About Last Night . . .

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Well, I’ve given her a shot of steroids and some antibiotics,’ he said, squatting beside me, ‘but I can’t promise anything. She’s a mystery, actually. I’ve lifted her up repeatedly, but she collapses again, and there’s no mastitis.’

  ‘Should I feed the lambs?’ I watched as one nudged her teats quite hard to suckle. She’d been amongst the first to lamb and they were big brutes now.

  ‘No, she’s managing, I should leave her to it. It might distress her more to have them taken away.’

  ‘Oh, I’d leave them here, I just meant as supplement.’

  ‘Then she’ll bag up and get swollen. I’d leave her. Just check she’s not worse in the morning. But to be honest, Molly, she can’t get to the water like this and although they don’t drink much, she’ll need it if she’s feeding.’

  ‘Can’t I bring a bucket to her?’

  ‘How’s she going to get her head in?’

  I licked my lips. ‘I could bury it? In a hole.’

  He gave me a withering look. ‘This is a sheep, not a household pet. No, if she can’t get up tomorrow, put a bullet in her. Or get Nico to. Cheaper than getting me out again.’

  I swallowed. I knew this was right, but it was the problem I had with farming. No other farmer got the vet out as much as I did, not for sheep. Cows were different, more valuable, but by the time I’d paid Paddy’s bill, it was the same as I’d get for a decent lamb at market at the moment. About fifty pounds. And I’d get much less for Rita. Not that I’d ever sell her. She was special. Yes, I had three special ones, I realized. Agnes, Coochie and Rita. I looked up and saw Milly with her twins. She was lovely too. Don’t look any more. Over there was Gloria. Instead I tickled Rita’s ears and crooned to her. She laid her head on the grass and looked resigned. As if she knew. She was far more accepting of her fate than I was.

  I took a deep breath. Let it out shakily. The farmers round here all thought I was soft. None of them could believe I’d kept Maggie, the chestnut mare who’d been dumped in my field in foal, no doubt by the gypsies. Ken at the hunt kennels had told me he’d take her, shoot her and feed her to the hounds, but I’d kept her. Paddy had told me most hunts charged for this service and I was a fool not to take up the offer, but Maggie and Freckles, as Minna had called the foal, which had arrived amid much joyous shrieking on a freezing January night, had stayed, and I’d lost my heart to them. Together with a great deal of money. Yes, the pair had cost me dearly in injections, as no doubt Rita would, I thought, trying to harden my heart and get Paddy to do the deed now, as I knew he thought he should. But then she bleated. And I’d know her bleat anywhere, throaty and low. All sheep have different voices, but hers was distinctive. I stood up.

  ‘Thanks, Paddy. I won’t put a bullet in her. I’ll call you out again if I may, but it’ll be the last of my vet’s bills, so that’s something.’

  He shrugged, but didn’t say anything. I gazed around at the undulating emerald-green meadows, the hills rising gently beyond, tinged with blue in the hazy mirage from the sun.

  ‘Do you want this, Paddy? My land? That’s what Peter was referring to. He thinks it’s too much, with the house. Says people only want a pony paddock.’

  ‘I might well,’ he said cagily, following my gaze. I looked at him, knowing he was playing it cool. No countryman ever turned down adjoining land. ‘OK, yes. Definitely. Don’t offer it to anyone else.’

  ‘Please,’ I said teasingly. I gazed into those dark eyes, wondering why it was so hard to force pleasantries out of him.

  ‘Please,’ he added grudgingly. Oh, he was all charm. ‘What is it, eighty-six? Eighty-seven?’

  ‘Eighty-eight. D’you want to walk round it?’

  ‘I might.’

  I knew he was dying to. I shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

  He did. He strode off, taking his cast-iron ego with him, in the direction of the river and the fields beyond. I watched him go. No questions about drainage, or troughs, or fencing, my opinion being woefully inadequate. No enquiries as to boundary ownership, or whose responsibility it was to maintain the hedges or the drystone walls. He’d clearly be coming to his own conclusions. I watched until his dark head disappeared down the dip in the land that flanked the river.

