Green and Pleasant Land Read online

  Gideon snapped his fingers. The dog, tail waving like a frenzied flag, bounded up to him, sat almost upon his feet, looking up into the dark face with single-minded devotion. Philippa thought – but could not be sure – that Gideon’s eyes softened a little. He bent roughly to ruffle the long, soft ears, then straightened. ‘Tea?’

  Reluctantly Philippa shook her head. ‘I s’pose I ought to be getting back really. And I don’t think I’ll be able to get away to help feed the chicks this evening. Can I come again tomorrow?’

  He nodded brusquely. ‘If you want.’

  She flashed her ready, infectious grin. ‘Good. I’ll see you then. ’Bye Kili.’

  The dog lifted her handsome head but did not leave Gideon’s side. Gideon nodded goodbye, watched the sturdy figure as she turned and tramped back along the rutted track in the direction of the Hall. After a moment he took off his hat, shrugged out of his multi-pocketed jacket and hung both up on a nail banged into the back of the door. Then he plunged a hand into one of the capacious pockets and pulled out a slip of paper. He had nearly asked Philippa to read it to him – scrawled as it was in speedy if elegant handwriting, the deciphering of it had been difficult. Not that he couldn’t read. Printed lettering he could manage perfectly adequately. But this—.

  He spread it out, laid it upon the table. Toby Smith. The name was clear enough. And a time – six o’clock. Gideon shrugged, stuffed the note back into his pocket. Dordi, dordi! Whatever Mister Toby Smith wanted with him or of him at six o’clock would have to wait. The chicks needed feeding – as anyone on the estate should know. And – as anyone on the estate from Sir James down to the humblest assistant keeper equally should know – at this time of the year the chicks came first. Everything else took its turn.

  Gideon opened the cupboard, pulled out a bottle of whisky, poured a small measure into a glass that stood upon the wooden draining board, meticulously stoppered the bottle, put it back upon the shelf and closed the cupboard door. He picked up the glass, meditatively swirled the liquid around it for a moment then in a quick and easy movement tilted his head and tossed it back. He stood for a moment of quiet enjoyment as the tot warmed throat and belly.

  The silence of the woodlands and the fields – of his life – closed about the little hut like a companionable and sheltering hand.

  The hard-drawn, sombre lines of his face relaxed a little. From somewhere within the rustling woodlands a cuckoo called. The dog stirred at his feet. He bent to pat her, thinking of the girl who had just left. Normally he had very little contact with guests at the House, except in the winter during the shooting parties that were Sir James’ favourite pastime; and then the relationship could never be anything but between patron and trusted and competent servant. This girl was different. She had turned up at the coops a week or so ago and, in the straightforward and engaging way that he now recognized as typical of her, had introduced herself and launched into a spate of questions in the same breath. His monosyllabic answers had appeared not to daunt her in the least. He answered her questions; that was all she required. He had surprised himself. Her sunny smile and friendly nature had been unexpectedly hard to resist; despite himself he had found himself drawn to her and while, as always, he had made no great effort to respond to her uncomplicated friendly overtures neither had he, as he normally might, made any positive effort to deflect them. And so she had attached herself to him. She popped up by his side at any odd time of the day, sometimes escaping the house in a misty dawn to tramp through the dew-laden grass by his side or – as today – waiting in the ride at the time she knew the chicks must be fed to accompany him to the coops. He found her almost childlike candour amusing and in a strange way touching. ‘I absolutely adore Aunt Fiona, and it’s so kind of her to have me for the summer while Mother and Eddie are in London, but I can’t help it, I do find the Hall and all those servants most dreadfully intimidating. Parks looks at me as if I’m a rather scruffy dog who ought to be kept in the gun room. And all those blessed knives and forks – golly, it’s enough to take one’s appetite away!’ She had laughed then, her sudden, infectious giggle. ‘No, now I shouldn’t exaggerate. Nothing does that, worse luck!’

  Her mother, it seemed, was a close wartime friend of Lady Fiona’s, her stepfather a politician. Clever, self-educated and ambitious, he was one of the new breed of Labour men who had tasted power in the brief Administration of 1924 and who had every intention of tasting it again in larger measure.

