Chapter Two #2
‘Hiyo,’ he says when he spots me, with a finger-waggling sort of half-wave. He shows all his top teeth when he speaks. If his clothes hadn’t given him away as a member of the upper classes, his booming, southern, boarding-school accent does the trick.
‘Evening, sir.’ I put my net to one side, to be polite.
‘Now, let me see,’ says the man, looking me up and down. ‘Either you are a very under-prepared poacher, or you’re the new gardener.’
‘Got it in one, sir,’ I say. Wipe a hand on my overalls before extending it. ‘Vee Morgan.’
‘Maurice Reacher.’
I’ve already guessed as much. We shake hands, his grip soft and slightly moist.
‘I am so pleased to have you here with us. You can’t imagine the struggle we’ve had to fill the role.
One reads such complaints in the news about unemployment, and yet it seems that, when it comes to it, nobody actually wants to work.
’ His words are cheery enough, but a deeper complaint lurks beneath them.
‘I reckon it’s probably the location, sir,’ I offer.
He nods, as if considering this. A little surprised to be talked back to, perhaps.
Seems to respect it. ‘You think? Yes, I suppose everyone does want to move to the city these days. God knows why. I’m pleased enough to stay there sporadically, but to live there?
With all those people around you?’ He scoffs, theatrical.
‘You do get tired of them all.’
Left out of the conversation, Mutton comes nuzzling up to me, snout slick with pond scum.
‘What?’ asks Reacher. ‘Oh yes, Cardiff, wasn’t it?’ He comes closer to pat Mutton on the rump. ‘Wonderful.’
‘No one local wanted the job, then?’ I wonder aloud.
A frown at this. ‘The village rabble? No, they’re all hopeless. Now, Wales. Magnificent part of the country.’ The abrupt change in subject has an artificial ring, as if Reacher’s making an effort to sidestep the topic of the villagers. ‘And what a beautiful language, so lyrical.’
‘Diolch,’ I say, hamming it up for his amusement. I don’t actually speak much Welsh. Just the King’s English – as His Majesty likes it.
‘I took a holiday to the Black Mountains several years ago,’ Reacher goes on, ‘where I was fortunate enough to spot a glorious pair of red kites.’ He pats the binoculars around his neck in demonstration. ‘Do you have any interest in birds, Miss Morgan?’
This isn’t a question I’ve ever given particular thought to. ‘I like them well enough.’
‘Good stuff. We see some excellent specimens around these parts: stone-curlew, corn bunting, hobby, quail, nightingales. You must keep your eyes open for them.’
After I’ve agreed that I will, Reacher goes on to ask me a number of questions about my plans for the garden, my thoughts on this and that.
To begin with, I assume he’s testing my knowledge as a new employee, but after ten minutes, I suspect he’s just the sort who likes to have a natter.
Despite all his bluster, he’s rather charming.
Funny. A bit naughty. I’ll have to accept the fact that he won’t be letting me get back to the pond work any time soon.
‘And I see you’ve been busy with the yews,’ he goes on. ‘Were the hares your idea?’
I grimace at this. ‘They were meant to be rabbits.’
‘Ah well, easily confused. I assumed hares because we’re so close to the Plain.’ My expression must reflect my confusion, as he adds after a moment, ‘You’ve heard of the Salisbury Hare?’
I have not. Shake my head.
‘It’s a local folk tale,’ says Reacher, ‘tangentially connected to the history of Harfold. Supposedly there is a magic hare that lives on Salisbury Plain. If one sees it dance under the full moon, one will enjoy good fortune for the rest of one’s days – although it only shows itself to the good and innocent of heart, naturally.
’ Heavy sarcasm in his tone. ‘It appeared to a distant Lascy ancestor, so the story goes. I thought you were trying to put a pagan blessing on the land.’
It’s too late to admit that I’m not sure of the difference between a hare and a rabbit. I shrug. ‘Not on purpose, at least.’
Reacher hums in consideration. ‘Let’s say they are hares. Bellsy will be delighted.’
‘Bellsy?’ I’m sure I’ve heard him right, but the word is nonsense to me.
‘Lady Lascy. The old girl has a thing about the hare story. She’s very superstitious. We probably shouldn’t encourage her, but it’s good for her to have something to keep the mind active.’
I could swear that Tom had mentioned being a child in the lifetime of Lady Lascy’s father, but here Reacher is talking as if his cousin is geriatric herself. ‘How old exactly is her Ladyship, if you don’t mind my asking?’
