by Fiona Walker
Kit’s hazel eyes were wide, his gaze on Ronnie’s face now.
Sandy had picked up a bottle of Shakespeare Spiced Punch to examine. ‘Just goes to show you can be hacking home or flying birch at speed, makes no difference. Why I stick to shooting, these days. This looks good. Fancy a tipple? You’re a drinking man, Kit, talk this lovely lady into it.’
Kit looked as though he’d happily take the bottle and neck it now.
‘No, I must go.’ Ronnie stepped forward to kiss Sandy’s cheek. ‘Call me soon. Goodbye, Kit.’ She nodded farewell without looking at him.
At the tills, Carly Turner was loading purchases into old vegetable boxes in a Santa hat. It was the first time Ronnie had seen her in weeks.
‘How’s Spirit?’
‘Good. We’ve just put him back with the bachelor pack. You haven’t been to visit him.’ She glanced into the mirror above the till and saw Kit Donne’s red coat a few feet behind her.
Carly put the loaf in the box. ‘I did, but the old man told me to...’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Anyway, I can see him in the field now.’
‘Did Lester put you off?’
She shrugged. ‘His sort hates Turners.’
‘He has no right to judge.’ Ronnie was finding Lester’s attitude increasingly stand-offish. His campaign of quiet denial had become a loud noise in her head. He refused to break his routine or consider doing anything differently; every time Ronnie changed the way something was done, she found it gradually changing back, like memory foam. He was polite to a fault, tireless, and he loved the stud, but all the time, the unspoken truth hung between them like a hornets’ nest, and days like today made her want to run in and kick it. She wasn’t sure she was going to last.
Outside, she gathered her dogs’ leads swiftly.
‘Wait!’ Kit caught up with her, falling into pace along Lord’s Brook. He strode out admirably for a sleep-deprived dipso. ‘Did Hermia know what happened to the man you ran off with – Angus, was it?’
‘Not at the time. Later, when we got back in touch.’
‘Fast forward a few years to her fall, when she could no longer remember how to pick up a cup of coffee, and she brushed it off as nothing to spare your feelings? Told you she was too busy to write to you?’
‘She was always ridiculously kind. She’d deliberately let me win gymkhana races so my father wouldn’t shout at me, even though her pony was faster.’
‘And she took the fall too.’
They walked along in silence, and Ronnie was unsure if he was appeased or not. His voice held a wearily ironic note, the academic forced to summarise a fifty-thousand-word thesis in a soundbite. He had a presence quite different from that of most men she knew, a quietness beneath which she sensed tempestuous activity, as though his mind was constantly being tidied, ensuring everything exploding inside was in chronological order and made sense. He started to quote:
‘World-wide champion of truth and right,
Hope in gloom, and in danger aid,
Tender and faithful, ruddy and white,
Woman was made...’
Ronnie remembered sending him the little book of poetry after she’d found out about her friend’s death. ‘We used to recite Christina Rossetti to one another as teenagers, dressed rather pretentiously as Pre-Raphaelites and draping ourselves in the willow over there.’ She pointed across to the pond where Sixty Acres met the church meadows, not wanting to point out that they’d both sneered at the line Woman was made for man’s delight in the poem he’d just quoted. Perhaps he knew that. Meek compliances veil her might.
‘How very idyllic.’ There was a sourness to his voice.
‘Are you jealous?’ she asked in surprise.
‘You think I secretly yearn to drape myself over a willow dressed as William Morris?’
‘You’d suit our Brontë phase better. We used to sit in the attic at the stud in fingerless gloves reading out “No Coward Soul is Mine” in northern accents. You could be Branwell.’
‘Thank you for that stereotype,’ he snapped. ‘Hermia was always telling me how much I’d love you. I trusted my wife’s judgement in most things, but she was way off there.’
Ronnie could imagine Hermia’s enthusiastic PR campaign, unable to see the glaring faults. ‘She was cleverer than me, kinder than me and saw more good in me than anyone else did. I got her into trouble, flirted with the boys she liked, and only ever play-acted at all the big scenes and dramas she performed from the heart. I know how much you still miss her. I miss her too. She was one of those people who made you feel better just for knowing her.’
