The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [366]
He was deep in conversation with the gypsy man and woman when he noticed Grockleton and George Pride approaching.
Grockleton did not like Minimus Furzey. It was one of the few things he and Colonel Albion could agree about. In Grockleton’s case, there was no specific reason for this dislike: it was more instinctive. Furzey, it seemed to him, represented disorder. It was a pity the disruptive artist should have chosen to sketch at just the place he wished to inspect, but he certainly wasn’t going to let it interfere with him. He gave Furzey and the gypsies a bleak stare, dismounted and began to pace the ground.
The spot Minimus had selected lay on the edge of a ridge from which a slope swept down into a marshy dip below. Across it, a quarter of a mile off, a Scots pine plantation had been laid out upon the heather recently, its seedling trees only knee-high as yet. Having walked over to inspect the plantation, Grockleton strode back and stood gazing down the slope thoughtfully.
‘Buy a posy, Sir. Flowers for your wife.’
He whirled round. The gypsy woman had come up behind him. He noticed now that she had a small basket of flowers on her arm and she had tied them into little nosegays with tufts of purple heather. He glared at her. The flowers, he thought, had probably been stolen out of somebody’s garden. The Forest folk seemed to tolerate this, but as far as he was concerned it was theft. As for the heather, there must surely be some law against these wretched people taking that.
‘Damn your flowers,’ he said irritably.
‘Better buy them,’ Furzey called out. ‘Bad luck if you don’t, you know.’
‘When I need your advice I’ll ask for it,’ he retorted sharply. He turned to George Pride who was standing awkwardly a little way off. ‘Move these people away, Pride.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said George.
‘Buy a flower, Sir,’ the woman insisted. She did it just to annoy him – Grockleton was sure of it.
Pride’s attempts to move the woman didn’t amount to much, but she retreated back to Furzey who said something that made both gypsies laugh. Then they got into their caravan and drove away. Grockleton knew he should have ignored Furzey entirely after that, but the tiresome thought of what the fellow might have said to the gypsies niggled at him. After surveying the landscape for a minute or two, therefore, he walked over to where the artist was working, glanced at the sketch, pronounced, ‘Not bad,’ and continued a little further to where a clump of ferns that had been trodden down made a small platform from which he could survey the scene with dignity. Minimus glanced at him, smiled to himself and continued to sketch. After a while he looked up.
‘Do you know what you’re standing on?’ he asked. Grockleton stared at him blankly.
‘It’s the nest of a hen harrier. The Forest people call them blue hawks.’
‘I fail to see why that is of interest.’
‘They’re visitors. Very rare. Sometimes they don’t come for years. This is one of the few places in Britain where they’ve been seen. They’re one of the treasures of the Forest, you might say.’
‘Treasures to you, Furzey,’ replied Grockleton. ‘Not to anyone else.’ And, quite pleased to see Minimus shrug with irritation, he kicked the remains of the nest and began to pace along the edge of the slope again. ‘I’ll tell you what, though,’ he remarked as he passed the artist, ‘there is something useful we can do with this place.’ He paused a moment to smile, grimly. ‘We can make a plantation.’
‘Here? You’ll ruin the place.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Furzey. There’s nothing here except your damned bird’s nest.’ He nodded to himself with satisfaction. ‘We can run it right along this ridge and down the slope. Three hundred acres I estimate.’
‘No good planting on the slope,’ said Minimus crossly. ‘It’s a bog.’
Grockleton stared at him. There was no doubt Furzey could be very irritating indeed.
‘The bog is at the bottom of the slope, Furzey,’ he pointed out. ‘The water runs down the slope and enters the bog at the bottom. Any fool can see