I tried my best to warn everyone out of the way as Baptista came galloping back, her steed blasting out steamy puffs from its nostrils and her riding crop raised to strike Miss von B. And as the horse’s hooves began thrashing round his prostrate figure a loud scream came up from the mud and the Major. As Baptista Consuelo’s swipe missed. The ducking von B, in the same instant caught the young golden blonde beauty with the most marvellously disguised back hander which landed a stunning swat across Baptista’s backside just as that part gleamed exposed from under her jacket flap. The splash of mud from the flying horses totally obliterating the Major. Whose protesting voice now seemed to come out of nowhere.
‘Stop it. I’m secretary of the hunt. Stop it.’
The fox had doubled back. And must have crossed over this bit of bog. For the scent mad hounds were sailing at us. And even trying, to sniff under the mud bathing Major. Now came thundering the whole field, the brave contingent foremost. The nervous contingent following not far behind. Even caught up were a few of the cowards, all pounding straight towards this newest mêlée. Foxy still in front of the Master who was shouting most angrily and now obscenely shrieking for him to stay back out of the way.
‘Get behind me you brazen cunt.’
Fighting Murphy the Farmer said if his senses still served him there was no doubt that a devilishly clever fox had put the hunt to rout. And reined up together on a knoll over the débâcle were the parson and priest friends of my mother who were both clearly disturbed by the curses flying and the imminent maim about to be wrought. The parson tendered a glinting silver cup of refreshment to the priest as these two clerics made ready to help each other administer the last rites of their respective churches to those recently quickly becoming in need of same. Two bogged down riders were already making unbrave noises as they sank atop their struggling horses. While Luke and Foxy’s father were either side of the rather eccentric Lord otherwise known as the Mental Marquis in a yellow hunting cap who carried American six shooters hidden under his coat and always volunteered his vocation as being that of a debauchee. Following him close was the mad veterinary surgeon carrying a vastly long amputation knife in a sheath stuck down his boot, so, as he said, to give quick treatment to any hunt member who had hopelessly mangled a limb in the field. Being that it always made the injured chap lighter carrying him to the hospital. And when the begrimed Major saw this bloodthirsty gentleman closing down upon him he was vociferous.
‘For god’s sake don’t let that tree surgeon at me. I’m merely temporarily incapacitated and I don’t want to be permanently disembowelled.’
‘Tally ho.’
Someone said it was the first sensible utterance heard in a long while. And it was out of the Master’s lips who was pointing with his whip. At the ruddy fox. Who, would you believe it. Was now suddenly in the midst of us. And wouldn’t he know it was the safest place. Running in a circle from the converging hounds through horses’ legs and even some human. Of those recently dismounted to assist the Major. And Baptista now striking out with her fist at von B. Who was a consummate expert with her crop. Swatting Consuelo again and again. And even thwacking one back handed across Baptista’s face where a red welt blossomed smarting across her cheeks and nose.
‘O my god you’ve struck me. Someone please, kill her the filthy bitch. She’s not fit to be out with civilized people.’
‘You, you little bitch, are the bitch.’
‘I’ll show you yet who’s the bitch.’
Baptista raising her own whip. Slamming her heels deep into the sweat stained flanks of her chestnut stallion. This sixteen hand monster charging forward straight at Miss von B who raised her own whip and spun my father’s once polo schooled horse round. Both whips landing. Foam flying from the equine mouths as they churned in a circle digging deep gouges in the turf. The mud bespattered Major, hands waving as he stood.
‘I say ladies, ladies. What is the difficulty here.’
The Major attempting to rapid step out of where he stood between. Turning round and round to avoid the orbits of the flying hooves. Arms raised to ward off the stray blows landing from the lashing leathers. Which the Major quickly decided was the least of it as these quadruped wild tramplings and stampeding could be curtains not only for him but for everybody.
‘I say, quicko, let’s have orderliness.’
‘Ah jasus in a second you won’t have your quicko testicles.’
‘Who said that. Out with it. Who said that.’
A dowager lady riding side saddle, a winter hot house rose in her lapel, her black skirt spreading midships on her horse and the shadow of her veil across her face, let out a holler as her mare bolted and ran away with her. And two more horses bucked and threw their riders. Just as Miss von B, her vast diamond sparkling from its setting in the gold pin stuck through the folds of white satin at her throat, took a grab of Baptista’s lapels, and both ladies’ bowlers bounced off. Poor Mr Arland, his hands over his face. Von B pulling Baptista forward. Makes one remember the strong tapering muscles in her arms bigger than mine. And all the polishing and dusting and holding open of large books she does.
‘Let go of me you filthy foreigner.’
‘You common commoner, I shall teach you a lesson. You will not again try to ride me down.’
‘Let go.’
‘Ladies, this is most ungracious, can we not determine what is the difficulty here.’
A dismounted local squire rumoured to be erudite, stepping innocently forward to mediate and as Baptista’s mount reared with a massive erection he wisely jumped instantly backwards. With the great chestnut stallion taking bites out of the air. Von B backing away her mount and again catching Baptista by the collar, dragging the fist flailing girl backwards from her horse. The long blonde tresses, stuck with large tortoiseshell combs now hanging loose around her head as she fell. Landing smack on her bottom, hands and legs asprawl on the squelching boggy ground. And her mount galloping off rigid pricked, blasting farts, its hind hooves kicking in the sky.
All but Foxy and the Mental Marquis of the brave contingent took off after Charlie the Fox. And both the nervous and coward contingent contentedly remained behind to watch the fight. All nicely arranged in the sunshine in a safe semi circle. Foxy sitting there among the gentry, a great grin on his face. And I believe I heard him shout at the height of the mêlée.
‘Up the Republic.’
And just as the huntsman’s horn away in a copse beyond the bog sounded the quick pulsating notes of a tremolo to signal that the hounds had killed the fox, Baptista was feeling around her on the grass for a stone. Gathering up instead a fistful of grass to throw at von B.
‘You horrid horrid person you.’
‘You brat you are spoiled.’
‘You are a whorish servant.’
‘Ha ha, you make me weep.’
‘You disgusting foreigner.’
‘Now you make me laugh.’
‘My Lord Marquis just don’t sit there, shoot her, you’ve got guns.’
‘My dear Baptista, I also retain the very vaguest of morals One mustn’t fire upon unready ladies.’
‘She’s no lady. She’s a tramp.’
Baptista knelt on the moist turf her knees staining brown. Mr Arland dismounted, was crossing to where she’d lost her bowler and picking this up and brushing it clean with his sleeve he approached, bowing gently forward, his own top hat with suitable respect sweeping from his head, and leaning down to the rising Baptista he proferred his assisting hand.