‘And she would obviously forgive you anything.’ The ironic note in his voice had hardened to heavy criticism.
Ronnie glanced at him as he trudged alongside, head down, hands in his pockets. ‘I don’t think it’s really my exoneration you’re bothered about, is it?’
‘You were the one who dropped out of her life for years on end.’
‘With my “emotional impotence”?’ She stopped, the accusation he’d levelled at her on the night of the storm a deeper cut than any wood splinter. She stayed rooted, waiting for him to slow to a halt and turn back with an angry flap of red coat tail. ‘Perhaps I did, but when a friendship loses its day-to-day minutiae, its natural rhythm, it changes. It settles into a deep, safe well of affection. Its heartbeat slows in hibernation. It doesn’t go away, but it lives almost exclusively in the past. Maybe that’s where we wanted it to stay.’
He laughed bitterly. The smell of Scotch reaching her even from ten feet away. ‘That’s a load of self-justifying bollocks if ever I heard one.’
She shook her head, her heart suddenly going out to him, this clever, lonely man who had loved someone so irreplaceable and lost her, not all at once, but head first and heart second. ‘You were the lover who had to hold the past and the present together for years like a mismatched pair. That’s hell. I know because I’ve done it.’
He marched closer, glaring at her. ‘Don’t you dare presume to understand how I felt!’
‘I’ll presume to have known your wife well enough to tell you that she would hate to see you looking like this, to know how much you’re still suffering.’
‘Only for my art,’ he dismissed acerbically, portcullises slamming down now that she’d turned it on him. ‘Thank you for your concern but, rest assured, I only look a bit rough round the edges because I’ve been working.’
‘The bits in between the edges are rough too. Drinking Scotch for breakfast can’t be helping.’
‘What is it with you and this fucking temperance crap?’
‘I was married to a drinker.’
‘Lucky for him you left him.’
She felt the white flash of anger rock her on her heels, too furious to speak.
Ronnie could no longer cut through Sixty Acres, the Austens having wasted no time in erecting stock fencing topped with barbed wire beyond the park rails the full length of the field. She was forced to march to the stile into the church meadows, Kit stomping furiously behind.
‘I’m sorry, okay?’ he called out. ‘That was uncalled for.’
She held up a hand to shut him up, climbing fast towards the standing stones.
‘I know he was an arsehole. Hermia told me.’
‘Johnny wasn’t an arsehole.’
‘Not an arsehole then. I’m the arsehole. I come out with a load of—oof!’
Ronnie glanced round and saw he’d walked into a standing stone at waist height, and was hopping round clutching his groin. She hoped it had sobered him up a bit. Not pausing, she strode on past the little Church Lane gate he would take and along the hedge-line towards the bigger gates in the corner that came out opposite the stud’s driveway.
Two children on ponies and a mother on a chestnut were hacking towards her, a familiar spaniel racing ahead to greet her two, reeking of fox poo, all waggy smiles.
He was being called away: ‘Wilf! Sorry! Wilf! COME HERE! Sorry! Oh, hi there, Ronnie!’
It
was Petra Gunn, an occasional early-morning dog-walking companion in recent weeks, always reeling from lack of sleep with a head full of twisted plot, although never as rough-looking as Kit. Today she was back in the saddle and beaming.
‘How are you?’ Ronnie summoned a bravado she didn’t feel. ‘Do I take it you’ve finished?’
‘Sent it off two days ago.’
‘Well done, you! Hello there.’ The daughters were ravishing little doppelgängers hanging off their ponies to greet her dogs. ‘They’re called Enid and Olive and I’m Ronnie.’
‘We’re Prudie and Bella,’ the taller daughter piped up, ‘and this is Comet and Harry, as in One Direction not the royal one.’
‘And who’s this nice-looking mare?’ She patted the chestnut, which was pawing the ground impatiently.
‘We’re not on first-name terms,’ Petra apologised. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Hello, Complicated.’ Ronnie admired her pretty Whistlejacket head.
