The Country Set

by Fiona Walker

  ‘Have you checked your blood levels?’

  ‘I’m fine!’

  ‘You need to eat something.’

  ‘I said I’m fine. I know my body.’ She reached for the bottle. ‘What about your cottage? That’s some place near, isn’t it?’

  Kit’s two worlds briefly collided in his head, imploding into white noise. He could no more bring Orla into the house he’d shared with Hermia than he could take her to his old school in Grasmere and sit in a classroom reciting from the Brecht play that had first given him his love of drama. That was his inner life. He tried to remember if either of his children would be there. He’d put them off coming to New York for this. ‘We’ll book a hotel.’

  He chose Le Mill because he thought she’d like all the overtly obsequious boutiqueyness, booking their best available room and a table in the restaurant, then arranged for a cab to pick them up from the station. He was rather looking forward to the face of the pompous reception staff when he checked into a king-sized suite with a nun.

  ‘I’m sorry I ruined your fucking birthday.’

  He looked at her, this beautiful strange creature, whose mind he was as far from working out as Cyrillic script, yet whose body he’d devoured like airport reading. He adored her on stage and in bed, but out of context they had yet to write the script. He didn’t share his inner life with her because, like all the affairs he’d had since Hermia, theirs was a production romance, one based around the same play repeated again and again, night after night, in a company that disbanded as soon as the run finished; a self-contained, repetitive, live-for-the-moment relationship. If Kit shared his past with someone, he did so because he believed they would share a future. He wanted Orla Gomez to be an absolute superstar night after night in New York, no more.

  The train started moving again and he raised his glass. ‘Nothing’s fucking ruined when we have Ruinart and fucking.’

  Across the aisle, the Evening Standards were lowered in outrage.

  ‘You sure?’ A smile stole up to him from under the wimple.

  ‘Sure I’m sure.’

  The foot slid back up his leg.

  The train shunted to a stop again. The voice on the Tannoy announced there would be a further long delay. The foot stayed put and the smile widened. They might not be soul mates, but Kit liked her what her sole was doing.

  He dialled the cab company. ‘This is Kit Donne again.’

  ‘Who, love?’ said the broad Bardswolds accent at the other end, voices shouting around her.

  ‘Kit Donne. I booked a cab from Broadbourne station to Compton Magna just now? The train that’s delayed?’

  ‘They’re all delayed, love. Haven’t you noticed there’s a storm?’

  ‘We’ll be another half-hour, I should think.’

  ‘Sorry, love, but we’ve called all the drivers back. Too dangerous out there. There’s a fatality on the Fosse Way. Trees are coming down all over the shop.’

  *

  Ronnie’s day had gone from bad to worse. At Moreton Morrell, in driving rain, her brave young horse had been disqualified for an error of course – pilot navigation entirely at fault – his clean record marked, his rider refusing to take responsibility. It was the weather. It was lack of sleep. It was Ronnie asking the Horsemaker to run the stud.

  She’d never had Blair down as a bad loser before, but he’d behaved like a surly, sour hothead, slamming his way into the horsebox to change out of wet breeches and shouting that they’d changed the course at the last minute because of waterlogging. ‘They should have cancelled. There’s more diversions out there than the A1. Now we’ve got to get this lot back to Wiltshire in this weather.’

  ‘We’re picking four up from the stud,’ she’d reminded him.

  ‘Forget that.’

  ‘It’s on the way. They’re all ready.’

  ‘I want to get straight home.’

  Rain had drummed on the roof so loudly they’d given up shouting at each other.

  She’d been grateful she’d brought her own car, but it had got stuck in the mud, its engine dead after it was pulled free by a tractor. Abandoning it to a tow truck destined for a local recovery yard, she was forced to share a ride on the lorry after all, sitting beside silent, livid Blair. Another horsebox broke down in the entrance to the lorry park, which held them up for a further hour. Then, just as the silence was threatening to blow its top into argument again, they got moving.

