The Country Set

by Fiona Walker

  ‘Oh, you’re there.’ She sounded oddly muted. ‘I owe you a very big thank-you.’

  ‘You’re bleeding.’

  ‘A little water clears us of this deed.’ She smiled, not quite focusing on his face, truck headlamps like stage footlights lighting her high cheekbones. ‘It’s the foal’s, poor little chap. Would have lost him wasn’t for you.’ She was swaying now. ‘That was terribly kind, given how rude I was last time we met, so thank you again.’ Behind the smile, she was deathly pale. There was a deep rip in the shoulder of her jacket, the lining exposed.

  ‘I think you’re hurt.’

  ‘A bit of a nick from a falling horseshoe.’ She waved it away.

  ‘May I?’ Kit reached out and lifted back her jacket. The deep red stain stretched from collarbone to hip. ‘Christ! We need to get you to hospital.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ She pulled her chin back to peer at it. ‘I’ve had worse cuts trying to open cans of dog food.’

  ‘I’m buying you a new can opener. Get in the car.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise after last time?’ She laughed, turning away and crumpling.

  Kit caught her, surprised by how slight she was and how cold she felt. ‘Need you to take her to hospital!’ he shouted to Barry.

  Within seconds, the red-cheeked farm contractor was back with his Land Rover, tailgate open, pulling out a blanket to wrap her in before Kit lifted her inside. A goose hissed at him. Ronnie groggily complained that she was fine. The goose started pecking at her hair and she sat up, ghostly white now. ‘This is ridiculous. Oh, Jesus.’ Her head tipped forwards and she put her hands to her temples, looking as though she was about to faint again.

  ‘You’ll have to come along and travel with her in the front,’ Barry told Kit.

  ‘Can’t we just chuck the goose out?’

  ‘Sybil’s a village institution.’

  Kit eyed the goose, then looked at Ronnie, her face in the half-light startlingly like Hermia’s. You will love her. ‘Fine,’ he muttered, through clenched teeth, picking her up again and hawking her round to the front. She was protesting loudly that somebody had to go to the stud to check the horses.

  *

  Growing frustrated by over-exaggerating her limp – it really didn’t hurt that much, and she could see more cars leaving Sixty Acres all the time – Pip shook off Blair’s helping arm and started to run, one-shoed to the lightning-struck cedar. As a set of Land Rover tail-lights trailed away, she panted up to the remaining village rescuers – there weren’t many left – and waved Kit’s phone. ‘Where’s Mr Donne? Lester’s had an asthma attack! Orla Gomez has taken him to hospital and needs a – lift back.’ That sounded far too anti-climactic. ‘Greta the Vampire, Hollywood, drugs, sugar daddies. That Orla Gomez. She was here in the village earlier.’

  ‘Hardly the moment to share celebrity news, Miss Edwards,’ snapped the chairman of the parish council, cagoule hood flapping against his bald wet pate. ‘We’ve had an incident.’

  ‘I know! I was first on the scene.’ Pip adopted a martyr’s pose, eyes wide. ‘I went to get help, but I had a fall. I can hardly walk.’

  Blair cleared his throat beside her.

  ‘It’s the adrenalin keeping me going,’ she went on, rolling her eyes at him, ‘like horses that finish races with broken legs.’

  ‘Horses don’t finish races with broken legs,’ he muttered.

  Pip bristled, wishing he’d shut up with the Russell Crowe sarcasm. ‘Anyway, Orla Gomez, the Hollywood A-lister, is here for the weekend with Kit Donne. I chauffeured them from the station through treacherous conditions earlier.’

  The wife of the chairman of the parish council, at least, was wide-eyed with recognition. ‘The Orla Gomez? Here in the Comptons?’ She nudged her husband, whose brows lowered.

  ‘We see her!’ cried one of Bay’s farmhands. ‘Greta Vampire dressed as nun. Sexy lady.’

  ‘Would it be something the Fosse Gazette might be interested in?’ asked the chairman.

  ‘I think she and Kit are trying to keep the relationship a secret. I look after his house here. And drive for him.’ She dropped her voice. ‘He’s banned, you know. Now I need to take him to the Royal Infirmary. Where is he?’