‘Is that Kit Donne kicking one of the standing stones?’ Petra was squinting at the figure on the brow of the hill above them.
‘Typical theatrical type.’ Ronnie felt anger spiking again. ‘About time he cut out the Leontes mourning, quit all the Falstaffian seductions and found his Beatrice again, don’t you think? Hermia was always complaining that he was hopeless left on his own. Egos need altars. And that man needs another wife.’
Petra was looking slightly startled. ‘Any suggestions?’
‘Someone very patient, fond of northerners and not bothered by living with an alcoholic.’ She watched Petra’s daughters giggling over a secret shared joke as they rode on further up the hill, heads together and knees up on saddle flaps, and was reminded of Hermia with a sharp pang. Kit and his red coat had disappeared from view. ‘Perhaps Pip should add him to her list of lonely village oldies to cook Christmas lunch for.’
‘She’s not still banging on about that, is she?’
‘Daily.’ She shuddered, having been treated to another long plea over morning hay nets earlier. ‘I suppose you’ve got to admire her kind heart.’
‘But that’s the awful thing – I’ve heard none of them really want to go. Mo Dawkins told me that some usually get together anyway and have had a table booked at the Pheasant in Micklecote for months, deposits paid, and others have relatives they’d much rather go to. They’re only doing it because they feel sorry for her. And because she’s promised them a fantastically eligible mystery bachelor.’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘She’s backed the wrong horse there.’ Ronnie sighed crossly. ‘Lester’s spent Christmas lunchtime alone in his cottage with a large stack of Fray Bentos pies and Handel’s Messiah for at least half a century.’
‘Poor Pip,’ Petra said guiltily. ‘I mustn’t bitch about her. She’s terribly lonely and underutilised, and obviously desperate for parent substitutes. She gave up everything to look after her own.’
‘She was jolly good to mine.’ Ronnie felt a bond of responsibility for the fact they had clearly appreciated Pip. But she wasn’t very easy to like.
‘We should set her up!’ Petra fixed upon the idea with delight.
‘Who on earth with?’
‘Someone older than her who likes baking. A sugar-daddy.’
‘Father Christmas?’
Petra’s giggle was just like her daughters’, her dark eyes shiny with mirth. ‘Now we’re both being bitches.’
‘I’ve always preferred bitches.’ Ronnie whistled for her dogs. ‘Fiercely loyal, bold as brass balls and much less likely to wander. Join me bitch-walking soon. Wilf can be our beard. Must get on.’ She set off for the gate with a brisk wave.
‘Will we see you later?’ Petra called after her.
‘What?’ She glanced back.
‘Carol singing!’ Petra had a gloved hand on her chestnut’s rump, like a barmaid leaning over the counter. ‘Tonight. Six o’clock on the Green.’
‘I’m busy, sorry. I wouldn’t bother coming up to the stud. You’ll only be singing to the horses.’ It was time, she decided, to tackle Lester.
*
‘Mince-pie delivery!’ Pip called through the letterbox at the Old Almshouses, but heard no reply as usual.
She hurried along to Mrs Hedges’, grateful to find the daughter’s car wasn’t parked outside, and let herself in with her key, calling out to make sure she didn’t startle her. The house was baking, Storage Wars playing at top volume on the television. As Pip bustled in, the old lady didn’t stir from her orthopaedic chair, head lolling down, hands in her lap.
‘Mrs Hedges? MRS HEDGES!’
Nothing.
She gave her a gentle prod and she keeled sideways, flopping over the chair arm.
Pip let out a deep, regretful sigh. She’d always known she would lose another client sooner or later – an occupational habit when catering for the elderly – but why did it have to happen so close to Christmas? And Mrs Hedges had been one of her top three romantic matches for Lester, being a fan of horse racing and classical music.
But she had three more mince-pie deliveries to make before helping Lester and Ronnie do the yard, then had more to bake for the carol singers. She couldn’t hang about. She got out her phone to call the daughter, muting the television as it was answered. ‘It’s Pip. I’m afraid I have some very sad news about your mother.’
Mrs Hedges started awake. ‘Who turned my telly off?’