  Inside, Peter was infinitely more polite and solicitous of my opinions. Were any of the chimneys capped? Was the septic tank emptied regularly? How much damp actually came through that north wall and had I had it seen to? Obviously not, unless you counted the occasional lick of paint. All in all, though, he agreed it was in pretty good shape, but appreciated it was a mammoth task to keep it that way.

  ‘Every time I finish painting one set of windows, there’s another broken sash to fix, or the heating system breaks down again. It’s like the Forth Bridge, and I don’t want to spend my days being a maintenance man. Let someone else do it. Someone with a husband, preferably, who can go up into the loft in the middle of a January night and bang the relevant pipe to stop it hissing. There are bats up there too, and whatever people say, they’re not sweet. They’re mice with wings.’

  He nodded. ‘I know. It’s been a Herculean effort. But we’ll miss you, Molly.’

  We were at the kitchen table now, where we’d been discussing prices and glossy sales brochures, a pot of coffee and a packet of Hobnobs between us.

  ‘Nonsense, I hardly know anyone! Apart from you, and Anna, and the Frenches. And Tom and Pam, and the Pipers. And Biddy. Well, the Foxes, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s pretty much everyone in the valley.’

  I wanted to say – yes, but don’t you see how limiting that is? How can you bear it? But I knew it was his much loved life.

  ‘You should have come hunting, Molly. Gone out with the Teme Valley. That’s what people do for society in the winter.’

  ‘No thanks. All those arrogant tossers in tight breeches who think because they wear a red coat, they can bark orders and roger every woman in the county …’

  One such tosser put his head around the door. ‘You’ve got ragwort in most of the fields. They all need sorting out. And you haven’t sprayed for months.’

  ‘I sprayed in January!’ I roared.

  ‘Well, that’s a bloody stupid time to do it. Nothing would have germinated. If you’re moving the ewes I’d spray again next week.’

  ‘Why don’t you mind your own business!’ I bellowed. ‘These are not your fields yet and, frankly, they may never be!’

  He shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Suit yourself. I’m just saying, if you want the best price, you’ll want them in good order. It’s only like Peter telling you to put a course of damp proof on that wet patch.’ He nodded at the north wall behind the stairs where there was indeed a large tell-tale stain.

  ‘Yes, but Peter’s an estate agent – you’re a ruddy vet! If you’re not interested in the land, mind your own business, Paddy.’ He really did bring out the worst in me.

  ‘Oh, I want it. Just pointing out its imperfections before you try and put an inflated price on it. Let me know the damage, Peter.’ And with that, and a rare grin, he withdrew.

  I fumed for a moment as Peter diplomatically drained his coffee and got to his feet.

  ‘I’ll be away too, Molly. I’ll send a photographer round and have the brochures out by next week, I promise. I’ll pop one through your door first, though.’

  In the event, however, we didn’t need the photographer. Or the brochures. Peter rang that evening, a bit breathless, to ask if he could show a couple round in the morning. I assured him he most certainly could, simultaneously plumping cushions and kicking a magazine under the sofa. They came as promised, a lovely middle-aged couple, who I only met briefly: I was out checking on Rita, who miraculously seemed a bit better; she was even on her feet, which I felt was one in the eye for the know-it-all vet. Anyway, the delightful couple promptly made an offer the following afternoon which was so stratospheric I had to put the phone to my chest a moment to shut my eyes and breathe. It was light years away from what we’d paid fo
r the place. I thanked Peter profusely and said I’d accept. Then I rang the children to enthuse. They were delighted, particularly at the price, but I could tell there was something in their voices that was wistful and a little nostalgic.

  ‘So it’s really going,’ said Minna.

  ‘Yes, darling, it is.’

  ‘Which means I’ll never see Ted again.’

  ‘Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it, my love? Remember how you said you never wanted to see him? Listen, I must go, I’ve got to ring the others,’ I said cravenly, knowing from experience she was about to dissolve and, for once, wanting to protect myself. Not to be brought down, as I always was when Minna cried. I spoke to Nico, who said, ‘Yeah, OK, whatever,’ which was a bit rich considering he’d been so keen, but naturally the one I lost it with was Lucy.

  ‘You were the ones who bloody told me to!’ I snapped, when she said something about how much she’d miss the orchard, and the apple blossom every year.

