‘Very well, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I shall try the cider.’
‘And the pie. They do a cracking beef and mushroom pie,’ said the portly older woman, all but salivating as we rounded a corner into a side street and approached the pub.
Lady Farley-Stroud pushed open the door and we eased our way into the crowded and very noisy inn.
Pipe smoke. Noise. More smells: stale beer, cider, food. Laughter. Prodigious swearing. Extraordinary beards. We had entered the world of the farmers.
Maude, Lady Hardcastle and I trailed in the wake of Lady Farley-Stroud as she ploughed her way through the rambunctious market day crowd to get to the bar. It wasn’t yet noon, but the majority of the assembled rustics were already well on their way to exuberant intoxication.
The landlord had his back to us and was fussing with something on the shelf behind the bar.
‘Morning, Ronnie,’ bellowed Lady Farley-Stroud.
The landlord jumped. Even above the noise of the pub, her voice was enough to terrify even the most redoubtable of men.
‘Ah, good morning, m’lady,’ he said, turning round. ‘You gave me quite a start there.’
‘Thought so,’ she said. ‘Dream world, eh?’
‘Just keeping the place tidy, m’lady. It’s bedlam in here. Always is come market day. What can I get you?’
‘You have your famous beef and mushroom pies?’
‘Baked ’em fresh myself this very morning, m’lady. Two, is it?’
‘Four today, Ronnie. Brought some guests,’ she said and indicated Lady Hardcastle and me.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ said the landlord with a slight bow. ‘Ronald Townsley at your service. Welcome to The Hayrick.’
‘Thank you, Mr Townsley,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘A lovely, lively place you have here.’
‘Ronnie, madam, please. I’m glad you like it. Not quite what you’re used to, I don’t expect, but there’s always a welcome here for friends of Lady Farley-Stroud.’
‘I’m reasonably sure you’d be quite surprised by what we’re used to, Ronnie,’ she said with her warmest smile. ‘And I understand that your pies and cider are the finest in the county.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, Mrs…?’
‘This is Lady Hardcastle,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.
‘Is it? Is it, indeed. Well I’ll be blowed. We read all about you in the papers, m’lady. A celebrity in our midst. Seeing off Hun spies and all sorts by all accounts.’
‘Solved a murder up at The Grange, too,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, proudly.
‘I heard about that, as well, m’lady. And the circus. And young Frank Pickering. Terrible loss, he was. One of the best fast bowlers in the district. Littleton Cotterell will miss him this season.’
‘Quite,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘So mind you treat her well, m’lad.’
‘No special treatment here, m’lady,’ said Ronnie. ‘You knows that. It’s the finest cider and the finest pies and everyone gets the very best there is, and a warm welcome to go with it. It’s a pleasure to serve you all.’ He paused and looked quizzically at me. ‘And are you the famous Florence Armstrong?’ he said.
‘I don’t know about famous,’ I said. ‘But I have my moments.’
‘I heard as how you broke a killer’s wrist with a single kick and decked a prize fighter ’fore he even knew what was happening.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I did that. I bake nice cakes, too.’
He laughed. ‘I bet you does, an’ all. Well, ladies, barge some o’ they ne’er-do-wells out of the way and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll send the girl out with pies and cider in two shakes. Hey!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Spencer! Budge up there and make room for the ladies.’
A tall, skinny man in his fifties, with an impressively bushy beard and a slight squint, looked up sullenly from his pie. He was clearly about to offer his views on the idea of budging up for anyone at all when he noticed Lady Farley-Stroud. Instead, he nodded and grudgingly shuffled along the bench to make way for us, pulling his plate and his pint with him.
‘Thank you, Mr Carmichael,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud as she made herself comfortable. ‘And I do hope the cattle will be to your liking.’
‘Them’s good milkers, m’lady,’ he wheezed. ‘Reckon I got m’self a good deal there.’
‘Good show,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Enjoy your pie.’ She turned back to the rest of us. ‘Well, Emily, what do you think? Isn’t market day a hoot?’
‘It’s a rich slice of country life, that’s for certain,’ said Lady Hardcastle, looking around the crowded bar. ‘Is it always this well attended?’
‘I should say it’s about average,’ said our hostess.
‘And do you know many people here? They seemed to know you.’
‘I suppose I’m quite easy to remember, what? Lady of the manor and all that. But I know a few. Know a few. Over there, for instance,’ she indicated a short man with an ill-fitting hat. ‘That’s Dick Alford who was bidding against Mr Carmichael here for our prize cattle. And over there,’ she pointed to a surprisingly handsome middle-aged man in a well-patched jacket. ‘That’s Noah Lock, one of our neighbours. And… let me see… ah yes, there he is. Over there at the end of the bar next to the kitchen, that’s another of our neighbours, Laurence Dougal.’
‘Quite the community,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Got to know one’s neighbours out here, m’dear. Rely on each other, what.’ Lady Farley-Stroud raised her voice, ‘Don’t we, Mr Carmichael?’
He looked up from his pie. ‘Beg pardon, m’lady?’
‘I say we look out for each other. It’s the country way. Stick together.’
‘Ar,’ he wheezed, gravely. ‘That we do, m’lady. That we do.’
‘He’s our other neighbour,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, at a more conversational level.
Conversation was briefly halted by the arrival of “the girl” with a huge tray bearing our pies and ciders. “The girl” was all of forty years old and was missing more than one tooth, but her gapped smile was warm and her strength impressive as she heaved the tray with its heaped plates and pint jugs onto the table.
‘There you goes, m’dears,’ she said. ‘Four pies and four pints. Can I get you anything else? There’s some mustard around here somewhere.’
‘And some salt, please, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, picking up her knife and fork. ‘Come on, girls, tuck in,’ she said, and hungrily followed her own advice.