Chapter 1

I left England as a very green Hostilities Only Second Lieutenant and returned, only thanks to my experienced Sergeant, as Captain of a much reduced company. I say company. Honestly, we were barely a platoon, seventy-three enlisted, another HO lieutenant and myself. But as a company of the Essex Regiment, we were returned to Colchester Barracks to be demobbed. They say that fighting guerillas is like eating soup with a knife. That is what we did, and we cost the Fundies at least ten for every soldier we lost. There is no way of living through that experience unchanged, and, of course, the country we returned to was much changed too.

It was only a couple of days after our arrival home that I was called to see the Colonel. I had just about tidied myself up and buffed my boots to a suitable gloss as I entered his office and saluted. “Captain Bungay reporting as ordered, sir!”

“Relax, Captain,” he said, returning my salute. “The demob process is likely to be lengthy, but you do not need to remain here while that proceeds. There is something for your attention,” he rummaged through his ‘out’ tray, found a heavy envelope, and handed it to me. “This is from a solicitor in Halstead, not too far from here. You need to go to see him. I don’t know what it’s about, but he says, ‘something to your benefit’. You are released to the inactive Reserve, Captain. You may draw a vehicle, bearing in mind you’ll find getting fuel for it difficult, and you may retain your uniform, sidearm and rifle.”

I was taken aback, but thought quickly. “Sir, might I ask for a driver? Not that I mind driving myself, but Corporal Bright has no home to go to, and asked if he could continue in my service in civvy street.”

The Colonel nodded. “Certainly, Captain. See the Adjutant when you leave, will you?”

I took that as a dismissal. “By your leave, sir?”

“Captain, I’d just like to say that you’ve been an asset to the Regiment. You’ve done well and I hope you won’t dwell too much on the negatives of your service, which have no bearing on your abilities. You are dismissed, sir.”

I did the salute, about turn, march out of the room thing, and headed to the Adjutant’s office. There I was asked to wait for him to return, which gave me a chance to open and read the letter.

Benson, Jones and Crabb

Solicitors at Law.

Colchester Road,

Halstead,

Essex.

Dear Captain Bungay,

You are the nearest surviving relative of James Burgin Esq., who died without issue in December last year. That being so, we request that you present yourself at our offices in Halstead at your earliest convenience, where you may hear something to your advantage.

Your servant,

Ernest Jones, Partner.

Well that was helpful. Not. I went in search of Corporal Bright, who I found with his squad, taking money off them at poker.

“Corporal!”

“Sir!” He stood quickly, turned to look at me. Then back to his companions. “Sorry, guys. Duty calls.”

As might be expected, there were a number of probably negative comments made which I didn’t quite catch, as he pocketed his winnings and came to me. He carefully positioned a beret on his head, stiffened, and saluted. “Corporal Bright, reporting, sir!”

I returned his salute with a smile. “At ease, Sparky. You said you wanted to come with me when we were demobbed, despite not knowing where I might be going.”

“Yes, sir! I’ve nowhere particular to go, myself.”

“Well, right now, you’re my driver. We need to draw a vehicle. Probably a TUL*.”

*Truck, Utility, Light. A Land-rover Wolf.

“Shall I see to that, sir?”

That didn’t take much thought. “Yes, please. But this is legal. I don’t mind you pulling strings, but there needs to be a proper paper trail, Sparky. We get to take our weapons, too. Better have some extra ammo for them, okay?”

“Yes, sir!”

“We’ll leave after lunch, if we can. Might as well have full stomachs.”

“Very good sir. I’ll be about it right away.”

It’s a truism that it’s the NCOs who run an army. Any officer is well advised to trust his Corporal (in my case) or Sergeant. Sparky turned up with a Wolf, with a full tank, and maintained right up to the minute. Our packs were in the back, along with our SA80s and extra ammunition. (I didn’t realise at the time just how much ammo Sparky had drawn, but it was a lot) and we left the barracks at thirteen thirty, heading west. We drew up outside the law office merely an hour later, and Sparky stayed with the vehicle while I went to see the solicitor.

I was kept waiting only long enough for the person with Mister Jones to be politely dismissed, and in the office was offered coffee, which I never refuse.

Ernest Jones was a substantial gentleman of affable demeanour. He stood to welcome me and to shake hands.

“Let’s be seated, Captain. If you’re comfortable with informality, I’m Ernie. That will help proceedings, I think.”

“Suits me, Ernie. I answer to Ted.”

