Bedding the Boss Pt. 02

'Old Jack was the farmer. Even though he wasn't doing much farming anymore, he was still the main man. Baby Jack was his grandson. He must have been about thirty and did most of the heavy work for his dad, Young Jack, who'd have been pushing sixty by then.'

'I'm glad I asked.'

'Well, the policemen were telling Old Jack that a bull was running riot in the village; chasing cars and people; knocking down walls; tearing up the village green. They were closing the road from this end while their colleagues closed it down by the canal bridge.'

Heather laughed again. 'I wasn't very impressed with their blockade. The road was narrow but Brutus would have barged past their car as if it wasn't there. They'd put up some of that blue and white tape too. Obviously he was going to respect that!

'Then one of them asked Old Jack if he had a gun in his Landy.

'"Nay lad," he said, "est thar asking me to shoot another man's beast? Shame on thee! Ar would nay shoot another man's beast if Ar were t'last man standing."

'I don't think they could exactly translate that, but they got the gist. Ignoring me as a useless little girl, one of them started questioning my farm lads while the other got his radio out.

'"Ar'll tell thee what to do," Old Jack said, although they were ignoring him as well by then. "Ye two get thissens down there and tether him. Ar'd do it missen, if Ar wa'n't eighty-three."

'The one on the radio was asking for armed support and that did it for me. I ducked under their tape and hurried round the corner. They never even saw me go.'

*****

Heather pictured the scene again, expecting dark clouds to slip across the sun.

'I can't tell you how creepy it was,' she said. 'Micklethwaite Lane is usually quiet but that afternoon it was like a graveyard. I suppose I'd been expecting to see chaos and hear bulls bellowing and women screaming. But it was deserted . . . and deathly silent.

'I reached a turning to a footpath that takes you through the fields and over the beck to East Morton. But one of the policemen had mentioned the village green, and that was farther down the lane, so I kept going. By then I was so emotional I was crying.

'And talk about angry! I was surrounded by incompetent males. Two farm lads who couldn't begin to latch a gate; a bull who didn't know when he was onto a good thing; two policemen whose answer to a simple problem was "armed support". The only man who had a clue was Old Jack, and nobody was even listening to him.'

She sniffled, surprisingly close to tears as the memories rushed back.

'I was worried too,' she admitted. 'I didn't find out how badly we were struggling for another year and a bit. Eleven and three-quarter-year-olds can't really understand farming finances, can they? Deep down, I could tell things were changing, though, and for the worse. We used to have six good farm lads; but that summer we only had two feeble ones. Dad's Landy was even more knackered than Old Jack's. Some of the milking equipment kept going on the blink. There were lots of little things like that. And now one of my dad's biggest assets was going to get shot. I kept expecting helicopter gunships to arrive and wipe him out.'

Vic's eyes seemed wider and browner than ever. 'Was Brutus very valuable?'

'He was there to keep the cows happy, so he was worth more than his weight in burgers. I suppose I didn't particularly like him, but I didn't want his girlfriends disappointed. And I definitely didn't want him to cause thousands and thousands of pounds of damage and upset the villagers . . . No more than he had done already, anyway. And besides . . .'

'Besides,' Vic prompted.

Heather wiped away a solitary tear. 'Besides, he was Dad's beast. Dad might have wanted to shoot him for running riot. I wasn't going to let anyone beat him to it.'

Vic reached up and stroked Heather's cheek. Hardly noticing, Heather went on with the tale.

'So I was walking down this creepy lane, angry and very concerned. There were a few parked cars and I was checking them as I passed, thanking God that none of them had been crunched. Then this voice suddenly shouted, "BEWARE OF THE BULL!!"

'Well, I must have jumped ten feet into the air. When I landed I looked round in panic, expecting a road full of Pamplona's finest coming at me, not just Brutus. But there wasn't anything.

'It took a moment to work out the voice was coming from an upstairs window, in one of the relatively new houses off to my left. It was this woman, leaning halfway out.

'"BEWARE OF THE BULL!!" she yelled again.

'"I am beware of the bull!" I yelled back. "It's my flipping bull! Where is he?"

'"He's berserk," the woman wailed. "Beware! Oh beware!"

'Nowadays I believe she was drunk or stoned. At the time I thought she'd cracked up and that it was all Brutus's fault. I asked where he was again and she said something about running through a wall.

