by Jilly Cooper
‘What was the father like — no good?’
Harriet swallowed. ‘That’s him by the bed,’ she said.
‘Crikey,’ said Sammy gaping at the photograph. ‘Wouldn’t kick him out of bed. Not surprised you fell for him.’ She looked at Harriet with new respect. Obviously there was more behind that uptight, rather shy exterior than met the eye. ‘Never mind, you’ve got Cory,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t mind sharing a house with him.’
‘And Mrs Bottomley,’ said Harriet.
Sammy grinned. ‘Can’t say I’d fancy a threesome with her.’
She started a second coat of polish.
‘I must say it’s nice being here again. I got quite friendly with their last but one nanny. She liked Cory but couldn’t stand Noel. Noel treated her like dirt, always trying to get her to bring up breakfast in bed, and lay out her clothes, and comb out her wigs for her. Can you believe it, she needed a nanny more than the children did. She’s a friend of Elizabeth’s,’ she went on, ‘or rather they both pretend to be, lots of kissing and darlings when they meet, and bitchy as hell behind each other’s backs. Elizabeth doesn’t need a nanny either. She just wants one for status, and to take the children off her hands when she wants to see one of her boyfriends. Honestly she’s had more pricks than a second-hand dart board.’
Harriet laughed, but felt the conversation was getting a bit indiscreet.
‘Are you going out with anyone nice tonight?’ she said.
‘Smashing! He’s a Finn. His firm have sent him over here to build a factory outside Leeds. He’s got a lovely accent and an island all of his own. I said I thought all Finns were very drunken and uncouth. He said Finns ain’t what they used to be. I thought that was quite witty.’
Harriet sprinkled William with talcum powder, trying not to feel envious. It was such a long time since she’d had a date. In the same magazine that she had read about sieving carrots and cabbage had been a piece on bringing up children. ‘All babies need the love of a father and a mother,’ it had said, ‘a background of security and a happy home.’
Oh dear, perhaps she ought to start looking for a father for William.
‘Where does one meet people round here?’ she said.
‘Darling,’ said Sammy. ‘On the other side of the valley is Wakeley, with discos and bright lights and rich industrialists with loads of bread just waiting to spend it on you and me. There’s even a singles bar just opened called the Loose Box. It’s always packed with the most dishy single guys, people who’ve come up North on conferences and who’ve got nothing to do in the evenings. I picked up my Finn there. I’ll take you there one evening next week.’
Harriet cuddled William, feeling his small solid weight against her left shoulder, his fat hands clutching her hair, thinking how gorgeous he smelt. The Loose Box sounded rather too advanced for her.
The telephone went.
‘I’ll take him,’ said Sammy, holding her arms out to William.
It was a Senora di Cuizano ringing from Rome. It was imperative to talk to Cory, she said. Harriet wasn’t risking it.
‘I’m afraid he’s awfully busy at the moment. Can he ring you back?’
The Senora sounded extremely put out. Perhaps she ought to tell Cory? Then she heard the front door bang. He’d probably gone out to get some cigarettes. She went into the kitchen to get tea. Sammy came down and sat in the rocking chair, hiding behind her hair, then peeping out making William crow with laughter.
Ten minutes later she heard the front door open; he must have just gone down to the stables.
‘I wonder what Chattie and Georgie are up to,’ said Sammy, making no attempt to move.
‘I’ll just make the tea,’ said Harriet, ‘and I’ll go up and see.’
‘Oh look — walnut cake,’ said Sammy, ‘how lovely. Elizabeth’s so mean we’re never allowed anything like that for tea and when you consider the amount they spend on drink, and pouring oats down their horses. It must be quite a nice life being Elizabeth’s horse.’
‘Cory’s nice that way,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s not interested in how much money I spend. He’s nice anyway,’ she said, ‘when he’s not being nasty.’
She had spoken too soon. At that moment Cory threw open the door.
‘Harriet,’ he roared, ‘will you get those bloody children out of my hair. Can’t you manage to control them for five minutes. That infernal Georgie’s been smoking my cigars, and sprayed water all over my script, and Chattie’s scribbled over the walls.’
