The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Second time in a fortnight.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Same car, too. I mean, I've hit it twice now.’

  I heard him swallow. Then: ‘Irritating.’

  ‘Yes, isn't it?’ I got into bed.

  ‘But then again, why spread yourself thinly?’

  ‘Well, quite.’

  ‘Keeps the insurance claims simpler.’

  ‘That's the way I looked at it. Night.’

  ‘Night.’

  I turned over and lay there, staring at the wall in the dark. His back was to mine and I knew he was wall-staring too. After a while, a tear slowly trickled down my nose, and then another, across my face and in my ear. I gulped. I felt wretched and could bear it no longer.

  ‘Ant,’ I gasped, ‘thanks for your text.’

  He turned over. ‘Thanks for yours.’

  In another moment we were in each other's arms, clinging on, and I was sobbing. But then, I do sob. Ant knows that. When I was little, Tim used to call me Boo-Hoo. Ant rubbed my back and made comforting noises in my ear. A bit later on, when I'd calmed down, we made love, in a rather desperate fashion. And some time later, I went to sleep.

  The following morning dawned bright and sunny; a sunny Saturday, and the one, as we all conveniently tried to forget as we ate boiled eggs in the kitchen, on which Ant and Anna would be meeting the lovechild. Awful, terrible remarks of this nature and worse were rising like poisoned sap within me, like bile in my throat, until I thought my head would rotate and, accompanied by vomit and frogs, I'd snarl in a demonic Hammer House of Horror fashion, ‘So what d'you think the bastard will look like, hm? Spawn of Satan.’

  Terrible things. I kept shovelling the soldiers down my throat to keep them at bay. Kept a bright smile going and some buzzy conversation, and was glad when the phone rang. I lunged and seized it first.

  ‘Hello?’ Please let it be them, cancelling. Saying they'd thought it through and that neither Adulterous Witch nor Spawn of Satan could go through with it.

  ‘Evie, hi, it's Caro. Just to let you know Heccy will be here at ten.’

  I frowned. ‘Heccy? Who the hell's Heccy?’

  ‘The horse, you goon. Hector. Camilla Gavin's pony.’

  ‘Oh – Hector.’ I sat down abruptly. Oh hell, I'd forgotten about him. ‘Oh God, Caro, I'm awfully sorry. Anna's going out today.’

  ‘Out? Evie, I told you he was coming today.’

  ‘Um…’ I got up and walked through into the hall so the others couldn't hear me. ‘Um… right…’ I ducked into the drawing room and shut the door. ‘Caro,’ I hissed, ‘she can't. She's meeting thingy today, with Ant.’

  ‘Thingy?’

  ‘Yes, you know, his…’

  ‘Bastard?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘And you're allowing that?’

  ‘What can I do?’ I wailed, going to the window, one arm wrapped tightly round my waist. ‘He has to meet her at some point, and Anna has to, so they're going to Browns and – oh, I don't know.’

  ‘Browns!’ There was a silence as Caro digested this. ‘Actually,’ she said thoughtfully, after a moment, ‘it might be a good idea. When some lardy peroxide tart and her chavvy chain-smoking daughter turn up and hardly know how to hold a knife and fork, Anna will die. She'll never want to see them again. Yes, good plan, actually.’

  I massaged my brow with feverish fingertips. I wasn't sure I was up to telling her we'd moved on from Barmaid With Foundling country, and were firmly in Beautiful Undergraduate land.

  ‘She's from the wrong side of Sheffield, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully. Was she?

  ‘Then she'll probably bring about six along. Children, I mean. Like Vicky Pollard. Six children from seven different fathers. Claim they're all Ant's – you mark my words. Ant and Anna will be out of there like scalded cats. Anyway, you'd better come. Camilla will want to see at least some representation from your family, or she'll wonder where her horse is going to.’

  As I put the phone down it occurred to me that, firstly, I was pretty sure Vicky Pollard was from London, and secondly, I wasn't sure a horse who needed to know who Our People were, was entirely what this family needed right now. But Caro was a very persuasive woman and I dutifully trotted upstairs to change out of my dressing gown, and into jeans and a T-shirt appropriate for the farm.

  I wasn't the only one changing. I tried very hard not to notice, but couldn't help spotting Ant had his cornflower-blue Oxford button-down shirt on, the one that matched his eyes, and that Anna changed three times. She finally settled for studied casualness in skinny white jeans, a pale blue peasanty smock clinched with a big belt, and lots of ethnic scarves and jewellery. She looked gorgeous. I told her so as I went out, pleased to be leaving before them. Held her tight as I said goodbye.