That made me look farther downhill; and I saw what she meant.'

Heather shook her head. 'Somehow Brutus had jumped out of the lane, over a high wall and onto an enormous lawn. I could see where he'd landed; it was all churned up. He hadn't jumped back though. Oh no. He'd charged straight through.'

'I'm thinking Tom and Jerry here,' said Vic, still stroking Heather's cheek. 'You know: an outline of a bull in the brickwork.'

'It probably was like that for an instant, when it actually happened. But it was a proper dry stone wall. By the time I got there twenty yards of it was heaped in the lane. I was shaking when I went to inspect the damage, expecting to find pieces of broken horn and gallons of blood. But Brutus hadn't left much of a sign . . . apart from a pile of steaming manure on a clear patch of tarmac.'

'Bullshit?'

'It was Brutus's statement, not mine.'

'Never mind whose statement. This is the best story I've ever heard.'

'Is it really?'

'Yes, it sincerely is. Please go on.'

'I couldn't have left the roadblock much more than five minutes earlier, but I was still expecting those gunships at any second; gunships or dozens and dozens of snipers scurrying into position. I found out later that the policeman got a flea in his ear when he'd asked for armed support. His sergeant told him to forget Health and Safety and go rescue the bull, before it hurt itself.

'I didn't know that right then, though. I was getting more and more desperate with every step.'

'I'm starting to panic myself,' said Vic. 'Did you get there first?'

'I carried on until I got to the green. That was churned up worse than the lawn. There were benches on it; wooden ones with arms and backs, like you get in the park. One had been knocked over. The other was reduced to matchsticks. And there was a boy up a tree.'

'A boy . . .'

'Yes; a younger one from school. He was shouting "BEWARE!" too, but not as politely as that woman in the window.

'"Come on down," I told him. "I'll catch you."

'"But the bull," he said. "It's behind you.

*****

Heather allowed herself a dramatic pause before continuing.

'My neck must have creaked like a rusty hinge as I had a look. Daniel was right. Brutus really was behind me. Luckily, he was quite a way off and not taking much notice.'

'Phew,' said Vic. 'Narrow escape.'

'Escape didn't come into it.'

'Go on, tell me more.'

'What I'm calling "the green" has houses on three sides of it; very old, well-established houses. It's the classiest part of the village. One of them had the most wonderful flowerbeds and hanging baskets, full of mauves and yellows . . . every nice colour under the sun. Brutus must have decided it was lunchtime. He was really pigging out on the mauve ones.

'I told Daniel to stay in his tree and went towards Brutus. I've got to be honest, by then I wasn't angry anymore. I was a little cautious. And my worries had changed. All I could think of was how Brutus hated the kids who dashed across his field more than anything . . . and how I was the one who dashed across it the most.

'"Brutus," I said, trying to sound delighted to see him. "What are you doing here?"

'He stopped munching and glared at me. No doubt about it. He knew exactly who I was.

'"Come on," I persisted. "Let's go home to the farm."

'I had got close to him by then. He'd had his head in one of the baskets but he left that swinging and turned his whole body to face me . . . the whole ton and a bit of it.'

'Oops,' said Vic.

'Oops indeed. I said something pathetic like, "There's a good boy," and he started pawing the ground.

'"RUN!!" Daniel howled. As if I hadn't thought of that. I've always been a good runner. And I've always been a champion tree climber, too. I knew I could probably get up into the branches about a nanosecond before Brutus got me.'

'But . . .'

'If I did that he would be off again, causing more damage until those gunships arrived. So I didn't wait for him to charge. I marched straight up and smacked him on the nose. Not hard . . . but not so soft either. I'd seen Dad do that to show who was boss. "Come on," I repeated, "home to the farm."

'For a second or two I was sure he was going to gore me. Then he just snorted and stopped pawing. And we both knew I'd won, even if he didn't instantly obey.' Heather smiled wryly. 'He went back and had another go at those flowers, but it was only token defiance. Like a naughty little boy.'

'What happened next?' Vic wondered.

'That was it, really. I led the way and he followed. No rope or anything. One of the farm lads had that, and I'd forgotten to take it off him.'

'Brutus just followed you?'

'Yes. I'd say he followed as obediently as Gyp, Dad's sheepdog, but Gyp has a mind of his own when he isn't supposed to be working. He's a Border Collie, you see. He would have got bored after less than two paces. Brutus followed far more obediently than Gyp ever would.'