Sammy giggled.
‘Oh God,’ stammered Harriet. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll remove them at once. I thought they were watching television.’
‘Who was that on the telephone?’ said Cory.
‘A Senora di Cuizano rang from Rome.’
‘And what did you say to her?’ said Cory, his voice suddenly dangerously quiet.
‘I — er — said you were busy.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Cory. ‘Don’t you realize that was Zefferelli’s PA? I’ve been trying to get hold of her all day. You’ve probably just lost me half a million bucks.’
Harriet fled upstairs and met Chattie and Georgie coming down.
‘I don’t like Daddy,’ said Chattie, sniffing.
‘Makes two of us,’ muttered Harriet.
Georgie was looking very green.
‘Where does Dracula stay in New York?’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ snapped Harriet.
‘The Vampire State Building,’ said Georgie, and was violently sick all the way down the stairs.
Later she was telling Chattie a bedtime story.
‘Who’s been sleeping in my bed?’ she said in mother bear’s medium sized voice.
‘Why don’t Mummy and Daddy bear say, “Who’s been sleeping in our bed”,’ said Chattie. ‘Mummy and Daddy used to sleep in the same bed, although they don’t now. They might again one day, I suppose.’
‘And little baby bear said, “Who’s been sleeping in my bed”,’ said Harriet, in a high voice.
‘My mother’s very famous,’ said Chattie. ‘She looks like a princess all the time. Georgie says his mother doesn’t look like a princess first thing in the morning, only when she goes out. People are always asking for my mother’s naughty-graph.’
Harriet decided she’d heard quite enough about Noel Balfour in the last twenty-four hours.
‘And Goldilocks looked up and saw the little baby bear, and screamed and screamed.’
‘Is Drackela in real life?’ said Chattie.
‘Oh Chattie,’ wailed Harriet, ‘can’t you concentrate for one minute?’
Cory appeared in the doorway.
‘Hullo, Daddy,’ said Chattie.
Harriet refused to look up; her lips tightened; she was fed up with Cory.
‘That’s enough stories for one night,’ said Cory.
Harriet got up, and walked straight past him.
She heard Chattie shrieking with giggles as he kissed her good night.
Downstairs, the tea things were still waiting to be cleared away. Harriet groaned. She felt absolutely knackered. Dispiritedly she started loading the washing-up machine.
Cory walked in and opened the fridge.
‘I’m starving,’ he said.
Serve you right, thought Harriet, you should have eaten that omelette.
He opened his mouth to speak, once again she turned on the waste disposal. For a minute they glared at each other, then he laughed.
‘Turn that bloody thing off. I’m going out to get some curry.’
Harriet’s mouth watered.
‘There’s a movie I want to watch later,’ said Cory.
‘Really,’ said Harriet, crashing pans.
‘Will you please stop sulking,’ said Cory. ‘I’m sorry I kept you up half the night. I don’t remember what I said, but I must have bored the pants off you.’
Didn’t have any on, anyway, thought Harriet.
‘I’m sorry I’ve shouted at you and bullied you all day,�
�� he went on. ‘It was entirely my fault. I was feeling guilty about wasting a whole work day yesterday, and then being in no condition to do any work today. You’re a good girl. I’ve put on a bath for you, so go and have a long soak — by which time I’ll be back with the curry.’
Totally disarmed, Harriet gave a grudging smile. One had to admit that Cory had his moments.
She was just getting into her bath when she heard crying. It was William. She’d only just put him to bed. She wrapped a towel round her and went into his room. Immediately, he stopped crying and cooed and gurgled at her. His nappy was quite dry, but as soon as she’d tucked him up, and turned off the light he started yelling again.
She was just about to go back into the room when Cory came down the passage with his car keys.
‘Leave this to me,’ he said. In amazement Harriet watched him go over to William’s carry cot, wrap his arms into his shawl, winding it up tightly like an Indian papoose.
‘They like to feel secure,’ he said to Harriet.
William opened his mouth to bellow indignantly.
