As the hammer blows echoed across the fields, Lauren glanced sideways at the boy standing beside her. He must have been fifteen at least. He was two classes above her at school, though he rarely attended. Yes, he was small for his age and seemed almost scared to meet her gaze. Yet, Luke was relaxed there, in the field with her father, the horses grazing quietly in the distance, the dogs busy sniffing along the hedgerow.
“Here Luke, grab this post. I need to give it another bash,” her father called to the boy who was absorbed in watching the dogs now off on the scent of a rabbit.
Lauren noticed how he nodded in response, walking over to hold the large spruce post. He never even flinched as the sound of the heavy sledge hammer broke the peace of the early summer morning.
“Thanks, great job – only a couple to go,” her father said, picking up an old sack which served as a tool box.
They moved on down the hedgerow. Luke was dragging the two remaining posts. Her father, in his ancient mac, tied up with orange binder twine, dragged the sack through the long grass, the tools inside jangling as he went.
The dogs, tired of looking for phantom rabbits, had made off to a more promising hunting ground. Their frantic barking rang across the valley from the wood beyond.
“Luke, why don’t you go and bring those damned dogs back? Lauren can help with the last two posts.”
In seconds, a figure in old jeans and a bright red t-shirt could be seen on the other side of the valley, near the dark edge of the wood. Lauren held the post rather gingerly as the heavy hammer blows resounded, a little too near her fingers for comfort!
As they were finishing the final post, the two beagles appeared, their black and tan coats shining in the sun. They trotted quietly along in front of Luke as if they were the most obedient of hounds and the thought of rabbits had never entered their heads! They looked back waiting for the boy who bent down, fondling the dogs’ ears, and seeming to whisper to them but Lauren never saw his lips move.
It was already autumn and the ground round the field gate where the horses collected was a foot deep in mud. Lauren could feel her wellingtons in danger of being sucked off. As she was leading a pony out through this quagmire, she caught sight of Luke struggling to open a shed door. He seemed to be holding something fragile in his hand. She remembered her father had given him the old garden hut as a refuge for the various small mammals, birds and insects he often rescued.
Later that evening, after shutting up the chicken, Lauren quietly opened the shed door, closing it behind her. She was surprised to see Luke sitting on an old stool patiently feeding a brown bird with tiny pieces of minced meat. He had fixed a torch on the shelf behind him so he had enough light for the task. The torch threw strange shadows on the wooden walls of the hut and framed Luke and the trembling bird as in a picture. He hardly looked up at Lauren’s entrance but continued his patient efforts to persuade the frightened bird to eat. Lauren gazed into the dark space beyond the circle of light. She could hear strange noises of scurrying feet, fluttering wings and occasional squeaking! Nodding quickly at Luke, still engrossed in his efforts, she slipped quietly through the door.
That night, Lauren asked her father about Luke, the creatures in the old shed and the boy’s silence.
“What’s wrong with him, Dad? He never says a word. It’s quite spooky!”
“There’s nothing wrong with a nice bit of peace and quiet. Most kids talk far too much. Luke’s a great boy. He just can’t speak in a big group or to strangers, people he doesn’t. trust. Apparently, it’s called ‘elective mutism’ in medical books. To me, he’s amazing with animals and we get on like a house on fire.”
With this her father picked up the newspaper. For him the discussion was over.
One evening, a few weeks later, the phone rang. It was the Chairman of the local Cricket Club and he certainly had not phoned for a pleasant chat!
“Your damned horses are on the village cricket pitch. They’re making a hell of a mess. Looks like a ploughed field! Hoof prints all over the place...”
Lauren quickly pulled on her boots and grabbed her coat, following her father into the yard. He had already started the car as she jumped in. Several expletives later, amidst angry comments from her father as to why people shouted, instead of using a telephone, they drew up in front of the cricket pavilion.
In the darkness they could see shadows wandering over the sacred grass, some actually eating it. Walking round the crease at the pavilion end, even Lauren, never a cricket fan, could see the damage and feel it through her rubber boots!
