The Country Set

by Fiona Walker

  ‘All is good,’ she said, trying for a dyspeptic hug and managing an awkward shoulder pat over a plate of sausages. ‘It’s almost fireworks night. Now, finish those pigs and we’ll go home. Where’s my handbag? I want see how your father’s doing.’

  ‘I lost it.’

  ‘Find it, Fitz! The car keys are in it.’

  He rolled his eyes, ‘Okay, I’m on it. But I already texted Dad back. He was having an early one.’

  44

  Carly was shattered. She had been up since six and she’d eaten just three slices of toast and a Cup-a-Soup all day.

  The bulk of the guests were finally leaving, a cheek-kissing and hand-waving ritual that took hours. She eyed the untouched leftovers enviously each time she returned to the kitchen with another tray of empty glasses to load into the high-tech dishwashers. The second cauldron of creamy pheasant casserole was still half full. She would no more dream of helping herself to any than she would raid a bin, but her belly grumbled. Janine, who complained that Carly never put on weight while she only had to look at a cake to get fat, had no idea how hungry she always was and how little time she ever had to remember to eat.

  She took an empty tray along the wide inner corridor lined with display shelves, several of which were now topped with glasses to be harvested. She could hear raised voices in a far room.

  An unidentifiable tiger purr, out of sight: ‘Bay, I am not signing the thing!’

  ‘I’m paying the full probate value for that land!’ It had to be Bay Austen, whose creamy Downton Abbey voice Carly couldn’t take seriously.

  ‘And what about the real value?’ Even posher, deeper and a lot scarier. The dowager countess was Carly’s favourite.

  ‘Fuck off, Ronnie!’ There followed a run of expletives that climbed the musical scale ending up with an indignant, high-pitched man-squeak of ‘So there!’

  Carly sighed, plucking up more dead glasses. Bay was no Hugh Bonneville. Social Norm, who had been a beater for the big shoots at Eyngate Park and here at the farm before his legs went, said toffs’ foul mouths were the reason they needed silver spoons and plums in them.

  ‘So many of your generation are still boys playing at being men. You have the morals of conker cheats.’ The deep female voice rippled with tough-lesson kindness. ‘Let’s see how hard your nuts are, shall we?’

  Enthralled, Carly edged closer.

  *

  Ronnie hated arguing in reading glasses. Habitually accustomed to removing them when looking up from a page to a face, they were now going on and off faster than a politician making an impassioned debut speech and she kept jabbing her cheek with the arms. ‘The surveyor who did this valuation for the sixty acres is an old school chum of yours, isn’t he?’ Glasses off.

  Bay was looking very pleased with himself, still wiping lipstick from his mouth. ‘That’s nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Of course it bloody is.’ Glasses on. ‘We both know that particular block of land is worth twice as much as you’re paying. This valuation is simply ridiculous.’ Off.

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Then I want another professional opinion.’

  ‘Your father stipulated the Austens should buy it!’

  She almost stabbed herself in the eye, sliding the frames up her nose to read the line: ‘“At current market value.” And only because he hated Peter Sanson more. You’re the lesser of two evils. Unfortunately in your case less is more, Bay. And why is the price per acre so much lower than the rest of the stud’s land?’

  ‘It’s in very poor heart.’

  The glasses came off slowly this time, the sigh that sank through her heavy with dissatisfaction. ‘I think the heart in poor order around here is yours, Bay. Haven’t you screwed my family enough?’

  ‘You tell me. You’re the one who kissed the life out of me back there.’

  She regarded him levelly. Jowlier and thicker set, laughter lines around his playful blue eyes, but still a handsome opportunist with a big ego. He thinks I really did jump on him for old times’ sake, she realised in amazement.

  ‘If you believe for one moment that I did that just now for you, to save your skin, or to make you look better, then you’re a bigger fool than you look, Bay.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now he looked mildly affronted.

  ‘Petra Gunn has a soul and a sense of humour, which are rare in this village. Most people have sold one and lost the other before they move in. She’s a prize idiot for finding you attractive, of course, but she’s not the first to make that mistake.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘Once bitten, twice shy and all that – you’ve always been an out-and-out hound, so your bay is worse than your bite.’