‘And you can shut up,’ said Cory sharply. ‘Give your poor mother a bit of peace.’
William was so surprised he shut his mouth and didn’t make another sound.
Out on the landing, Harriet blinked at him.
‘You’re absolutely brilliant with babies,’ she said.
‘Noel was never the maternal type,’ said Cory. ‘So I’ve had plenty of practice.’
They had a nice, relaxed evening, drinking red wine, sluttishly eating curry off their knees in the drawing room, and throwing the bones into the fire. Harriet enjoyed the film, but, as Cory was an expert on movies, was determined not to appear too enthusiastic.
‘It’s quite good,’ she said. ‘Although some of the dialogue’s a bit dated. Who wrote it?’
‘I did,’ said Cory.
Harriet was so glad the room was lit by the fire and Cory couldn’t see how much she was blushing.
‘Have some meat and mushroom, it’s quite good too. I wrote it,’ he went on, ‘with a Hollywood Pro called Billy Blake. It’s the last time I’ll ever collaborate with anyone. It shortened my life, but I learnt a lot.’
‘What was she like?’ said Harriet, as the heroine took off her dress.
‘Thick,’ said Cory.
‘And him,’ said Harriet, as the hero hurled her on to the bed.
‘Nice fag — lives with a hairdresser.’
‘Golly,’ said Harriet, ‘I never knew that. If you know all these people, why don’t you ever ask them up here?’
‘Film people are all right to work with,’ said Cory. ‘But I don’t want to go into their houses, and I don’t want them here, talking the same old shop, movies, movies, movies. And I don’t like the way they live, eating out every night in order to be seen. If you hang around with them you start believing you’re a star, everyone treats you like a star, and doesn’t act normally towards you, and you start thinking that’s the way people really behave, and you lose touch with reality — which is lethal for writers.’
He threw a chicken bone at the fire, it missed, and Tadpole pounced on it.
‘No, darling,’ said Harriet, retrieving it from him, ‘It’ll splinter in your throat.’
Cory emptied the bottle between their two glasses.
‘The script I’m doing now’s a bastard,’ he said. ‘It’s about the French Civil War in the seventeenth century.’
‘The Fronde,’ said Harriet.
‘That’s right. It needs so much research.’
He picked up two biographies of French seventeenth-century aristocrats, which were lying on the table.
‘Instead of stuffing your head with novels, you could flip through these and see if you could find anything filmable.’
Harriet wiped her chicken-greasy fingers on Tadpole’s coat and took the books. ‘I could certainly try,’ she said.
Cory’s glass was empty. ‘Shall I get another bottle?’ she said.
‘Nope,’ said Cory. ‘That’s my lot for tonight. I’m not risking hangovers like yesterday any more. I’m turning over a new leaf. Bed by midnight, no booze before seven o’clock in the evening, riding before breakfast. Don’t want to die young, I’ve decided.’
‘I’ll cook you breakfast,’ said Harriet.
‘That’s going too far,’ said Cory nervously. ‘How did you get on with Sammy?’
Harriet giggled. ‘She’s staggeringly indiscreet.’
‘I hope you never discuss me the same way,’ said Cory.
‘I s-said you were absolutely marvellous,’ said Harriet, her words coming out in a rush. ‘Then you spoilt it by coming in and shouting about that telephone call from Italy. She’s going to take me to the Loose Box one evening to pick up rich Finns.’
‘Not sure that’s a very good idea. From all I’ve heard about that dive, “Loose” is the operative word.’
He picked up a handout from Jonah’s school that had been lying under the big biographies. ‘What’s all this?’
‘The Parents’ Association on the warpath again,’ said Harriet. ‘They want money for the new building, so they’re holding a Parents’ dance. Tickets are £3.50 and for that you get dinner, and a glass of wine. You should go. You might meet Mrs Right.’
‘Not if I’m going on the wagon,’ said Cory. ‘I can’t allow myself lapses like that.’
Chapter Fourteen
Cory kept his word. He cut down smoking and drinking to a minimum and although occasionally she heard the gramophone playing long into the night, he was usually in bed by midnight.