Suddenly a shadow, human rather than equine, appeared from the edge of the sports field. Luke walked quietly up to Corky, the leader of the pack and the most obstinate. The boy patted the grey horse, stroked his neck and held him gently by the forelock. As the horse and boy walked off down the lane leading home, one by one the others followed. The sound of metal on the flinty lane echoed strangely in the darkness. Lauren’s father’s only comment as they drove back was, “A good thing if more people kept quiet!”
It was the beginning of the Spring Term, one of those rare February days when the pale winter sun entices early daffodils and crocuses to break through the frosty earth. Lauren sat on the wall at the end of the school playground. She was eating crisps and watching girls practising their shooting with a netball which often got tangled up with junior girls skipping.
Suddenly, she heard shouting and the sounds of fighting on the other side of the wall. Here was a patch of rough grass leading down to the boundary fence. There was a struggling heap of boys who seemed to be intent on kicking someone or something underneath this heaving pile. Elbows and legs were viciously directed at the unseen target!
Loudly, the school bell rang the end of morning break! Boys began to extricate themselves from the tangled heap. Straightening their ties, tucking in their shirts, they ran back to school. Looking back, one boy yelled, "Luke Mortimer, you’re not even a bloody monkey! They can at least open their bloody mouths.”
Lauren looked at Luke, his hair tangled, almost garrotted by his tie, blood dripping from his bruised nose. She jumped down from the wall, but before she could say anything, Luke had clambered over the back fence and run off down the lane.
After school, Lauren was in the long barn which housed the incubators. At this time of year, the goslings were beginning to hatch. Sometimes her father would give the young birds a helping hand by making a small hole in the shell or cracking it slightly. As she looked at the youngsters which had just hatched, Lauren gently put them under a warm lamp to dry off. Hearing footsteps, she turned to see Luke standing behind her.
He was in his usual t-shirt and jeans. His nose looked bruised, but otherwise there was no sign of the fight that morning. He picked up one gosling which seemed unable to stand. Every time it struggled to its webbed feet, its legs gave way. It ended up with its orange legs uselessly splayed beneath it. Cradling the small bird in his hand, Luke reached in his pocket for a ball of string and some old matchsticks. Silently handing the gosling to Lauren, Luke carefully tied a matchstick to each leg. The bird was completely still as if it knew these improvised splints would give it a chance of survival. Lauren saw the smile on Luke’s face as the gosling and his matchsticks walked across the pen to claim a place under the light!
Late March, trees were beginning to come into leaf. It would soon be time for the early horse shows and gymkhanas. Riding along through the woods, her mind filled with thoughts of the approaching summer, Lauren was not prepared for a sudden gunshot close to the edge of the bridle path. Her pony, perhaps dreaming of spring grass, was equally startled. It shied quickly to the right and bolted back up the track, leaving Lauren in a muddy puddle with an agonising pain in her ankle!
Time was passing and it was already quite dark in the woods. Lauren had managed to pull herself up onto the drier grass at the side of the path. She had a throbbing headache and her ankle had swollen so that she couldn’t take her boot off. Every time she tried to stand, she fell back into the long grass. It was impossible to put any weight on her right foot. She knew the woods well but as night fell, it was a different matter. The trees became strange, dark shapes and she could hear something moving in the grass. An insect ran over her hand, an owl was hooting close by. A tear ran slowly down her cheek. Why did she never listen?
Dad had told her to always have her mobile in her pocket!
At last, in the distance, she could see a torch light which seemed to be bobbing along under its own steam. Lauren tried to shout out, scream, yell, anything to get attention. Nothing came out. She was completely dumbstruck!
As the light came nearer, she could see a familiar figure, an old duffle coat over a red t-shirt and jeans. Lauren had never been so relieved to see anyone as she was to see Luke emerge from the darkness! She was too overcome to speak. Bending down, Luke looked at the swollen ankle. He spoke softly and slowly,” We looked everywhere, no luck. I knew the wood was the last chance. Lean on me. By the way, that gosling with the splints is doing fine!”
About the author
Sarah Das Gupta is an ex- teacher, aged 82, who worked in UK, India, Africa. She is learning to walk again, after an accident. Her work has been published in over twenty different countries. She is a nominee for Best of the Net and Dwarf star.
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