John Smith's

A ridiculous story

One.

“Better pack a raincoat,” said Justin, “you never know it might rain again.”

““It’s not forecast to rain again today,” replied his patient wife, Laura, who was already halfway out of their front door.

Together they set off on their routinely daily jaunt to walk one of the many footpaths which emanated in every direction from their village. They had lived in this tiny quaint village for the most part of their married lives. Justin had decided his vacation in life, upon his retirement, was to forge a well-worn path along these footpaths. A local landowner, by the name of Hugo Fotheringhay, had for many years sought to have these ancient tracks, many of which criss-crossed his meadows and fields of wheat and barley, closed for public use.

“Damn country bumpkins,” Hugo would often rant to his sweet-tempered wife. “Think they know all about the countryside. Huh! They know as much about the countryside as anyone knows about the weather.” His wife seldom contradicted him. Justin had taken it upon himself to frustrate farmer Fotheringhay’s wily attempts to get the footpaths closed.

Sure enough not a single drop of rain fell on Justin and Laura that day.

Two.

“Laura dear, could you put together a small pack of plasters and a tube of antiseptic cream just in case.”

Laura obeyed yet breathed a little sigh of frustration as in the many years out walking, neither of them had ever suffered the slightest graze or cut. Setting out, on what was a fine, sunny July afternoon, at precisely two ‘o’clock; a time insisted upon by Justin in order for him to be able to gauge the ratio between minutes walked and steps taken for each of the footpaths they walked. Today their route would take them along the canal towpath, then cut across a small meadow, before entering a large barley field ripe for harvesting. The footpath led right through the middle of the crop.

“Should we turn back?” asked Laura as she stopped to a sudden halt, pointing to a combine harvester cutting into the ears of barley at the far end of the field.

“Certainly not. It’s a public footpath. We have as much right to be here as he has. Proceed dear.”

Laura hated her husband a little bit more every time he used that expression and it appeared to her he used it an awful lot more recently.

Over the far side of the field Hugo Fotheringhay was happily forging his way through the standing barley. Fine weather during harvest time was always a farmers best friend and as he sat in the air-conditioned cab of his combine harvester he felt a glimmer of joy and happiness seep into his soul. That was until he spotted two folk slowly walking right through the middle of his crop.

“It’s a pair of ruddy ramblers,” he suddenly ranted flinging open the cab door to get a clearer view. When he noticed the two ramblers were Justin and Laura Case, his arch enemies, the blood vessels on his face and neck became clearly visible.

“Ha, ha!” he said calming down slightly, “I’ll teach the pair of them to walk across my land in the middle of harvesting,” and he manoeuvred his combine around and headed in their direction, cutting a swathe of barley right alongside the footpath.

“Dear, I think that combine is headed straight for us.”

“Nonsense dear. He’s merely alongside the path. Farmers have to cut around the edges of the field and tracks first before they can harvest the centre. Proceed dear.”

The combine edged closer and closer until farmer Fotheringhay’s red fuming cheeks became clear to see. Once he had passed, both Justin and Laura were completely covered in dust from head to toe.

Three.

“Better pack a couple of masks dear,” Justin said as the couple prepared for the following days walk.

“But he’s finished combining now dear.”

“Well put them in, you never know when we might need them. Oh! Put the compass that’s in the sideboard drawer in too.”

“Compass?”

“Yes, dear.”

“But we’ve been walking these footpaths for the last seven years and never been lost once.”

“You never know.”

“I do know,” she said, but out of earshot of her husband.

A sign hung on a footpath gate which led into one of Hugo Fotheringhay’s grass fields which looked as though the words, ‘Beware. Dangerous Bull!’ had been hurriedly painted in red.

“That’s put an end to today’s walk then,” said Laura.

“Nonsense. I can’t see a bull. I reckon Fotheringhay has put up this sign for the sole purpose of preventing anyone crossing his fields. Proceed dear.”

“I’m not so sure dear,”

“Mind out of my way then. I’ll lead.”

