Page 61 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle

But that evening when he had stepped inside the Dog and Gun, he’d felt a different atmosphere. One or two people looked up, but then immediately down again. Conversations were not broken off. No one called him over. The delicate click of dominoes on a wooden table top did not change rhythm. The collie lying under Phil Buckey’s chair did not even lift its muzzle from its paws.

His time in the spotlight was over. Everyone had heard about the terrible black and bloated face, and exactly what William had felt and done immediately and for days afterwards. But the topic had died, its light had gone out, and as William asked Mr Corbie for his usual half-pint of ale, no one so much as looked round, let alone offered to buy it for him.

Corbie gave him a cynical smile. ‘Penny-ha’penny, Mr Sweeting, I’ll trouble you for. Thank you. Have you heard, Lord Shacklock’s bull Caesar got out, went on the rampage right through Ashridge village? Killed the postman on his rounds.’

‘Did it?’ William said, startled.

‘Poor Walter Horner, with a wife and three children dependent on him. Aye, he was on his bicycle. Old Caesar must’ve thought it was another bull. He charged it, sent Wally flying. Got the bicycle tangled on its horns, and it must’ve maddened him, for once he got clear, he went after Wally.’

Roddy, the barman, oozed up to snatch a bit of the story. ‘’Orrible, it was!’ he said gloatingly. ‘Stuck its horn right through him, I tell you no lie! Right through and out the back, like a bloomin’ sword! And then what d’you think it did? Ran right into a tree and pinned poor old Wally to the trunk. Just like a butterfly on a pin. ’Cept he didn’t look much like a butterfly with a gurt horn through him. Eyes stickin’ out of his head, so I heard. And blood everywhere.’

The others sitting at the bar had all turned in their seats now, and were eager to add their own details to the gruesome story.

‘Got ’isself stuck proper, that ole bull! Stuck in the tree trunk. Couldn’t get isself free.’

‘Mrs Greenway from Larch Cottage come along and found him. Gor! Wish I’d bin there!’

‘She never fainted nor nothing. Just tiptoes past and runs to fetch the policeman. That’s a tough old dame!’

‘Course, old Wally was dead by then.’

‘Dead as mutton!’

‘Policeman wanted to shoot the bull – well, who was going to risk trying to get it free?’

‘But Lord Shacklock’s bailiff wouldn’t have it – said that bull was worth hundreds. Prize animal. Argued about it, they did, right there in the road—’

‘And all the while poor old Walter Horner’s pinned to the tree with ’is eyes wide open, a-starin’ over that bull’s head like he was surprised. That’s what I heard from Frankie Gilbert, who come along while the argufying was still goin’ on. Like he was surprised, he said.’

‘Well, you’d be surprised if a bull pinned you to a tree! Gor, what a sight it musta bin!’

William listened, sipping his beer, and realising no one was going to want to talk to him any more. But he still felt shaken and depressed by his experience. Talking about it had helped him. His shoulders slumped more and more, and as the level went down in his glass he felt, for the first time ever, that he might even have another. Might as well. What was the difference? Who cared about him?

A powerful smell of otto of roses mingled with sweat enveloped him, and raising his eyes, though not his head, he found himself gazing into the fleshy canyon between Tabby Mattock’s considerable bosoms. ‘Cheer up, Mr Sweeting!’ she said kindly. ‘It may never happen.’

‘Already has,’ William mumbled.

She leaned closer, and laid a warm, damp hand briefly over his. ‘Ah, never mind that lot. Why don’t you have another half? Go on, do, it’ll make you feel better.’

‘Reckon I will,’ he said defiantly, threw back his head and emptied his glass. On its way down again, his head reached equilibrium and his eyes connected with the barmaid’s, just about on the level with his and brimming with sympathy. It warmed him to think someone was interested in his well-being. It also excited him a little bit because she was wearing face-paint, and he had never before been this close to a woman who did. It wasn’t allowed up at the Castle. Mrs Webster was mustard on that, came down like a ton of bricks on any maid who dared so much as to put on a bit of rouge. And his mother had always warned him against ‘painted floozies’. She said they were a trap and a delusion. She disapproved of scent as well, and Mrs Webster forbade it at the Castle. He had never noticed Tabby before, particularly. She was just a figure in the background of the Dog. She was not particularly pretty, and he had always thought she was a bit older than the maids who usually occupied his affections. But she was looking into his eyes now as if he were the most important person in the world, and it was balm to his troubled soul.

And then there was that bosom. It heaved just below his sightline. And Tabby’s full, red, painted lips seemed to be pushing out towards him. He felt a thrill in a region below his waist that he was not accustomed to thinking about. And the exciting notion came to him that if he dared ask her, she might not be completely averse to kissing him.

‘Why don’t you tell me all about it,’ Tabby purred.

He looked into her eyes, and felt himself falling ever so gently into a soft, warm, and infinitely inviting trap, and his mother’s warnings seemed silly, and very far away.

‘Well!’ said Mr Cowling. ‘This is something like!’

Nina, too, was impressed with the carriage that was waiting for them outside the station – black and glossy and polished, with two lovely dapple greys to draw it, and a coachman and groom in livery coats. The groom opened the door and let down the step, but Nina had lingered to look at the horses, and stroke a soft muzzle with a gloved hand. ‘My dear?’ Mr Cowling called her. She looked up and caught the coachman’s eye. He had a nice, fatherly face, and when she said, ‘They’re lovely!’ he smiled kindly. ‘Nina, my dear,’ Mr Cowling called, with a hint of impatience, and she obeyed this time and was helped into a crimson velvet interior.

The letter that had come in Kitty’s neat schoolgirl hand had been impossible not to smile at.

I’ve wanted for such a long time to invite you, but really I couldn’t, until the new mattresses were delivered, because the old ones were simply dreadful and you wouldn’t have got a wink of sleep. And I know you will laugh at me for it, but it has taken all this time to pluck up courage to order them, and I only dared because Lady Stainton is away and does not seem to intend coming back until the autumn, by which time I hope the newness won’t be noticed. So please, dearest Nina, please won’t you come? I so long to see you, and to show you my dear little baby.

Mr Cowling had been pleased with the invitation, and immediately said he would rearrange his work so that he would be free. ‘I know you miss your friend Kitty,’ he said, ‘and you never know who else you might meet there. I suppose there’ll be a party staying?’

‘She doesn’t say,’ said Nina.