He had a ruddy complexion, clear blue eyes and reddish hair; his hands were horny and calloused. Like Randolph, he sported a short beard, the same colour as his hair. He looked like a Viking.
‘I’ll help the girls finish.’
He spoke with the same soft burr as they all did, lengthening the vowels and lingering on last consonants.
Joe felt ill at ease. Towards dusk the two girls came in and everyone sat round the table. The one beside him, Belinda, was extraordinarily pretty with pale blue hooded eyes, fair hair that curled gently, a face like a doll’s and a smile that showed her gums. This might have been ugly. In her it was an attribute. Perhaps here was somebody he could talk to. He tried a few opening gambits and she was affable enough; but not forthcoming.
The meal over, he offered to help clear up. This was refused.
‘You start work tomorrow.’
Belinda left the
Joe had had little truck with horses. His grandparents had given him riding lessons when he was eleven as a birthday present but he had enjoyed neither the riding nor the associated equine myths and conventions. The people who looked after horses seemed like a different species. He preferred football and footballers. But now, faced with empty stalls, he felt the absence of a horsy presence. Stray bits of straw and hay lodged in corners, scattered grains of corn, the pommel of a disintegrating saddle upended on the cobbles, a stirrup rusted with age, were the only mementoes of the life there had once been. All that remained was silence and hollow emptiness. It filled him with desolation and despair. He sank into a corner and wept, mourning his past and fearful of the future marching inexorably into the present.
Lonely though it had been, he regretted leaving the life he had carved out for himself on the cliff and contemplated his new situation with growing resentment. He had no wish to stay with these people who were off-hand, unwelcoming and rude, insensitive to his plight. He made a half-hearted attempt to return to the river but failed to find his way through the thick woods. It was useless, all useless.
He returned to the kitchen as the light was failing. Otto and Randolph were preoccupied, attending to an iron cauldron bubbling on the stove and a hunk of meat roasting on the spit.
‘That’s your deer.’
Randolph pointed towards it and threw more vegetables into the pot. A wave of nausea overcame Joe and he bent down to hide it, swallowing the vomit that had risen, sickly and sweet, into his throat. He felt embarrassed by his squeamishness, accustomed as he had now become to killing, skinning, cooking and eating animals, his only companions in the wild nature he had inhabited. But there had been a plea in the deer’s eyes as he bashed its brains out that haunted him. He would have preferred never to eat meat again but knew this was impractical. God, or whoever was in charge, had willed that living things preyed on one another. Divine distribution. He remembered with nostalgia the neatly packed lines of supermarket meat that concealed their association with the animals from which it had been cut.
‘You don’t have to eat it, if you don’t want to.’
Joe looked at Otto in surprise. How did he know? The other boy came in, relieving Joe of the necessity of replying.
‘I’ve hung the rest.’
Meredith was short, stocky and tough. He had a ruddy complexion, clear blue eyes and reddish hair; his hands were horny and calloused. Like Randolph, he sported a short beard, the same colour as his hair. He looked like a Viking.
‘I’ll help the girls finish.’
He spoke with the same soft burr as they all did, lengthening the vowels and lingering on last consonants.
Joe felt ill at ease. Towards dusk the two girls came in and everyone sat round the table. The one beside him, Belinda, was extraordinarily pretty with pale blue hooded eyes, fair hair that curled gently, a face like a doll’s and a smile that showed her gums. This might have been ugly. In her it was an attribute. Perhaps here was somebody he could talk to. He tried a few opening gambits and she was affable enough; but not forthcoming.
The meal over, he offered to help clear up. This was refused.
‘You start work tomorrow.’
Belinda left the
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