Harriet

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘I’m getting a two-wheeler soon with stabilizers,’ said Chattie.

  ‘I could do with some stabilizers myself,’ said Charles.

  He walked over to Harriet, the dissipated gin-soaked blue eyes looking almost gentle.

  ‘Look, I’ve got rather a hazy recollection of what happened last night, but I’ve a feeling I bitched you up. I’m sorry. I can never resist taking the mickey out of Cory. He’s so damn supercilious.’

  ‘He is my boss,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Thank Christ he’s not mine, but I didn’t mean to take it out on you.’

  Harriet stared at him, not knowing what to say.

  She was rescued by a voice behind her saying, ‘Hullo Harriet.’ It was the haw haw tones of Billy Bentley. She was flattered he remembered her. ‘You disappeared very fast last night,’ he said. ‘Saw Charles chatting you up and then you bolted. Can’t say I blame you. Enough to put anyone orf.’

  He brayed with laughter. He should just sit on his horse and look glamorous, thought Harriet.

  ‘I suppose I better get mounted,’ said Charles. ‘We’re friends now, are we?’ he added to Harriet.

  ‘Yes, as long as you’re not foul to Mr Erskine,’ she said.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s old history. Perhaps you’d have dinner with me one evening, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘I say, hands orf, Charles,’ said Billy Bentley. ‘You’re married. Leave the field free for us single blokes.’

  His horse suddenly bucked and lashed out warningly at a nearby chestnut.

  ‘This bugger’s had too much corn,’ he said. ‘I wish we could get going.’

  Charles Mander settled himself onto his horse. An earnest-looking grey-haired woman sidled up to him and pressed an anti-fox-hunting pamphlet into his hand.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ he said to her politely and, getting out his lighter, set fire to it and dropped it flaming at her feet. She jumped away and disappeared, shaking her fist, into the crowd.

  ‘Bloody hunt saboteurs,’ he said, riding off towards the pub. ‘I’m going to get my flask topped up.’

  Billy Bentley hung about, looking down at Harriet, trying to control his restless horse.

  ‘Going to the hunt ball?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Going away?’

  ‘No, I’m just not going.’

  ‘What a shame,’ said Billy, suddenly turning pink. ‘I say, I liked talking to you last night. Wonder if you’d come out one evening?’

  ‘I’d love to, but it’s a bit difficult,’ said Harriet, turning pink too. ‘I’ve got this baby, my own I mean, not Jonah or Chattie.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter a scrap,’ said Billy. ‘Bring the little chap with you if you like. Still got our old nanny at home; got nothing to do; love to look after him.’

  Harriet was touched and wanted to tell him so, but next moment the whipper-in arrived with the hounds, who looked curiously naked without collars, tails waving frantically.

  ‘They haven’t been fed for two days,’ said an anti-fox-hunting youth who was waving a poster saying, ‘Hounds off our wild life’.

  Grooms were sweeping rugs off sweating, shuddering horses; riders were mounting and jogging off in a noisy glittering cavalcade, with a yelp of voices and a jingle of bits.

  Cory rode up on Python, black coat gleaming, eyes popping, letting out snorts of hysterical excitement at all the activity around her.

  ‘I’ll ring you this evening,’ said Billy. ‘Morning, Cory. That’s new, very nice too.’

  ‘Kit found her in Ireland,’ said Cory. ‘Had a couple of days on her with the Kildare.’

  ‘Up to his weight, was she?’ said Billy. ‘Bloody good. Put her in for the point-to-point, will you?’

  ‘I thought I might.’

  ‘Cory darling!’ It was Elizabeth Pemberton, wearing rather too much make-up, but looking stunning in a black coat, and the tightest white breeches. She caught sight of Harriet and nodded to her dismissively.

  ‘You are coming with us on Friday, aren’t you?’ she said to Cory.

  There was a pause, his eyes flickered towards Harriet, then away.

  ‘Yes I’d like to,’ he said.

  ‘I think we’ll be about twenty-four for dinner,’ she said.

  Big bloody deal, thought Harriet.

  The Master was blowing his horn up the road. Next moment Arabella rolled up on a thoroughly over-excited bay, which barged round, nearly sending Harriet and the children for six.

  As the hunt rode down into the valley, the pigeons rose like smoke from the newly ploughed fields.

  ‘Let’s follow them,’ said Harriet.

