"There's a man lying in that field under a tree and he's been there for a long time without moving," she said pointing from her vantage point in the saddle, high above my open car window.
"His mobile phone has just been ringing and he didn't move an inch. I can't really go over because of my horse and I also have my granddaughter with me," she added with a look of deep concern, nodding towards a girl on a pony a few yards further up the road. "Anything could have happened to him. It's an unusual place to be, under that tree. I was wondering if..."
I finished the sentence for her.
"If I could go over and check if he's alive?"
"Well, yes, if you don't mind," she said half laughing. "I could always flag down another car if you don't want to go over."
Emotional blackmail.
I could see only a pair of legs jutting out from under the tree. The rest of his body was obscured by autumn foliage. My anxiety must have been obvious. In fact, I was really peed off as well as feeling sorry for the bloke. There I was, enjoying a pleasant drive home down the country lanes after picking up some hay and straw for our animals from a farm supplies shop just over the county border in nearby Norfolk, and now this. Instead of looking forward to a lunchtime sandwich and a cup of tea, I faced the prospect of trying to revive someone who might have collapsed through a severe heart attack or epileptic fit. Murdered? He might be a crazy man who sleeps rough. But he might be dead. Stone cold.
Oh, deep bloody joy.
"No, you're OK, I go take a look and check if he is OK ... he's probably drunk," I said, in hope rather than expectation, and with an air of resignation. I'll admit I was scared of what I might find.
"Yes, you're right. It might be one of the agricultural workers from abroad. He's probably had a few ... although it is rather early. It's only 12.15," she said.
Thanks for that, dear. You stay there, on your high horse.
I reluctantly got out of my car, took a deep breath and marched over to the field. As I neared the still body I slowed down and stopped a couple of yards away. He was now in full view. His hands were clasped across his chest. At least he looked at peace. My heart was pounding. What next? Suddenly, the man let out a sigh. Oh, what relief. At least he hasn't popped his clogs, or trainers in this instance.
He then proceeded to snore. And I could smell alcohol from where I stood. Satisfied that he was simply blotto/legless/loaded/sloshed/smashed/sozzled/stinko/wasted - whatever term you wish - I took the snap of the contented fellow on my own phone.
I then shouted "Are you OK?" a couple of times, but there was no response. So I gently kicked the sole of a well-worn trainer and that did the trick.
His bloodshot eyes sprang open, he let out a groan and tried to raise himself on his elbows as he slowly focused on the towering figure that was me.
"Are you OK?" I asked again, this time in a quieter tone.
"Yes, yes. OK. Me OK, thank you. Thank you," he said in a heavy Eastern European accent. There's no point in guessing exactly which nationality because there are farm workers from many countries, including Russia, Poland and Ukraine, who are based here in the Fens. They work long hard hours, in cold, mucky conditions, so I reckon he deserved to sleep it off after his drinks break in a makeshift beer garden, don't you?
I gave him a wave which was reciprocated with a half-smile, before he fumbled in a coat pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. At least it wasn't a bottle. I headed back to my car, giving the waiting lady a thumbs up. "He's all right - just drunk as a skunk," I shouted.
With that, she laughed and turned to her granddaughter, before the pair continued their afternoon ride down the lane.
Life's never dull in these 'ere parts.
PS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus
