by Fiona Walker
Almost as soon as Pip put one mobile phone back in her pocket, its twin on her other side started to ring.
The Dark Phone was coming into its own at last.
Beaming at Mrs Hedges, who was hushing her so that she could hear the hammer price of a Clarice Cliff teapot, she cleared her throat, mimicking Gill Walcote’s bark. ‘Glebe Farm!’
At that moment, the teapot doubled its estimate amid much cheering. Pip waved her arm frantically to Mrs H to lower the volume, moving into the kitchen as the red team jumped around hugging one another.
‘Sounds like you have a houseful,’ Kit Donne’s lovely northern voice said in her ear. ‘I’ll keep this quick. Is Pip Edwards worth getting in?’
‘Absolute treasure!’ Pip’s impersonation of Gill told him. ‘Couldn’t live without her.’
Pressing the mute button, Mrs Hedges looked at her curiously, and she stepped out of sight. A moment later the television sound sprang back to life and the auctioneer was announcing a mixed lot of Victorian ephemera.
‘Is she as inexpensive as she makes out?’
‘You must pay her more than she asks. Worth her weight in gold. Just don’t steal her from anyone. We guard her fiercely round here.’
‘Can she be trusted?’
‘With your life. And your gundog’s life. And your gun. That’s how good she is.’
‘Thank you.’
Pip rang off, feeling pleased. A moment later, the first phone was sounding as the ephemera lost the blue team a fiver.
‘Hello!’ She realised she was still talking like Gill. ‘I mean, Home from Home Comforts. I keep your second house your forever-ready home! How may I help?’ She sidled as far away from the television’s loud boom as she could.
‘Me again. Thanks for that number. Can you come round for a chat now?’
‘Now?’ She peered out of the tiny kitchen window at the lane and saw a green Range Rover gliding along it, looking for a parking space, a familiar blonde in the passenger seat. She thought about the uppity caterers and Alice treating her like casual staff, about Lester being too tightly buttoned to stand up for her. Let them wait. ‘It’ll have to be quick.’
‘You might be over-qualified for this place,’ he said.
‘No job too small!’ she promised, ringing off with a victory salute and hurriedly called up her search engine, keeping half an eye on the window as the Range Rover cruised past again, still hunting for a space.
Grateful that she was already dressed smartly enough for a job interview, even if her eyes were a bit puffy and her feet were throbbing, Pip was on Kit Donne’s Wiki entry in seconds, scrolling too quickly past all the theatre stuff to read much of it, although Awards, Television/Film and Personal Life held her attention longer. High culture wasn’t really her thing. She’d enjoyed big musicals at the Birmingham Hippodrome with her parents, and sometimes the ballet or panto, but she found serious stage plays a bit dull. It was obvious from all the rave reviews in grown-up newspapers that Kit’s was a heavyweight name. He’d worked with lots of actors she’d seen in Midsomer Murders and the Harry Potter films, so he had to be good. She hurried outside.
To her right, the Range Rover was making its third approach, the driver’s face a thundercloud. She recognised Blair Robertson’s craggy good looks from his internet profile. Ronnie was missing, so she must have got out to hurry into church.
To Pip’s left, the coffin was making its way slowly up Church Lane on the shoulders of six pallbearers, the big off-roader standing in its path. Blair started to reverse.
Pip’s little blue car was parked directly outside Mrs Hedges’ front door.
Waving at him to wait, she leaped inside and, revving wildly, drove out of the prime parking spot, mounting the pavement to let the Range Rover into it, then careered along the lane to dump the car around the corner by the No Parking sign on the Green. None of the village busybodies were likely to complain. They were all in church.
She ran back to the lane to find that the funeral procession was through the lichgate and halfway along the path. Blair’s Range Rover was perfectly parked outside Mrs Hedges’ cottage, its driver gone.
Following the Captain’s coffin came the three grandchildren, their spouses and children, a scattering of other close friends. Nobody noticed Pip watching from the shadows beneath the horse-chestnuts at the far end of the lane.