  But when they got back to the car, she gave a gasp of horror. The back seat was empty; Sevenoaks had gone; he must have wriggled out of the window. She had terrifying visions of him chasing sheep, running under the horses’ feet, or getting onto the motorway.

  ‘We must look for him,’ she said, getting into the car and driving off in the direction of the hunt, which had disappeared into the wood. Then followed a desperately frustrating half-hour bucketing along the narrow country lanes, having to pull into side-roads every time an oncoming car approached, nearly crashing several times because she was so busy scouring the fields for Sevenoaks.

  The hunt were having an equally frustrating time; hounds were not picking up any scent. Riders stood around on the edge of the wood, fidgeting. Then suddenly an old bitch hound gave tongue, and the chorus of hounds swelled, and the whole hillside was echoing. Pa pa pa pa went the melancholy, plaintive note of the horn, and the next moment the hunt came spilling across the road. There was a clash as stirrups hit each other, a snorting of horses, and they were jumping over the wall on the opposite side of the road. From the top of the hill Harriet watched them streaming across the field. There was Cory blown like a beech leaf in his red coat, standing up in his stirrups now to see what was on the other side of a large wall. The next moment Python had cleared it by inches. Hounds were splaying out by a small wood at the bottom of the valley, then suddenly they turned and came thundering back in Harriet’s direction.

  ‘There’s the fox,’ screamed Chattie, and gave the most ear-splitting view halloo.

  Ten seconds later the hounds came flowing past her. Suddenly in the middle Harriet recognized a familiar figure, dirty grey, pink tongue hanging out, galloping joyously.

  ‘Oh look, there’s Sevenoaks,’ screamed the children.

  ‘Come here,’ bellowed Harriet.

  For a second he looked in her direction and gave her a naughty, flickering, rolling look, then trundled on in the centre of the pack which swept in a liver, black and white wave over the hill.

  All the pent-up emotion of the last twenty-four hours welled up in Harriet. She sat down on the bank and laughed until she cried.

  Her elation was short-lived. The hunt was soon miles away. She must get back to William. She drove home feeling depressed — not merely because of the day’s catastrophic developments. She tried to analyse why, as she got the children a late lunch, and fed William. Perhaps I’m just tired, she thought.

  ‘I just landed on one of your hotels, and you didn’t even notice,’ said Jonah.

  ‘Oh God, how much do you owe me?’ said Harriet.

  ‘£1,000,’ said Jonah. ‘It was jolly honest of me to tell you.’

  ‘Jolly honest,’ answered Harriet, wishing he hadn’t.

  ‘Here’s £1,000,’ said Jonah. ‘Now we can go on for another half-hour.’

  Harriet was dying for him to beat her. Worried about Sevenoaks, she was finding it impossible to concentrate. There was no way she could win now; she wanted to get the game over as quickly as possible.

  Fortunately Sammy arrived at that moment, bringing Georgie and Timothy, the Pembertons’ elder child, who was a friend of Jonah’s, so all four children disappeared to the attic.

  Sammy and Harriet went back into the nursery where William was rolling around on the rug.
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  ‘How was Arabella’s party last night?’ said Sammy.

  Harriet gave her an expurgated edition of what had happened.

  ‘It was hideously embarrassing, but Cory was so sweet about it afterwards.’

  ‘I think Charles Mander’s rather attractive,’ said Sammy. ‘He’s reputed to beat his wife. He’s known round here as Rotation of Riding Crops.’ She shrieked with laughter. ‘Fancy old Arabella shoving you off to do the washing up.’

  ‘She’d be quite attractive,’ mused Harriet, ‘if she didn’t push so hard.’

  ‘Must be getting desperate. I wonder how old she is. About thirty I should think. I hope I die before I’m thirty. It sounds so old.’

  ‘Forty must be worse,’ said Harriet. ‘Mrs Bottomley must be over fifty.’

  They brooded silently over this horror.

  ‘Cory’s thirty-four,’ said Sammy. ‘It doesn’t seem too bad for a man; but, just think, when you were born he was fourteen, getting all clammy-handed and heavy breathing over girls at parties.’

  Harriet thought she’d rather not.

  ‘Elizabeth and Michael didn’t have much fun last night either,’ said Sammy. ‘There weren’t any alkaseltzers in the house. We’d run out, but Michael came down in the night and had sixteen junior aspirins.’