  ‘I like that. I’m going to use it.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Petra has a lot more to lose than the Bardswold Bolter if word starts to spread she got caught with your hand up her skirt. My reputation can hardly take much more of a fall.’

  ‘Yes, well, obvs we’re very grateful for your help there. But it’s just a harmless flirtation. Moni is ridiculously controlling.’

  ‘Monique isn’t the root of all evil, Bay.’ She put her glasses back on, reached for a pen and started editing the paperwork. ‘You haven’t changed at all, have you? There are still so many blind eyes turned to your behaviour, I’m surprised your poor wife isn’t handing out white sticks with the canapés tonight. What’s sixty times ten thousand?’

  ‘We’re not paying that!’

  ‘It’s the market value.’ She wrote in the amended figure. ‘You’ll need to initial this. And these,’ she drew neat lines through the many ridiculous conditions, easements and entitlements his solicitor had added. ‘I’m not trying to bankrupt you, Bay.’

  ‘You’re bloody well blackmailing me! What’s the deal? If I don’t pay through the nose, Petra gets shopped? So much for saving her soul.’

  ‘That’s your job, Bay.’ Ronnie felt she could hardly spell out more clearly that she’d no intention of betraying Petra, but Bay rarely listened to women even if their words were accompanied by helpful phonetic aids. She was simply demanding a fair price, it was his guilty conscience paying it out as a ransom. ‘You can afford to be a hero. I’m the village’s scarlet woman, remember.’ She held out the pen. ‘But it’s only the stud I want to get out of the red.’

  He snatched it from her. ‘I knew you were a selfish cow, but I never had you down as this scheming.’

  ‘It’s not for me, it’s for my children. One moment. We need a witness. Can you come in here?’ She raised her voice.

  *

  Carly was still outside, fascinated by the scene she could hear playing out. She found Ronnie hypnotising.

  She shrank back as Bay’s head shot out of the room and jerked for her to come in.

  Walking in, Carly studied Ronnie again. She was tiny, and so glamorous when she was all made up, an ageing pop-princess type, like the one getting married today at Eyngate Park. Ronnie turned and smiled, not recognising her.

  ‘I didn’t know anyone was in here,’ Curly mumbled.

  ‘Of course you did.’ The smile was ravishing, the tone teasing. ‘You know, it’s terribly rude to eavesdrop, especially when somebody’s being rather duplicitous.’

  ‘You witnessed her say that! She is being duplicitous,’ hissed Bay, signing the papers before storming out, cursing under his breath.

  Carly signed where shown, writing her address in her neat hand.

  ‘Thank you for this, Carly.’ Ronnie read her name. Then her mouth opened, a smile stretching wide. ‘My girl with the healing hands!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Goodness, how wonderful. I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you sooner. The foal’s doing so brilliantly. Have you seen him?’

  ‘I don’t like to bother the old boy at the stud. He shouted at me once for going in with Spirit. I still visit his field, but he’s not been there.’

  ‘Not the stud’s land much longer.’ Ronnie held up the papers they had all just signed
. ‘But at least it’s reaching a fair price.’

  ‘I thought you were brilliant,’ Carly told her.

  ‘Oh, you are sweet. Now keep your trap shut about it. Blackmail’s jolly bad form. Thanking somebody for their help in saving a life is not.’ Five crisp twenties landed on the tray Carly had carried in. She wanted to protest, but Ronnie was already at the door, dog at her heels. ‘Come and see the foal whenever you like. Don’t mind Lester. He just takes a long time to adjust to change.’

  *

  At Upper Bagot Farmhouse, Wilf had managed to break into the larder, which contained the big beef joint Petra was marinating in red wine for Bonfire Night supper but – unable to figure out how to penetrate all ten layers of plastic bags, binbags, feed sacks and the upside-down dustbin Petra had booby-trapped it with to stop him stealing it – he was laying siege patiently, watching it with his head between his paws, willing it to break free of its own accord.

  Having run out of things to blog and tweet about, Gunny had fallen asleep in front of a Jack Nicholson movie in the snug, snoring with her mouth open, the biscuit tin on her lap.

