When Two Tribes...

"Well how about that? Frankies! They're playing our song!" laughed Kathy as the DJ announced another 'golden oldie' for the gyrating mass of teenagers on the marquee dance floor. In this case, it was 'Two Tribes' by Frankie Goes To Hollywood.

"Shall we show them how it's done?" laughed James, nodding towards the dance floor.

"No, I think we've embarrassed Katrina enough with our antics. It's her birthday party after all," replied Kathy, waving to Katrina. Her dancing daughter waved back, looking older than her 18 years in her figure-hugging little black dress, and skilfully applied make-up, clearly the object of a great deal of attention from the many boys present.

Kathy and James slowly exited from the large marquee, chatting and nodding to guests, many of whom were parents to the teenagers enjoying the disco, now well into its near midnight retro set.

Staff mingled with tenants and peers, along with artists and critics, as guests all equal. However, plenty of them showed due deference out of habit; "Good evening Your Lordship, Your Ladyship."

"Kathy! I've just see your latest exhibition at the London gallery," gushed Petriona. "Wonderful! All of it!"

"Why thank you Petriona," beamed Kathy graciously to the rather dumpy guest who was sporting a dress at least one size too small. "Be sure to tell all your friends about it."

She walked on by, arm in arm with her husband and leaned into him. "Why don't we go for a ride, just the two of us?"

James smiled and steered his wife towards the stable block, the sounds of the disco dying away behind them in the warm summer night, the bright lights festooned around the trees twinkling. Here and there came the sound of laughter and the rustle of bushes as certain guests improved their friendship with other guests, inhibitions loosened – along with clothing – by the abundance of freely flowing alcohol.

The couple soon reached the stable block and gently coaxed their regular mounts – both home bred, grandchildren of good old Mercury – out of their upright slumbers. Duly saddelled, the two horses affably trotted across the field adjoining the manor and up the dark hill.

"Hmmm… I hope they won't miss us," said James looking back down to the brightly lit panorama which dropped away behind them.

"We've been there all bloody evening," said Kathy, adjusting her long evening dress around her waist to allow her a comfortable seat on the saddle, relishing, as she often did, the rub of warm leather on her soft buttocks, her flimsy panties being the only barrier between it and her aching throbbing privates. "We deserve a bit of quality time alone. They'll be fine, there's plenty of food and drink, they can cope without us for an hour or so."

They rode on in silence under the brightness of the full moon. Kathy reined Firebolt to a halt. "The barn," she said. "Let's go to the barn!"

"Good idea!" enthused James. "I was just about the suggest that."

"Hah!" laughed Kathy, but without malice. "Time was, you'd never have thought of something like that."

"Oh no?" beamed James wickedly. "Well, time was, you'd have thought I was just some spoilt upper class toff who was probably a shirt-lifter anyway."

"I never did!" protested Kathy.

"Well, you should know," chuckled James. "And it was all good old Frankies' doing too…."

*************************************

Kathy squinted, shielding her eyes against the sun with one hand, her other hand clutching an HB pencil, holding it at arm's length, as she checked the perspective of the old, twisted oak in the middle distance, measuring it against the copse immediately behind and the rolling blue-green hills beyond. Satisfied that she'd framed the picture clearly in her mind's eye, she made some swift downwards strokes on her large drawing pad, plotting the trees' positions, then making three quick bump-like shapes in the background to denote the hills.

Some artists worked in meticulous detail from the word go, many made preliminary sketches; some just made it up as they went along. Kathy made simple plot-markings and then filled in the exact detail from observation and memory. Some of her tutors despaired of her less-than-textbook methodology, but what did they know? She still managed to produce a detailed likeness of whatever subject she was drawing or painting.

You can teach someone the rudiments of anything; painting, writing, carpentry, metalwork, making a bed, ploughing a field. But it was their talent – or lack of it – which determined whether or not they simply rendered a task or whether they made an art of it. And Kathy knew she was talented. It wasn't arrogance on her part – not really – just what she knew. And what was wrong with that?