  ‘What’s happening on Friday?’ said Harriet.

  ‘The Hunt Ball,’ said Sammy. ‘Everyone gets absolutely smashed and blows hunting horns, and rushes upstairs and fornicates in cordoned-off bedrooms.’

  She picked up a cushion and peered round it at William, making him go off into fits of giggles.

  Harriet was sorting out a pile of washing.

  ‘Who else is going to Elizabeth’s party?’ she asked casually.

  Sammy looked at her slyly. ‘You mean who’s she asked for Cory?’

  Harriet went pink.

  ‘I just wondered if any of the people I met last night are going to be there.’

  ‘She’s invited another of her glamorous, neurotic, divorced girlfriends called Melanie Brooks for Cory. I saw the letter Elizabeth wrote her: ‘“Darling Melanie, So pleased you can make it. Try and catch an earlier train, as it’s a bit of a rush on Friday night and you want to look your best because I’ve lined up a gorgeous man for you, a disconsolate husband whose wife’s just left him, but very fascinating.”’

  Harriet winced.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Sammy. ‘She’s ancient. At least thirty, and her legs are awful.’

  ‘But those’ll be covered by a long dress at a ball,’ said Harriet gloomily.

  The telephone rang. To Harriet’s surprise it was Billy Bentley.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘Have you finished already?’

  ‘My horse went lame; not badly; he’ll be all right after a few days’ rest.’

  ‘Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Slightly chaotic actually. The Hunt saboteurs fed in an enormous black and grey dog which completely disrupted the pack. They ran right across the motorway — no-one was hurt, thank God — and ended up in a council estate, cornering a ginger cat in an outside lavatory.’

  ‘Oh goodness! Is the cat all right?’

  ‘Got away, thank God,’ said Billy. ‘Or it’d be all over the papers.’

  ‘And the big grey and black dog?’

  ‘Well we whipped it out of the pack and Cory very kindly took care of it. He gave a man on the council estate a fiver to bring it back to your house. He’s going to hold it as hostage until the Antis claim it. It’s completely wild.’

  Harriet thought she would explode trying not to laugh.

  ‘After that we had a terrific run. Look, are you doing anything on Friday?’

  ‘No, at least I don’t think so. My night off.’

  ‘Like to come out?’

  ‘All right.’ Damn it, if Cory was going to go gallivanting with gorgeous divorcées, she wasn’t going to get in his way.

  ‘It’s the Hunt Ball. You won’t mind that, will you?’ said Billy.

  ‘Oh,’ Harriet gave a yelp of alarm.

  ‘We’ll eat at home first. I’ll come and pick you up about eight.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything to wear.’

  ‘You’d look smashing in nothing,’ he brayed nervously. ‘See you Friday and bring William. Nanny’s looking forward to seeing him.’

  Harriet replaced the receiver very slowly.

  ‘You lucky, lucky thing,’ said Sammy.

  ‘I’m sure Cory won’t like it. He’ll think I’m trying to cramp his style,’ said Harriet. ‘But Billy was so sweet about William.’

  ‘Oh they’re used to illegits in that family. Billy’s sister’s had two at least. Half of their ancestors have been born on the wrong side of the duvet. Now throw that photograph of Simon away,’ she went on, ‘and make a fresh start. Billy’s lovely and stinking rich, and faint heart never won fair chinless wonder.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to wear,’ said Harriet.

  ‘I’ve got just the thing,’ said Sammy. ‘A fantastically long slinky orange dress I bought last year, in the hope that I might lose weight and get into it. I didn’t, but it would look sensational on you.’

  The noises above became wilder.

  ‘I’d better go and turn the hot water up,’ said Harriet. ‘Cory’ll go spare if he doesn’t get a decent bath when he gets home.’

  She couldn’t bring herself to tell Cory she was going to the Hunt Ball. She washed and starched his dress shirt and brought the red tail coat with grey facings back from the cleaners and tried on Sammy’s orange dress which became her absurdly well. But as the day grew nearer she put off telling him, because he was too abstracted to bother, or because he was in such a good mood and she didn’t want to spoil it, or in a bad mood which she didn’t want to make any worse.

  On the pretext of buying Chattie tights, she went into Skipton and found a flame-coloured boa to cover up some of the lack of dress. She failed, on the other hand, to find a bra to wear under it.

