port-a-loos to the outdoor concerts at Glastonbury, collected the fragrant soil in plastic tubs and stacked the tubs in the back of their van. This was completely against the health and safety regulations which governed the fertilization of foods raised for human consumption, but Rebecca’s parents gloried in their flouting of the law and in their embrace of what they saw as the most natural, sustainable, and organic way possible of raising root vegetables.
One by-product of this carting of so much manure was that the family van, in which Rebecca was also driven to school, smelled pungently of dung and, downwind, could be scented coming a hundred yards away. This led to merciless teasing of Rebecca by her schoolmates, who, with adolescent lack of imagination and infant fascination with feces, called her “Poo.” In school she was as untouchable as the member of a leper colony. Even the kindest of her fellow students hesitated to reach out to her. If they had, her fierce pride would have made her issue a rebuff.
When she finished school, she had no idea what she would do next. Because her parents were active proponents of organic farming, they’d happened to meet the Prince of Wales who, like them, cared about sustainable agriculture. They mentioned Rebecca’s love of riding and her excellence at taking care of the retired thoroughbred, whose owners the Prince also knew. There happened to be a vacancy at the Royal Mews and Rebecca was appointed via the influence of the heir to the throne. She got on well there. There was a tiny studio flat, what used to be called a bedsitter, with a sink, a small fridge in the corner, and a shared shower down the hall that went with the job. No one in the Mews cared or remarked upon her smell, as the care and disposal of horse manure was a pretty constant part of the job. She didn’t have friends in the Mews, nor did she keep everyone there at such angry arm’s length as she had in school. It was one of the contrasts of her young life, too young for her to remark on it even, that although no one had addressed more than three or four friendly words to her at school, she now occasionally had casual conversations with The Queen. Her only threatened humiliation was that her parents were convinced that manure from the royal stables was likely to be even richer than what they currently collected, and they were always devising schemes, which Rebecca had to thwart, of taking it away with them when they visited her.
Although she had lost many of her bantams to foxes, she was not a friend to foxhunting, which she thought of as giving license to privileged people to engage in cruelty to animals. Three years before she began working at the Mews, while she was still in school, she had attended an antihunting demonstration in Trafalgar Square, where she happened to meet one of the speakers. He denounced the methods used by those who facilitated foxhunting by killing badgers. The badgers themselves sometimes killed fox cubs, so they were considered enemies by friends of the hunt. He was a passionate speaker. He had a young badger which got the crowd’s attention, and Rebecca met him when he came off the platform after his speech. Or, rather, she got over her fear of him and slight attraction to his passionate way of denouncing the slaughter of badgers, by wanting to meet the badger he had in his arms. The young man with the badger thought Rebecca was beautiful. Her red hair and shyness and unconcealed delight at holding the animal made it difficult for him to ignore her.
Rebecca knew how to hold the badger, but she had no idea how to handle the young man. He was ten years older than her, and he was the first man who’d ever paid her any attention. Some kind of instinct, which she thought it was better to obey, made her curious about why he found her so fascinating. She was more than a little wary of him, but she could answer the questions he put to her by dwelling on the animal in her arms. He
One by-product of this carting of so much manure was that the family van, in which Rebecca was also driven to school, smelled pungently of dung and, downwind, could be scented coming a hundred yards away. This led to merciless teasing of Rebecca by her schoolmates, who, with adolescent lack of imagination and infant fascination with feces, called her “Poo.” In school she was as untouchable as the member of a leper colony. Even the kindest of her fellow students hesitated to reach out to her. If they had, her fierce pride would have made her issue a rebuff.
When she finished school, she had no idea what she would do next. Because her parents were active proponents of organic farming, they’d happened to meet the Prince of Wales who, like them, cared about sustainable agriculture. They mentioned Rebecca’s love of riding and her excellence at taking care of the retired thoroughbred, whose owners the Prince also knew. There happened to be a vacancy at the Royal Mews and Rebecca was appointed via the influence of the heir to the throne. She got on well there. There was a tiny studio flat, what used to be called a bedsitter, with a sink, a small fridge in the corner, and a shared shower down the hall that went with the job. No one in the Mews cared or remarked upon her smell, as the care and disposal of horse manure was a pretty constant part of the job. She didn’t have friends in the Mews, nor did she keep everyone there at such angry arm’s length as she had in school. It was one of the contrasts of her young life, too young for her to remark on it even, that although no one had addressed more than three or four friendly words to her at school, she now occasionally had casual conversations with The Queen. Her only threatened humiliation was that her parents were convinced that manure from the royal stables was likely to be even richer than what they currently collected, and they were always devising schemes, which Rebecca had to thwart, of taking it away with them when they visited her.
Although she had lost many of her bantams to foxes, she was not a friend to foxhunting, which she thought of as giving license to privileged people to engage in cruelty to animals. Three years before she began working at the Mews, while she was still in school, she had attended an antihunting demonstration in Trafalgar Square, where she happened to meet one of the speakers. He denounced the methods used by those who facilitated foxhunting by killing badgers. The badgers themselves sometimes killed fox cubs, so they were considered enemies by friends of the hunt. He was a passionate speaker. He had a young badger which got the crowd’s attention, and Rebecca met him when he came off the platform after his speech. Or, rather, she got over her fear of him and slight attraction to his passionate way of denouncing the slaughter of badgers, by wanting to meet the badger he had in his arms. The young man with the badger thought Rebecca was beautiful. Her red hair and shyness and unconcealed delight at holding the animal made it difficult for him to ignore her.
Rebecca knew how to hold the badger, but she had no idea how to handle the young man. He was ten years older than her, and he was the first man who’d ever paid her any attention. Some kind of instinct, which she thought it was better to obey, made her curious about why he found her so fascinating. She was more than a little wary of him, but she could answer the questions he put to her by dwelling on the animal in her arms. He
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