  ‘I’m glad Mother married him. They’re good for each other,’ she had said, and then with another of those grins, ‘though no one could accuse them of seeing eye to eye all the time.’

  Her frankness and trust was refreshing, her lively curiosity concerning all that went on about her appealing in the extreme in a world where jaded disinterest was considered the thing. Almost Gideon had come to look for the small, sturdy figure; her laughter and that blithe and splendid smile were hard to resist. A pity, he thought now, with the reassuring and accustomed edge of cynicism, that the next couple of years would see her emergence from childhood to young womanhood. That would put paid to those attractive, straightforward qualities if nothing else did.

  Gideon Best filled his battered kettle from the pump outside the door and set it upon the hob to boil for tea.

  * * *

  Toby had handled stubborn and wordless insubordination often enough to recognize it when he saw it.

  ‘That’s settled, then, Best,’ he said, easily. ‘You come in at number three for the House. Shame about the mix up, but there you are – we’re short a man, and yours was the name that came out of the hat—’ He faced the dark unbelieving gaze with impervious confidence. Gideon it was who looked away.

  Toby perched upon the corner of the desk in the deserted Estate Office, swinging one elegantly flannelled leg. Around them, ledgers and account books, papers, bills and old agricultural or field sports magazines cluttered every surface. ‘Should be a good day,’ he said, pleasantly.

  Gideon hesitated long enough for insolence before he said, ‘Aye – sir.’

  Toby’s smile did not flicker. ‘That will be all, Best. See you on Saturday. Match starts spot on eleven. You’ve got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The saturnine face was absolutely expressionless. In the past ten minutes, Gideon had been forced to reassess his too quickly formed opinion of this young man, an experience he had not enjoyed.

  ‘We don’t want another mix up about time, do we?’ It was eight o’clock. The shadows stretched long across the lawns outside.

  ‘No, sir.’ Gideon turned to leave.

  ‘Oh – and Best?’

  He stopped. Waited.

  ‘Get someone to take over your duties for Friday night, would you, there’s a good chap? Get yourself a good night’s rest. I’ve heard some splendid reports of you.’ The clear eyes were level and friendly. ‘Are they exaggerated?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’

  ‘Well we don’t want to disappoint Sir James, do we? He’s quite set his heart upon winning this match. Pleased as punch he was when I told him who we’d drawn—.’ Toby let his pleasant voice trail off. His eyes were very sharp. ‘It would be a shame, Best, if you weren’t on form. Don’t you think?’

  The harsh line of the gipsy’s mouth crooked sardonically. ‘Aye, sir.’

  Quiet as a shadow he left the room. Toby sat for a moment looking after him, leg swinging, eyes thoughtful as he reached into his breast pocket for his cigarette case.

  * * *

  ‘But, Toby, you can’t! You don’t understand! This is the only time that Gideon does anything with anyone! For anyone! Oh – you know what I mean!’ Almost incoherent with outrage Philippa faced Toby. Her small, square, suntanned face was bright with anger, her brown shoulder-length hair a bird’s nest.

  Toby was regarding her with a combination of astonishment and irrepressible amusement. ‘Flip, sweetheart, what are you talking about?’

  Philippa came as close to stamping her fo
ot as she ever had. ‘You know very well what I’m talking about, Toby Smith! Gideon Best! That’s who I’m talking about. You’ve fiddled it! Don’t deny it, Toby, I know you – you fiddled it! To make Gideon play for your side because he’s the best batsman. Well, you can’t! It isn’t fair! Gideon always plays for the village. He always wins the match for them. It’s the only time that anyone ever talks to him – the only time any of them admit he exists!’ She threw up two small hands in exasperation. ‘Can’t you understand that?’

  He was laughing outright now, adding fuel to the flames of her anger. ‘Flip – for heaven’s sake! – it’s a game. That’s all. We were a man short. I put the names in a hat – Gideon Best’s was the one that was drawn—’

  ‘How very convenient!’

  ‘—and I’m absolutely sure that the man doesn’t care one way or another which team he plays for—’

  ‘You’re wrong. Wrong! He does care. But he’d never say so. Oh, Toby, please—!’

  Toby assumed an expression of angelic patience.