  ‘Go without,’ said Sammy. ‘Live a little.’

  ‘I’ll fall out when I dance — if anyone asks me to.’

  She spent the day of the ball surreptitiously getting herself ready, as she knew with putting the children to bed there wouldn’t be much time later. She painted her nails and washed her hair, and put on a headscarf so it dried smooth. She was peeling chips for the children’s tea when Cory came into the kitchen, carrying a couple of shirts.

  ‘Don’t do any more work, Daddy,’ said Chattie, seizing his hand.

  He opened the washing-machine door and was just about to throw the shirts in, when instead he drew out an old bunch of daffodils: ‘Planning to wash these?’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m getting so vague. I meant to put them down the waste disposal,’ said Harriet.

  ‘I suppose you also mean to put those chips down the waste disposal and the peelings into the pan?’ he said. ‘And why are you wearing a headscarf? Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Fine. Do you want a cup of tea?’ said Harriet nervously.

  ‘I want something stronger,’ said Cory, pouring himself a large whisky.

  ‘You ought to eat something,’ said Harriet.

  ‘I know, but I’ll be eating again in an hour or two.’ He cut a slice of pork from the joint, covered it in chili pickle, put it between two slices of bread and settled down with the evening paper. His eating habits drove her to despair.

  Chattie scrambled onto his knee.

  ‘Are you going out tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To the Ball? Will you take me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you going to dance with Harriet?’ she went on, ignoring Harriet’s agonized signals. ‘She’s going to wear an orange dress which shows all her bosoms.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ said Cory.

  ‘She is,’ said Chattie. ‘Sammy lent it to her.’

  He turned to Harriet.

  ‘Is this true?’ he said sharply.

&nbs
p; She nodded, blushing, grating cheese so frenziedly over the cauliflower that she cut one of her fingers.

  ‘Who’s taking you?’

  ‘Billy Bentley,’ she said, sucking her finger.

  ‘Didn’t know you knew him.’

  ‘I met him at Arabella’s party, and at the meet.’

  ‘I see. Who’s looking after William and the children?’

  ‘Well it is my night off, and Mrs Bottomley said she’d babysit, but if that’s difficult Billy says their old nanny can look after William.’

  ‘Billy seems to have displayed more initiative than usual,’ said Cory. ‘Where are you having dinner?’

  ‘With his parents.’

  ‘You’ll be poisoned before you get to the ball. They’ve got the worst cook in the West Riding.’

  And he stalked out of the room, leaving the half-eaten pork sandwich and the glass of whisky. Harriet wondered if she should go after him and apologize. But what was there to apologize for, except she hadn’t told him? It was entirely up to her what she did on her evenings off. Perhaps he didn’t like downstairs mixing with his upstairs friends. Oh, why had she agreed to go?

  She was getting ready, sitting in front of her looking glass, just wearing a pair of pants, when there was a knock on the door. She grabbed a towel; it was Cory. His dark hair sleeked down, wearing his red tail coat with the grey facings and black trousers.

  ‘You do look nice,’ she stammered. Privately she thought he looked stunning.

  Cory shrugged. ‘I’ll have champagne poured over it before the night’s out. Can you cut the nails on my right hand?’

  As she bent over his hand, her hair in Carmen rollers tied up with a scarf, keeping the towel up with her elbows, her hand shook so much, she was frightened she’d cut him.

  ‘You can leave William here,’ he said. ‘I’ve cleared it with Mrs Bottomley.’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Been monopolizing you too much myself lately. Do you good to get out.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to sound more enthusiastic.

  He glanced round the room. ‘The light’s terrible in here. Go and make up in Noel’s room. I must go. I’m invited for eight. If any of the young bloods start pestering you, give me a shout.’

  The mirrors in Noel’s room showed her from every angle. It’s like a Hollywood set, she thought, all those pink roses and ruffles. It’s a mistress’s room not a wife’s, and quite wrong expecting Cory to sleep in it, like putting a wolfhound in a diamante studded collar and a tartan coat. And how extraordinary to have so many photographs of oneself looking down from the walls: Noel sunbathing topless, Noel receiving a screen award, Noel arriving at a première smothered in ermine, Noel laughing, with Chattie, Jonah and Tadpole gazing up adoringly. That one hurt Harriet most of all. Trust Tadpole to suck up, she thought. Sevenoaks would be more discriminating.