Kathy swiped a small cloud of gnats away from her face and reached into her large canvas bag and withdrew her bottle of lemonade. She took a swift chug, feeling some of the cool liquid dribbling down her chin. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, replaced the bottle top and pushed the bottle back into the dark, and slightly cooler depths of the bag. She reclined a moment in the long grass, closing her eyes and savouring the warmth of the sun on her face, the slight breeze gently lifting her long, curly hair and fluttering lightly across her bare arms. She hitched her long button-through skirt up to her knees, pulling the long lace petticoat up with it, flapping both garments to create a cool breeze on her legs and her privates. She almost felt like whipping her panties off and feeling the fresh air on her exposed pussy, as she so often did on hot days such as this, but she wasn't on her father's land now and, secluded though this spot was, a rambler might turn up at any point, or even some riders. Kathy giggled to herself at the thought of old Mrs Mountjoy's riding class – Pony Club clones all – trotting up the slope to be confronted by her bared muff. How wanton! How wicked! How terribly typical of 'that Boscombe girl'! No wonder she'd never made the County Trials team with behaviour like that.

She giggled again and looked lovingly across the meadow to where Tanya was grazing, her chestnut coat glistening in the summer sunshine, her tail deftly flicking flies away. She was, as ever, saddled and ready for action.

As with her art, Kathy was an instinctive rider, a natural – and that's what intimidated Mrs Mountjoy as much as her college tutors. Basically, they couldn't teach her anything. People don't like that.

"And then they call you a know-all," muttered Kathy, angrily dismissing the line of thought on which she had inadvertently progressed. She might say she didn't care what people thought, but it did irritate her privately.

She pulled her skirt and petticoat down over her smooth, brown legs and deftly undid a couple of buttons at the bottom of the skirt, to allow it to flap a little more freely. She absently tugged on the laces of her flimsy camisole top to loosen them slightly, then slipped her Walkman earphones into place. She snapped the little machine to 'play' and took up her drawing pad again, rubbing a bead of perspiration off the tip of her nose as she began to carefully bring the gnarled old oak to life.

Karma Kamelion faded and then a sonorous beat began, heralding a more recent off-air recording – from last week's Top 40 – good ol' Frankies again! Oh yes! Now you're talking!

She felt, rather than heard the approaching hoof beats, the dry earth being the perfect conductor of the jarring vibrations which travelled up Kathy's legs and directly through her bottom. In fact, it felt like the horse was already there, several seconds before it materialised into view at the far side of the sloping meadow. A grey, a stallion by the looks of it, leaping majestically over the fence, the vibrations momentarily suspended until all four hooves thudded onto the bone dry earth on her side off the fence. The rider, by its stance and seat, a man, reined the plunging beast around and urged it on up the slope towards Kathy. She pondered sketching the magnificent animal into 'her' reality as it cantered towards her, but when its rider's features became clearer, Kathy's creative mind closed down as though staffed by a forgetful shopkeeper who had just realised that today was early closing day and it was mid afternoon already.

Even so, to keep up appearances and to signify her total disinterest, Kathy ignored the grinning rider as he drew nearer and bent her head to her work, lightly shading one branch of the old oak, poring over minute details which simply were not there to start with. To her annoyance, the tape clicked off in the Walkman as the last of the song died away and she didn't have a chance to rewind it and start it playing again before he spoke.

"Kathy! Well now, what a surprise!"

Deep voice, well-educated, good pronunciation – perhaps slightly too good. And as full of self-confidence as she had remembered it to be.

In other words, thought Kathy moodily, bloody arrogant.

"Hello Jimmy," she said quietly, without looking up, as the long shadow of horse and rider fell across her drawing pad and temporarily shielded her from the hot sun.

"I prefer James."

Kathy looked up, shielding her eyes against the sun, as the horse shifted slightly, allowing the sun to break free from behind the rider's head. "How about Your Lordship then," she asked, with more than a hint of sarcasm to her voice.

The Honourable James Fortesque looked down at Kathy from his high vantage point, rubbing the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. She looked as lovely as he recalled – lovelier in fact. Pretty. No – beautiful. She was wearing the kind of clothes which made her look like one of the buxom maidens from an 1890s erotica postcard – clad as she was in a lace-up, sleeveless camisole top and a long white skirt. He noticed that two or three of the lower buttons on the skirt were undone, allowing him a glimpse of her full-length lacy petticoat. Her reddish brown hair was flecked golden by the sun, her blue eyes sparkled and the attractive freckles on her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose gave her an air of almost child-like vulnerability.