  ‘—please choose somebody else. Don’t make poor Gideon play for the House. The village will never understand – they’ll think he volunteered or something, to suck up to Sir James – and he’d never try to explain. Toby, he’s a gipsy. An outsider. And a gamekeeper. A good one. Half the village spend half their lives trying to get the better of him. And fail. They resent and dislike him. He hasn’t a friend. Not a single friend—’

  ‘Oh?’ Toby’s blue eyes crinkled. ‘Small brown-haired girls with dirty socks don’t count?’

  She ignored that, ‘—except for the cricket match. He’s a brilliant batsman – everyone says so – and since he came he’s always won the match almost single-handed—’

  ‘You can’t win a cricket match single-handedly, Flip. There are another ten men on the pitch.’

  ‘I know that. But he’s head and shoulders above everyone else. It’s the only time the village want him. The only time he goes into the pub and someone buys him a drink. The only time people smile at him and pat him on the back—’

  Toby lifted himself from the chair, towered above her, smiling still. Philippa fell silent, biting her lip. ‘Did Best send you to talk to me?’ The soft voice was cool.

  ‘No! No, of course not! He wouldn’t!’

  Toby let the silence lengthen. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you. So –would he be happy, do you think, to hear you doing battle for him?’ He paused a moment to let the question sink in.

  ‘I – I wanted – it just didn’t seem fair—’ She knew how weak that sounded, how childish. She flushed to the roots of her hair.

  He relaxed, reached a brotherly hand to tug at her hair. ‘Lame dogs again, Flippy? A less likely one I can’t say I’ve ever come across.’ He smiled suddenly, coaxing her, his eyes warm, ‘And anyway, how come you know so much? Only here a couple of weeks and you’re knee-deep in village politics already? You really are the most terrible old gossip you know.’ His voice too was warm, edged with affection and amusement. Normally she would have been lost.

  She stepped back from him, clasping her hands before her, face stubborn. ‘You fiddled it,’ she said again, obstinately. ‘You want to win this beastly silly match, and you fiddled it.’

  He sighed.

  ‘And poor Gideon has to pay for it.’

  ‘“Poor Gideon” as you so inappropriately call him will be playing alongside a Cambridge Blue and an ex – a very “ex” I have to admit.’ Toby was laughing again. ‘Fifty if he’s a day – an ex-Middlesex County player.’

  ‘He’d rather play against them.’

  Abruptly, Toby lost patience. He turned away, reaching into a box on the table for a cigarette. ‘Don’t be boring, Flip. Run away and play.’

  She stared at his back for an outraged moment, then without a word turned and marched straight-backed out of the room, cannoning into the tall, bright-garbed figure who was coming through the door as she did so.

  ‘Lordy, Flip, whatever’s wrong?’ Rachel’s voice was light; surprise widened the vivid eyes. Philippa did not look at her. It had taken her an hour to screw up the courage to face Toby, to risk his wrath and his laughter, both so rarely used against her. And she had made a mess of it. To make things worse she suspected that Toby had been right; Gideon himself would think the affair none of her business and would certainly not thank her for poking her nose into it. Fighting tears she mumbled something to Rachel and fled.

  Rachel watched her go, faintly bemused, then sauntered into the salon, eyed Toby a little caustically. ‘Not another broken heart?’ she asked, lightly. ‘Honestly, Toby, I thought better of you than that. The child’s all but your sister.’

  ‘Shut it, Rachel.’ Toby strolled to the tall window, stood looking into the golden summer’s afternoon. From the tennis court came the sound of racquet and ball, raised voices, laughter.

  ‘Drink?’ Rachel had gone to the vast and ancient side table where stood a silver tray gleaming with bottles, decanters and glasses.

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Soda, please.’