  ‘Good luck,’ I whispered.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she gulped gratefully in my ear. ‘What are you going to do today?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Will you be OK?’

  ‘Course I will.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To meet Hector. You know, your horse.’

  ‘Oh!’ A shadow of surprise passed across her pale blue eyes as she registered: remembering, perhaps, a sweet, faraway time when ponies had been at the forefront of her mind. A gentler age. Her brow puckered. ‘Will it matter I'm not there?’

  ‘Course not! I'm just going to pop him in a stable and thank the owner.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Take Brenda, or she'll be all on her own.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised, bending to scoop up the dog, taking her lead from the hall table.

  ‘Bye, darling!’ I called back to Ant in the kitchen, and without waiting for his response, but knowing he was coming towards me down the hall to say goodbye, went down the steps and quickly walked away. Didn't want him to spot the lump in my throat. Knowing they were standing together in the doorway, watching me go, and wanting to appear jaunty and casual, I swung my bag. Quite difficult with Brenda under one arm. Two minutes later I walked jauntily back past the house, still swinging my bag and clutching Brenda, because of course, my car, after last night's little débâcle, was in the opposite direction. They watched me go.

  Caro was waiting in the yard as I drew up to the farm, wearing her very best ‘meet the pony's mother’ kit: lovat-green Puffa, black jodhpurs and fashionably soiled Dubarry boots. She frowned as I parked and got out; slapped a whip impatiently on her boot.

  ‘Come on, quick,’ she muttered. ‘She's here.’ Her eyes were roving straight ahead, up the lane. I scuttled to her side, leaving Brenda yapping and circling hysterically in the car. Sure enough, a ruddy great lorry, all hissing air brakes and hundreds of huge rumbling tyres, trundled down the lane and turned into the yard. I watched as Caro's frown for me turned into a beam of pleasure for Camilla, looking regal, perched on high at the wheel. I wondered if I could even smell fresh paint on the stable doors.

  ‘Camilla!’ Caro called in the hearty voice she reserved for her hearty friends. ‘You made it!’

  ‘Only jarst. Bloody tyre wars flat. Had to bloody change it!’

  A formidable-looking blonde with a weather-beaten face, also in tight jodhpurs and a Puffa, jumped athletically from the cab. She slammed the door on two obedient fox terriers. They didn't move a muscle and sat bolt upright, staring straight ahead to attention, unlike Brenda, who'd stopped circling and was now eating the car seats. I imagined Camilla changing the wheel herself: hoiking this enormous great lorry single-handedly up onto her shoulder. Yes, probably.

  ‘Camilla, this is my sister-in-law, Evie. Camilla Gavin.’

  ‘Hi!’ She strode across and flashed me a smile. Nearly broke my fingers as she shook my hand.

  ‘You're the mummy, ya?’

  ‘That's it.’

  ‘And where's the gel?’ Camilla looked around brightly, in that slightly vacant way overbred people have, as if exp
ecting Anna to appear from behind a stable door.

  ‘Oh, she's—’ Caro and I made frantic eye contact.

  ‘Meeting someone,’ I said quickly.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Of her father's,’ I finished.

  Camilla frowned. Looked piqued.

  ‘Eau. I rather wanted to see her orn him. See how she sits.’

  She walked around to the back of her lorry and began flicking catches and bolts back. She reached up, and with a deft heave-ho tug on a rope, had the ramp down before you could say Jack Robinson.

  ‘Oh, she sits beautifully,’ I assured her, hurrying round to assist. ‘Got a lovely little…’

  ‘Seat,’ put in Caro, helpfully.

  ‘And hands?’

  ‘Yes, she's got hands.’ Heavens. What a question!

  ‘Are they light?’ Camilla turned to me impatiently.

  ‘Oh, yes! Terribly light. Hardly weigh a thing!’ Had I missed that in the Penelope Leach book of mothering? Who weighed their child's hands?

  ‘Only Heccy's very sensitive.’ She eyed me gravely.

  Aren't we all? I thought as she fixed me with a gimlet eye. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just brayed chummily. ‘Heu heu!’ She swept on, ignoring me.

  ‘J'a hunt?’

