The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2692 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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“You fell out with Stella over foxhunting?” Simon declared rather than asked.

I blushed, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was talking to Danni about seeing a hunt catch one and I suppose I was a bit insulting to those who do it. Stella overheard some of it and took exception to my opinion.”

“She used to ride.”

“Yes I know.”

“She might have seen it as a personal slight.”

“It wasn’t intended as such.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I won’t apologise.”

“I don’t remember asking you to.”

“Just as well.”

“You can be quite pig-headed at times.”

“So I’m told.”

“Cathy, you’re thirty not thirteen.”

“She interrupted a private conversation.”

“In which you were sounding off about a favourite topic.”

“Funny you should say that...”

“I’ll go and speak to her. If I can talk her round, you could both agree to differ.”

“Yeah, that I could do. Tell me, how could someone as nice as Stella go riding with such a bunch of misfits?”

“Lots of wealthy young women did.”

“Why?”

“Those who have outgrown the pony club want something strong between their legs, hunters are large powerful horses.”

“So it’s a sexual sublimation?”

“How would I know, I count money for a living.”

“I’m sure you do it beautifully, darling.”

“Natch.” It’s only his modesty that holds him back.

“But being there when something is so horribly killed is awful.”

“I don’t disagree, but remember how young women have always been attracted by men doing awful things, like fighting. I mean the gladiators in ancient Rome had groupies by all accounts. I suppose it’s a power thing.”

“So is rape.”

“Yeah, I know, but women or some women are attracted by powerful men.”

“How juvenile.”

“You’re the biologist, I’m just stating things as I see them.”

“Sorry, darling.”

“So in those days, we were at school remember, she enjoyed it.”

“So why’d she stop?”

“Some idiot left a gate open and the dogs ran into a flock of sheep with lambs.”

“Oh shit.”

“It was rather messy and she was disgusted. She refused to ride to hounds again.”

“So why did she take issue with me?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?”

I shrugged then rose and went up to her rooms and knocked. “Oh it’s you,” she said answering the door.

“I’d like to talk.”

“If it’s about hunting, I don’t want to.”

“Simon told me about the sheep and their lambs.”

“So?”

“I hope I didn’t remind you of bad memories.”

“Why should you?”

“Because we don’t always control how our memories work and I don’t like being on bad terms with my sister.”

“You were ranting, Cathy, and yes, it did touch a nerve. I do recall that flock of sheep, it was like an abattoir. The farmer was close to shooting some of the dogs until someone suggested the hunt would pay for the damage. It was never mentioned again.”

“But they bought him off?”

“Yeah, I was disgusted.”

“With who?”

“Both of them, the hunt and the farmer.”

“I suppose the hunt does tend to have some powerful friends.”

“I expect so, I didn’t know then, I just enjoyed riding free and jumping hedges and things—exhilarating.”

“Yeah, I suppose so. I used to think that about archery.”

“Yeah, you’re quite handy with a bowanarrar.”

“I was better in school.”

“You did archery in school?”

“No, I did it outside for a couple of years but they found out that I won a competition, course the local paper got it wrong and suggested Miss Charlotte Watts was the Maid Marion of Bristol and of course Murray found out.”

“What happened?”

“He sent for me and flung the paper at me demanding to know what it was all about and was I bringing his school into disrepute.”

“Were you?”

I rolled my eyes and she chuckled. “He said the school was having a fund raising afternoon by holding a mediaeval fete. He told me I’d be shooting in the archery competition, for the girl’s team.”

“So you had to dress up?”

“Yeah, he spoke to my dad.”

“Did you get a coconut?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Did you win?”

“Yeah, in those days I used a recurve bow—not historically correct nor were the arrows—they should have been greylag goose.”

“Where did they get the costume from?”

“The girl’s school, they took part as well and on the morning of the fete, I was told to go to the girl’s school with my archery stuff. They used costumes from their drama club plus a bra and some socks. It was decided that I’d lead the girl’s team, probably because of the competition the week or two before. We beat the boys quite easily, probably because three of us girls shot targets regularly, the boys were a scratch team.”

“You’re something else, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

She hugged me. Mr Whitehead didn’t mention that in his diary.”

“No, I think he was away—yes he was—dunno why, can’t remember now.”

“So how come you got away with the impersonation?”

“Impersonation?”

“Sorry—well you were still a boy then—they thought you were one.”

“The girls were fantastic, Siân knew some of them and told them I was a girlfriend of hers and they rallied round me, especially when I outshot the captain of the boy’s team.”

“What did Murray say to that?”

“Not much. I suspect he wanted me to lose and we won the individual and team prizes.”

“A real Maid Marion.”

“Yeah, except she’d have been shooting a long bow, recurves came in later from the Mongol horde’s along with stirrups. They’d attack on horseback and could fire behind them at you as well as forwards, it was called a parting shot.”

“A parting shot?”

“It’s true, the Europeans had no answer to it, it was only Genghis Khan dying suddenly which stopped them overrunning eastern Europe.”

“And they invented stirrups as well?”

“Yes. Until then the Europeans used a sort of pommelled saddle which held the rider on the horse.”

“And you say you’ve never ridden?”

“No.”

“Yet you know more about the history of riding than I do.”

“Nah, that was just lucky stuff.”