‘Goodbye, Captain,’ she breathed, as she saluted him. She waited for the tears. They had to come now. But, instead, she found herself wondering if she’d baked enough for a sell-out crowd. She glanced at her watch. She had at least an hour, probably longer. Easily enough time to get a new job, pick up fresh ingredients from home and run off some quick contingency supplies in the stud’s kitchen. It was important to keep busy, they always said.
She trotted up to the path to the Old Almshouses. She was expecting the door to be opened by a wild-eyed, open-cuffed Ian McShane type, but he was smartly turned out in checked shirt and dark cream trousers, thick brown hair neatly trimmed at the nape, only a hint of silver fox lining the temples and ears. He looked like an army officer on leave.
‘Come in – Philippa, isn’t it?’ He beckoned her quickly inside, glancing warily across at the church.
‘Pip. From my father’s nickname for me.’ She fed him the customary Pipsqueak line as she stared in astonishment at the mess.
‘Right. Take a squeak – I mean, seat.’
‘Find a seat, you mean!’ she joked, handing him the plastic container of coffin cakes. ‘These are for you.’ She’d been going to leave them for Mrs Hedges, but felt her own cause was greater. In any case, the old lady’s daughter had asked her not to leave choking hazards after a recent episode with a fruit scone.
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Pleasure.’ She moved a pile of books and newspapers from a nearby chair. The one on top, folded back so that the crossword could be completed, had turned yellow with age.
Pip’s mother had always maintained that the Guardian was read by clever lefties with filthy houses. Pip liked to think of herself as more liberal than Jean Edwards had been, and Home from Home Comforts was a non-discriminatory business, but the evidence was all here. Kit’s weekend house, while incredibly pretty, was a total tip. As well as thick dust, there were ancient mugs growing mould, smeared glasses, spilling ashtrays and a forest of empty wine bottles.
‘I haven’t lived here for years,’ he apologised, standing with his back against the chimney breast, arms crossed and hands tucked into his armpits. ‘I’m afraid it’s rather squalid. My children don’t see the point in tidying up if they’re just going to make a mess again.’ His eyes, a tawny hazel, were extraordinarily penetrating, the sort that seemed to read your mind.
Kit’s grown-up kids came here with friends, he explained. There had been a regular cleaner once, but he’d lost her number and she didn’t appear to have been in for a while. Hearing the name, Pip was hardly surprised. She’d moved away two years ago. ‘Do you not stay here very often yourself?’
‘Not at all.’ He shook his head. ‘But I might come back here to write at some future point. I need space to work.’ As he said it, his face changed, as though the idea had only just occurred to him and was a welcome one.
‘Tidy house, tidy mind,’ Pip enthused, liking the scale of this particular house, so much smaller than Percy Place with its impenetrable attic rooms, all eave-high with family clutter. Let them deal with that.
‘Oh, I’m not at all tidy.’ Kit smiled. ‘I just don’t like other people’s mess.’
It was a lovely smile, with deep dimples on each cheek and thick dark brows, like canal lock gates, above those lively hazel eyes. It was a father’s face, wise and somewhat cynical, but full of compassion and kindness.
She pulled a couple more books out from underneath her bottom. ‘I’ve a fridge magnet at home with the quote If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind then what is an empty desk a sign of? Einstein. That’s quite witty for a
scientist, isn’t it?’
The smile was joined by an appreciative laugh. ‘He was infinitely quotable.’
‘My favourite is A balanced diet is a chocolate in each hand.’
‘That’s Einstein?’ He looked surprised.
‘No, it’s a fridge magnet.’ Pax had given it to her last Christmas. That big family Christmas at which they’d all told her how irreplaceable she was, the capricious Percys.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ The penetrating hazel eyes were doing their mind-reading trick. Her oldest, most cherished cat had eyes like that, Shane, named after her favourite Boyzone singer.
Maybe it was lack of sleep or the heat, the emotion of the day, but Pip was indeed starting to feel very odd, a pinching hot pressure mounting behind her eyes. ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’
‘Of course. How rude of me.’ He headed into an open-plan kitchen at one end of the room. Hand-made and a bit battered-steel-urban for Pip’s taste, it looked expensive. There were more books and papers littered all over the surfaces, but not a Delia or a Nigella in sight.
