Brushing through a stand of ferns, they had roused a cock pheasant, the sudden frenzied beating of its wings making them both start. Sally’s excited barking had shattered the deep silence of the trees.
The place where they’d finally settled, under a tall beech at the edge of the wood, was a favourite spot of his. From here he could see the whole valley spread out before him backed by the deep folds of the Downs, whose grassy crests still glowed with the fading light of afternoon.
‘The blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs.’
Sam was fond of quoting Kipling’s line, which he’d first heard from his eldest, Rose, who’d learned it herself at school. Now, whenever his eye fell on the broad green hillocks he thought how like giant sea creatures they were.
It wasn’t only the farm buildings he had to watch out for. Mr Cuthbertson wanted him to keep an eye on the land as well and from where he was sitting he was able to cast his gaze over a wide area, westwards in the direction of Elsted and east as far as the red roofs of Oak Green.
That day the valley seemed deserted. The only figure he spotted was that of a lone man and he was some distance off, on the bare crest of the ridge opposite, gazing up at the sky through a pair of binoculars.
Sam shifted his own gaze to the stream that ran down the centre of the valley, searching for telltale wisps of smoke, any signs of a camp fire in the straggling line of willows and tangled bushes that marked the course of the waterway. Not surprisingly, the empty farms had become a magnet for tramps and Mr Cuthbertson had told him to keep them away as far as possible and at all events to make sure they didn’t try to take up residence in any of the buildings.
He had a point, too. Once the weather turned chilly and they began to light fires for warmth and not simply for cooking there was the danger they would set fire inadvertently to whatever barn or stall they’d taken shelter in.
Sam had his own way of dealing with the problem. Whenever he came across any of these vagrants he would stop and chat with them for a while, letting them know in a friendly way that there was someone keeping an eye on the property. They were welcome to pause for a bit, he would tell them, so long as they did no damage, but not to linger unduly; not to make themselves at home. Above all, they were to keep away from the farm buildings; otherwise a charge of trespass might follow.
It wasn’t a part of his job he enjoyed. Quite a number of the tramps were known to him, familiar faces from years back. He regarded most of them as decent men down on their luck and more often than not these meetings ended with Sam the poorer by a florin or two.
The gypsies were another matter, sullen and close-mouthed when their paths crossed, the hostility in their eyes rooted in some centuries-old soil of resentment. Whether this arose from their own natures, from the manner in which they lived, or from the way they were treated by others – by people like himself, if it came to that – was a question Sam had never resolved, and for want of any satisfactory answer he’d fallen back on a brisk, no-nonsense front when dealing with them. But the business left a bad taste in his mouth and he was always relieved when it was over and he saw the backs of their caravans receding.
He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to four.
‘Come on, Sal. Time we were off.’
Tapping out his pipe, he rose, but had to wait while Sally levered herself up, groaning as she did so. Poor old girl. Rheumatism was starting to get into her joints. He hoped it wouldn’t reach the stage when he’d have to put her down. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to do it.
‘Off we go, then.’
The quickest way back to his van led along the ridge to the saddle where the path ran. They soon reached it and Sam paused for a moment to cast his gaze down the length of the footway. He was thinking how easy it would be for Eddie to walk over here after work.
‘Sally!’
The high-pitched cry came from behind them and he looked round. A young girl dressed in a gymslip and carrying a school satchel was hurrying up the path towards them from the direction of the road. Sam waved to her.
‘Look, Sal-there’s your friend.’
Sally, whose eyesight wasn’t all it had once been, seemed unconvinced. She let out a speculative bark. Then her tail began to wag.
‘Oh, Sally! Didn’t you recognize me?’ The girl came up to them.
Shedding her satchel and her white straw hat, she went down on her knees and threw her arms around Sal’s neck.
Sam stood over them, grinning. ‘I thought we’d missed you today,’ he said.
Nell was her name. Nell Ramsay. She lived in Oak Green, but went to school in Midhurst, returning on the bus every afternoon. It had been early spring when they’d first bumped into her on Wood Way and since then she and Sal had become bosom pals.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Watkin. I should have said good afternoon to you first.’ Smiling, she looked up, brushing the dark hair from her eyes.
‘How’ve you been, love?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Though she talked posh, she had no airs at all and during the course of the summer Sam had found himself beguiled by her simple manner and the openness with which she talked to him whenever they met. Truth to tell, she reminded him of his own Rosie, who was a year younger, and fair to Nell’s dark, but had the same eager expression in her eyes. The look young girls got when they were on the brink of womanhood.
Thanks to her lack of shyness, he already knew all about her – and her family. They had moved from Midhurst to Oak Green three years before, Nell had told him, but her father continued to work in the town as a chartered accountant and drove her to school every morning. Up until this year her mother had always fetched her in the afternoons. But since turning thirteen – Nell was the youngest of the Ramsays’ three children, her two brothers being at university – she’d been deemed old enough to make the journey on her own.
‘I was saving up a biscuit in case we met, Sally. But I’m not sure I ought to give it to you now. You’re getting so fat.’
At the word ‘biscuit’ Sal’s ears had pricked, and now, as though under the spell of her moist brown eyes, Nell reached blindly into her satchel and brought out a ginger snap, which was quickly disposed of. Sam could only shake his head and sigh. Greediest dog on earth.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to dash today.’ Nell searched for her things on the ground. ‘Aunt Edith’s coming to tea and Mummy doesn’t want me to be late.’ She planted a kiss on the silky head beside hers and stood up. ‘Goodbye, Mr Watkin. Goodbye, Sally.’
Grinning, Sam waved a farewell to her and then watched as she went hurrying off down the path, hoisting her satchel onto her shoulders and clutching at her hat. He turned to leave, but had to pause once more, finding Sally firmly planted on her haunches behind him, busy scratching behind one ear. Or trying to. It was a struggle to reach the awkward spot these days and she was putting all her effort into the task.
‘Come on, old girl. I’ll do that for you.’
But though he gave her a good scratch, it failed to produce the desired result, and as soon as he’d finished she went back to what she’d been doing before, leaving Sam no option but to wait until she was ready to move on.
He glanced down the path again and saw that Nell was well along it, approaching the fork that would take her to Oak Green.
Then he noticed something else. The bloke he’d spotted earlier, up on the ridge opposite, across the valley. The one with the fieldglasses. He was still there.
Sam had taken him for a birdwatcher. There were plenty of them around, particularly in the summer, and it was easy to spot them. They were forever scanning the heavens, sometimes making notes of what they saw. But whatever this bloke was looking at now, it wasn’t a bird. He had his binoculars trained on the valley below him, which was strange, Sam thought, since there was nothing there to see. Nothing of interest.