“Excellent, Ted.” He paused and sighed. “Your inheritance ... is substantial. A dairy farm, self sustaining. However ... how do I explain this? Your relative created an ... idiosyncratic ... business. The milk producers are ... women. Originally, they were all women who sought to satisfy a personal fetish. I am assured that they were all consenting adults. Since the Atrocities and the growth of slavery, replacements have been from the slave blocks. But the farm both produces milk for sale, and trained milk-maids, that is, young women who as part of a staff of a large house are there to supply milk to the residents. You need to understand...” he was correctly, I’m sure, interpreting my expression, “Young women are vulnerable in our society. They are safest in an identified role within a protected environment. They are sheltered, fed, cared for. They work in the kitchen as well as providing milk. Although in the case we’re considering, they may work on the farm. I hope you will consider very carefully before upsetting the status quo. At the moment, the farm is being managed by a stock-man in his late seventies and a former member of the herd, who cooks and looks after the house. She’s in her late fifties.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I commented. “It sounds ... abusive.”

“You could refuse the inheritance. I do not know what would happen to the estate in that event.”

“No. It looks as though I’m landed with the responsibility, doesn’t it?”

“There’s just the matter of a few signatures and the documents and some keys, then.”

We had a further fifteen miles to drive, then a gated track off the minor road. Over Sparky’s protests I hopped out to open and close the gate before we carried on along a seemingly interminable gravel drive before drawing up in front of a sprawling house. To call it ‘farm house’ is not to give the impression of size. Sparky parked near the front door, we got out, and went to make use of a large, heavy knocker in the middle of the door.

It took several minutes, but a handsome older woman answered, wearing clothes suitable for the kitchen.

“Good afternoon,” I offered. “I am Captain Ted Bungay. My companion is Corporal Bright.”

She dipped in what might be described as an abbreviated curtsey. “Please enter, Captain. Corporal. I am Sarah Tendring, cook and housekeeper. We’ve been expecting you, sir. Would you mind sitting in the reception room for a few minutes? I will send coffee? Or tea?”

“Either will do, Miss Tendring, or is it Missus?”

“It’s Missus, sir. But I answer to Sarah.”

“Thank you, Sarah. My companion, who will need a room of his own, will answer to ‘Sparky’. I’m usually known as Ted.”

“If you don’t mind, sir, for now I would be more comfortable calling you ‘sir’.”

“Whatever suits you, Sarah.”

She left, we sat, and a few minutes later a much younger woman appeared dressed in a loose shift, which covered but did not entirely conceal her curves, carrying a tray,. Her legs and feet were bare, and it was apparent that she wore no bra. She had quite a pretty face, framed by short dark hair. She placed the tray on a low table. “Will I pour, sirs?”

“Yes, please. No milk or sugar for either of us. Do you have a name, lass?”

She dipped her head. “I am Buttercup.”

“Buttercup?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Surely that’s not the name on your birth certificate?”

“Oh, no, sir. When we come here, we all get a new name, appropriate to being a cow. Actually, I’m Buttercup nine, since there’s been eight before me.”

“And you’re happy with that?”

“It’s better than I could have had, sir. If that’s everything for now, sir, I need to go?”

“That’s fine. If you’ve something else...”

“Oh, it’s just my time for milking, sir.”

Before I could say anything, she turned and left. I picked up my coffee, which was served in a bone china cup with a flowery trim, and a matching saucer.

“What have we walked into, sir?” Sparky asked.

“I have only slightly more idea than you, Sparky. It seems that the cows on this farm are actually women, though not treated exactly like animals. I expect we’ll see later.”

Between us, we finished off the carafe of coffee – filling our cups three times each – and I stood to examine the book shelves and music. There was a wide selection of reading, though all more than ten years old. Classics rubbed shoulders with science fiction and thrillers. The music was quite as varied. Mostly classical, but popular music spanning a century and some – a few – more specialised; heavy metal, hard rock, folk. While I was thus engaged, Sarah reappeared.

“Sorry to leave you, sirs. I needed to get some food in the oven. If you will come with me, I will show you to your rooms.” She led the way upstairs, and showed Sparky a small guest room, though it did have its own en suite facilities, and we left him to settle in while she showed me to the master suite. “I haven’t disposed of the old master’s clothes, yet. You may find some of them suitable; when he was younger, he was a similar build to yourself.”

The room was large and pleasant, with a well-equipped en suite bathroom. A radio and a flat-screen TV were both available. “It all looks very comfortable,” I said.

“The girls are all in rooms upstairs,” she said, “with their own facilities and stairs down to the kitchen and milking parlour. I expect my husband will explain how the farm actually works. We grow all our own vegetables and some fruit, and we get meat from our neighbour, whom we supply with vegetables and milk. We make our own butter and cheese.”