Almost, that is. One thing was for sure, Kathy Boscombe, only daughter of Jack and Mary Boscombe of Manor Top Farm, whom he'd known from early childhood, was most certainly not a child. She was a very attractive and sexually alluring young woman and, he correctly surmised, now a stunning 19 year-old.

However, James was very well aware of the waves of antipathy she was giving off in his direction and he had a vague inkling as to why she was being so offhand. Her posture, her very body language, bristled with indignation and a defiant urge to defend her territory.

Well, we'll have to do something about that, he thought as he swing his long leg over Mercury's head and hopped lightly to the ground.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked politely, ignoring Kathy's last jibe.

If anything, his feigned ignorance of Kathy's irritable words caused her to become even more irritated with him. She stole a glance at him though and, although she hated to admit it to herself, he looked pretty good. James was a little older than her – she reckoned he'd be about 21, 22 now. His fair hair was slightly longer than fashion – or even decorum in his circles – dictated nowadays. The long, unruly locks of the 70s had given way to shorter styles in the early 80s. True, he was clean -shaven, but at least he didn't look like some Neo-Edwardian with savagely short hair and old-fashioned clothes like most of the Young Farmers (or Young Fogies as they were disparagingly called hereabouts). Nor did he seem to be as loud or brash as most of them. Kathy certainly knew he wasn't clueless with girls like your average Young Fogie, but then a title, a stately pile and few thousand acres of land was a pretty strong aphrodisiac to most girls. She noticed that he was wearing a tan coloured linen shirt (thank God it wasn't one of those horrible 'country' windowpane checked numbers with the Fogies favoured), tight, faded jeans and well-worn brown leather riding boots. He was lean, but not slight. He certainly had to be pretty tough to control a horse like the 17 hander (at least) champing at his bit as his master dismounted.

James took Mercury's reins and led him over to where Tanya was tethered. Tanya looked up and whinnied with interest.

"I'll not put him too close," James called back over his shoulder, "He likes the fillies, does our Mercury."

Kathy shrugged, ignoring him and bent back to her work, savagely pencilling in the shadow around the gnarled oak, her concentration now well and truly interrupted. She felt James draw closer and then drop down beside her. He stretched his legs out and rested back on his elbows, head back, savouring the air.

"Beautiful day," he said.

"Not bad," conceded Kathy. "June heat wave or what?" She paused and made a few quick additions to her sketch, deciding that maybe she should try to make polite conversation at least. "I love this time of year," she added. "All fresh and green. Not like August – it looks all washed out and tired then."

James sat up and peered over her shoulder at her sketch. "Spoken like a true artist," he said, with a smile. "I reckon we're getting August weather though – I think we're in for one hell of a storm. When I was riding over the High Point about half an hour back, I could see the horizon – pretty black over Hampshire way. Not long til it reaches us, I think."

"Well, moi old poine cones were up and moi seaweed were getting' damp." pantomimed Kathy in overdone Somerset accent. "Uz zimple cunddry folk knows about these things, so we do."

James chuckled. "Nothing simple about you, Kathy," he said pleasantly. "College girl and all now, eh?"

Kathy swung round to face him, her eyes narrowing, her cheeks flushing. "Oh? So a farmer's daughter isn't supposed to get ideas above her station and get educated, right?" she snapped. "You reckon I should have left school at 13 and resign myself to milking the cows, then? By hand of course!"

James leaned away from her, his hands held up before him in gesture of mock surrender and deflection. "Whoa! I didn't say that!" he exclaimed, chuckling. "I just said you weren't simple. I'm impressed that you're at college, Kathy. That's all!"

"Oh well, that's alright then," muttered Kathy. "His Lordship approves, so it's okay for the oik to better herself."

"Kathy, please," said James, now realising that Kathy's irritation towards him went far deeper than he had at first thought. "I meant no offence. If I did offend you, I apologise - unreservedly, okay?"

Kathy allowed herself a small, secret smile at James' innate etiquette and his well-rounded vowels. The guy sounded genuinely contrite, so that registered as a victory in her favour. "Okay, Your Lordship, apology accepted." she muttered.