  Hugging a dog to each side, Ronnie turned to his fixed profile. It was the end of the season, the final competitions inevitably cold and muddy. He’d been on the road all week, competing and hosting seminars, delivering horses back to their owners. She could tell his old back injury was killing him. He was worried about Verity, of whom they so rarely spoke but who sat like a dark shadow between them. She’d kept him guessing about her plans because, whatever she did, nothing would stay the same. Tired, notoriously short-tempered and resistant to change, he could probably be forgiven for bad temper.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He glanced across at her, tipping his head in acknowledgement. He didn’t offer any apology back.

  They raced the storm along the Fosse Way, caught in the billowing leaves and twigs between torrent and tempest, the radio constantly warning of road closures and floods.

  A long snake of red tail-lights leading to flashing blue lights far ahead made them both groan. Cars were turning around.

  ‘A tree’s down – landed on a van!’ someone yelled up at them from their car window.

  There was no way to turn Blair’s lorry. They had five horses on board. The wait could be hours.

  It was just after six, but it felt much later, the sky already dark as night.

  ‘If we can get as far as that turning on the right, we can take the back roads.’ She pointed a hundred yards on.

  ‘Who knows what’s come down on those?’ His was a bass note of pessimism. ‘It’s limited to seven point five tons for a reason down there.’

  ‘Not for access. The Comptons that way. We can hole up at the stud until this passes. Pick up those horses.’

  ‘I want to get these neds home. Vee’s got nobody with her tonight. We haven’t time to swan round there.’

  She gritted her teeth. He’d be telling her next he was only buying them as a favour, which he was. But she was only selling them to him cheap as a favour too.

  They sat listening to wind howling, distant sirens, the lorry rocking, self-righteous indignation rising.

  The radio reports warned of floods across the road ahead at Ludd-on-Fosse where the river had burst its banks. More cars were turning back. They crept forwards, almost within reach of the turning, air brakes hissing.

  ‘There are plenty of stables, a warm house. I’m worried about Lester. Let’s make peace and go there, Blair. Think of the horses.’

  ‘I am thinking of the horses.’

  The wind was rocking the big horsebox more aggressively, gusts smacking against it. Ahead of them a branch fell across the opposite carriageway with a loud crack. Nobody could turn back now.

  Without another word, Blair swung out and took the turning into the lane, clouting overhanging branches and taking out a signpost. ‘There’d better be a drink there.’

  Remembering seeing Alice stashing the decanters and the best wine in her car boot that morning, Ronnie said nothing.

  32

  Alice Petty’s red Shogun, pulling a pony trailer, turned right out of the stud’s driveway, tyres hissing through the water on the road, its driver an old hand at towing in all weather, chin thrust forward determinedly as she set off through the village, heading for the Micklecote lane. She hadn’t noticed the white van that had been parked in the entrance of the bridleway all day, buffeted by the wind, waiting patiently.

  The stud’s bachelor pack was sheltering along the Yorkshire boarding in the furthest open barn from the stable-yard, close to what had once been the old back entrance to the stud, its hoggin track still used to access the paddocks. Th
ey looked up in surprise as headlights came bouncing along it, then were abruptly extinguished, the engine rolling past into the stable-yards where it parked by the tack room, doors banging, unfamiliar voices and flashlights moving about.

  One light came bobbing back towards them.

  Already spooked by the wind, most of the herd clustered to the corner of the building, snorting suspiciously, but the little dun colt stayed with the big pile of hay that had recently been left there, watching with interest as the shadowy figure approached and stood waiting on the track, the flashlight clicking off and a phone screen lighting up.

  ‘I’m in position, yeah. I can see the road from here. Nah, nuffink. Yeah, I’ll shout if anything turns up the drive. Be quick.’

  The foal whickered for attention. The flashlight went back on.

  ‘All right, mate?’

  He bobbed his head.

  A hand covered in tattoos reached out and patted him, quickly retracted when he nipped it in search of treats.

  ‘Little bastard.’

  The foal watched the man pacing up and down, growing bored after a while and returning to his hay. The other colts started to creep forwards too, snatching mouthfuls, on high alert to the storm and the stranger. They quickly retreated when his phone lit up again and he spoke.

