The Country Set

by Fiona Walker

  Pip flipped through a few more, fascinated. R was very indiscreet, funny and no moral crusader: Lion’s wife is on the sniff, professed one. We went to London for a night to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream as you recommended – all that mud was very Glastonbury – and she called him eight bloody times. Time to cool our heels again, L says, which means Paris is off. Secretly not displeased as it clashed with Appleby and you know how I love a gypsy. Tell me, are the Turners still causing havoc?

  It had to be Ronnie. This was her secret history, or part of it. Pip scrabbled for the rest. There were more than forty letters written through the nineties and into the mid-noughties. They contained a lot of boring detail about the children’s milestones and sporting triumphs, which Pip speed-read without much interest, deciphering the nicknames – Tim’s being ‘Mothy’ and Alice’s ‘Rabbit’, both long since shaken off, unlike ‘Pax’ – and sussing that Ronnie visited them at various boarding schools or took them on short breaks in the north rather than the Comptons, where they holidayed with their father and grandparents while she remained exiled in Cumbria.

  She put them all in chronological order and speed-read again, piecing together the missing years she hadn’t been able to access online.

  The written correspondence had struck up when Ronnie was based in Cumbria, Hermia in Islington, by which time the old friends had drifted apart to such an extent they’d not communicated in several years. In London to see a critically acclaimed theatre production, Ronnie had witnessed her childhood chum wowing audiences in a Greek tragedy and been so blown away she’d written to her afterwards. It was an ecstatic reunion, a mutual sense of humour and deep trust in one another making for jubilance on the page. After that the letters came thick and fast, the gaps easy to fill.

  After the Bardswold Bolter had left Compton Magna, Ronnie Percy had lived with the jump jockey in the Lake District for at least ten years, Pip deduced. She’d worked as a PA in Keswick, funding a return to horses and eventing. Her boss – Ronnie referred to him as Lion, which Pip liked to think was short for Lionel – had become a lover. A fellow theatre fanatic fifteen years her senior, he’d taken her on overnight trips to London to see West End plays, glibly palmed off as business trips. Ronnie was unapologetic: There are limited opportunities for women in my position, fewer still for men in his; we simply adore each other.

  Moving back to the Comptons to live at Upper Bagot Farmhouse, Hermia was obviously soon writing back with everything she could find out during school holidays, which Ronnie fell on gratefully: The only decent news I get of the children from home is from you, darling H, she wrote in 1994. Your description of Mothy terrifying everyone at the fête with his The Mask fancy dress was such a joy, as was Pax demanding that the novelty dog-show judge be removed from office for short-leg bias.

  In another, she thanked her friend for winkling out of Alice the reason she was in trouble for bullying at school, a battle to be top at sports to impress her father: I’m so grateful you’re Rabbit’s godmother and always have the low-down. There’s too much pressure to buck up and be grown-up at the stud. Daddy absolutely won’t let them come here even for a night, although it’s a truly peaceful spot and Angus is a big kid at heart, who would love to get to know them better. Angus sounded like a dashingly sporty type from what Pip could tell, all rock-climbing, hunting and power bikes: He’s marvellous – abseiling in and out of bed, whizzing around on the demon wheels – you should see him flying down the ramp like a hunter and off up the lane to the pub, sparks flying. When I think back to that awful day five years ago... we were both in such hell afterwards. Pip counted back from the letter to her bolt. The years matched. Guilt was a subtext in almost all of the letters. Those awful nuns at your school would have a field day with our punishment and banishment, wouldn’t they?

  Reading on, Pip got an impression that wheels-obsessed Angus wasn’t an easy man to live with, despite Ronnie’s light touch at painting him. Theirs was a close-knit Lakes community, with Ronnie away working long hours in a desk-job. She had her horses and theatre, he spent time on friends’ boats and partied hard. Infidelity featured a great deal, not only her own with married boss Lion: Angus constantly in Homespun Neighbour’s cottage admiring her making dream-catchers et al. I wish he’d just get on with it and make a pass at her. She’s even bribing my dogs with Bonios now. Only Black Dog is loyal to me.

