CHAPTER I
The cold wind like an icy shroud sat heavily upon him as he made his way over the short gravel path. His breath was burnished by a bright brittle moon as a curtain of black velvet hung over the earth. Despite the cloudless night sky, the old oak door was barely visible. After three years of unbridled growth, a mop of ivy concealed a smith forged latch. With numb fingers John Reeth fumbled within his jacket pocket and pushed away the creeping tendrils. By the light of the moon he guided a heavy iron key into its ancient lock. It groaned deeply as it began to turn. John needed a home, and that right quick. With reluctant vigour the key discharged its venerable duty and sighing a long slow creak the door gave way to Hunter’s Moon.
John entered the darkness and in a half remembered manner, groped for a light switch. He pushed the bakelite toggle with meagre expectation but to his surprise there was light! Well – light after a fashion. The dim single bulb emitted an opaque and ghostly hue over the worn cottage flagstones. Honed by the busyness of centuries they reflected but gently John’s shadow as he entered. The cottage hadn’t changed much. The cobwebs had grown bigger, the air more dank but the simple layout of the ground floor was just as he had remembered it. One was greeted with a country kitchen, with a walk-in pantry to the side, and one larger room just off to the left. Both rooms were favourably large and the solid fuel Aga in the kitchen was in good working order. There was no furniture to speak of apart from the freestanding oak dresser in the kitchen and a solitary leather chair in the front room. John had been asked ,when he acquired the cottage, what, if anything, would he like to keep. Nothing, he had stated to his solicitor in Ripon. Nothing that was, apart from that magnificently aged leather armchair. It would appear the dresser was left apologetically in lieu of fitted units.
The living room light failed and Reeth returned to the kitchen. Scanning the room he noticed the remnant of a candle within a tarnished brass chamber stick sitting upon the dresser base. A half empty box of matches lay next to it. By the light of a flickering flame John investigated the cottage further. After ascending a stone staircase that rose from the far end of the room he found himself on a good sized landing and made a cursory examination of the upstairs. Wide elm floorboards highly polished beneath a veneer of dust were found throughout. The cottage afforded but two bedrooms and an agreeably oversized bathroom. The prospect of sleeping up here immediately disagreed with him, not because it was ice cold, but simply that he didn’t have a bed. John Reeth was not adverse to roughing it but not in times of peace. Not that long ago he had made the desert floor his bed and there was nothing chillier than an Arabian night.
John turned around and made his way back down the staircase. This was the sum total of new his living quarters. He moved towards the single leather chair in the front room. It sat before a huge recessed fireplace comprised of simple but deep stone blocks, hewn from the very granite upon which Yorkshire sat. To John’s immense satisfaction they had also left the cast iron fireback and a pair of fire dogs . As he stood before his new hearth, still holding the chamber stick, he observed his fragmented image in the stone mullioned windows. A feeling of contentment began to emerge somewhere deep within his soul. “I am meant to be here”, he thought to himself as he placed the chamber stick upon the stone mantelpiece and sat down. The chair proved as comfortable as it looked and almost immediately two thoughts struck him. Wine and fire! Before he could decide in which particular order to execute these demands his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a distant whine.
“Damn’, he said aloud, “Major!”
He got up from his chair and sped quickly from the cottage and spilled out onto the modest driveway.. Upon it sat an old green Land Rover. The whine grew louder. John reached for the rear door and opened it. No sooner had he done so, an unhappy black creature emerged from the dark and sprang forth
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“Major! Sorry old boy,” said Reeth apologetically, “I clear forgot.”
The black Labrador puppy bounced before his master, giddy at his release from prison. He completed three full circles on the grass before deciding to mark his territory by cocking his leg and relieving himself on the cottage wall. John smiled and entered the newly consecrated Hunter’s Moon with Major happily following on.
Major came home with John’s his recent divorce. Missing the company of family and friends and forlorn of mood, John had relieved a local gamekeeper from his latest progeny. He decided on the name Major. A name which, apart from being handsome in its own right, alluded to the rank in which John Reeth had left the army.
The prospect of warmth won over thoughts of wine. With the few remaining logs and some kindling found in his small stone porch, John was able to lay a fire. The draught in the grate proved equal to John’s attempt at firelighting and before long the bitter night chill evaporated from the sparse and dimly lit room.
Once the fire was truly ablaze, John went to theLand Rover to retrieve his holdall. Returning to the sitting room he sat down once more in the leather armchair which now had agreeably absorbed some heat from the fire. For the first time that evening John was beginning to feel comfortable. ‘“Ah! Where would one be without life’s essentials?” John bent over his holdall and took from it a bottle of wine and a stirrup cup. A bottle of Medoc might not pair suitably the ambient temperature of a cold cottage but it was more than welcome after the long drive from Wiltshire. Reeth was never far from a corkscrew and before long, with silver beaker in hand, he and Major happily at his feet, sat before the first of many a roaring fire at Hunter’s Moon. In minutes they were both asleep
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