a success, which further encouraged her to face up to the future embarrassment of a title.
Chapter Six
At the advent of twilight that evening, a ten-acre field near the village of Woldingham in Surrey was under observation. Matthew Chapman and Jonathan Hardy lay flat on their stomachs in a fold in the ground close to a hedge. The field was their chicken farm, the land with its cottage owned by Matthew and his wife Rosie. The farm was run by them and their partners, Jonathan and his wife Emma.
The field was the haven of a multitude of chickens and a dozen sheep. The sheep kept the grass cropped, which made it easier for the chickens to get at the worms. A neighbouring farmer brought a ram to the sheep in the autumn for a reasonable fee, and in the early spring when the lambs arrived, foxes prowled at night, and the ewes kept their little ones sheltered by their bodies.
There were lambs now, a few months old, gambolling bundles of soft creamy wool in the bright light of day, but nestling close to the ewes at the moment. Dusk was due, and night would be close on its heels. Dangerous night. Foxes had taken twolambs last night. The mothering ewes had no defence against foxes. The ram would have charged, and the foxes would have scattered, but there was no ram. Its autumn visits lasted only a few days.
The chickens and cockerels were roosting, the henhouses full of happy egg-layers dreaming of tasty earthworms. Matthew and Jonathan, armed for a confrontation, were waiting in the hope that the foxes would reappear before darkness fell. Their rifles, old but reliable ex-Army Lee Enfields, were at the ready, fingers around triggers, eyes glued to the mounted telescopic sights, watching the hedge opposite them at a distance of one hundred and twenty yards. The fox trail in the adjacent field, also owned by Rosie and Matthew, led to that hedge. Matthew and Jonathan were concentrating on a certain spot, scented by the foxes. They were silent, vigilant, hoping to put paid to the animals that preyed on the lambs and chickens. They devoured lambs, they slaughtered chickens. Some people thought them endearing. Matthew and Jonathan, rural men, thought otherwise.
So they were waiting. The distance of one hundred and twenty yards was no problem for the Lee Enfields, but would be for the eyes if darkness fell.
It was a ewe that first signalled the approach of the enemy. It came to its feet in agitation. Its recumbent lamb protested at the withdrawal of its mother’s warm body. Other ewes rose to stand disturbed.
Baa, baa.
Matthew nudged Jonathan.
Dusk was beginning to turn the sky a deep grey as through the hedge slipped the dog fox, its vixen and their two large cubs. Burn my boots, the whole bloody family, thought Dorset-born Matthew. Durn my eyebrows, thought Sussex-born Jonathan, here’s a chance to down all the sly buggers.
The dog fox and its vixen halted and sniffed the air in search of the scent of man. Their cubs, sizeable enough for their parents to tell them to push off and find their own patch, fidgeted. The sheep became distressed and the lambs bleated. As agreed in advance, Matthew lined up the dog fox, telescopic sight bringing the animal clear to the eye. Jonathan aimed for the vixen. Rifle butts bit deeper into shoulders. Each man had a cartridge up the spout.
The dog fox and its vixen had their heads lifted, stiff legs poised. They moved forward just as two rifles fired simultaneously. The parent foxes leapt and fell.
‘Downed ’em!’ breathed Jonathan.
Bolts were drawn back fast and rammed home, shunting new cartridges into the breeches. Telescopic sights searched for the cubs, which were whining around inert parents. At that point, the dog fox and its vixen rose up, turned tail and vanished through the hedge, the cubs whipping after them.
‘Diddled us,’ said Matthew, and softly swore.
‘Diddled, dished and done,’ said Jonathan.
‘Did you note that forward shuffle at the moment we fired?’ said
Chapter Six
At the advent of twilight that evening, a ten-acre field near the village of Woldingham in Surrey was under observation. Matthew Chapman and Jonathan Hardy lay flat on their stomachs in a fold in the ground close to a hedge. The field was their chicken farm, the land with its cottage owned by Matthew and his wife Rosie. The farm was run by them and their partners, Jonathan and his wife Emma.
The field was the haven of a multitude of chickens and a dozen sheep. The sheep kept the grass cropped, which made it easier for the chickens to get at the worms. A neighbouring farmer brought a ram to the sheep in the autumn for a reasonable fee, and in the early spring when the lambs arrived, foxes prowled at night, and the ewes kept their little ones sheltered by their bodies.
There were lambs now, a few months old, gambolling bundles of soft creamy wool in the bright light of day, but nestling close to the ewes at the moment. Dusk was due, and night would be close on its heels. Dangerous night. Foxes had taken twolambs last night. The mothering ewes had no defence against foxes. The ram would have charged, and the foxes would have scattered, but there was no ram. Its autumn visits lasted only a few days.
The chickens and cockerels were roosting, the henhouses full of happy egg-layers dreaming of tasty earthworms. Matthew and Jonathan, armed for a confrontation, were waiting in the hope that the foxes would reappear before darkness fell. Their rifles, old but reliable ex-Army Lee Enfields, were at the ready, fingers around triggers, eyes glued to the mounted telescopic sights, watching the hedge opposite them at a distance of one hundred and twenty yards. The fox trail in the adjacent field, also owned by Rosie and Matthew, led to that hedge. Matthew and Jonathan were concentrating on a certain spot, scented by the foxes. They were silent, vigilant, hoping to put paid to the animals that preyed on the lambs and chickens. They devoured lambs, they slaughtered chickens. Some people thought them endearing. Matthew and Jonathan, rural men, thought otherwise.
So they were waiting. The distance of one hundred and twenty yards was no problem for the Lee Enfields, but would be for the eyes if darkness fell.
It was a ewe that first signalled the approach of the enemy. It came to its feet in agitation. Its recumbent lamb protested at the withdrawal of its mother’s warm body. Other ewes rose to stand disturbed.
Baa, baa.
Matthew nudged Jonathan.
Dusk was beginning to turn the sky a deep grey as through the hedge slipped the dog fox, its vixen and their two large cubs. Burn my boots, the whole bloody family, thought Dorset-born Matthew. Durn my eyebrows, thought Sussex-born Jonathan, here’s a chance to down all the sly buggers.
The dog fox and its vixen halted and sniffed the air in search of the scent of man. Their cubs, sizeable enough for their parents to tell them to push off and find their own patch, fidgeted. The sheep became distressed and the lambs bleated. As agreed in advance, Matthew lined up the dog fox, telescopic sight bringing the animal clear to the eye. Jonathan aimed for the vixen. Rifle butts bit deeper into shoulders. Each man had a cartridge up the spout.
The dog fox and its vixen had their heads lifted, stiff legs poised. They moved forward just as two rifles fired simultaneously. The parent foxes leapt and fell.
‘Downed ’em!’ breathed Jonathan.
Bolts were drawn back fast and rammed home, shunting new cartridges into the breeches. Telescopic sights searched for the cubs, which were whining around inert parents. At that point, the dog fox and its vixen rose up, turned tail and vanished through the hedge, the cubs whipping after them.
‘Diddled us,’ said Matthew, and softly swore.
‘Diddled, dished and done,’ said Jonathan.
‘Did you note that forward shuffle at the moment we fired?’ said
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