What Are You Doing Here?

      Jeees - us! I don’ like t’ look o’ thee lad…. Not - at - all.

     Bert muttered to himself as he bent between the twin strands of barbed wire guarding the ditch. He forced the lower wire downward, but, failing to employ his full attention, he spiked his trousers on at least one barb.

      Dammit! He muttered forcefully. Extricating the material with some difficulty, creating a brand new tear in the process.

     At the edge of the steep sided ditch, the long grass proved slippery, he almost slid. Cor bugger!  I’ll be joinin’ o’ee in a minute.

      He sank to his knees and hooked his left arm around an upright post for stability  The other hand he employed in moving aside brambles and nettles in an attempt to clear his view.

     “Wha’s on then Bert? Wha’s t’ hold up?”

     Alfred Tremlett, concerned that work seemed to have ceased for some minutes, had approached his dairyman with stealth, employing the unmoving machinery as cover.

      His thorn proof tweeds with polished brown boots and smart tweed trilby announced his status - gentleman farmer.

    Bert looked around slowly. Oh ah, he thought, I might ‘ave knowed Dolly’d be yer so soon ‘s I stopped. Carefully he rose from his knees and made his way back through the fence.

     “ ‘ope you said one for the rest of us while you was down there.” Tremlett said, forced jocularity sitting ill on his normally tetchy nature.

     “Ah, I ‘low us d’ need all o’   ‘em us c’n ge’. No good askin’ I though. I ‘aven’t ‘ad ‘nough practice, ‘ouldn’t know what t’say.” Bert hitched up his stained, baggy and crumpled trousers as he spoke, smoothing down the recent tear.

     Tremlett stepped over the draw bar between tractor and mower in an effort to obtain an uninterrupted view of whatever the problem may be. A rapid visual scan revealed no obvious fault.

     That fresh cut grass smell was strong in the nostrils. A burnt oil overlay underscored the fact that the tractor was ticking over idly, wasting Tremlett’s expensive fuel, and raising his temperature toward tetchy.

     He pushed the trilby to the back of his head – an habitual gesture, giving air to the brain whenever thought or decision became necessary- “So wha’s the trouble Bert?” he asked again.

     “We got a problem, boss.”

      “Wha’ sort o’ problem?” Tremlett now half way tetchy.

     Bert nodded at the ditch. “Could be us’ve foun’ thik lad wha’s gone missin’.” He answered.

     “Wha’ ‘yer?  Ow come?”

     The farmer moved closer to the ditch in order to see into its vigorously verdant depth.

.     “Oh Hell!” He said, then conscious of his wife’s admonitions and strictures, quickly changed tack. “Good Lord deliver us! Do y’ reckon tha’s that Carter boy?”

     “Dunno, boss. Never knew ‘im tha’ well, any’ow I casn’t see ‘is face.”

     “Is he dead?”

     “Oh ah, ‘e’s dead righ’ ‘nough… swellin’ up an’ startin’ t’ pong.” Bert looked sombre. “They flies d’ seem t’agree wi’ I an’all”

     “Wha’s the bugger doin’ in my ditch?” Definitely tetchy now. “’E worked for the Pooles di’nt’ er? If ‘e were goin’ to curl up an’ die, why didn’t ‘e choose their ditch?”

     “I don’ think ‘er ‘ad no choice, boss. I reckon ‘er were dumped yer.” Bert looked at his boss expecting argument.

     Tremlett leaned against the tractor wheel, and with shocked expression asked more quietly, “You suggestin’ ‘es b’n murdered? Bert.”

     “I don’ thin’ ‘er come yer by ‘is self, an’ I don’ thin’ ‘er were alive when ‘er come yer neither.”

     “Why do y’ say that,Bert?”

     “Well, if thee dist wan t’ crawl int’ a ditch t’ die…{Bert quickly suppressed  a smile at this unlikely prospect}… ‘ould y’ pick a bed o’ brambles an’ nettles whe’ there d’ be a patch down yer look where ‘tis only grass?” He pointed to a spot a few yards away. “Then ‘er be a lyin’ face down in brambles what ‘ave scratched at ‘im on ‘is way in. See ‘ow is yero be torn? That ‘ould ‘ave bled a fair bit if n ‘is ‘art ‘ad been workin’, an’ wi’ nettles pokin’ inta every slit, an’ cranny. No I don’ think ‘e chose thik spot ‘is self.”

     Tremlett cupped his chin in a podgy left hand, evening stubble rasping audibly. “Can we ‘ave ‘im out o’ there?” he suggested.

     “Could do I ‘low.” Bert replied, prodding a clump of cut grass with a worn hobnailed boot. “Mightn’t be a s’ch good idea though. I expec’ us ought t’ sen’ f’r the