He felt the solid force of the water resist the forward thrust of the wheels, and then the Mercedes pulled free of the stream and surged ahead effortlessly into the dark tunnel formed by the overhanging trees. Then the road curved, to follow the line of the valley, and he could see open country ahead again, with one last glimpse of the child in his rear-view mirror as she broke cover to watch him go, and then took refuge inside the telephone box.
Beyond the ford the road meandered along the slope of the ridge, undulating with its gentle curves. Large single trees, which looked as though they had been planted for effect, rather than groves and plantations, obscured his view of the wider landscape. He became aware that he was in a different sort of countryside before he understood why it was different. Then he saw that there were no dummy1
hedges, only a low iron railing on each side of the narrow road: it was as though he was passing through a private parkland—
Chase—of course, that was what all this land was: Duntisbury Chase—which he had looked up in Mother’s massive double-volumed Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, ever to be relied on, and not least to be trusted as a sure reminder of their first and best owner, who had passed them on to him so long ago.
Chase—
3. A tract of unenclosed land reserved for breeding and hunting wild animals ME. . . ‘ME’ meaning ‘Middle English’, of the medieval variety, when, presumably, those Germanic tribes who had spoken ‘Old English’—‘OE’—had settled their conquests well enough to start breeding and hunting for enjoyment—
4. That which is hunted ME . . .
And 5. Those who hunt (1811) . . .
That certainly covered everything he needed now (the Shorter could always be relied on): here he was, Benedikt Schneider, alias Thomas Wiesehöfer, in the chase, after the chase, and one of the chase, 3., 4., and 5., with all options catered for between the iron railings this fine English summer’s midday—
But ... no further along the chase at the moment, for the road was blocked ahead, with a tractor trying to manoeuvre a trailer loaded with hay bales almost broadside across it.
As Benedikt halted the car a heavily-built farm labourer appeared from behind the trailer, eyed the gap between the side of the vehicle and the gatepost critically, and shook his head in despair.
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The tractor juddered forward slowly.
“Whoa!” roared the labourer to the youth at the wheel of the tractor. “You’ll ‘ave the bloody post an’ all! You just back up an‘
straighten ’er now, an‘ come out proper, like I told you.”
The youth looked from side to side uneasily—as well he might, thought Benedikt sympathetically, for both the road and the entrance to the field were narrow.
“Just take ‘er easy now—like I told you,” shouted the labourer.
Then he seemed to see Benedikt for the first time. “Right ’and down—that’s it!” He climbed the iron fence clumsily and came towards the car. “Sorry, mister. Won’t be long, though.”
“Please—it is no matter.” Benedikt peered at him, conscious again of his thick spectacles, and smiled as he adjusted his voice to the noise of the tractor’s engine. “I am in no hurry.”
“Ah . . .” The labourer nodded, studying the trailer’s painful progress. “Get on with it then, Bobby! We ain’t got all day.”
Benedikt wasn’t so sure that at the youth’s present rate of manoeuvre all day might not be what they would need. But there was nothing he could do about it now, for there was already a muddy farm Land Rover and a couple of boys on bicycles stacked up behind him—he could see them in his rear-view mirror—and peasants were the same the whole world over; whatever they said they liked nothing better than not to give way for men in suits driving gleaming cars.
Resigning himself to delay he started to settle back more comfortably into his seat, looking round casually into the field dummy1
beside him—
It took every bit of his accumulated experience not to jerk upright again, but instead rather to hold the casual glance just long enough for ordinary unconcern, and then to continue slumping down as he would have done if he had never before seen the man striding across the field towards him.
There was no mistake—
He returned his gaze to the youth on the tractor for a moment, and then tipped back his head against the head-rest to study the roof of the car, as though surrendering to boredom.
In fact, he never had seen the man before, not in the flesh. But there was no mistake from the photographs, close-up front full-faced, side and quarter-face, and long-shots snapped craftily to set him in the context of ordinary men—no mistake, even though he was here before he had been anticipated, dressed like any labourer too . . . creased open-necked shirt, stained khaki trousers stuffed into rubber boots—English ‘Wellingtons’, although the great aristocratic Iron Duke with whom mad old Blücher had kept faith at Waterloo had surely never worn anything so bucolic—
No mistake—the face and the size of the man, even the solid, inexorable stride of the man across the rough pasture of the field—
like a tank, thought Benedikt subjectively, out of the printed record
— tank-commander, Normandy 1944 . . . and that had been before he had ever been born, before Mother had met Papa even . . . even
—unthinkably—when Mother and Father had been enemies, before they had been victor and vanquished—
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He felt something touch the car, and twisted sideways towards the sound.
“Sorry, Mister—” one of the boy-cyclists, a snub-nosed, cheeky-faced fourteen-year-old, alongside him now while squeezing past, addressed him briefly “—I ain’t scratched it—got rubber grips, see
—?” He indicated the handle-bars of his cycle with one momentarily-free hand before pushing down on the pedals to accelerate away.
“You get on out of ‘ere, Benje, an’ get off the bloody road!”
shouted the farm labourer. “An‘ you, Darren—your mum’s been lookin’ for you—”
The second cyclist whipped past Benedikt, in desperate pursuit of the departing Benje, who had swerved skilfully past the front wheels of the tractor.
“Little buggers!” The farm labourer shook his fist at them as Darren made a rude two-fingered signal backwards at him before swerving in Benje’s wake.
“Problems, Cecil?” David Audley rested for a moment, grasping the top railing at the labourer’s side, and then leaned on it, observing the road up and down.
“No problems, Doctor Audley.”
Cecil? Benedikt’s concentration was side-tracked against his will away from David Audley by the incongruous name. Benje and Darren were bad enough—they were both English Christian names he didn’t know . . . But Cecil. . . that was an exclusively aristocratic English name—wasn’t there a renowned English lord, dummy1
whom Mother had mentioned, who had lectured to her at Oxford—
Lord David Cecil—
“Bobby’s never going to get that trailer out,” said Audley. “Not if you want to keep those gate-posts, anyway.” He looked straight at Benedikt, before turning back to Cecil. “I bet you a pint of best bitter.”
“Ahh . . . That’s where you’re wrong, Doctor.” Cecil didn’t turn round. “Right ‘and down, lad— a bit more— steady! STEADY!” He drew a deep breath. “Bobby’s goin’ to learn—make it a pint of that Low-en-brow, right?”