'And you did all this singlehanded?'

'Yes. By the time we reached the roadblock I knew I didn't need the rope, so I just kept going. Those policemen were still arguing about their proposed rescue. They were gob-smacked when we passed, but Old Jack laughed, as if he knew I could do it all along.'

'What did your dad say?'

'He wasn't too happy about being called back from market. Mum eventually got him by telephone in The Castle . . .'

'Don't tell me: the pub next to Skipton Castle.'

'That's right. He'd just started his first pint. He gave the farm lads grief about that for weeks.'

'They got the blame then?' Vic smiled. 'He didn't shoot Brutus?'

'He didn't shoot anybody. And he got his market day drink after all; over the kitchen table, with those two policemen "sorting details". After they'd drunk Mum's tea he got the whisky out and explained the country way of life. By the second bottle they were thee-ing and thy-ing like Old Jack.'

'What about the damage in the village?'

'It wasn't too bad. Dad repaired that lawn and the village green personally, and both of the benches, of course. Then he replanted the flowerbeds for the woman from the cottage and sorted her baskets; made a few gifts of eggs, milk and cheese. Everyone agreed it had just been an exciting day; nothing to fall out about.'

'There wasn't any damage to cars? Or people?'

'No, fortunately there wasn't. The original reports were somewhat overstated.'

'What about that wall?'

'The farm lads rebuilt it. Three days it took. Although Dad stood over them, mithering at them all the while, so it must have felt more like a month.'

Vic's smiled moved up a few megawatts. 'Okay, sixty-four thousand dollar question. What about you?'

'Me? I got confirmation of what I already knew. I was better than any man. And I preserved the status quo. Eleven and three-quarter-year-olds are very conservative, you know.'

'I didn't mean that. I meant what did your dad think about you rescuing Brutus?'

'I didn't rescue him. As I said, there never were going to be any gunships.'

'There would have been if he'd gored you to death.'

'Well he didn't.'

'But only because of your bravery. Didn't you tell your dad about that?'

'No way; I just said I went and brought Brutus back, like Mum told me to.'

'Did he thank you?'

'He said he'd always known I wouldn't let him down.' Heather wiped away another tear, wondering what was happening to her tonight. 'That was thanks enough for me.'

'And that was it?'

'Well, he did mildly tell me off for leaving Daniel up in that tree. But he wasn't really serious.'

'I think you and your dad are very much alike. Is that fair comment?'

'Very possibly, yes.'

'Have I just insulted you?'

'No, we are alike.'

'You admire him more than anything, don't you?'

'Mum comes a very close second but yes, I do. He's a shining beacon of ability amidst all that male incompetence I mentioned.'

'What about Brutus? Did he become your best buddy?'

'Hardly,' Heather chuckled, 'but I did cut down on running across his field. It wasn't quite the same when I knew he was capable of crashing through the wall after me.'

Vic did some more of that rapt staring. 'I think you're my hero,' she said finally, 'never mind me being your white knight.'

'Does that mean I get to shag you again?'

'Not until you prove you're not really cruel to cats.'

'No more guilt, please,' Heather feigned a sigh,' I'll go feed the flipping cat.'

Chapter Nine

Heather pulled on her old red rugger shirt before going to feed Graham's cat. When Vic asked, she'd said she had "captured" the shirt after a particularly fine day out, but hadn't gone into the details.

Such as how she'd worn it, mud and all, while riding its original owner in a victory celebration behind the grandstand (well, being strictly truthful, he'd worn it first, while riding her and then she'd worn it while riding him).

She hadn't mentioned what had happened next, either: how its original owner had carried her into the changing room and thrown her into the bath, giggling and eager to join the rest of the players and half a dozen female fans.

Binging? Not half!

It was hard to believe she'd behaved like that. A sane, mature adult would have screamed and got the heck out of there. Not her. Not when the bath was full of erect willies and the orgy was already in full swing. No, high on beer and a miraculous semi-final win, she'd simply grabbed the nearest willy and got on with it.

What did I tell Joanna? She chuckled. That I never do men more than three at once?

Hmmm, it came down to the strict definition of "at once", didn't it . . . try telling that to all the university gossipmongers though!

