silver plate underneath declaring its champion status. Round about were mementoes recording triumphs at the Royal Smithfield Show: rosettes, certificates, framed newspaper cuttings.
‘Look at those records, Jake! Meticulous records of every cow, every bull, every pedigree, right back to nineteen forty-seven. That’s more than fifty years!’ She glared at him: her eyes were a curiously opaque grey-green which at school had earned her the unkind nickname ‘Goosegogs’.
‘I can count, Brett.’
The man who spoke sounded exhausted. His head was propped in his hands as he sat at a Regency partner’s desk facing a tall bay window which gave on to a gravel drive and a lawn beyond. The wall behind him displayed a montage of bullfighting posters, ancient sepia photographs and, in pride of place, a silver mask of the horned head of a fighting bull, superbly moulded but tarnished from neglect.
He had a marked family resemblance to his younger sister: the same heavy build, the same strongly delineated features, which, though clumsy on a woman, were striking in their male form. The years had been much kinder to him too and his thick black hair, curling and cropped short, showed no trace of grey. The contours of his face might have blurred and his eyes, dark blue where hers were green, were set in sclerotic whites which suggested too many evenings spent with a whisky bottle as sole companion, but he was certainly still an attractive man.
‘Do you think I haven’t flogged my guts out trying to find a way round this?’ he said tautly. ‘Foot-and-mouth isn’t even that serious, and you can vaccinate against it – but the Government won’t authorise the vets to prescribe it. Yes, yes, I know,’ as she made to speak, ‘I’ve thought of that – give me some credit!’
He glared at her and when she subsided went on, ‘I’ve tracked down a supplier in Spain and he’s sending me some so I can do it myself – oh, there’s a nonsense about vaccinated herds being less valuable, but who’s to know? I can protect our own cattle, but it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference. If just one of the farms on the Chapelton boundaries has just one infected animal the men from the sodding Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food are entitled to walk in here and slaughter everything that moves.’
His anger mounted as he spoke; he brought his clenched fists down on the red leather desk-top with a force which indicated the level of his frustration.
Brett swooped over to take the chair opposite and covered her brother’s hands with her own. ‘Jake, you’re getting too emotional,’ she said infuriatingly. ‘You need to calm down and think this thing through rationally. Now, who’s in charge of making the MAFF decisions? We probably know them, or at least know the person who tells them what to do. If it’s a question of money – well, I know you’re always boring on about times being hard, but to save the herd—’
He stared at her, rage swamped by astonishment. ‘Are you really suggesting trying to bribe officials? Are you mad? Or do you want me to end up in jail?’
Brett tossed her head and laughed, in a parody of the girlish gesture someone had once, long, long ago, described as attractive in the days when her hair wasn’t grey and straggling. ‘Don’t be silly, Jake. I wasn’t suggesting anything crass, that goes without saying. There must be subtle ways of approaching these things.’
He groaned, sinking his head into his hands again. ‘Oh, shut up, Brett. Just shut up, would you?’
She burst instantly into noisy tears. ‘Shut up? How can you say that, when all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is the best for you and Conrad, and to preserve Papa’s legacy . . .’
Jake sat in dull despair as the self-indulgent lamentations continued. He was trapped in a relationship more permanent than any marriage with this woman who owned a half-share of his business, his house and the family money and was bound
‘Look at those records, Jake! Meticulous records of every cow, every bull, every pedigree, right back to nineteen forty-seven. That’s more than fifty years!’ She glared at him: her eyes were a curiously opaque grey-green which at school had earned her the unkind nickname ‘Goosegogs’.
‘I can count, Brett.’
The man who spoke sounded exhausted. His head was propped in his hands as he sat at a Regency partner’s desk facing a tall bay window which gave on to a gravel drive and a lawn beyond. The wall behind him displayed a montage of bullfighting posters, ancient sepia photographs and, in pride of place, a silver mask of the horned head of a fighting bull, superbly moulded but tarnished from neglect.
He had a marked family resemblance to his younger sister: the same heavy build, the same strongly delineated features, which, though clumsy on a woman, were striking in their male form. The years had been much kinder to him too and his thick black hair, curling and cropped short, showed no trace of grey. The contours of his face might have blurred and his eyes, dark blue where hers were green, were set in sclerotic whites which suggested too many evenings spent with a whisky bottle as sole companion, but he was certainly still an attractive man.
‘Do you think I haven’t flogged my guts out trying to find a way round this?’ he said tautly. ‘Foot-and-mouth isn’t even that serious, and you can vaccinate against it – but the Government won’t authorise the vets to prescribe it. Yes, yes, I know,’ as she made to speak, ‘I’ve thought of that – give me some credit!’
He glared at her and when she subsided went on, ‘I’ve tracked down a supplier in Spain and he’s sending me some so I can do it myself – oh, there’s a nonsense about vaccinated herds being less valuable, but who’s to know? I can protect our own cattle, but it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference. If just one of the farms on the Chapelton boundaries has just one infected animal the men from the sodding Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food are entitled to walk in here and slaughter everything that moves.’
His anger mounted as he spoke; he brought his clenched fists down on the red leather desk-top with a force which indicated the level of his frustration.
Brett swooped over to take the chair opposite and covered her brother’s hands with her own. ‘Jake, you’re getting too emotional,’ she said infuriatingly. ‘You need to calm down and think this thing through rationally. Now, who’s in charge of making the MAFF decisions? We probably know them, or at least know the person who tells them what to do. If it’s a question of money – well, I know you’re always boring on about times being hard, but to save the herd—’
He stared at her, rage swamped by astonishment. ‘Are you really suggesting trying to bribe officials? Are you mad? Or do you want me to end up in jail?’
Brett tossed her head and laughed, in a parody of the girlish gesture someone had once, long, long ago, described as attractive in the days when her hair wasn’t grey and straggling. ‘Don’t be silly, Jake. I wasn’t suggesting anything crass, that goes without saying. There must be subtle ways of approaching these things.’
He groaned, sinking his head into his hands again. ‘Oh, shut up, Brett. Just shut up, would you?’
She burst instantly into noisy tears. ‘Shut up? How can you say that, when all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is the best for you and Conrad, and to preserve Papa’s legacy . . .’
Jake sat in dull despair as the self-indulgent lamentations continued. He was trapped in a relationship more permanent than any marriage with this woman who owned a half-share of his business, his house and the family money and was bound
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