  ‘I know and it’s brilliant. It’s just a shame we can’t keep both, really.’

  ‘Well, we can’t,’ I said shortly. ‘Stop being so bloody spoilt. Some people don’t have a home at all.’ And then, to change the subject, and also because I couldn’t help it and had to tell someone, I told her about the divine Felix Carrington. She was quiet a moment.

  ‘Well, I certainly don’t think you should have lunch with him, Mum.’

  ‘Why not? You’re always telling me to go out more. Always trying to fix me up with someone, and for the first time in five years I’ve met someone I actually wouldn’t mind sharing a lunch table with!’

  ‘Yes, but it’s obvious. He’s going to lay the guilt trip on you. Cuthbert and his father were to all intents and purposes married, from what you’ve said. He’ll try and make you feel bad about having the house.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly! I’m sure he just wants to ask me to be sensitive to his father’s wishes. Not to change the décor or something.’

  ‘How’s his father going to see the décor?’

  ‘Or – I don’t know – maybe ask if Robert can come back and visit? Who knows? Perhaps he fancies me, Lucy.’

  ‘Who, the father?’

  ‘No! The father’s a relic. And gay. Felix.’

  ‘Oh. Right. I thought you said he was a complete dude? Ripped jeans, brown ankles, moccasins?’

  I was speechless. ‘I have ripped jeans, Lucy!’

  ‘Yes, but only because you tear them on barbed wire.’

  ‘And very soon’ – I fished in the bag of goodies I’d bought from Peter Jones, brandished a bottle of fake tan at the phone – ‘I will have brown ankles, too!’

  ‘Right. OK. Well – you know …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself, Mum. Peter Cox is one thing, but some hunk nipping off to Venice to judge the art Biennale is another. What were you wearing?’

  ‘What was I … you saw me! My best blue dress, very smart, and my white jacket!’

  ‘Oh, shit, yes. Right. I rest my case. Just … tread carefully, Mum, OK? He clearly thinks you’re some hick from the sticks, foaming at the mouth at all the glamour and sophistication of London. He might try to sweet-talk you, that’s all.’

  My mouth opened and shut at her gall. I was dumbfounded. Didn’t she remember the days when I’d flit back from my office in Covent Garden, head to toe in Agnès B? No, of course she didn’t. No more than she’d remember the charming little cashmere tunic I’d worn over black Capri pants which I’d taken to Paris – and understandably never worn again. But she could mock all she liked. I had once been a sophisticated woman, and given a pair of tweezers, a tub of St Tropez, a crash diet and some moustache-bleaching cream, could quite easily be that woman again.

  She’d already gone, though. With barely a goodbye, as apparently her other mobile – her other mobile – was ringing and it was Robin. I snapped my ancient phone shut. Yes, well. I was busy too. Had things to do. Masses, in fact. Seizing my purchases – and of course my new book – I headed upstairs to lay it all about me, to run a foaming scented bath, and to make preparations for the forthcoming campaign.

  11

  My lunch with Felix took place in possibly the most exquisite restaurant I’d ever been to, and although my children would dispute it, I’ve been to one or two. It was in Chelsea, naturally: all white and light with sparkling floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a glass floor – lethal, I took it gingerly – and vast tropical plants. It even had a parrot, called Hortense, in a gilded cage, and a myna bird too, in the corner. It was full of people who looked as if they’d never done a day’s work in their life but spent a great deal of time maintaining the fiction. Outside, where we ate, since it was yet another beautiful day, and because it was even more enchanting out than in – a leafy, walled enclosure with spreading plane trees providing dappled shade, the tables laid with the thickest, whitest linen I’d ever seen set around a tinkling central fountain complete with frolicking cherubs – were yet more of the elegantly dressed, lightly tanned, bejewelled, be-coiffed gentry I’d observed within, murmuring to one another over their Bellinis. What was the phrase I was groping for? The beautiful people, that was it. Most were women lunching à deux, I noticed, as we threaded through the tables led by the waiter, although they barely seemed to be eating, just picking at rocket and Parmesan salad, but there was a smattering of suave, handsome men too, not in suits, but colourful, open-necked shirts and linen jackets, who didn’t seem to have a care in the world, laughing heartily – OK, braying – and looking as if they were more involved in managing their property portfolios and trust funds than the real world. Trying to look as if these were the circles I mixed in on a daily basis, I waited as our chairs were pulled out. The maître d’ greeted Felix like an old friend and they marvelled at the continued, unseasonably warm weather.

