The Country Set

by Fiona Walker

  Then Lester heard a familiar laugh and felt his own blood still.

  ‘Oh, do please just stitch it. I’ve a yard full of wind-blown horses to get back to.’

  ‘We need to clean it up and see how damaged it all is in there first,’ the female doctor told her. ‘We’ve just pulled a very large nail out, remember.’

  ‘We should have given Uncle Brooke a new one years ago. Honestly, I’ve been patched up more often than an old teddy bear.’

  ‘Does this hurt?’

  There was a sharp intake of breath, a catch of laughter. ‘Imagine I’m sticking a needle in your eye.’

  ‘Then I can no more stitch it than I would stitch up my own eye.’

  The low chuckle reverberated, steel-edged with pain. ‘You’re the pro.’

  Lester looked down at Orla. She’d drifted off to sleep, full-lipped mouth falling open to reveal teeth as white as fondant icing. Prising her fingers from his, he patted her hand and set it gently at her side. He then peeled off his oxygen mask, slipping from the cubicle and stealing hastily away, flicking his collar up like a spy as he passed wild-haired Kit Donne bellyaching at a reception nurse in flat northern vowels. ‘I’d just like to know how long we might have to wait. Only there’s somewhere else I really need to be. Hang on a minute. It’s Lester isn’t it?’

  Lester grunted assent and did a stiff-hipped about-turn.

  ‘Where’s Orla?’

  ‘Through those doors there, sir. I’ve just left her side and she’s doing very well.’

  ‘She’s here?’

  Lester nodded. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

  While Kit hurried towards the observation cubicles, Lester made his way to the pay-phone, where a host of taxi numbers were displayed on a board.

  A hearty back-slap propelled him forwards. ‘My very good man!’

  It was the hunt’s most loyal foot-follower, Barry, telling Lester crossly that he’d just been asked by security to surrender the folding twine knife he carred in a leather belt pouch. ‘Can’t abide hospitals. You here for Ronnie too?’

  Lester cleared his throat. There was a lot to clear. ‘Spot of... asthma.’

  ‘Not sounding too good, I must say. Want a lift home later? I seem to be running a taxi service.’

  ‘Need a lift home now, if you’d oblige. Horses to look after.’

  ‘Say no more. She’s got someone here, that’s what counts. Bit of an oddball, that actor fellow. Seen how he’s dressed? My Mo would call that flamboyant, which is a kindness, I reckon.’

  *

  Lightning flashed at the windows, like paparazzi at a celebrity’s limousine. Pip found it secretly thrilling to be in the horsebox that must be the hub of the affair between Ronnie and Blair. It was unbearable to think of them never again sizzling away in the slide-out pod. It was patently obvious that the Aussie rider was too young to spend the rest of his days with a dipso wife twenty years his senior. Verity would probably peg out with cirrhosis of the liver soon enough, but meanwhile Blair’s affair with Ronnie was obviously no threat to the marriage. It seemed ridiculous to Pip that her humble letter could bring an end to it all. The stud must come first, and the stallion had always been destined to save it, but Pip felt it was now her duty to save Blair and Ronnie too. There had been enough heartbreak today.

  Blair brewed his tea treacle strong, which made Pip think about JD again and feel sad as he set two mugs on the table and picked up his phone. ‘I just need to make a quick call home, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Would you like me to...’ She indicated the door. Rain was hammering on the roof, thunder rolling round.

  ‘You’re fine. I’ll just go to the other end. I won’t be long.’

  Pip picked up a copy of Horse & Hound and pretended to read it as he let himself into the horse area. The horsebox was a lot bigger than the stud’s old lorry, which had only a small groom’s space to store equipment and get out of the rain, plus three horse partitions at the back. Blair’s big artic carried six and came with a living area like a luxury caravan’s. He was as far away from her as he could get, his voice low, rain like static on the roof. Even so, if Pip stood up against the cut-through door and focused really hard, she could just make out his gravelly voice.

  ‘Vee, it’s Blair... Yes, Blair... Yes, it really is me, love. How are you doing? Is anyone there with you?... Oh, that’s good. She got my message then. I called her to say I’d be late because of the weather. Oh, Roo’s there too?’

  Pip’s ears pricked up.