  ‘You’re kidding? There should be tons of kit in there. What do you mean all old shit? You found the quad-bike yet? Nah, forget saddles and all that. Can’t sell the bloody things—Well, unload it. Just chuck it in a stable and get back here.’

  When the van rolled back, the voices were angrier, frustrated and argumentative. They seemed to blame the man who had been waiting on the track. He was blaming someone else – ‘Stupid bitch made it sound like bloody Sandringham Palace here.’

  Suddenly a shout went out.

  ‘Bloody big wagon coming down the road! Looks like it’s turning in here. Get going!’

  ‘Let the nags out first! Quick, help us with this gate. They’ll be too busy running round catching them to notice we’ve been here.’

  The gate to the barn was wrenched open with a clank. The bachelor pack melted back. The dun colt barged forward.

  ‘This little sod bit me.’ The man with the tattooed hand brought it down hard on his backside as he shot out. He kicked back with both hind legs.

  ‘Ow, fuck! Now he’s bloody kneecapped me!’

  ‘Get the others out!’

  The bachelor pack charged round in terrified circles in the barn, churning up dust and dirt, hay flying.

  ‘Forget it! Let’s just fucking get out of here.’ The gate was let go and clanged shut.

  As the van engine roared, its lights turned on briefly to sight the exit route, the foal illuminated trotting along the track towards the fields, paddock rails to each side. He stopped and looked round, eyes gleaming like a deer’s in a gun’s lamplight.

  A moment later, a van was on his tail.

  He jigged left then right, but the rails were all stallion height there, the gates all closed. The van was gaining on him, a voice hollering to catch him, his kneecapping victim intent on revenge as part of the getaway.

  The colt accelerated, sighting the gap in the rails and hedge ahead where no gap had been before, old carpet thrown over the bank to enable tyres to get grip across it. Catching a hoof on it, he stumbled, flailing, all four legs going in different directions, like his first wobbly steps in the world, the van bouncing up onto the carpet behind him.

  ‘Fuck! You’re going to hit him!’

  The wheels spun, the engine roared.

  He scrambled up, the smell from its radiator in his nostrils, the heat of the van against his skin. Jinking right he charged along the track towards the road, wind sharp in his eyes, twigs rattling out from the blackthorn beside him. Ahead, dark as a watchtower in the distance, was the big tree in the field he knew best.

  As the van turned onto the track behind him, accelerating in his wake, he already had twenty lengths on it. He needed every one of those to reach the gateway in time, clattering across the road and into Sixty Acres to race to the cedar.

  *

  ‘Now’s your chance!’ Pip hissed to Lester, when their train finally ground to a halt at Broadbourne station, door releases beeping, Kit Donne and his nun stepping out onto the platform ahead of them when they slid open. The nun looked a bit unsteady on her feet.

  ‘With respect, Pip,’ Lester muttered, ‘I think the state of his house is the least of his worries.’

  Kit was shouting into his mobile phone. ‘I need a taxi to the Comptons! I’ll pay double!’

  Storm-battered commuters hurried to their cars and waiting lifts, the director and holy sister stranded forlornly in a puddle of cold light like evacuees.

  ‘Mr Donne!’ Pip stood beaming in front of him. ‘You should have said you were coming. Are you going to the house?’

  ‘Le Mill.’

  ‘Le Mill?’

  ‘Yes. My – er – companion is dining with me there. And staying. There.’

  The beam brightened. ‘Would you like a lift?’

  ‘I would like nothing more. This is – my good friend Orla.’

  ‘Sister.’ Pip bobbed, uncertain how to address a nun.

  The nun scowled at her, struggling to light a Marlboro in the wind. ‘I’m here to bless the Costwolds.’

  ‘Cotswolds,’ Kit corrected, smiling uneasily at Pip. She’d forgotten how distinguished he looked with his Professor Higgins eyes and deep cheek dimples.

  *

  The stud was deserted. The horses had been hayed and watered, a note from Alice flapping on Lester’s cottage door, the writing almost illegible after a soaking.