  ‘Does it mean a terrible summer for us, Carlos, d’you think?’

  Carlos spread his hands despairingly. ‘Ees so often the way in this country, no?’

  ‘I’ll take it, anyway,’ said Felix with a grin as we sat down. ‘It would be churlish to quibble. Now. What d’you recommend? I saw some langoustine as we came through.’

  As they discussed the menu I had a quick look round and realized that whilst I didn’t begin to match up sartorially, I hadn’t entirely let the side down either. Obviously nothing in my wardrobe had been remotely suitable, not even the flimsy blue shirt and white jeans I wore on my occasional forays out with Anna or Tia in Ludlow, but I knew I had treasures in the spare room closet which hadn’t been worn for years. As I’d eagerly pulled out my erstwhile working girl wardrobe, hustled it back to my room, piled it on the bed and tried it on, enthusiasm turned to dust and ashes in my mouth. I regarded my reflection in dismay. Surely that little pigskin jacket with the black Capri pants had been positively cutting edge back in the day? Why, then, did it suddenly look so shapeless and dowdy? And wasn’t the collar a bit large? I stepped forward to peer. And how on earth had the trousers shrunk so dramatically? I couldn’t even do them up. I hadn’t washed them, had I, instead of having them dry-cleaned? I tried them on with a larger top, to hide the gaping zip, this time of the palest dusty pink, the cashmere tunic, in fact, of that fateful visit to Paris. So tight. Not a tunic at all. More of a bodycon. But perhaps it always had been thus? Perhaps I’d just forgotten? I threw on some gold jewellery and high heels and minced uncomfortably downstairs to canvass Minna, who was with Nico in the sitting room, both horizontal on a sofa apiece, dogs asleep all over them, curtains drawn, positions which had been adopted three days ago on their return from London and aside from brief forays to the fridge or the lavatory hadn’t been relinquished. Naturally they didn’t look up from their screens so I finally coughed and struck a pose in the doorway.

  ‘What d’you think?’

  They glanced round. Stared. Then Nico fell off the sofa, holding his stomach. Minna looked aghast.

  ‘What are you going as?’

  ‘O
h, it’s fancy dress,’ gasped Nico from the floor. He got up and resumed his viewing position. ‘Shit. I thought it was for real.’

  ‘It is for real, it’s for this lunch I’ve got with Felix Carrington.’ I held my stomach in then realized it was already in.

  They both looked horrified.

  ‘Oh no, absolutely not,’ said Minna. ‘You look like a pregnant prawn. What about your blue shirt?’

  ‘Too parochial,’ I said, letting my tummy out with relief.

  ‘Well, you must have something else.’

  ‘I haven’t. Have you got anything?’

  ‘That would fit you? I sincerely hope not.’

  ‘Minna!’

  ‘Joke, Mother. Come on, let’s go see.’

  She leaped up and led the way upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time, secretly liking the idea of a bossy mother-daughter makeover. She hadn’t quite lined up with Lucy on the cynical approach to my lunch either, and was even prepared to agree it was practically a date when I’d filled her in earlier.

  ‘OK, so what’s he going to be wearing?’ she demanded, folding her arms and surveying the discarded clothes littering my bed and decorating my floor. ‘Suit?’

  ‘God no, he’s arty.’

  ‘Linen jacket?’

  ‘Mmm … not even that. I’d say … silky shirt? Jeans?’

  ‘Oh right. He’s cool.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said happily. ‘He’s cool.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I dunno, you just say it wrong. Too much ooo in the middle.’

  She swept a practised eye around the assorted garments already on display, then plunged her head in my wardrobe, foraging like a pig for truffles. She emerged empty-handed, looking flummoxed. Undeterred, we headed for fresh hunting grounds and eventually found a long blue floaty top of Lucy’s which Minna said would work if I didn’t eat until Tuesday, my white jeans and a denim jacket of hers which she told me was edgy but I thought made me look like The Lady in the Van.