Peter Davies - The Welsh Girl

He held up his hand before Rotheram could answer.

“If you go now,” Hess said softly, “you may outrun him.”

Behind him, Rotheram heard Mills whisper, “Oh, bloody hell.”

He turned to where they were looking. A bull had appeared on the hillside below them. Rotheram was stunned. Where had it come from? Had it been hidden in the shadows by the wall or lying in a shallow dell? It trotted steadily across the field, brushing aside frothy blooms of Queen Anne’s lace almost daintily, not more than twenty feet below them, and as Rotheram watched, it’s dark, velvety head swung round — he saw the pale curve of it’s horns turn — to study them.

“Hell,” Mills said again. The cigarette that was dangling from his lower lip fell to the ground. “Bloody bloody bleeding hell.”

It occurred to Rotheram that Hess, slightly higher and looking past them, would have seen the beast first. He wondered if all the talk had simply been a way to distract them while the bull approached.

“Come on,” Mills was saying. Rotheram felt a hand on his arm.

“I believe he’s seen us,” Hess noted calmly. “Gentlemen, I am fifty years old, and with a limp, I might add. I can hardly outrun him, but you might. If you go now.”

Rotheram felt himself fill with disgust. What foolishness! To lose the prisoner to a bull.

“Are you coming?” Mills hissed.

“The corporal can shoot it,” Rotheram said, searching beyond the bull, but although he could make out the car, beyond the stile at the near corner of the field, there was no sign of Baker, who might have gone for a smoke or a piss. Rotheram and the doctor were unarmed, standard procedure for interrogators with a prisoner, but even if Rotheram had had his service revolver, he doubted he could stop a charging bull with it.

“Even if the good corporal were to see us,” Hess said, “he would need to move very smartly to get a clear shot. And,” he added wryly, “I’m not so confident of his marksmanship. Not on a Sunday morning.”

“Come on!” Mills had already started to edge towards the stile, but as he took a step in that direction, the bull moved almost leisurely to cut him off. It’s bulk seemed ponderous, but it was flanking them, Rotheram noticed, shocked by the animal’s intelligence, angling up the slope, avoiding charging uphill at them. In a few moments it would be above them. It was already close enough for him to see it’s dark coat wasn’t smooth, but kinked with tight woolly tufts, the black curls licking at the base of it’s horns. He could smell it, too, a rich smoky scent on the breeze.

“Go now, please,” Hess told Rotheram.

Before he could make up his mind, Mills took to his heels. He’d seen what Rotheram had seen, and spotted also that the route to the near corner was now open. Rotheram felt Hess’s hand on his back. “Really, there is no need to die for me, Captain. It would be foolish, no? To die for a dead man?”

He pushed again, but weakly, and Rotheram stood fast. He was trying to decide if he could carry Hess (he doubted it, given the condition of his ribs) or perhaps draw the bull off. He stared at the creature, and for a second it’s huge dark eyes appraised him in return, and he was suddenly and profoundly conscious of himself as no more than an animal. For all his learning, his civilization, he might still be killed by a beast.

“Captain.” Hess raised his voice. “I really must insist.” Rotheram, glancing away from the bull, saw the determination in his face. He tried to steel his own will, to keep his eyes on the old man’s, but he could hear the hoofbeats now. “Wouldn’t this be easiest for all of us?” Hess whispered. He was fumbling with the buttons of his greatcoat, drawing out the bright red scarf that had been tucked into his collar. With a final feeble shove, not much more than a pat on the back, he set Rotheram in motion towards the stile and himself hobbling towards the bull, the scarf flourished behind him on the breeze like a signature.

Rotheram found himself running — it came so easily, instinctively, his legs adjusting to the steep slope of the ground — chasing the doctor, making headlong for the stile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had run. He made a point of walking out of the building during raids in London. He must have run since that time he fled the cinema in Berlin, he thought, but he couldn’t recall. It troubled him because, even as his rib seemed to grind in his side, even as he heard the thunder of hooves behind him, he found he rather liked running, the wind in his face, the blood beating in his head. It made him feel so alive, he couldn’t imagine why he had ever stopped.

Sensing the beast closing, he veered sharply for a low stretch of the wall, his arms bracing him as he swung his legs over the top, and tumbled into the soft unmown verge of the lane. Looking up, he saw the bull’s galloping momentum carry it past, saw Mills clattering over the stile into the arms of the corporal, as the beast broke off it’s chase, tossing it’s great glaring head.

He climbed to his feet, favoring an ankle he must have skinned on the wall, and looked uphill. There was no sign of Hess.

For a sickening moment Rotheram stopped searching for the man and started looking for a prone body, but then he saw him, upright on the hillside, waving. Rotheram felt a rush of relief, and then almost immediately an overwhelming flood of disappointment that left him lightheaded and sagging against the wall.

He watched numbly as Hess hobbled downhill and Mills scurried to join him.

“Are you all right?” the doctor called.

“An old man wasn’t worth his trouble, apparently,” Hess cried. “The black beast didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“But are you all right?” Mills insisted. He sounded panicked, almost hysterical, but to Rotheram Hess looked better than he’d ever seen him. He seemed braced, his eyes gleaming, his cheeks as rosy as his damned scarf.

“Really, Doctor,” he was saying. “I’m perfectly fine. Your concern is appreciated. Although,” he smiled ruefully, “I doubt very much that you can actually save me from anything in the long run, you know. Is that the car?”

Mills and Rotheram watched him limp down the lane towards the corporal. They looked at each other and then quickly away, before they followed, Mills staggering a little. “Awful thing,” he muttered under his breath. “Running before the enemy like that.” And Rotheram nodded and told him softly, “It’s all right.” And yet for a long, numb moment, he couldn’t conceive how the war was being won.

MAJOR REDGRAVE was waiting when they pulled into the driveway. He eyed them carefully as they got out of the car. “Everything all right, Lieutenant?”

Mills wouldn’t meet his eyes, but glanced around at the others and shrugged. “Fine, sir.” A light rain was beginning to ring in the trees around them, and the doctor ushered Hess inside while Redgrave stopped Rotheram. His new orders had arrived; the transfer to POWD as predicted by Hawkins, but also a second cable, urging him to a camp in North Wales.

“Been an escape, apparently,” the major was saying. “Sloppy! Anyhow, you’re expected there posthaste to look into it.”

To Rotheram it seemed like a cosmic joke at first. An escape? After what had just happened? But almost at once he felt a tremendous relief, as if given a second chance.

Ten minutes later, he was throwing his luggage into the Humber. He didn’t plan to offer any goodbyes; nevertheless, as he climbed into the car, the whole strange household straggled out to see him off. Mills and Corporal Baker even waved, although Hess, between them, kept his arms at his sides. Under their gaze, Rotheram set off down the drive, but then swung the wheel round to circle it, pulling up again, gravel spattering under the wheels. He hurried back inside, ignoring their startled faces, reemerging moments later with the film cans held before him like an empty tray, the densely wound reels shifting and sliding inside them, making him feel as if they were about to spill.