Too slow
Jeremy Clarke
I've moved back into the Buddhists' house. I'm looking after their one-eared rescue cat while they sail their yacht back from Sardinia. I was lying on the kitchen floor in my Calvin's shadow-boxing with this cat, when he lashed out unexpectedly and drew blood on my face and arm.
It was a measured combination of blows, executed with speed, accuracy and a kind of lordly arrogance. He stabbed the tip of my bugle using a single claw as a stiletto, then he raked my shoulder with a full set. He slipped his attack past my guard faster than I could register it almost, let alone evade it. As a purple-belt karateka, my first reaction was one of admiration. Speed, accuracy, technique and controlled ferocity of that high order are the stuff of a martial artist's dreams.
My nose and my shoulder dribbling claret, I tried to slap him back. Bruiser fled out through the back door, through which I could see my next-door neighbour looking over the hedge. Tom looked as if he wanted to speak to me. I went out and faced him across the privet. Tom's wife died last year and he's still in a state of shock. This morning, however, he seemed even more of a zombie than usual. 'You were making a bit of a racket last night, weren't you?' he said. 'It took me quite a while to nod off again, you know.' His horribly bloodshot eyes bore witness to his statement. At two in the morning we'd been staggering about the living room to Rod Stewart and I'd whacked the volume right up.
Tom is a kind-hearted old man and my apology was readily accepted. 'What happened to you, anyway?' he asked. I nodded at the one-eared cat crouched in the flowerbed. `Ah,' he said. Tom had looked really awful and I regretted my thoughtlessness.
Before I went out I left a milk saucepanfull of raspberries on his doorstep.
Then I drove to the Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, to the Britannia Beagles annual Puppy Show. The beagle pups, three at a time, scampered around on an immaculate lawn inside a small rectangle of white palings. The two mauve-faced judges wore dark suits and bowler hats. Everybody watching wore a wicker hat of some description and there were military uniforms dotted about in the crowd. The upper-class accents were so rarefied and drawling that at first I assumed everyone was plastered. Throughout the afternoon the sun beat down on our faces. Afterwards we tottered across five acres of sunlit lawn for tea, cake and cucumber sandwiches in the marquee. It was like being back in Edwardian England.
During tea we all signed up for the Liberty and Livelihood march in September. All of us, that is, except the lady I was with, who thinks hunting with dogs immoral, and a roan with egg on his chin who furtively handed me a copy of the lewd poem about Cherie Blair he was circulating. He was a member of a splinter pro-hunting group that was in favour of more direct action than simply marching about the streets of London, he said. He also confided that he believed he was being watched by secret agents from MI5. Then, scrutinising the end of my nose, he asked, 'What happened to you. anyway?' After disentangling myself from him, I went over to look at the album of old photographs of bygone beagles that the Commodore, a frightfully nice fellow of about 15, had brought along.
I had intended to ask the Master, Admiral Sir James Eberle GCB MH, chairman of the Association of Masters of Harriers and Beagles, deputy chairman of the Council of Hunting Associations, and member of the Countryside Alliance, why he thought the ancient and thrilling sport of hare coursing was being sold down the river as a sop to those who want hunting with dogs banned full stop. But it was neither the time nor the place. I decided. As a sort of finale, the entire pack of 40 or so beagles was brought up in front of the marquee and we took our cups and saucers out and mingled with them. The whipper-in was throwing dog biscuits about and the pack darted back and forth after them like a shoal of fishes. The hounds were so extraordinarily cheerful that just being amongst them made us smile like idiots. I thought of Bruiser and idly speculated about how he would have fared in their company if I had introduced him to them.
When I got home the saucepan of raspberries was still on Tom's doorstep. He'd called a doctor earlier, said the man opposite, and the doctor had packed him straight off to hospital. He's been there for over a week now. I've been watering his beans nightly. We still haven't heard what's wrong. If he dies, I very much hope no blame gets attached to myself or Rod Stewart.
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