  This, delivered like a pistol shot. I glanced at Caro. She nodded, eyes huge.

  ‘Oh… yes!’

  ‘Who j'a hunt with?’

  ‘Oh, er… you know. The usual ones. The local, um, hunters. And gatherers. At least – Anna does,’ I said quickly, which she hadn't. Ever.

  ‘Bicester?’

  Bicester. Blimey. Wasn't that a town?

  ‘Yes, quite a lot in Bicester.’

  She gave me an odd look but, happily, disappeared into the depths of her lorry. Moments later she reappeared, leading an immaculate, but disconcertingly purple horse: purple coat, purple leggings, purple ribbons in his tail. I could just about see, under the purple head collar, its head, which was dazzlingly beautiful, with huge eyes and a dished forehead. He tossed it disdainfully as he came down the ramp, all pointy toes and tossing mane, like something out of a Disney cartoon.

  I drooled quickly. ‘Ooh… isn't he lovely! He's blond!’

  ‘Palomino. Welsh crorss.’

  ‘He doesn't look cross. Or Welsh. He looks lovely!’

  She had a disconcerting clipped way of talking as if she was far too busy or posh to begin or end a sentence. In fact her machine-gun delivery was almost as hard to follow as Mr Docherty's brogue. Perhaps speaking in tongues was a prerequisite for horsy people.

  ‘J'a ride yourself?’ She tied the pony to a bit of binder twine on the side of the lorry and was busy whipping off rugs, pulling ribbons from his tail, quick and dexterous, but eyeing me beadily the while.

  ‘Um…’ I twiddled my hair, sensing a route, equestrianally speaking, to her heart, but also sensing she might find me out in seconds when she'd hoiked me into the saddle, which she was even now, fixing expertly to his back. Sensibly I plumped for: ‘A bit. I mean – I used to. As a child.’ I rubbed the base of my spine. Winced. ‘Got a bit of a bad back.’

  ‘Ah.’

  She smiled wryly as she flicked up the saddle flap and clinched the girth, and I realized it would take more than a bad back to keep good old Camilla out of the saddle. Probably born in it. I imagined her mother out hunting, hugely pregnant, slipping little Camilla out onto the pommel, slapping her on the breast as she soared over the next hedge. I was rather fascinated by her face. You could put a whole tub of Clarins on that and it would suck it in like a sponge – shloop!

  She'd popped the bridle on now and, rather impressively, the pony was standing to attention without being tied up. As petrified as the dogs, I imagined. She turned to face me, legs astride, hands on hips.

  ‘Want me to run through your wardrobe?’

  I gaped. Visions of her powering, in slow motion and in jodhpurs, through the rails of my extensive fitted wardrobe, sprang confusingly to mind.

  ‘Not… unless you…’ I waved my hand vaguely, playing for time.

  ‘Think I will. Hang on. Just take these orf. Should have done it first, of course, but wanted to show you how they work.’

  She turned and removed Hector's purple legs, which, I realized, stood up by themselves and were made of polystyrene.

  ‘Oh my God – thigh boots!’ I squealed.

  ‘Travel boots.’ She shot me an icy look as she peeled off the last one. ‘Velcro, see?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Right.’

  I remembered Tim telling there was no end to the money these horsy women would spend on their mounts, and that the next time he diversified it wouldn't be bloody pick-your-own, it would be selling this stupid bloody stuff to these stupid bloody women in a barn. She'd disappeared into her vast lorry now, only to reappear with a wheelbarrow, piled high with blankets. She set it down with a thump.

  ‘Right.’ She proceeded to toss the blankets on the ground, one at a time. ‘Stable rug, turn-out rug, summer sheet, fly sheet, sweet itch rug, all-weather turn-out rug, sweat rug and thermal. Got it?’

  I gaped. ‘Blimey. He's got more clothes than me!’

  She treated this with the contempt it deserved, gazing at me steadily, hands on hips. I realized she was still waiting for an answer.

  ‘Oh! Got it.’ I chewed the inside of my cheek. This horse wore thermal underwear? I couldn't look at Caro, who was whispering, ‘Sooper,’ unctuously, every so often. I felt about fourteen.

  ‘And this is his hood.’

  He had a hood? A horse with a hoody?

  ‘What, for when he goes mugging?’ I spluttered, which was quite amusing, I thought, but her eyes were like flints.

  ‘For when it gets a bit chill. Goes orn like this, see?’ She snapped it onto his neck like nobody's business. ‘Take it orf when it's milder.’ She unsnapped it.