There was no bull in the field! That was until they had ventured halfway across. Then a farmhand, whose only job this day was to wait by the barn door until he spotted folk on the footpath and halfway across the field. Then he was to open up the barn door where a big red muscular bull was housed. Which is exactly what the farmhand did when he spotted Justin and Laura Case crossing the field. Having been couped up all day the bull rushed forth heading straight for Mr and Mrs Case. They had never run so fast for years. Yet running seemed to chivvy the bull on, as head down and snorting heavily, he charged towards them. Desperately running over towards the nearest hedge both Justin and Laura threw themselves over the top of it, grazing themselves in the process. In the distance Hugo Fotheringhay, watching from a farmhouse window, was heard howling with laughter.

“It’s a good job we packed those plasters,” said Laura.

Four.

“Get my walking stick dear.”

“But you hate being seen walking with it.”

“Yes, but if I bump into Hugo Fotheringhay, I swear on my dead mother’s grave, I’m going to clobber him with it.”

“I’m not sure that is a good idea, dear.”

“Better pray he doesn’t cross my path then. And put in a spare pair of socks for both of us.”

“What for?”

“In case we get wet feet!”

It was true the footpath they were to take did cross a stream with only a narrow bridge across it, but there was a handrail along one side and neither had ever fallen in the stream despite having crossed it more times than either cared to remember.

Hugo Fotheringhay wasn’t a particularly learned man by any stretch of ones imagination, yet he was very observant. He read the signs of the seasons, sensed when a storm was brewing, when a fox was close by, or when a cow was about to ‘come on heat’. He knew the exact time to empty the barrel of his shotgun to bring down a pheasant in full flight. He had observed that Justin was a logical man. A man of routines. He knew exactly where he and his wife would be walking that day. So he made his plans.

“Go down to the stream,” he instructed his farmhand. “Take a saw with you, then crouch under the bridge. I want you to saw though the centre of the bridge from underneath but only enough to keep it intact until someone walks over it.”

He knew Justin was an old-fashioned gentleman kind of fellow who would always stand back and let his wife go first. If his plan was to work he needed to find a way of getting Mr Case to go over the bridge first.

Justin being a logical, methodical man, Hugo deduced he probably sat at home figuring out puzzles and crosswords.

“I need to write something cryptic on a sign,” he thought to himself, “which would arouse his intrigue sufficiently to make him decide to cross over first.”

As Laura and Justin approached the bridge sometime later, they stopped short of crossing it having never noticed a sign there before. Justin as expected became intrigued.

“Wait my dear, there’s something funny going on here,” as he read the sign out loud.

‘A gentleman always allows his wife to go first!’

“What do you think it means?” asked Laura.

“It means exactly what it says, yet I suspect there is some tomfoolery going on here. Move aside dear, let me go first.”

Hugo Fotheringhay’s attempt at reverse phycology had worked! No sooner had Justin stepped into the centre of the bridge, the sound of wood snapping was heard, accompanied by a loud shriek from his wife causing a nearby pheasant to take to flight, as Mr Case fell headlong into the stream and getting a good soaking in the process.

The sound of a twelve-bore being fired a field away heralded Hugo Fotheringhay’s’ success.

Five.

Hugo Fotheringhay was one of those people who needed an enemy. Someone to blame for his lot in life albeit he had a privileged existence. A wealthy landowner he had inherited vast swathes of fertile land left to him by his cantankerous old father. Yet despite his father’s argumentative and bad-tempered behaviour, he nevertheless had the insight to know hard work was good for the development of a strong character, thus placing a covenant within his will which forbid the sale of the farm. It was hard work which Hugo Fotheringhay resented. Ramblers, who walked along the many footpaths which crossed his fields, became an obvious target for his bitterness, especially Justin and Laura Case, who saw it as their duty to stand up to the wealthy landowner on behalf of ramblers everywhere.

Yet, a puzzling aspect of getting ‘one up’ on your enemy was it never really fully satisfies you. The memory of the days triumph seemed to spur Hugo Fotheringhay on with greater determination.

“I’ll whip those wretched ramblers once and for all. They’re going to loathe the day they ever dared venture onto Hugo Fotheringhay’s land.”