Even now, more than three years later, Heather thought it wasn't fair that she had been credited with the whole episode . . . or, more specifically, credited with shagging the whole team. She had, after all, been last into the water. There again, those other girls had had the sense to get naked indoors. When the action fizzled out they were able hunt down their things and get dressed, transforming themselves back into sugar and spice and all things nice.

Undergraduate Hunter hadn't been so lucky. Some kind soul went and found her clothes for her but a cat (probably a ginger bloody tom!) had peed all over them, ruining everything apart from her Nikes.

Seeing no alternative, she'd persuaded one of the players to wring out the rugger shirt. Then, making use of the changing room hair-drier, he'd dried it on her while she stood in front of him, slowly rotating through three hundred and sixty degrees. That, as a tactic, was only a qualified success. It was fair to say that, when she went into the bar in her new outfit, heads had turned.

Memories from then-on were patchy, even if some of the individual events were unforgettable, starting with her trio of travelling companions greeting her as an all-conquering hero. They'd seen her launch an assault on the winning-try-scorer; in their eyes possession of his shirt meant that Heather had won that confrontation . . . which, arguably, she had.

Her travelling companions had also heard that she'd been in the bath and took that to mean she had escalated her assault to include the rest of the First XV. And, although she swore blind others had been there sharing the load, she struggled to point any of them out.

Miraculously, every other girl in the clubhouse had morphed into Doris Day.

Faced with a lack of evidence, her companions had insisted on plying her with drink. Faced with an argument she couldn't seem to win, Heather had stopped protesting and started drinking . . . again.

They were against the clock, she could remember that much. And the game had been played at a proper rugby ground somewhere west of St Austell (thank God it had been an away game!). Apart from those two facts . . . well, it had all got a little hazy.

By the time Heather arrived in the bar there was only an hour before the coach was due to take them home. She had, however, had several pints before kick-off and another two or three at half time so, plied with more, she'd quickly caught up.

And then overtook.

Blokes kept coming up to her, rugby players from both teams, judging by the procession of broken noses and cauliflower ears. She could easily identify the Cornish ones because they all called her "My Lovely". The others had more northern accents, ranging from Birmingham to Aberdeen. Flatteringly, quite a few of those northerners wanted to congratulate her for being a sport in the bath. Even more flatteringly, every man in the room wanted to know what she was wearing under the creased, damp and still grubby shirt.

Conscious that, in spite of their hero-worshipping, her friends weren't exactly sexual revolutionaries, Heather met early enquiries with: Who knows? But the beer kept going down and before too long she heard her mouth answer: Search me . . . prompting her latest inquisitor to do just that.

Heather wasn't sure if it was his unhesitating reaction or the shocked look on the other three's faces; whatever, something made her stand there laughing while he pulled her close and had a good grope of her bare-cheeked bum.

And after that it was open season on bum-groping. More than half-sozzled, quite happy to play along, she stood there with blokes practically queuing up to have a hug and a feel.

One of her last clear recollections was of hearing someone shout, 'The coach leaves in ten minutes,' and looking round to find her friends had all paired off. She'd gone for a final beer, paying with a fiver that stank of cat pee and she then turned to find she was blocked in by one of the Doris Day look-alikes. That particular Doris (who'd been reading Behavioural Science or something equally horrific) was worried that her non-travelling boyfriend might find out what she'd been doing amongst the soap suds.

'Four different men,' she'd kept saying. 'I've hardly been with four different men in my entire life, never mind one after the other.'

Heather hadn't kept tally but supposed her own score must have been at least seven . . . if she hadn't forgotten a few and you didn't count below jobs . . . plus the shirt's owner, of course.

Someone suddenly shouted, 'Coach leaving now!' She presumed that must have made her down her last pint in one. She couldn't fathom what it was that inspired her to pull off the shirt, though. Or whatever made her run around the barroom, waving it over her head.

Well, she'd been assured often enough afterwards that that was what she'd done . . . before standing in the doorway in only her trainers, giving a series of bows.

If it hadn't been for Gary she might have been standing there still. It had been Gary who'd helped her dry the shirt. And by all reports, it had been Gary who'd carried her out of the rugby club, put the shirt back on her in the car park then led her onto the coach.

And it was definitely Gary beside her when she woke, mostly sobered, somewhere near Bristol. As she tried to remember what she'd been up to, she became aware of couples copulating; lots and lots of couples. From the sound of it everybody had ultimately decided to celebrate with sex, whether they had dived into the bath or not.