Animal Instincts - Softcover

Chapter 1: Angels
(Geranium robertianum)

"Could you fold your table away, sir?"

He was miles away. Half a world away.

"Sir?"

"Mmm? Sorry."

"Can I take your cup?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry." He managed a weak smile

She was quite pretty, her hair tied back in a smooth, shiny dark brown bun, her lipstick the same bright red as the pattern on her uniform. The sort of lipstick his mother used to wear. Strangely old-fashioned now. He folded up the table and secured it with the clip, then leaned sideways to look out of the window.

The landscape was gradually rising up to meet him. It should have been grey -- he had been convinced it would be grey, to match his mood and the image of the country he had left behind ten years ago. But it was soft green and dusky purple, pale russet and dark brown. There was no hint of battleship grey anywhere, except on the roads that snaked though the countryside. He sighed, and looked down at the newspaper folded open on the seat next to him in row fourteen. It should have been row thirteen, but they had left out that number, skipping straight from twelve to fourteen. On this occasion the thoughtful adjustment by British Airways seemed futile.

The Daily Telegraph was less tactful. On page 13 he read, again, his father's obituary:

Rupert Lavery, who has died aged sixty-two, was best known for his work at the West Yarmouth Nature Reserve in Devon where, over the space of thirty years, he built up a reputation as a conservationist of unusual stance and individual reasoning.

The writer had clearly known his father well.

Not for Lavery the left-wing activist approach. He concentrated, instead, on influence by example. He steadfastly refused to allow hunting on his land, but remained on good terms with the Lynchampton Hunt, whose territory surrounded him. He made sure his own land was farmed organically, but took a broad view of genetically modified crops, refusing to join in with those who condemned them as 'Frankenstein foods'. On one occasion, when interviewed, he suggested that the widespread invasion of ragwort was currently the greatest threat to the British countryside and was being overlooked by both farmers and government alike.

Here, at least, was something upon which they agreed. Ragwort was deadly to horses.

Lavery endeavoured to reintroduce the red squirrel to Devon, with little success, alas, but is credited with contributing to the saving from extinction in Britain of the large blue butterfly.

He looked up, blinking back the tear that had came to his eye. Dear old Dad. A failure with the red squirrel but a winner with the butterfly. What a legacy.

Those who perceived Rupert Lavery as a crank missed the point. A tall man, with a gentle but determined nature, Lavery regarded himself as a responsible custodian of 300 acres of Devonshire. Though never an evangelical animal rights campaigner, he maintained steadfastly that the link between badgers and bovine tuberculosis was largely unproven, and won a following for his dedication to local natural history in South Devon. But for his tragically early death due to a fall, there is no doubt that he would have continued to be one of the country's most influential conservationists.

Rupert Christopher Lavery was born at West Yarmouth, Devon, on 2 May 1937, and educated at Radley and Trinity College, Cambridge. He attended the Royal Agricultural College, Cirencester, before beginning a career in estate management, finally taking over the family farm from his father in 1970.

He was a Fellow of the Linnaean Society and a member of the Royal Corinthian Yacht Club, but was seldom seen on the water.

Rupert Lavery married, in 1965, Rosalind Bennett, who predeceased him. He is survived by a son.

Kit folded the paper so that he could no longer see the obituary. An insistent ping accompanied the illuminated 'Fasten Seat Belts' sign, and the 747 tilted slowly to reveal, through the small oval window, the sprawl of London. Now it was grey, with only the muddy ribbon of the Thames to guide the aircraft towards Heathrow.

He would stay just long enough to sort things out. A few weeks. Maybe a month. Perhaps two.

Had he known what lay ahead of him, he would have transferred his baggage to a Qantas flight and headed straight back to Balnunga Valley.

He had completely underestimated the ladies. But, then, he hadn't met any of them yet.

Copyright © Alan Titchmarsh, 2000