  ‘Righto,’ I agreed meekly.

  ‘Now.’ She reached into the wheelbarrow again and her voice boomed out like a loud-hailer as she threw more garments on the ground. ‘Jumping boots, overreach boots, crorss-country boots, exercise boots, competition boots, brushing boots, more travel boots, support boots…’ and so it went on. On and on, until I was beginning to long for Molly. Dear, scruffy, wild-eyed, caravan-pulling Molly, who wouldn't have worn a stitch in her life, would have spent her entire career naked. And not, now I came to eye him nervously, this rather imperious Hector, who was looking down his very refined nose at me, flaring his nostrils. I wondered if he could sense I was a fraud.

  ‘Now.’

  In a trice she'd bundled it all back in the barrow again and was legs astride, hands on hips, facing me, her athletic stance reminding me of a keep-fit instructor from the fifties. ‘Personal hygiene.’

  I guiltily clamped my arms to my sides. I was a bit warm. It had been a sweaty morning, one way and another.

  ‘Orbviously you pick his feet out every day, and you brush him down, ya?’

  ‘Ya.’

  ‘Then you clean his eyes and his hoo-ha with a damp sponge, but you must also clean his sheath.’

  I stared at her. I had a vague understanding of what that word meant, but I hoped I was wrong.

  ‘Sheath?’

  ‘Because it gets a bit crusty, hm?’

  Oh dear God.

  ‘So like this, with a wet wipe…’ She produced a packet from her Puffa pocket, flicked out a wipe, bent under his tummy and… I couldn't watch; pretended I was rubbing my nose with my fingers, but also couldn't help peering through with morbid fascination as she took hold of his… thingy… which was whopping… pulled it right down, then pushed back… oh, gross. Even Caro was finding it hard to keep a yuck-a-roony face at bay, and her ‘soopers’ were fainter now, as good old Camilla, good old dauntless Camilla, swabbed it down. Poor chap. Did he want that done to him? I looked at his quietly bulging eyes. So what if it was crusty? So what? I felt like whispering in his blond old aristocratic ear, which had a touch of the Michael
Heseltines about it, that fear not, never would I be interfering with him in that way.

  ‘And eyes before hoo-ha, orbviously,’ she said, lifting up his tail and peering in intrusively. ‘Don't want any muck on the sponge. Don't want him getting an eye infection.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed faintly, making Michael Heseltine another silent promise. Not only wouldn't I touch his sheath, but never would I touch his hoo-ha, either.

  ‘Want to hop on?’ She swung about, legs planted, beaming broadly.

  ‘N-no,’ I cringed. ‘No, I'm fine, honestly.’

  ‘I'll do the honours then.’ In one fluid movement she'd seized the reins, put her foot in the stirrup, and sprung up into the saddle.

  ‘Manege?’ She looked enquiringly at me. I gaped.

  ‘Evie,’ I croaked. Had she forgotten my name?

  She looked impatient.

  ‘Yes, yes, in the manege, sooper,’ twittered Caro.

  In a trice they were off: Hector and Camilla, trotting away towards the sand school, Caro trotting behind. After only a moment's hesitation, I too was scampering in their wake.

  Camilla trotted efficiently around the sand-menage in big circles, then smaller circles, then sweeping figures of eight. Even to my untutored eye I could see this pony was cool. All archy neck and high knees and pointy toes. She came to a halt in the middle of the school.

  ‘I'll just pop a cavaletti,’ she called.

  Pop what? I tried to see if she was delving in her Puffa pocket for drugs. But no, she appeared to be trotting towards a jump, which Hector hopped over effortlessly. She came trotting back.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Sooper,’ I whinnied, tossing my head.

  ‘Right.’ She vaulted off smartly. She was taking the tack off now, busily putting a head collar on. Everything this woman did was at breakneck speed.

  ‘Caro, where are you putting him?’ she barked.

  My sister-in-law jumped to attention. ‘Oh, I thought in the front paddock. With Pepper, Phoebe's pony.’

  ‘Ragwort?’

  ‘No, not a bit.’

  Camilla threw the end of the head collar rope at me, and they marched off together to inspect the paddock. Clearly Hector wasn't going anywhere Camilla hadn't thoroughly vetted first. Which left us alone, Hector and I. We eyed each other warily as I very much held the very end of the rope.