The Captain’s books were about horses, sportsmen and occasionally politics, but Kit Donne’s were about the theatre, along with poetry, critical commentary, novels and biographies. She picked up one as he filled the kettle, blowing dust off the jacket to read the author’s name. ‘Is Siegfried Sassoon related to Vidal?’
At the kitchen sink, the checked shoulders lifted a little, kettle wobbling under the tap. ‘Not to my knowledge. Siegfried was a very interesting, complicated man. I’ve been trying to write a play about him for over a decade.’
‘It’s good to work slowly. I always go a bit fast.’ She gazed around again. ‘This place could take a while to put straight, mind you.’ It might be small, but she didn’t relish the amount of cleaning involved, or the loneliness, real and virtual. There was precious little phone signal at this end of Church Lane, and no sign of a modem in the house. Nor could she see a television – the Captain had turned her into a racing addict. ‘How long did you say you’re away?’
‘A few months, but my kids will be coming here.’
Pip had a feeling she’d seen them in the garden when she ran errands for Mrs Hedges, a tall hunk with a statement beard, and a fluttery hippie chick. How incredible to have a dad so successful that he could more or less forget about a holiday cottage, like a car in a garage, and now want to give it the full wash and wax. The Percys were already squabbling over every bale of straw the Captain had left in their trust.
‘They’re lucky having you.’ The hot pressure behind her eyes was joined by a pain in her chest. Her jaw ached too. Please don’t let it be anything serious, she panicked. Or if it is, let me get back to the stud first so I collapse in front of the ungrateful Percys and see their guilt-ridden faces.
She stood up, panic gripping her, books spilling everywhere. What was she doing here? She should be there, fighting for her place, for the Captain’s wishes.
Kit was too busy looking through cupboards for teabags to notice her cross the room behind him. ‘It’ll have to be black, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘There must be some here somewhere. All we drank for seven years was fucking tea.’ Bang, bang, bang, went the cupboard doors.
Pip faltered. For the first time since arriving, she realised he was on edge too. That angry tone was far more beguiling and familiar than his modulated theatre-director voice. The Captain had been angry constantly after Ann’s death. The familiar, passionate timpani of slamming objects was music to her ears.
She brushed dust off her black skirt. It might be dirty here, but that was familiar too. She mustn’t forget all those Midsomer Murders stars Kit Donne was personally acquainted with. This would be a blue-chip contract, she reminded herself. ‘I hire in third-party cleaners for my clients, if that’s acceptable. I use a very reputable local firm.’
‘There are lots of cleaning things here in the cupboards.’ Kit opened one to demonstrate and a desiccated mouse fell out.
‘You need a cat,’ she said, moving into the kitchen and crouching beside him to peer inside. It was full of droppings and trendy eco-products. Shane would love it here, with his all-seeing feline eyes. That would give her an excuse to pop in every day. It would give her something to look after other than inanimate objects.
Pip didn’t think grapefruit and green tea washing-up liquid or chai-berry surface spritz would make much impression on all of the dust and grime. A deep-clean by Janine Turner and her Feather Dusters from the estate was all that was called for. She’d charge it to expenses, along with Rentokil, fresh flowers, new bedding and a few fridge magnets as a personal touch. He must be able to afford it if he had a play transferring to Broadway.
He’d picked up the mouse by its tail, fascinated. ‘It looks a little like a leaf, doesn’t it?’
Spotting a roll of plastic bags in the cupboard, Pip peeled one off and tugged it open. ‘In here, please.’
‘Heaven is here, where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog and little mouse,’ he placed it in the bag, ‘every unworthy thing, live here in heaven and may look on her, but Romeo may not.’
‘Oh, I loved Leonardo Di Caprio in that.’ The hot, hurty eye pressure grew overwhelming as Pip remembered the movie with its deeper than deep love, cool music, dusty Cadillacs, goldfish and devoted parents. Daddy Montague had looked just like the Captain.
Kit’s penetrating gaze was on her again, this time at close range. ‘Are you quite sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Eyes, chest and now throat burning, she glared into the cupboard beneath his sink as though the Holy Grail was there. It blurred in front of her eyes.