Most evenings he would come downstairs and talk to her while she was giving William his last feed. They spent a lot of time together, gossiping, reading, playing records, and talking about Cory’s script. Harriet was enjoying the research she was doing for him; it was the first time she’d used her brain since Oxford. She also found she was taking more trouble with her appearance. She was tired of saving up money for her and William’s future. She wanted to buy some new clothes.
There were also two new additions to the household: Python, a little black mare who arrived from Ireland — Cory was delighted with her and immediately began getting her fit for the point-to-point — and Tarbaby, a lamb with a sooty face, whose mother had died on the moors, and who Harriet was trying to bring up with a bottle.
‘Just like having twins in the house,’ said Cory, as he watched her make up bottles for the lamb and William.
One Monday towards the end of March she was cooking breakfast and getting Jonah and Chattie off to school when Cory walked in. She still couldn’t get used to seeing him up so early.
He threw a pair of underpants down on the kitchen table.
‘I know you think I’m too thin, but this is ridiculous. These pants belong to Jonah.’
Harriet went pink. ‘I’m sorry, I get muddled. I’m just putting eggs on for Chattie and Jonah. Do you want one?’
Cory grimaced.
‘It’d be so good for you,’ she said.
‘All right. I suppose so.’
He sat down and picked up the paper.
‘I haven’t finished my general knowledge homework,’ said Jonah, rushing in, one sock up and one sock down, hair unbrushed, waving an exercise book.
‘Who was Florence Nightingale?’ he said.
‘She was a lesbian,’ said Cory, not looking up.
‘How do you spell that?’ said Jonah.
‘You can’t put that,’ said Harriet. ‘Just say she was a very famous nurse, who looked after wounded soldiers in the Crimea.’
‘She was a lesbian,’ said Cory.
‘Can I have sandwiches today?’ said Chattie. ‘We always have mince and nude-les on Monday, it’s disgusting.’
‘You’ll eat what you’re given,’ said Cory.
‘What has a bottom at the top?’ said Chattie.
‘I really don’t know,’ said Harriet.
‘Legs,’ said Chattie, flicking up her skirt, sho
wing her bottom in scarlet pants and going off into fits of laughter.
‘Oh shut up, Chattie,’ said Jonah. ‘I’m trying to concentrate. Why is a Black Maria called a Black Maria?’
‘She was a large black lady who lived in Boston,’ said Cory, ‘who helped the police arrest drunken sailors. She kept a brothel.’
‘What’s that?’ said Jonah.
‘Better call it a house of ill-fame,’ said Harriet. ‘Oh God, the toast’s burning.’
She rescued it from the grill, and cut three pieces into strips, then unthinkingly cut the tops off three eggs, and handed them out to Cory, Jonah and Chattie.
‘Toast soldiers,’ said Cory, ‘and no-one’s taken the top off my egg for years either.’
Harriet blushed: ‘Sheer habit,’ she said.
‘What’s a house of ill-fame?’ said Chattie.
Harriet dropped off Jonah and then Chattie.
‘Don’t forget to feed Tarbaby,’ shouted Chattie, disappearing into a chattering sea of little girls.
As Harriet walked out of the playground, she met a distraught-looking woman trying to manage three rather scruffy children, and a large grey and black speckled dog, who was tugging on a piece of string. Harriet made clicking noises of approval. The dog bounded towards her pulling its owner with it.
‘What a darling dog,’ said Harriet, as the dog put his paws on her shoulders and started to lick her face. ‘Oh isn’t he lovely?’
‘We can’t bear to look at him,’ said his owner. ‘Come on Spotty.’ She half-heartedly tried to pull the dog away.
‘Why ever not?’ said Harriet.
‘I’ve got to take him to the dogs’ home, after I’ve dropped this lot.’
The children started to cry. ‘I can’t afford to keep him,’ went on the mother. ‘I’ve got a job, and he howls something terrible when I go out, so the landlady says he’s got to go. They’ll find a home for him.’
‘But they may not,’ said Harriet. ‘They put them down after seven days, if they can’t. Oh dear, I wish we could have him.’