The voice at the other end of the phone was demanding to know what was going on.
‘Oh, sorry, I dialled the wrong number. Bet that’s a relief!’ She rang off. ‘Now, Mrs Hedges, would you like a nice cup of tea while I’m here? I can’t stay long.’
‘I’m not letting you leave until I’ve heard all the latest, Pip,’ Mrs Hedges insisted eagerly. The rolling soap opera Pip provided was guaranteed to keep her clients agog. ‘How is the computer dating going?’
They settled down with the mince pies and a pot, Storage Wars still muted on the television, a couple of greasy bikers exploring a lock-up full of beauty-spa equipment on screen. Pip admired their tattoos with a sigh. ‘Not well, Mrs H. I’ve been benched three times now.’
‘Is that a sexual activity? These mince pies are good.’
Pip moved on to other news. ‘Lester and Ronnie are so snappy with each other, it’s ridiculous. She’s being very stubborn about my Christmas lunch—’
‘About that. My daughter would like me to go—’
‘—and she’s even suggested I hire the village hall, can you believe that? It’s not like she’s having her family over. Her children haven’t been there once since she moved in. It’s just her rattling round in that big house. She’s got a horse whisperer coming to stay after Christmas, mind you. Lester’s got the hump about it, bless him, but I looked the man up online and he is a god, Mrs H. Bay Austen had better watch out because his crown as village hunk is about to roll. The Stud Muffin is on his way. Ronnie’s bound to be lining him up as her new toy-boy, don’t you think? Oh, and talking of Bay, Petra has finished her latest sexy novel, the one I gave her the plot idea for. She posted something on Facebook this morning. That means she’s out of hiding so I think we’ll have some action on that front again – are you all right, Mrs H?’ The old lady was lying back with her eyes closed and her mouth open again. ‘MRS HEDGES?’
She started upright. ‘Would you mind telling me all that again, dear? You lost me after the bit about the village hall.’
*
Socked feet thundered upstairs in Upper Bagot Farmhouse.
‘Girls! You forgot to put away your—’
Doors banged.
‘—boots!’
The Gunn children’s schools had broken up for the Christmas holidays less than a week ago, but Petra already had a One Direction earworm and Lego indents in the soles of her feet. Dropped coats and muddy wellies littered every doorway, and the fridge had been stripped of anything that could be eaten with a spoon. God, but she loved having them all back.
; She picked up a quartet of jodhpur boots and crammed them into the overstuffed rack before shutting freshly hosed spaniel Wilf into the boot room.
Charlie was thankfully not around this week to criticise the tide of dropped books, clothes, toys, games consoles and dirty crockery closing in on his oblivious wife. Her kitchen was a mad scientist’s laboratory of festive preparations, lists everywhere, iPad propped on the recipe-book stand, her phone streaming Carols from King’s through Bluetooth. She sang along to ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’ as a warm-up for the village carolling later, glancing out of the window at a frosty sunset. Last year, when it had been the Gunns’ turn to host the kick-off drinks, had been a rain-lashed wash-out, pitifully few muddy footprints trailing out from the farmhouse’s flagstone floors to embark upon the figure-of-eight loop around the villages of Compton Magna and Compton Bagot. Their merry sodden little band had shared so much mulled wine beforehand that they’d had a wonderful time, but the local badger community had feasted on the leftover mince pies on the compost heap for weeks, and twenty bottles of festive plonk still took up a corner of Charlie’s wine cellar, much to his annoyance. It was as though he thought it would contaminate its vintage Bordeaux neighbours. He felt much the same about some of the neighbours in the village.
Charlie’s acerbic asides and good baritone would be missing from ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ this evening: he was still in London finishing off a case – Petra suspected a wine case, not a legal one, given the number of parties in his diary – which meant she’d already tackled most of the social highlights in the village Christmas calendar alone. She’d hoped to lure Fitz along as her chaperone for the grown-up gigs – he’d been such a hit at the Austens’ Well-hung Party – but he’d refused to co-operate, claiming to be revising for his GCSE resits by completing a mountain of old exam papers.