  Lester. Gone back to the farm while the roads are passable. Our fields there are flooding – all hands on deck! Will call later. Mummy may turn up and take away some horses. Keep notes. Happy Birthday. A

  Ronnie was always efficient in a crisis. Beds went down hastily in the driest of the outside stables, the only ones unoccupied, nets and water containers swiftly filled. The horses were unloaded and stabled, checked over and rugged in whatever they could find to keep the chill of the wind off them. Then she hurried around the stud horses, checking all was well, doing the best headcount she could manage.

  In an outside barn, a gangly dun two-year-old was drenched in sweat, running up and down the Yorkshire boarding, his constant companion gone.

  ‘The foal,’ Ronnie realised. ‘The foal’s missing!’

  *

  The road up to Le Mill and Compton Bagot was like a river, ditches overflowing, culverts dammed by debris, water gushing up to the rims of Pip’s little blue car’s wheels as it struggled to keep going.

  In the back seat, the nun was like a maddened rally co-driver. ‘Left, left! Foot down! Hard right. Fucking floor it, baby.’ Her voice was slurred.

  ‘Can you please not smoke?’ Pip lowered her window, then hastily raised it again as the wind almost took her head off.

  ‘Or swear,’ Lester muttered.

  ‘Which order do you belong to?’ asked Pip, brightly.

  ‘The Holy Church of Lawless Fucking Disorder.’ She flicked the cigarette out of her own window, wimple blowing off as a flash of lightning lit them all, thick black curls springing out with a distinctive red streak over the left eyebrow. Thunder crashed in its wake, so loud Pip’s ears popped.

  In the back, Kit disappeared rapidly from sight. ‘Nobody said it was going to be an electric storm!’

  At the bottom of the hill to Compton Bagot, almost within sight of Le Mill, a big yellow JCB was parked across the road in front of the narrow stone bridge over the millstream. Pip recognised Polish builder Aleš Mazur from the village standing guard over it in a high-vis jacket. Built like an American football quarterback and tough as a Cold War border guard, Aleš made them all want to put their hands on their heads as he marched forwards pointing his high-watt torch at them like a Kalashnikov.

  ‘The wall is come down.’ His bearded face appeared at th
e window, fluorescent collar up to his ears. ‘Not safe to cross. Only way into village is to go around by Priors Compton and intersect through Manor Farm back drive. The Austen family have opened private road. They have many good men keeping that way clear. We talk on mobiles.’ He held his up with a toothy smile.

  ‘We’ll walk over the bridge on foot,’ Kit’s head popped up, scrabbling around for a handle and not finding one.

  ‘It’s a three-door car, remember, honey,’ Orla pointed out, ‘So cutely British.’

  ‘I forbid it!’ A hand banged on the little car’s roof.

  ‘You heard Aleš. It’s not safe.’ Pip put the car into reverse and swung it round, warming to the nun, whose voice reminded her of a television character she couldn’t place.

  ‘But the hotel is just there!’

  Taking no notice, Pip whitewater-rafted the little car back along the Broadbourne road and cut left up the single track that climbed high onto the crest of the hill on the far side of the valley, the wind almost blowing them into the stone walls, the landscape bleak, no trees around to fall on them, although a lot of stressed sheep were huddled together against field entrances.

  As Aleš had promised, the back drive to the Austens’ farm was being manned by one of the Czech farmhands, in an orange tabard, who waved Pip through. ‘Claudia, she is a bitch, yes?’ He grinned, then did a double-take when he saw the wimple-free nun. ‘It’s Greta the sexy vampire!’

  ‘I’m Orla the pissed-off American. Greta’s so history.’

  ‘OHMYGODITHOUGHTIRECOGNISEDYOU!’ Pip shrieked, as they bounced over the cattle grid. ‘I loved you in The Vampire Chronicles! I have them all on DVD.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Orla lit another cigarette. ‘You can lend them to Kit. He’s not seen any.’

  Pip chattered happily about her favourite parts of the blockbuster film series as they skidded and bounced along the concrete Manor Farm machinery drive, passing the packing barns, work units and shop, eventually finding their way onto smoother tarmac to the main public gates and out onto the home run, spirits lifting at the sight of the Compton Magna village sign.