  That Black Dog was her constant companion for a long time after Johnny’s death. Reading the letters, Pip found the same lump in her throat as she had when watching Long Lost Family. Ronnie’s guilt was marrow-deep, and the Captain’s determined efforts to keep her at a distance had been devastating: I screamed at him on the phone so much tonight I’ve lost my voice. They will never know the truth of it all. I won’t betray Johnny’s memory for them, and I can’t wreck their childhood yet more.

  Pip knew her brief tryst with Ali hardly compared to Ronnie’s legendary bolt, but she had suffered the bigotry of her parents through it, and felt a fierce and angry bond of unity.

  Daddy told me the day I left that I would never be able to come back, the letter went on, and Pip started to read very carefully. I should have listened, but he was so unforgiving, so full of anger it just made me run faster. He said he’d make sure I suffered for what I was doing. I sometimes think he set the black dog on me. Lester was its kennelman.

  Pip was enthralled. She’d guessed Lester had been involved somehow.

  She read on, the pieces falling into place faster now, although there were infuriatingly long gaps, sometimes six months or more going past without a letter. One such break must have coincided with the end of the decade-long love affair, Angus departing next door to live with ‘Homespun’, a betrayal Pip personally found baffling, particularly as Ronnie had written, She never tires of pushing him around, which seemed harsh.

  The addresses at the tops of the letters changed as she moved between various idyllic-sounding remote rural rentals where she hunted, competed her horses and threw lots of parties, eventually landing in the Dales to be closer to her children’s schools and run a saddlery, which Lion helped her set up, their relationship a constant for more than fifteen years. She always seemed sociably busy and upbeat, even when the long affair was forced into deep ice as Lion’s political aspirations necessitated total discretion. He had won a parliamentary seat in the early noughties.

  As she reached for the next letter, her phone popped with another Facebook notification. Someone had spotted George the pointer being almost flattened by a white van on Plum Run.

  Thanks! Am looking everywhere! Pip posted straight back, along with another sad face and Still seeing stars TBH. She cast a cursory glance out of the window in case he’d come back this way, ducking as she spotted Blair Robertson stalking along the lane. He was even craggier and sexier in the flesh.

  She stepped back quickly as he turned to look at the house. The Old Almshouses was so pretty that everybody admired at it. Tourists were always asking Pip to move her car so that they could photograph it without the shiny blue eyesore parked in front.

  On her phone, the wiggly dotted line was moving with the words ‘a friend is typing’. When it popped up, her heart skipped as she saw Petra’s name. About time! Dog belongs to a visitor at the Percys’ stud. Just found him on my drive. I’ll run him over.

  Was that it? Not even a kiss or a ‘hun’ or a smiley emoticon? All Pip’s hard work the previous night brushed aside with cool disregard, not to mention her noble rescue and hint at personal injury – and she hadn’t even got into the car-sick scenario. Petra was taking all the credit. So much for friendship. A red mist descended.

  Shows how much you care! Pip replied furiously. And am I mistaken or are you threatening to RUN HIM OVER?! WTF? She slammed her finger on the Return key.

  A comment had crossed with hers. Sorry – pressed ‘send’ too fast. I’ll run him over there now. Are you okay, Pip? Are you hurt? Pxx

  Deleting her previous outburst, Pip posted a row of hearts
and a photo of George, realising too late that it was the one she’d taken of the dog with the broken bust.

  She was about to delete it when Petra posted, OMG, he killed Shakespeare!

  The comment immediately attracted several likes. Petra always got likes whatever she said, whereas Pip had to work hard for them. Perhaps she could turn this to her advantage.

  She could smell the scones burning, but she ignored them for now and typed: Scene of the crime. He trashed a client’s house. Will repair from my own pocket. Shows what happens when you try to be a Good Samaritan. Like helping writers who don’t appreciate it. Sad face. No likes.

  Ouch! Blushing face. Two likes in five seconds.

  The dog is dangerous, Devil face. So watch out. No likes.

  This is the Cotswolds. I’m used to handling badly behaved gundogs, horses and men! Face with halo. Four likes in ten seconds, plus a comment from a reader about her hunky heroes.

  No doubt based on Bay Austen, fnar. Pip typed beneath that. Winky face.

  Silence. No likes.