  ‘We could post that on her timeline,’ Fitz whispered, picking up his grandmother’s iPhone and breaking straight into the pin code – his father’s birthday – then flicking past received calls and messages.

  ‘God, you’re shameless.’ Petra snatched it back.

  ‘You have no idea,’ he said sardonically, picking up the handset of the rarely used landline and dialling 1571.

  ‘Is SMERSH on to us?’ She laughed as her mother-in-law snorted awake with a disoriented moan, bug-eyed and puffier-faced than ever.

  Gunny tucked the biscuit tin hurriedly under a cushion and looked round for her phone. ‘Good party?’

  ‘So-so.’ Petra handed it to her, trying to remember the first thing everyone had looked for before smartphones were invented.

  ‘Dad called, then.’ Fitz put the handset back in its holster.

  ‘That’s right,’ Gunny said brightly. ‘Just for a chat. He thought I might be bored. I think I’ll turn in.’ She stood up.

  As well as puffy, her face was very blotchy and red round the eyes. Probably a reaction to so many cosmetic injections, Petra thought sourly. Then she felt a pang of conscience. ‘Are you feeling all right, Barbara? Do you want a hot drink to take with you?’

  She shook her head, tapping her reddened skin with her fingertips and sniffing deeply. ‘Fur and feathers. They get me every time. Your cleaners are dreadful, Petra. This house is filthy.’ She blew Fitz a kiss, which he pretended to duck, and drifted out, waving goodnight over her shoulder.

  As Fitz sloped off in her wake, with a grunted ‘See ya,’ and the biscuit tin tucked under his arm, Petra flumped onto the sofa and closed her eyes.

  Tonight I kissed a man who isn’t my husband.

  *

  It was after midnight at Manor Farm by the time Carly dried the last glass and put it back in the hire-shop box, the house silent. Mr and Mrs Austen had given her a generous tip and declared the night ‘a total triumph’; the caterer had given her a less generous tip but taken her number; the bum-pinchers and a few other guests had left tips also; Scotty the groom – whose tips had been far smaller – had sulkily gone to check the horses an hour ago and not returned. Bay and Monique were back in their barn conversion, probably still arguing.

  Carly had texted Ash to see if he was free to give her a lift, but heard nothing. She tried calling him now, but he didn’t pick up. Neither had Janine and Ash’s cousins replied to texts asking if they could take her home. Only Ash’s mum texted back, saying the kids were happily asleep in her kiddy room and to pick them up in the morning.

  She was forced to walk home, yawning in great gulps of frozen air, feet turning into ice blocks in their little black ballet shoes, teeth doing their pneumatic chattering again. The roads were deserted and desperately slippery. Even the horses were tucked up in their stables.

  The lights were off in the house. She let herself in and hurried straight upstairs to have a bath, sinking into it and waiting for her blood and bones to warm before crawling to bed, already almost asleep.

  An hour later she woke with a cry, certain she’d slipped into an unconscious sleep in a cold ditch on the way home.

  But it was Ash, an ice block far colder than she had been, sliding up against her in bed.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she whispered.

  ‘Nowhere.’ He kissed her shoulder, teeth on her skin.

  ‘I’m knackered, Ash.’

  His hand slid between her legs. ‘I need warming up.’

  ‘Isn’t it too cold and shrivelled?’

  ‘You can help with that.’

  They needed this closeness, Carly reminded herself, stifling a yawn and sliding under the duvet.

  Just as she’d encouraged him into a much hotter, harder state, now feeling a lot more awake and enthusiastic herself, she heard him cry, ‘Fuck me!’ and he shifted away.

  ‘I thought that’s what I was doing?’ She lifted the duvet canopy.

  He’d spotted the cash she’d earned that night on the bedside table. ‘There must be over three hundred here.’

  ‘I got tips.’ She thought uncomfortably about the eavesdropping and bum-pinching.

  ‘Think I’ll take up waitressing.’ He slumped back against the pillows.

  When she returned to her task, it softened to her touch, more still to her lips.

  ‘Your hands are too hot.’

  ‘They’re healing hands, Ash. Relax. I’ll show you.’

