Vernon Lovejoy, the huntsman in charge of our local pack of harriers, is an arrogant, evil looking man. A friend of mine-who keeps terriers and who used to be employed by Vernon to dig out foxes for his hunt-told me that rather than see it shot, Vernon was not above dragging the live fox out of its hole by the scruff of its neck, snapping one of its forelegs and throwing it to the hounds. My friend is not what you would call a squeamish man. More than once I have heard him describe sticking a knife into a dug badger as "a bit of fun," and he always refers to a fox as "the bastard." Yet even he became disgusted by Vernon's casual cruelty: he resigned as terrierman and went freelance.
My only encounter with Vernon was about ten years ago. I was bushing rabbits with Jack Russells on the edge of a small wood when he rode up and yelled foul abuse at me: I was in the way. That was in the good old days when hunts were openly contemptuous of the rest of us. Today they all nod and tap their riding hats with their crops and smile ingratiatingly as they go by. The bastards. But this year I went along to support them at their Boxing Day meet on the town quay, all the same. (We did Mill's On Liberty at school.) The hunt meets on the quay every Boxing Day, and every year a crowd turns out to give them a clap.
The quay is at the head of a small tidal estuary; the town is built on the small steep hills surrounding it. Adjoining the quay is a car park where buses turn and taxis wait. It might not be particularly picturesque-the tide avoids the town as much as possible-but the quayside is nevertheless the geographical and cultural focus of the town: a sort of public arena where much of the town's "history from below" is made.
For many years it was the haunt of Stumpy Collins, the town dwarf. Stumpy lived with his father, a convicted paedophile, in a council flat up the road; they had terrible rows, so Stumpy spent his days sitting on the quay drinking cider and mumbling to himself. Stumpy was not only stunted, but had a disproportionately large head, a hump and feet like a clown's. Filthy, smelly and deranged with unhappiness, Stumpy was the subject of communal prayers in local churches. Small children clutched their parents' legs at the sight of him. Older kids tried to set fire to him. For anybody struggling with problems of their own, the sight of Stumpy lying on the quay in the rain could be a surprisingly uplifting experience. Stumpy and his dad were murdered a couple of years ago by children. They cut bits off Stumpy and set fire to the flat.
"Good riddance!" said one of the neighbours, on the local television news bulletin.
On the quay, local farmer Stan Brooking parked his van and drank a pint of paraquat; Toby Molyneaux kicked his faithful collie to death there. On the quay, during Fair Week, Eve Manley gave a record six consecutive Fair boys (some say eight) a rousing welcome while standing up against the bottle bank.
And of course the quay is where local scores are settled. Vicious little flare-ups on Saturday nights involving screaming girlfriends; absurd, ponderous tussles between paralytic drunks; a red-faced farmer with his cap and jacket off and his dukes up. On wet and windy Sunday afternoons, teenage girls with short skirts and bruises on their bare legs disconsolately puff cigarettes in the bus shelters and accept lifts from young lads in resprayed cars.
At this year's Boxing Day meet there were anti-hunt protesters among the crowd: about 50 of them, mostly women, surrounded by special constables. They had been bussed in from a nearby town which has a reputation as a New Age centre. One held a placard which read "Stop This Satanic Ritual"; another: "Research finds link between child abuse and animal abuse (Daily Telegraph)". They constituted a self-conscious little fortress of Karrimor and Berghaus in a sea of Barbour and Adidas. "Tick-tock, tick-tock," they shouted. Some had brought their dogs with them: timid, sycophantic creatures with their tails down.
Opposite them was gathered a loose alliance of pasty-faced town toughs. I went over to greet the ones I knew. Bemused by the presence of these vociferous outsiders, they could not decide whether their territorial honour had been infringed upon enough to start punching. The belligerent pacifism of the protesters was confusing, their placards incomprehensible; their men didn't look like they'd fight back. When it began to spit with rain they drifted away towards the pubs.
At half past eleven, Vernon Lovejoy drained his stirrup cup, wheeled his horse around and led his 30 or so riders out of the car park and past the knot of protesters.
"Murdering bastards," yelled the protesters. As he cantered past, Lovejoy stood up in his saddle, turned his raddled-indeed satanic-face towards them and bared his long yellow teeth in a triumphant leer. Then he doffed his hat to them-he took it right off his head with one hand, balanced it upside-down in his palm and proffered it to them-a remarkable feat of horsemanship. It was also an apt and symbolic gesture, I thought, as we come to the end of a male epoch. Sadism greets Sentimentality. I applauded the sadist.