  ‘Already on his way.’ One of the local farm contractors was hauling a chainsaw up into his tractor cab. ‘He went with Ronnie.’

  Blair turned to him, craggy face tense. ‘Ronnie’s been taken to hospital?’

  ‘Did he use my car?’ demanded Pip.

  ‘Barry’s driving them. Ronnie got hurt in the tree fall.’

  ‘Shit!’ Blair hissed. ‘I should go there.’

  ‘She was pretty stressed out that nobody’s up at the stud. Might be better to wait there. Roads are bloody bad. Like an episode of Casualty round here tonight. Haven’t seen this much bloodshed since Gerry Austen reversed his flail mower over Freda Norris’s—’

  ‘What did he do with my car?’ Pip wailed. ‘My handbag’s in there with my house keys and everything. Not to mention the signed Poldark the Musical programme.’

  A round of shrugs greeted her.

  Pip felt tears welling.

  ‘I’m going up to the stud to check on the horses,’ croaked a deep, kind voice. ‘Sounds like you need a cuppa.’

  ‘You’re right. Somebody needs to look after the place.’ The Portmeirion mugs were already laid out. And she knew where the tack-room key was hidden.

  35

  The wind was dropping at last, but rain had started beating down again, soaking Pip afresh as she trundled a wheelbarrow round the stud yards, head torch bobbing. She hadn’t anticipated having to earn her ‘cuppa’ by checking the horses with Blair, haying and watering, skipping the stabled ones. He was a much harder task-master than Lester, telling her off for half-filling water buckets and leaving poo in stables.

  ‘I thought you worked here?’ He clambered up into his horsebox cab to fetch his phone afterwards.

  ‘The stable stuff’s voluntary. Lester’s too old to do it all on his own. I’m the housekeeper, not the horse-keeper.’

  ‘As long as you’re not the Horsemaker, I’m happy,’ he said cryptically, jumping down and pressing a fast dial. Above his head, Elgar’s Cello Concerto rang out loudly from a phone on the dash. ‘Which hospital are they going to?’

  ‘Royal Infirmary.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Not sure. Birmingham, maybe? There are lots, aren’t there?’

  ‘Not my state.’

  He lit a cigarette, sheltering beneath the first arch to smoke it. Stubbs yapped inside Lester’s cottage. Dogs barked in the horsebox.

  ‘I’ll let them out in a minute and make that tea,’ he muttered.

  He was doing that moody male thing of pacing about looking intense, dark eyes hollow, as though reliving a traumatic memory, which Pip supposed he was. She remembered the conversation she’d heard between him and Ronnie, and felt an uncomfortable pinch in her belly as she thought about the letter she’d written, which Verity had drunkenly misunderstood.

  ‘I’ll make the tea!’ Pip offered, switching her head torch back on and bustling towards the tack room. ‘I baked ginger biscuits for you both.’

  She felt around the sill beneath the ivy for the key to the tack room, but it wasn’t there. The door was locked. She felt again, her fingers closing over it at the opposite end to where Lester normally kept it. That was odd. He was always very pedantic about its location, tucking it into a fissure in the wood so an opportunist running a hand across the top wouldn’t find it. Who had she been talking to about hiding keys recently? Ah, yes, JD. His boss kept the site key in a storm drain. Might be a bit of a problem tonight, Pip thought as she let herself in.

  The first thing she noticed missing was the biscuits. Her favourite Wrendale tin, left with a pair of heavy stirrups on top to stop mice investigating, was gone.

  Then she noticed other gaps. The best saddles, kept under cloth covers on the long wooden tree in the centre of the r
oom. The showing bridles, Lester’s polished pride and joy.

  This couldn’t have been JD, could it? He called her ‘babe’ and knew her favourite cake recipes. She knew how he liked his tea and that he was a Wolves fan. They’d shared their television-watching habits. He got a hard-on every time she messaged him – she had the photographic evidence to prove it. And she’d told him all about her job, exaggerated a bit maybe. She’d told him about the beautiful horses she rode and the quad-bike she drove and all the expensive tack she had to clean, how fond she was of the grumpy old stallion man who lived on site. JD had known she was taking Lester to Oxford today.

  Had he targeted her from the start? Had he been profiling her? Had he followed her? She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

  A step behind her made her scream.

  ‘You all right?’ It was Blair.