  ‘Quite a party you’ve got going on,’ Blair was saying, with a low laugh. ‘Yes, I know Roo... Yes, I know her too. I said I called her, remember?... What?... No, I called her to say I was stuck because of the weather. Has it been bad there?... The storm, love. There’s a big storm... Well, that’s good. I’ll be back as soon as I know the roads are clear... Yes, I know Roo... Yes, I know her too... No, I’m not nearly home. I’m stuck here because of the storm. There’s a storm, love... Yes, I know she’s there.’

  Pip’s heart went out to him, imagining Verity three-quarters of the way down a gin bottle already, lurching round with ice rattling against crystal and shins cannoning against furniture, slurring and repeating herself.

  Her ears pricked up again as she heard Blair say, ‘Let’s not talk about the horse... I know you’ve got it written down in your book, but I don’t want to talk about the horse. I’ll get it all sorted, okay?... Good... Yes, I know Roo. She’s there, is she?... That’s good. Well, I’d better let you get back to your guests. I’ll call you when I’m on my way again... Okay. Love you too. Bye.’

  Pip hurried back to her seat just as he emerged, his face unshielded and forlorn for a moment before he summoned his craggy smile. ‘Sorry about that.’

  He sat down at the table with her. Ronnie’s younger dog immediately jumped on his lap.

  ‘How did you get on today?’ Pip asked brightly, pointing to the body protector and number bib abandoned nearby.

  ‘Not great. Should have withdrawn, really. The weather was always going to screw my chances.’

  ‘Does your wife ever come along with you?’

  His eyes were big and broody again. ‘She’s not been well.’

  ‘Oh dear. I hope she gets better soon.’ Which would take a long stint in rehab, she imagined.

  ‘Yeah.’ He stared into his tea mug.

  Over-eager, Pip ran for the touchline with her big name drop. ‘Prunella did mention something about it.’

  ‘You know Roo?’

  ‘Yes, she’s an old friend of mine.’ They were friends on Facebook and Roo must be close to forty, so it wasn’t entirely a lie. Their online alliance so far amounted to just a few mutual likes, but she felt strangely reassured by its presence, given Roo was somebody she’d actually met, unlike most of her horsy friends on social media. ‘Such a character!’

  He was watching her face closely. ‘She is that.’

  ‘Roo says Verity has her good days?’

  ‘So she told you about Vee?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a terrible illness.’ She almost added ‘alcoholism’ to speed things along so she could get to the bit about him needing Ronnie’s sexy sobriety in his life.

  ‘Roo’s good with her. Vee’s pretty random back, but Roo doesn’t seem to mind being called by the name of every Verney child until she gets there.’

  Probably too drunk, Pip deduced sympathetically, wishing she had some biscuits to sweeten the tea and sympathy.

  ‘Is she getting any help?’ She took a swig from her mug.

  ‘We have carers that come in every day,’ he sighed, ‘but Vee sends them away as often as not. She’s still a very forthright lady. Used to getting her own way. Most of them are terrified of her. Live-in carers never last five minutes.’

  Pip realised her powers of deduction might have let her down.

  The rain was gunfire on the horsebox roof. He played with the ears of the dog on his lap. ‘Before Vee developed Alzheimer’s, I always s
aid I hoped someone would shoot me if I got it, but when it’s someone you love, you just hope beyond hope they’ll get better.’

  Pip felt the tea cool in her mouth, unable to swallow. Her mother had suffered severe dementia. In the end, the only family member she remembered was the cat. It had almost broken Pip’s father. ‘It’s a terrible illness,’ she finally repeated, with total sincerity.

  The ruggedly defensive smile was switched back on. ‘Let’s not talk about it. Let’s talk about you. Is there anyone special in your life, Pip?’

  She felt her lip wobble and heat behind her eyes. With no further warning, a great sob rose through her.

  ‘Hey.’ He shifted round the table to put a hand on her back. ‘What’s all this about?’ The craggy face was lowered to look into her eyes. ‘Eh?’

  Pip snorted and sobbed and wiped her nose, longing for the comfort of biscuits. She was crying a bit for the lost promise of JD and a lot for her mum, but she didn’t want to tell Blair that. Most of all she was crying for him because he was lovely under the gruffness and she understood why he needed Ronnie, just every so often, to make him feel fifty-something, not seventy-something, and to help him forget the wife who was fast forgetting him. But she’d ruined it for them both.

