Low life
Follow the van
Jeremy Clarke
Ionly popped out for a packet of fags. The low-intensity family warfare that had blighted our Christmas Day had flared up again at the Boxing Day breakfast table. A trip to the nearest newsagents (five miles away), some soothing classical music on the car stereo, and a calming cigarette on the way back would, I hoped, dampen the urge to beat my sister to death with the Pifco bread-maker I gave her for Christmas. (This, according to the book of 'intriguing' words that she gave me, would be known as `sororicide'.)
As I came out of the newsagents, tearing at the cellophane, I saw a pack of hounds milling about outside the pub opposite. They looked so glad to be alive I waded in amongst them and patted as many heads as I could. I was up to my knees in hounds when a man with a crooked bow-tie came up and offered me a tall glass of mulled wine from his tray, compliments of the season. His mulled wine was surprisingly potent. One small mouthful and I could feel the back of my scalp contracting.
A clinically obese youth also extended a tray of mince pies for me to choose from. Then the elderly Master, decency personified, made a passionate speech in defence of hunting with dogs to the small crowd of onlookers and bystanders. As he did so, the sun came out, suddenly and dramatically, for the first time in three days. Blinded by the sun and stunned by the wine, we listened to the Master's speech with all the appearance of attentiveness.
Then the man with the crooked bow-tie came round again with his tray of mulledethyl alcohol. Judging by the expression of bewildered disappointment on his face, and the number of full glasses remaining on his
tray, his mulled wine wasn't proving as popular with the punters as he imagined it would be. On finding a taker at last, and an enthusiastic one at that, he was absolutely delighted. 'Take two!' he said.
Another visit from him and one from the lad with the mince pies and I was flying. Happy hounds dappled in sunlight, the blood-red trimmings of the huntsman's royal-blue jacket, a ritualised symbiosis of man and beast culminating in death, all of this began to excite my mind perhaps more than it should have. 'Part of our heritage!' I said, rather officiously, to a man holding a whip.
This unfortunately came out as 'Heart of our peritage!' — but never mind. He knew what I meant, He understood. My suggestion that I go hunting with him went down extraordinarily well, too.
'Follow the van, old chap!' he said. 'Most welcome!'
Everything went in a rush after that. I followed the van down mud-strewn country lanes for miles. We stopped. God knows where, and let the dogs, sorry hounds, out of the van and set off after them. Almost immediately, they put up a big old dog fox and pursued it into the woods on the far side of the valley. This was a bit of a nuisance, apparently (though possibly an excellent choice on their part), because they were supposed to be hunting hares, having been bred to do so for about 500 years.
The huntsman went in after them, blowing his horn and roaring out terrible threats and imprecations. But the hounds were so wedded to this fox and singing out so joyfully in celebration of the fact that they didn't take a blind bit of notice of him. After a while, even those of us with the sharpest hearing could no longer hear either the melody of the hounds or the roaring of the apoplectic huntsman. There was nothing else to do but spread ourselves Out along the bottom of the valley and wait for them to return, either individually or en masse.
My station was on the edge of the wood at the intersection of two babbling brooks. It was a strange hiatus in an otherwise eventful day. I was standing there, alone in a strange place, listening for hounds, for a very long time. The sound of running water was oddly amplified by the peculiar acoustic of the place. It was a bit like being in a cinema with the soundtrack turned up too loud. The sun went in and it started to spit. I lost all sense of time and my mind began to wander. I changed my religion twice, added a couple more New Labour politicians to my hit-list, and resolved to buy a watch in the January sales,
It was dark when I got home. My clothes had mud on them, my face was scratched and I smelt strongly of dogs. A temporary truce was in force at home, evidently, because some members of my family were actually speaking to each other. Someone asked me where I'd been all day. 'Up the shop,' I said, 'for cigarettes.'
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