Undeterred by dust, or bulls, or a good soaking, Justin Case was not a man to be trifled with. He was determined to thwart any trickery conjured up by Hugo Fotheringhay. Now, he wasn’t just a campaigner, he was a crusader! No amount of persecution metered out by Hugo Fotheringhay was going to deter his mission in life. In fact it proved to have the opposite affect than Hugo Fotheringhay had strove for.

“Put a complete set of spare clothes in the rucksack for both of us dear, I’m not taking any chances.”

“What?” replied Laura, “I don’t care how much of a soaking I might get; I’m not getting changed in the middle of a field for no man or beast.”

Yet she packed the clothes anyway!

“This is far too heavy for me to carry,” Laura exclaimed as she dropped the bulging rucksack onto their porch floor.

“Pass it here dear. I’ll carry it.”

Once more they set out to walk along yet another footpath which crossed the fields of Hugo Fotheringhay.

Early that morning Hugo had risen early with the sole purpose of preparing a trap for the would-be crusaders. He had sat quietly the previous evening planning the whole thing out. His idea was to dig a large pit with his mechanical digger in a field right across where one of the footpaths led. Then, using his slurry tanker, to fill the pit with effluent sucked up from a tank which held last winter’s drain off from his cow sheds, coating the steep sloping sides of the pit to make them extra slippery. Cunningly he would cover the hole with a tarpaulin, weighted down with soil along its outer edges. Then sprinkle a thin layer of soil and stubble on top to conceal it.

He worked away with such enthusiasm he could barely contain his excitement. His wife couldn’t ever remember witnessing a time when she had seen her husband so elated since the scout master had his pants pulled down by the boy scouts in the middle of the local village fete. By the time he had finished he had done such a good job that you would not have suspected beneath the ground lay such a gruesome grave! He couldn’t wait for two o’clock.

Six.

Justin and Laura picked up their pace as they marched regimentally along the street which led from their cottage to a stile at the start of todays footpath. Crossing a meadow they were careful to make sure no bull lurked nearby. On through a small, wooded area before exiting into a field of stubble where Hugo Fotheringhay’s trap lay over on the far side. Unbeknown to them, hidden behind a hedgerow on the boundary of the field was their arch enemy.

“The air is a little pungent today,” remarked Laura.

“Damn Fotheringhay spreading muck to deter us from walking his fields no doubt. Proceed dear.”

“If he says, ‘proceed dear’ once more, it’ll be me clobbering him with the walking stick,” she vowed to herself.

They were not halfway across the field when to their utter surprise they saw Hugo Fotheringhay come crashing through a hedge over to their right. Motionless each stood staring when suddenly the big red bull, which had previously chased them, also came crashing through the hedge seemingly in hot pursuit of its master. Grazed and with a look of fright on his face, Hugo was running full pelt across the field. He was kicking up so much stubble the dust of which quickly filled his eyes obscuring his vision. The inevitable happened! He ran straight into his own trap. The tarpaulin gave way and despite desperately trying to prevent himself sliding down the slippery slope slid into the depths of the slurry.

Justin, without hesitation, ran to his aid as Laura simply stood screeching at the top of her voice, which was enough to frighten any bull away. Grabbing his walking stick and laying down flat of his stomach, Justin reached down into the pit. Hugo Fotheringhay emerged spluttering from beneath the slurry, grabbed hold of the stick to be pulled out of the trap of his own making. Laying there, covered in slurry and stinking to high heaven, Hugo Fotheringhay looked every bit of a sorry sight.

Justin stood up, brushed himself down, grabbed his walking stick from Laura, then gave Hugo an almighty wallop with it. Then, without a further to do, passed the walking stick back to Laura, who had calmed down by now, and said, “Come along Laura dear, let us make haste. We are already well behind schedule. Proceed dear.”

Hugo Fotheringhay had received his comeuppance!

“It’s a good job I bought along my walking stick,” said Justin Case, which was the last thing he remembered saying before he found himself waking up in the local hospital sometime later that day!