  ‘We have to go to hospital,’ she told him, blowing her nose. ‘Urgently.’

  ‘Are you feeling ill?’

  ‘Ronnie needs you.’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t get involved in this one, Pip.’

  ‘You two are so perfect together.’

  ‘Trust me, we’re not. We just understand where each other’s at. I beat myself up for being a lousy husband to Verity, for not being a fucking saint or, rather, not being a celibate one. Ronnie conducts every love affair with the stable door unlocked and her eye on the horizon, and that’s fine by me. I’m glad she’s bolting with Verity’s horse.’

  ‘She loves you,’ Pip tried desperately.

  He wasn’t buying it. ‘You know that?’

  ‘A woman knows.’

  ‘A woman knows.’ The sardonic smile was back.

  ‘And you love her.’

  He said nothing, just looked at her with his eyebrows at an ironic angle.

  Pip changed tactic. ‘Strikes me as a bit lacking in balls to leave her bleeding to death in hospital with Kit Donne and hunting-mad Barry for company.’

  Slamming his mug down, he stood up. ‘You got a car we can use?’

  Delighted, Pip jumped up. She should have guessed a firebrand like Blair would defend the size of his balls over love. Then she remembered her car was missing. She had no idea where the keys to the Captain’s Subaru were. Even the quad-bike was out of action, buried somewhere under the remains of the cedar...

  ‘Don’t they have height restrictions in hospital car parks?’ she squeaked, as Blair clambered into the cab. ‘You could ride a horse there instead?’ She shivered happily at the idea of a heroic knight in shining armour clattering into A and E. Lucky Ronnie.

  ‘Buckle up.’

  36

  In the observation ward, the nurse had recognised Kit from triage and waved him through the double doors. ‘She’s in here.’ She held the curtain back and ushered him inside. ‘She’ll be pleased to see you.’

  ‘Ah.’ He flashed an awkward smile.

  Ronnie was looking pale and bored, drips feeding into a cannula on the back of her hand. She glanced up as he stepped into the cubicle, eyes the same bright blue as the curtains surrounding them, forehead creased with a combination of interest and pain. Her hospital gown had been tied round the waist to accommodate the big dressing on her shoulder, and he once again averted his eyes from a frilly bra, this one cream and blood-stained.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked bluntly, eager to beat a retreat and find Orla.

  ‘Fed up. I hoped you might be the consultant.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  He caught her conciliatory smile in his peripheral vision, heard the husky little laugh. ‘We’ve never formally introduced ourselves, you realise.’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘It might help build bridges.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘Hermia and I were friends for a great many years.’

  ‘Hermia and I were married for a great many years. If the common denominator is missing, it doesn’t correlate.’

  Her eyebrows shot up questioningly.

  ‘There is no need for a bridge.’ He edged his way round the bed to peer through a gap in the curtains to the adjacent cubicle. An elderly man was lying in there wearing an arm brace.

  That amused blue gaze followed him. He could feel the hairs on his neck prickle with angry static. He’d always known she would be like this: wilful and capricious, tough as titanium, taking nothing seriously, a force of positivity pushing against his pessimism. Qualities all too painfully familiar because she shared them with the woman who had once been her best friend. But while Hermia’s sense of self had been left on a country lane, lost to a car travelling too fast, Ronnie Percy still had her charm and quick wit.

  ‘Well, I hope the consultant sees you soon.’ He started to back towards the curtain at the foot of the bed.

  ‘How do you do? I’m Ronnie Percy.’ The cashmere voice was infused with warmth.

  Thinking her very tiresome, Kit refused to play along, feeling along the pleated curtain to find the end.

  ‘I always hoped we’d meet in better circumstances,’ she went on. ‘Hermia wrote of you so often, and so enthusiastically, I felt I knew you, but I can see that was terribly presumptuous. You’re very different from how I imagined.’

  ‘Really? You’re exactly as I expected.’ Where was the bloody way out? He was rattling curtains like a twitchy neighbour.