  ‘We’ve been burgled.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes! They’ve taken my biscuits! And some saddles and stuff.’

  ‘Bastards.’ He put a reassuring hand on her back, peering inside, his powerful flashlight revealing yet more empty gaps. ‘Our place was done over not long ago. Best not go in in case there’s fingerprints.’

  ‘I think I know who did it,’ she said, in a trembling voice.

  ‘Okay. Let’s have that cuppa in the horsebox and we can call the police.’

  Hands shaking, Pip locked the door again and put the key back, the light from her head torch darting everywhere because she was nervously convinced that armed burglars were lurking in the hay barn, JD the tattooed master criminal ready to take her down if she named him.

  ‘I bet that’s how come the colt got loose.’ Blair was striding away across the yard, coat tails flapping. ‘Classic distraction tactic – let out a load of horses to cover your tracks. They’d probably only just left when we got here.’

  There were piles of what looked like seaweed dotted around in one corner of the yard, Pip noticed. Hurrying to look, she found two double bridles and a martingale.

  ‘They dropped some of it!’

  He turned, his torch moving from focusing on her to fix on something behind her head. ‘I think they left more than that.’

  Another bridle was hanging over the door of an empty stable. Inside it, like a giant leather octopus with girth straps and reins for tentacles, was all the missing tack.

  ‘Maybe they had a change of heart,’ Pip suggested hopefully, picking up a saddle and hugging it to her chest.

  ‘Is it all here?’

  ‘I think so. Do we still have to call the police?’

  ‘Up to you. Doubt they’ll come out, but they can log the incident. You said you think you know who did it?’

  ‘Local ne’er-do-well,’ she said quickly. ‘Sad story. Best I deal with it. If we put it all back, will you promise not to say anything to Ronnie?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I think not talking to Ronnie is supposed to be where I’m at right now. I’m holding her dogs hostage, so I guess there’s hope. Let’s put all this kit back, then have that drink.’

  The horsebox living area was a warm, dry haven, lights glowing thanks to an onboard generator. While the kettle boiled, they peeled off wet outer layers to reveal wet inner layers that clung clammy as clay. The rain was drumming harder than ever on the roof.

  Blair was doing his moody tortured look again, Pip noticed. Then he peeled off his wet polo-shirt and all she noticed was the leanest, sexiest six-pack she’d ever seen in the flesh. Possibly the only six-pack she’d ever seen in the flesh, come to think of it. A moment later it had vanished inside another polo-shirt.

  A loud rumble of thunder outside told them Claudia hadn’t given up just yet, the storm turning again.

  Blair let Ronnie’s little dogs back in, clambering out to lift the old one, which couldn’t make it up the fold-down horsebox steps.

  ‘What did you mean about you and Ronnie not talking?’ she asked, hoping the you-keep-the-horse-I-keep-the-man ultimatum Verity was offering didn’t have and-you-can-never-see-each-other-again attached.

  ‘Let’s put it this way,’ he said drily. ‘Someone else will be riding her horses next season.’

  ‘No!’ Pip watched him set down the elderly dog and rub her head affectionately, his hand covered with scratches from helping to rescue Ronnie. ‘Why?’

  ‘We fell out.’

  ‘Can’t you patch it up?’

  ‘No.’ His craggy face really looked terribly sad.

  Pip chewed her thumbnail. He’s thinking about Ronnie like I’m thinking about JD, she empathised.

  Lightning flashed outside.

  ‘My wife hates storms. I hope to God she’s got someone with her...’

  *

  Carly paced the familiar veterinary reception, this time after hours. The television feed and coffee machine were switched off, the lights low. Nobody was manning the desk.

  Spirit was in surgery, having his severed vein stitched up and the wound closed. Gill had offered Carly the chance to scrub up and go in to watch before her husband had vetoed the idea for contravening some veterinary oath or insurance clause. Carly had changed her mind about who was the nicer vet.

  But it was Paul Wish who came through the door to talk to her, wearing a plastic hair cover, like a shower cap, bearded face wreathed in smiles. The foal was back up and doing well, he told her. ‘They heal quick at that age. He’s a tough little fella, I’ll hand him that. Gill’s just settling him down.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  He looked doubtful.