Reacher squawks out a laugh. ‘Four years older than me, and that’s what’s important.’ He maintains a cheerful smile, suggesting this is all said in good nature. An established joke that he’s inviting me into.
I prod at the pile of drying pond weed I’ve left on the side, hoping to encourage any stray creatures to scurry free. ‘What’s she like, then?’ I ask, nice and casual, as if I haven’t been wondering this for days now. ‘Besides superstitious, I mean.’
He laughs again. ‘Oh, she’s a menace.’
I’m not sure how to slot this information into my existing, mousy portrait.
A dark brown water spider takes the opportunity to flee, racing panicked back to the safety of the pond.
‘I’ve never met a Lady,’ I say, pulling my hand out of the spider’s route – I’ve learned from past experience that these ones can bite.
‘Lucky you,’ says Reacher, his tone dry.
Obviously I’ve run into the upper classes before, but never anyone with a title.
The Reeses were new money, made from the mines.
And the rich children I’d known as a child, the ones whose nannies came with them to the park, would only have been middle class.
Still, they felt a world away back then.
I remember once I was out playing with some boys from my street – I must have been about ten – and I was wearing this old cardigan of Dad’s because it was chilly that day.
I can still picture it clearly: a brown, stripy thing with an orange trim that I was always stealing off him.
I was tall for my age, so it just about fitted, and I liked feeling as if Dad was keeping me company.
His Pears soap and moustache-wax smell clinging about the fabric.
Anyway, there I was, minding my own business, when this little snub-nosed boy, who was always trotting past with his nanny around that time of day, began to giggle.
I had no idea what he found so funny, until the servant tugged his arm and hissed, ‘You mustn’t laugh; she can’t help it if her mammy doesn’t have any money for a coat. ’
Well, I was absolutely fuming at that! I’d never thought I was poor before – just normal.
After that, I’d gone home crying to Mam at the injustice, only to find that she was having none of it.
‘There’s no use snivelling,’ she’d told me, ‘that’s just the way it is.
Some people get dealt the better hand. But look here, it’s about what you do with your cards.
’ She was a regular bridge player in those days – not a heavy gambler, like, but it was a little fun to be had with the other mams on the street.
‘If you’re clever enough,’ she went on, ‘you can still win the game.’
I spent that evening thinking on Mam’s words, and the next day I went back to that park and searched round until I found a heap of stinking fox shit.
Using a twig, I scooped up a dollop, and then I hid in the bushes near where the boy normally came on his walk.
Sure enough, after a while he appeared on the path with that hateful nanny of his.
I waited until the very moment they had passed me by, then I leapt out and swung the twig in an arc so that it sent the muck splattering all over their backs.
I didn’t wait to see what happened next, just turned and ran, but behind me I could still hear the nanny’s high, horrified scream followed by the boy’s wailing sobs. They were pure music to my ears.
Anyway, here I am, still wearing Dad’s clothes – or his straw hat, at least – and working for a Lady. So that just goes to show where that fox-shit nanny can stick it.
Reacher comes over now to peer at the pond, as if checking my work. ‘And how are you finding it all? I hope the Allens have been treating you well?’
I think of Mrs Allen, sour-faced at the lunch table each day.
The sense that she wants nothing more than for me to disappear.
I wonder if there’s any connection between her attitude and whatever it is that Reacher doesn’t want to discuss about Harfold village.
The tense meal always ends with that sharp ring of the servants’ bell.
The Allens hurrying to answer. Each time it happens, I picture the lady at the other end, her delicate spindle-finger pushing the brass button.
Her touch racing along the web of hidden wires that vein the manor.
The sound of the clapper tonguing the bell.
But what the women of the house lack in friendliness, Tom more than makes up for – he’s an easy-going, solid type.
Seems to have recovered from our little awkwardness at lunch that first day, and he’s generally happy now to chat away without asking me too many questions about myself.
Just how I prefer it. He’s one of those people who can make a story out of anything; he had me listening to a long yarn about woodpeckers for almost half an hour the other day – and I was having a great time of it, too.
‘Tom’s been wonderful,’ I say, tactful.
‘He’s a good man. Cracking worker.’ Reacher nods at his own reflection. ‘Speaking of which, I had better let you get back to it. Coming, Mutton?’
The traitor dog follows after him.