  Pip felt briefly vindicated, then immediately very glum. She’d so desperately wanted to be Petra’s confidante and collaborator and now she’d overstepped the friendship tape again. She couldn’t even take her a plate of scones to apologise because they were ruined.

  The burning smell was really bad now. She hurried to the kitchen to drag them out, plonking them on the work surface and fanning them with a tea-towel. On the peninsula in front of her, she spotted an envelope for the first time, addressed to Mrs E.

  Inside was a pair of theatre tickets and a pretty, arty card, the writing inside in purple pen. Thank you for making the place look so beautiful! Kit’s daughter had written. Hope you like theatre. These tickets are for a touring production a friend of the family’s in, which comes to Oxford in October. (They’re a gift for Dad’s birthday, but he’ll be in New York so they’re going spare – enjoy if you go, if not give them away!) Hope to meet you soon, maybe when Dad’s back for Samhain. xxx

  Pip fluffed up proudly. What a lovely girl. It helped that these festival-going student types had such low standards in cleanliness that she saw stacking a few books in size order as a home makeover. Theatre wasn’t really her thing – and if they were giving tickets away, it had to be rubbish – but she could flog them on eBay. Then, glancing at the date on the tickets, she realised it was also Lester’s birthday, the two men unlikely astrology twins, although they had a certain diffident testiness in common.

  Demanding knuckles rapped on the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  Still bare-legged and sockless, she reached quickly down to the tumble-dryer to fetch out her trousers. The plastic handle snapped off in her hands.

  ‘I’ve just been told my dog might be here?’ rumbled a deep Aussie voice.

  As he said it, the smoke alarm went off behind her.

  ‘Upper Bagot Farmhouse!’ She flapped her tea-towel at the alarm and hauled at the rim of the dryer door, but it was locked shut and the wailing continued.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Pip longed to offer to show him, to be the sharp-eyed female village sleuth who reunited Ronnie’s lover with his dog. She could make things up to Petra at the same time, offer her some theatre tickets, maybe. She just couldn’t do so wearing nothing but a polo-shirt and flesh-tint pants. It was no good. The tumble-dryer was stuck shut.

  ‘Big house on the lane with the orchards,’ she shouted eventually, covering her ears. ‘You can’t miss it.’

  *

  Petra was barely across the lane from the farmhouse when she spotted Indiana Jones striding along Plum Run towards her. A split second later, the pointer had broken free from her and lolloped off to hurl himself deliriously at his master.

  ‘Thanks!’ He unclipped the trailing lead and carried it back to her. ‘I hear there’s been a big search shout-out online.’

  ‘You can thank Pip Edwards for that.’

  His craggy Marlboro-man face broke into a smile that should have come with a health warning for middle-aged women. ‘I’ll do that.’

  Petra beamed at him, watching as he turned and strode away. No matter that he was Antipodean – and she suspected highly adulterous – the black hair and soul-dark eyes were spot on, the sex appeal undeniable.

  She had her Black Tom.

  Wandering inside, feeling bad that all Pip’s efforts had been unwelcome, she unlocked her phone screen and quickly posted: You delivered my hero to my door, Pipsqueak! Let everyone reading it think it was George the dog.

  It was only then that she read the comment about Bay Austen.

  Fitz was in the kitchen at the fridge again, eating cheese straight from the block, glancing round to see her white face. ‘You okay, Mum?’

  ‘I... um...’ She knew he was the only technical person in the house. ‘I’ve just read this thing on my phone I want deleted.’

  He was at her side like a shot. ‘Whatever it is, it’s probably not as bad as you think. We’re all here for you, Mum. I’ve known and Gunny knows.’

  ‘You read it?’ It made sense. Fitz and his grandmother were both Facebook friends. Quite a lot of people in the village were friends. They must have all seen Bay’s name fnar-ed at her. ‘There’s no truth in it.’

  ‘Of course not. Dad’s a major fantasist, we all know that.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with your father? Oh, God, do you think he’s read it? We’re not even friends on Facebook.’