  She splashed the whisky into the heavy glasses, syphoned the water, carried the glasses to where he stood by the window. She was tall and slender, her movements graceful, her colouring startling. Her bobbed hair and the clear curve of her brows were jet black, her eyes, in contrast, the deep and velvety colour of violet petals. In the new fashion she had courted the summer sun and her skin was tanned to an even gold. Had she smiled a little more often she might have been called beautiful; but smile or no smile no man could ignore Rachel Patten when she entered a room with her swinging, provocative walk, her brilliant, unconventional clothes and the cool challenge of those long-lashed eyes. No man but Toby Smith, who had known her since childhood and who, she sometimes thought, would not truly have noticed her had she stood naked before him. ‘So—’, she handed him a glass, ‘did I or did I not just see her flee this place in tears? What was wrong with her? If I didn’t know the depths of your devotion to each other I’d have said you’d had a barney?’

  He rolled the glass between his hands, still not looking at her. ‘Storm in a tea cup. This ridiculous match tomorrow. The child’s taken it into her head that some desperate injustice has been done to an underdog. You know Flip.’

  ‘Indeed I do.’ She eyed him, astutely. ‘And has it?’

  He turned at that, smiling a little. Despite herself she warmed, smiled back. Knowing as she did that her smile meant nothing to him. ‘To be honest with you, I’ve never met less of an underdog than Gideon Best. He’s James’ pet gipsy. A gamekeeper. Built like a barn, ugly as sin, black as Satan and insolent as hell.’ His voice was mild, a little injured. ‘And here I am doing him a favour.’

  ‘And is he duly grateful?’ Rachel’s voice was dry.

  Toby tossed back half of his drink in a mouthful. ‘It would seem not.’

  ‘Well, well. Sounds like a uniquely independent minded gentleman to me. I look forward to meeting him.’ Rachel reached to take the cigarette from Toby’s fingers, drew on it, handed it back. She was dressed in Turkish trousers of a vivid emerald green and a peacock blue silk bolero. Glittering green and blue bangles clashed musically upon her wrists and matching, swinging, slender earrings emphasized the long and elegant line of her throat. The outfit was – she knew – exotic and infinitely enticing, her tanned skin warm and smooth where the-short jacket lifted above the waistline of the trousers. She had met young Jason Bentley halfway up the stairs and, gratifyingly but far from unexpectedly, he had all but keeled over at the sight of her. Her warm, deliberate smile had tied his tongue and activated his prominent Adam’s apple until she had actually thought he might choke. Equally satisfying had been the reaction of the elderly Sir Charles Fulmore. It had been the alarming if amusing possibility of bringing about some kind of seizure that had led her to abandon that old and eager gentleman and sent her in search of Toby and, i
f possible, mischief. She threw herself into a chair, long legs in the diaphanous silk stretched, crossed, before her. ‘I hear,’ she said, over-sweetly, unable for her life to keep the acid edge from her tone, ‘that the dainty foot’s been found that fits the crystal slipper?’

  He looked, for a moment, uncomprehending.

  ‘Cinderella,’ she said, witheringly. ‘The love of your life? A wife.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘A plain and elderly lady, Fiona tells me. That should be fun.’

  He refused to rise to her malice. ‘Daphne is a couple of years older than me, yes. She’s pleasant and she’s—’ He hesitated, clicked his long, well-shaped nail against his glass.

  She sipped her whisky, eyes sparkling, wilfully mischievous, over the rim of the glass. ‘Yes?’ she asked, interestedly. And then, as he did not continue, ‘Rich?’ she suggested, gently.

  He lifted cool, bright eyes to hers, held them levelly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very. Of course.’

  She tried to hold steady against what she saw in those eyes, and could not. This was a dangerous game she played, and so often she lost. She dropped her gaze to her glass. ‘I hope you’ll all be very happy,’ she said, suddenly and quietly savage. ‘You, she and all the little tenners.’

  He said nothing.

  She tossed back the remainder of her drink, rose from the chair with a studiedly graceful movement, so searingly aware of his eyes upon her and in such a pure anguish of need that she was suddenly truly afraid that it might, this time, get the better of her; that she might drop to her knees before him, grovel, howl, weep, plead – the brief and awful image sharpened further her acrimonious tongue. ‘I hope the lady knows she’s marrying a cheat and a bounder?’

  His eyes widened. ‘Sorry?’

  She sauntered to the tray, put her glass back upon it, glanced back across her shoulder, the old, barbed, challenging look. ‘I’m with Flip. I don’t believe for a moment that you pulled Gideon Best’s name out of a hat.’