  ‘Leave it. I’m knackered too.’ He drew her up beside him, kissed her head and rolled away, leaving her wondering what she’d done wrong, and what new secrets he was tucking under his pillow that he wouldn’t share with her.

  The ones that woke him up remained the same. That night, he cried out names, warnings, shouting words in Arabic telling civilians to get back. He called out for his friends who had died, his voice hoarse and shredded until, eventually, he woke himself up with a jolt, clutching his forehead briefly, then shouldering away the tears he thought she hadn’t seen.

  ‘Ssh, it’s okay.’ She reached across and pressed her hand to his temple, her lips soft to his back.

  He ducked his head away, curling into a tight ball with his back to her again. ‘Leave it, Carl.’

  She pressed her hands to her chest, curling up too, feeling them burning to help, knowing they made no difference.

  45

  Lester was first on the yard, taking fresh nets round, his progress cautious because the hoar frost made the cobbles perilous underfoot, and cold hard thinking took time. He relished the solitude. Pip rarely came to help before nine – she hated mucking out – and he had no idea when Ronnie would appear, or if she intended overseeing the yard work at all. With Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks blasting out defiantly, he hoped not.

  She’d gone out last night. Pip, who had stayed far later than usual, had wasted no time in hurrying across the arrivals yard to inform Lester that ‘Ronnie’ was going to ‘knock the Austens dead’ looking ‘a million dollars’, to which he’d pointed out that they still had sterling as a currency and Mrs Ledwell had better not cause any deaths on her first night back.

  He’d heard her leave, and listened out for her safe return. She’d taken the Captain’s old Subaru, which Lester used. He knew he had no right to feel proprietorial about the car, but he ran a hand over its frosted sides this morning checking for bumps, just as he did the horses, although it was already so war-torn from Jocelyn’s many prangs it was hard to tell if there was anything new.

  He didn’t fancy running his hands over the grey German stallion’s legs. The horse was now dancing a tarantella of stamping, kicking impatience as he waited for his food.

  Lester studied him over his door, the horse marching round incessantly, stopping only to snake his neck out at speed and slam his teeth against the grille, rolling his white-rimmed eyes at his onlooker. The ‘toys’ he’d com
e with seemed to hold no interest, apart from a big plastic mirror that he also attacked with his teeth when he passed it. He was a fine-looking beast, nevertheless. The mother-of-pearl coat was largely hidden beneath a big padded rug, but those cantilever hocks and short cannons were good enough to reduce even the Captain’s nemesis of a show judge to tears, and his head was extraordinary, its huge eyes mythical.

  ‘We’ll take none of that nonsense,’ he told him firmly. ‘You’ve got a job to do here.’

  The Captain would pretend to disapprove – he loved his British and Irish horses and was hugely disparaging about anything from the Continent – but he’d recognise the quality straight away. Ronnie might just have saved the stud, if they could only figure out how to calm him down.

  He said a silent prayer and slid the bolt to carry in a hay net. The grey rushed to the back of the stable, pressed hard against the boards, dark eyes following him inside.

  Anticipating attack at any moment, Lester swiftly tied it up, untied the empty one and checked the water drinker was working before backing quietly out, straight into Ronnie, swaddled in a padded coat even thicker than her horse’s, a white woolly hat over her blonde hair.

  ‘His German yard trained them to stand at the back like that. It’s more efficient with twenty or thirty stallions to handle. They’re kept inside all winter. They don’t turn out like we do.’

  ‘You don’t want him to go out?’ Lester was torn between disapproval and relief.

  ‘Of course he must, poor chap. Some of the well-meaning owners he’s had over here thought he hated being cooped up, but he’s terribly institutionalised. He feels safe in there, especially somewhere new. It’ll take time. We’ll do it together later, an hour in the round pen. I won’t risk the stallion paddock yet, especially not in this frost. He’ll be fine on sand. He’s used to our kvazy Englisch vays, nicht wahr?’ She moved forward to the grille, and the stallion turned back from munching at his hay net, flicking his ears forward, seeming to share the joke with a nervy nod.

  Lester had forgotten the silly voices Ronnie gave them all, starting as a girl with her sing-song conversations, later awful Irish accents and silly upper-class ones for the thoroughbreds. Always a bit of an actress, like her friend Hermia.