  ‘I adored your wife. She was the sister I never had. We had years of barely racing off a birthday card to one another, but we always kept in touch somehow. Her letters are among my most treasured possessions – they got me though my very toughest years. I miss her terribly.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Extraordinary jacket.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Kit moved to the other end of the curtain to find a gap. As he did so, the side he’d just abandoned swished open with a rattle of rings and a waft of expensive aftershave. A large man in a suit strode in, forcing Kit back further. Before he could make a run for it the curtain swept closed again.

  ‘Mrs Ledwell, I’m Mr Vane, the consultant vascular surgeon.’

  Ronnie let out a snort of amusement, which she hastily turned into a cough.

  Immaculately dressed in a navy wool pinstripe and lilac shirt, his spotted tie and pocket handkerchief matching, the consultant had a round, fleshy face and the sort of extravagant sweep of sprayed-back forelock beloved of American soap-opera actors. Broad as a single mattress, he took up a lot of the cubicle.

  ‘If you could sit there, Mr Ledwell, I’ll just examine your wife.’

  Kit swept a section of curtain aside victoriously only to find himself looking at the feet of the patient in the adjacent cubicle. He closed it and turned back. ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Sit!’

  Kit did as he was told, wearily accepting that it was huis clos until he could follow Mr Vane out.

  The consultant’s bedside manner was annoyingly self-satisfied, eager to impress upon Ronnie the inconvenience of being called upon to look at something so trivial as her ‘little gash’. The emergency team had done a very good job of flushing it out, he told her, and there was no requirement for his superior surgical skills unless she wanted an invisible scar, in which case she’d need a private consultation.

  ‘I’m quite happy to have a scar.’

  ‘What does Husband think of that?’ Mr Vane looked at Kit over his shoulder.

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The doctor cast his professional eye across the rest of her, American soap-star forelock falling into his eyes and being swept back with an oily smile. ‘Seems a shame to leave a cra
ck mark on a piece of fine china.’

  Ronnie let out a little rumble of laugher. ‘Oh, I’ve been dropped and smashed more often than a farmhouse teapot.’

  ‘You should take better care. One must treasure the best Spode. Exquisite lines.’

  Is he flirting with her? Kit frowned at his pinstriped back. Wasn’t that against the Hippocratic Oath?

  ‘Do you collect?’ Ronnie was asking politely, sounding like a royal making reception-line talk.

  Kit rolled his eyes. Need she be quite so well-mannered? She had an open wound. Hermia had been the same. He glanced at his watch.

  ‘I’m very fond of Limoges teacups.’

  ‘I’ve always preferred mugs.’

  ‘I can tell.’ The surgeon’s eyes flicked towards Kit.

  Cheek! Supposing he was her husband, he’d be calling the man out. Kit eyed the surgeon’s big hair grumpily. Ridiculous look for a man close to sixty. Standing up, he crossed his arms, leather jacket creaking. ‘Is this going to take much longer?’

  ‘You know, I might be able to sneak you into surgery after all,’ Mr Vane told Ronnie, as though bestowing a great favour. ‘I can make time.’

  ‘I really just want to be stitched up and get out of here.’

  ‘You heard her,’ Kit growled, uncrossing his arms with another creak as he squared up to the surgeon, hands on hips.

  ‘I’ll get one of the seamstresses.’ He swept out at such speed, Kit had barely turned to follow when the curtain clattered shut, casting them back in the blue lagoon. He settled back in the chair for a moment.

  ‘How do you do?’ he said quietly, ‘I’m Christopher Donne. My wife adored you too. She talked about you a ridiculous amount before her accident. She lived for your letters. She wasn’t such a good correspondent afterwards. She couldn’t hold a pen for a year. She had to learn to talk again, and even when she did, only close family understood her. Until the day she died, she couldn’t remember the word “toothbrush”.’

  He looked across at her, and as soon as he saw her face, the blue eyes fixed wide on him, he realised she hadn’t known any of it.

  The curtain behind him swept open. Ravishingly tousled and tearful in the skimpiest of hospital robes, Orla let out a hoarse sob. ‘Kit, baby!’ she cried in relief. ‘About fucking time! This has been like the worst fucking nightmare, and now I wake up and hear your voice and I know there is a God. Great jacket, by the way. They want to keep me in here. You have to get me out. And where’s my fucking luggage?’