  ‘Tell him she can come and see him!’ shouted a voice from somewhere at the back of the building.

  The foal was in a box twelve tog deep with shavings. As soon as Carly went in, he let out his demanding belly whinny and nudged her into the corner demanding a withers scratch, then flumped down at her feet, chin hard on her instep. Carly dropped down beside him, pressing her face against his.

  Gill’s face appeared over the door, wiry hair on end from pulling off her plastic shower cap. ‘Super, isn’t he? Now let us run you home.’

  ‘Can I have just a bit longer?’

  ‘Now why, when you have such a handsome hero for a husband, are you hanging round here?’

  Because he’ll be with his mates until three in the morning, then come and wake me up for sex. After that, if we’re lucky, he’ll sleep okay, and if we’re not, he’ll wake himself up screaming. Because when I asked him to be a hero tonight, and the alpha the Turners all want him to be, he hated me for it. Because when I go home, I’ll have to face Janine sitting on my sofa in my house, like she owns it, and she’ll want to hear all about what’s happened and how Ash was a hero, and it’s what she wants to hear but it’s not how it was. Not really.

  And because I know Pricey is now two streets away from where I live, chained to a kennel in a run that I can’t get anywhere near, and the guy who now owns her will be out lamping Manor Farm’s deer as soon as this storm’s passed. And before long, Pricey will be out with him too. And she’ll hate that, just like Ash would hate being sent back to war. Because it did things to their heads. And that’s why I made Ash do what he did tonight. I made him be a hero to punish him.

  She looked at Spirit. He’d gone to sleep with his face pressed against her shoulder, long, fluffy-centred ears flopping, as trusting as a child. ‘Because I love him,’ she said simply.

  *

  ‘Don’t let me die, Leicester Square! You won’t let me die!’

  Lester disliked high drama intensely unless it was in black-and-white starring Richard Burton and Anthony Quinn. Orla had an Elizabeth Taylor quality about her, which would have been admirable on the silver screen but in person was extremely grating. She was gripping his hand so tightly that the end of his fingers had turned purple.

  He lifted his oxygen mask. ‘You’re not going to die, Miss Gomez. They say your blood sugars have stabilised.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m talking about. Aren’t your NHS hospitals supp
osed to be riddled with norovirus and legionnaires’ disease and flesh-eating bacteria? I can’t stay here.’

  ‘They’re waiting to see if the registrar wants you kept in overnight.’ Which, from the general air of excitement and high priority that had surrounded them since their arrival, he strongly suspected they might. This girl’s celebrity rather than her medical status seemed of great interest to certain members of staff, who had swept aside the curtain that evening, the registrar in particular. Selfies had already been taken, autographs given. Lester, by contrast, had been posted on a chair in a corridor with a leaky wheeled oxygen tank, until Orla had asked for him.

  Now she was treating him like her PA. ‘I’ll have to go to a private clinic. You can arrange that, can’t you? I’ll need some sleepwear and a few essential toiletries. My suitcase is still in – wherever.’ She closed her eyes wearily. ‘I feel so tired, so faint.’

  ‘Would you like me to call a nurse?’

  She shook her head. ‘Probably jet-lag. It was such a stupid idea, bringing Kit all the way here. I wanted his birthday to be unforgettable, personalised, British. He’s just so very British. I love that.’ She sighed, a brace of tears sliding across each cheek in perfect symmetry. One eye opened beadily. ‘Is he here yet?’

  ‘I’ll find out.’ He tried to free his hand, but she gripped tighter, the eye closing.

  ‘If he’s not, tell him I so quit his show.’

  ‘With respect, miss, that’s a misnomer.’

  ‘Oh, God, how much do I want to be Miss Nomer right now, not Miss Gomez? You can’t begin to imagine the mind-fuck of everybody knowing who you are. What I like about you, Leicester Square, is that you have no idea. You are quite the sweetest man. And also insanely British.’ Her eyes closed gratefully.

  Another emergency was being wheeled into the adjacent cubicle. The attending doctor was talking to a nurse, their quick-fire monotones indicating it was serious enough not to stop for a selfie. The patient had been assessed with radial artery laceration causing severe bleeding, she said. Fluids and blood were requested from the nurse, the consultant paged to determine whether it needed suturing or surgery.