James sat quietly for a few seconds as Kathy started sketching again, then said; "Actually, I'm not 'His Lordship' yet…. Hope I won't be for a while. My Old Man's still going strong, so he'll be the Squire for a while longer, I think. Er – how are your folks? Are they well?"

"Working hard, same as ever," said Kathy without looking up. "You know how it is - oh, no, sorry, you don't. They're just tenant farmers, it's not an easy life for them."

"It's not easy being a landowner either, you know," said James quietly. "Pa may have all those tenant farms, but it's his responsibility to be a good landlord, pay for fence and wall repairs, make sure that roads and ditches are maintained, coppicing, hedgerows, all of that. And if land falls vacant, he has to try to maintain it best he can until he gets a new tenant farmer. It's not just all a case of raking it in from the rents."

Kathy sighed. What James was saying was, essentially, true. Lord Fortesque, 11^th Earl of Brenmore was, as her father hade remarked on several occasions, a good squire and a fair landlord. He'd certainly never condescended to either her father or mother when he'd called at their farm, always being perfectly polite, taking his cap off to her mother, shaking hands and being perfectly affable towards Kathy herself. Of course, there was that natural boundary between them.

Class, it always came down to class, but His Lordship had never thrown his weight about. Nor, really, had James and they'd always played together happily as kids, their social backgrounds never being a barrier to their friendship. Then, of course, James had gone off to boarding school at 11 years of age, she'd gone to the local Comp and their contact after that had been occasional meetings over school holidays. Secretly, Kathy regretted growing apart from James but as her Mother had observed; "Young Mr James will be squire one day himself, and it never does to be too familiar with them as owns our land."

"So what're you doing out on your galloping charger?" said Kathy, in a friendlier tone of voice.

"Ah well, Pa's getting me trained up as Assistant Estate Manager," said James, with a hint of quiet pride in his voice. "Of course, all this will be mine one day, but it's bugger all use being a landowner if you can't manage the land properly! I've been riding around on the old Maddock land, checking the state of repair of the place. Quite a few walls need fixing and ditches to be sorted out before we can let the land. Old Man Maddock had pretty much run the place into the ground before he died."

Kathy nodded. Reg Maddock had been a miserable old bastard, and when he died two years before, no one had been upset at his passing. Since his family – all alienated by Maddock years before – had sold off his belongings and what little livestock he'd had left, the land had been unoccupied, Obviously now, Lord Fortesque was looking for a new tenant.

"Fair enough," said Kathy. "You thirsty, James? There's some pop in my bag."

"Thanks!" James leaned back and rummaged in her bag, noticing that she had a packet of crisps and an apple in there, together with three or four cassette tapes. He smiled as he noticed the mix of Queen, Elton John, Duran Duran and some off-air recordings of Queen, Scritti-Pollitti, Haircut 100, Ultravox and many more besides. Kathy liked her pop music, he remembered. Come to that, so did he, although his parents weren't so mad keen on it. He also noticed a board-covered drawings holder, with a lace tie loosely fastening it. Several sheets of paper were visible inside – obviously a selection of Kathy's paintings and drawings.

James located the lemonade bottle and unscrewed the top, noticing a tiny pink smudge of lipstick around the neck. There was even a hint of Kathy's subtle perfume, although he might be getting that from her, as he was sitting next to her. He regarded her slender legs – what he could see of them – and her well formed breasts, constricted by the camisole top, but as fulsome and alluring as he'd remembered them to be. Gratefully taking two swigs of the now slightly warm lemonade, James proffered the bottle to her.

"No thanks," said Kathy, still engrossed in the gnarled oak.

"Thanks," said James and returned the bottle to her bag. He quietly and surreptitiously withdrew the drawing folder from the bag and began to untie the ribbon.

Kathy caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, dropped her drawing pad and snatched the folder from James' hands. "Don't touch!" she snapped. "Nobody looks at my work!"

"That must make it a bit difficult for your teachers to assess it then," James smiled at her, with the infuriating smirk built into his voice. "Or do they just give you a grade for turning up?"

"You arrogant sod!" snapped Kathy, almost giggling at his conceit, still unsure whether he meant what he said or not. "And they're not teachers – they're tutors!"