Above them, the kettle clicked off. Pip no longer felt like a cup of tea. As she knotted the bag around the mouse, a big tear plopped onto it.
A warm hand covered hers. ‘It’s just a mouse.’
Plop, plop, plop. So, so late they came, these tears for the Captain, that she was embarrassed to admit their cause. ‘I like mice.’
‘That’s very admirable.’ He patted her hand.
Plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop. The tears were raining now. The Captain had been no mouse. He’d been her entire hard-drive and cloud memory.
A fierce body-flash of pride gripped Pip, and she cast off the hand and stood up with the mouse bag. ‘I can’t stay. I promised Sabrina I’d drop three caramel cracknel cheesecakes into Grange Farm for her weekend guests.’ She marched to her handbag, dropped the mouse inside, plucked out her diary and mopped up the tears with a tissue. ‘Now, I can fit you in at a pinch. I’m technically fully booked, but I can see you’re desperate so I’ll do it if you want me to. I’ll need my own set of keys and the alarm codes.’ She turned to face him, chin high, feet throbbing.
He looked so amused that, with a humiliating finger-flick of fear against her temples, Pip knew he’d rumbled her.
‘I liked Mrs ffoulkes-Hamilton. You overacted it, but you have great comedy timing. She lived in Glebe Farm earlier.’
Pip felt her head prickle, a blush rising. She didn’t know what to say, scrabbling around for something clever, her voice shrill with embarrassment. ‘The best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry, to quote Shakespeare.’
‘And Robbie Burns agreed wholeheartedly.’ The laughter was back. ‘Let’s give this a go, Pip.’ He held out a hand to shake on it. ‘The keys live under the boot-scraper in the porch. I’ll pass your number on to my son and let him take it from here.’ He saw her to the door. ‘And, by the way, I’m allergic to cats.’
Outside, Pip looked up at the pretty face of the house again, noticing a carved wooden plaque above the door, a theatrical one with the masks of comedy and tragedy on it. Kit Donne switched between the two so lightly it was hard to know which fitted best, but she decided she liked both.
It was a beautifully peaceful summer’s day, only the unusually large number of parked cars giving away the fact that anything was happening in the church. The big congregation were silent inside, no dou
bt praying sombrely, filled with Christian good will. Pip was now grateful that she wasn’t with them, cooped up amid scripture, moth-bally suits and a lingering smell of horse. That wasn’t how she would remember the Captain at all. To her he would always be shouting for his Racing Post, cheeks bulging with gingerbread, belligerently unsociable.
Hearing the church clock strike the quarter, she let out a bleat and set off for her car. The best-laid schemes of mice and men might often go awry, but women always have a contingency plan. It was another of her favourite fridge magnets.
17
Lester sat at the very back of the church as the funeral service got under way, gratefully aware that he was now too deaf to hear much of the bishop’s address or the Percy grandchildren’s readings, and too blind to see the expressions on their faces. Cocooned from others’ grief, he looked back in quiet reflection, running five decades in reverse, from life’s finishing enclosure full of congratulatory connections, to its quiet saddling stall where the Captain’s long equestrian career had been a mere battle plan, an officer and his emissary.
Beside him, stoic in support, stud vet Gill Walcote and her small, bearded New Zealander husband were discussing Ronnie in an undertone, her arrival deliberately last minute through the church side door, followed a few minutes later by a dark-haired companion.
‘It’s Mr Sit Tight.’ Gill craned to see, fanning herself with an order of service, lowering her voice further: ‘Blair Robertson.’
As the whispered exchanges in the front pews intensified, particularly within Alice’s camp, Paul meerkatted briefly. ‘Are you sure?’
Gill meerkatted, too, and confirmed it with a nod. It’s a bit blatant bringing a lover, given half the horse world’s here.’
‘It’s all just rumours, surely.’
‘They said that about Bergman and Rossellini.’
‘Names are familiar. Are they three-day-eventer riders?’
Lester tuned them out again, back in the Household Cavalry days once more, the smell of hot horse and warm leatherwork new to him, the affinity he found with his charges a revelation. The Captain had spotted it straight away. ‘Stick with me, Lester, and I’ll see you right.’