  ‘Let me see.’ He wrestled her phone out of her hand with effort. ‘You have twenty-three likes already. They all think you mean the dog,’ he assured her, deleting it. ‘I can’t get rid of Pip Edwards’s thing about Farmer Giles, I’m afraid, but everyone knows you’ve got a bit of a thing about Bay, so no harm done. If you need it, I have a mate who can hack her account and flood it with boobs.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ She gave him a grateful hug, which he slithered out of and sloped off to his room.

  Turning away, Petra patted her red cheeks and blew out. The humiliation of her son knowing about her SMC was deeply embarrassing.

  Her phone rang with the theme tune from Black Beauty, Charlie’s handsome face smiling at her. How had he found out so soon? Bloody Gunny must have told him.

  ‘You... are... amazing.’ His voice was mohair in her ear, melted chocolate on her tongue, crackling applewood smoke in her nostrils. Charlie had an effortlessly sexy phone voice.

  ‘Mmm?’ she hedged.

  ‘I just picked up your voicemail about the Austens’ Well-hung Party. Been in court all morning, sorry.’

  ‘Squash court?’

  ‘That’s right, yes! Squash.’ He was too quick, too glib. She smelt the lie. ‘You phoned chambers, I take it?’

  She thought about Deepak’s revelation that Charlie was in disgrace. Not now, a voice in her head told her. Not now, fresh from an unseemly Facebook moment. Leave this one well alone. After all, he wanted to go to the party precisely to make good work contacts. ‘Yes. It’s great news, isn’t it?’

  *

  ‘Good morning, Mr Donne! It’s Pip Edwards in Compton Magna. How’s New York?’

  ‘Waiting for the sun to rise.’ He yawned. ‘It’s five-thirty in the morning here, Pip.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I’ll be ever so quick. All is super-good with the house. I just wondered if you knew what make the tumble-dryer is and whether there are any instructions anywhere. The door’s stuck, you see. I’ve poked around with a kitchen skewer but I don’t want to force it and I can’t find a screwdriver. Is there a release catch you know about?’

  A female voice in the background asked sleepily who it was. Pip’s ears pricked up. Interesting.

  ‘I had no idea there even was a tumble-dryer,’ he said crankily.

  ‘Oh, it’s very smart, one of those trendy Dysony types that looks like a space-age filing cabinet. I’ve tried googling but I can’t see a manufacturer’s logo.’

  The woman in the background at Kit’s end was tel
ling him in a seductive voice to get off the phone, which Pip thought very unsympathetic, given her crisis.

  ‘Any manuals we’ve kept are in one of the dresser drawers,’ he told her, yawning again. ‘Is that really why you woke me up?’

  Pip gave a tight laugh, hiding her pique. I’m looking after your house for pocket money, she wanted to point out. Kind words cost nothing. I’ve just burned my scones, offended my new BFF and missed out on meeting a craggy sexpot – and now this when all I want is to get on with reading Ronnie Percy’s letters to your wife.

  The voice with him was asking something now, laughter muffled.

  Mobile reception threatening to cut her off, Pip pulled open the overstuffed dresser drawers, from which old pens, wrapping paper, lightbulbs, phone chargers, theatre programmes and a lot of loose paperwork jack-in-the-boxed. ‘There’s a lot of birth certificates in here.’

  ‘That’s where they got to! Keep those safe.’ His voice warmed, the laughter intensifying in the background. ‘I hear you’re doing a great job. “Pip E is our redoubtable Mrs Danvers”, to quote my daughter on Skype yesterday.’

  Pip glowed, feeling appreciated again. She liked the sound of ‘Pippy’, less so the redoubtable bit. ‘Wasn’t that Robin Williams?’

  ‘He was Mrs Doubtfire. Mrs Danvers is far superior.’ The laughter again. They really did sound very jolly now.

  ‘Anything nice planned for your birthday?’ she asked, noticing from his birthdate that he was going to be fifty-nine, which seemed decrepit viewed from the thirties. Far too old to have a giggly American in bed with you. They were positively in stitches at the other end now.

  ‘I’d settle for eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep,’ he said, with effort, ‘but I’m being treated to a surprise weekend away by my...’ he covered the phone briefly, another muffled moment of mirth ‘...cast. It’s only fair that everyone gets a long weekend before a long run. They’ve worked hard.’