The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Quick, Dad, before it's too late!’ Henry ran out, distressed.

  Too late for what? As Tim and I achieved the entrance to the marquee, it was to find a frustrating bank of backs blocking our way. The majority of the guests had shrank back to the sides of the tent to create a clearing on the dance floor. Not, we realized as we muscled through broad-shouldered men and women in hats, to give the happy couple room for a first waltz, or cut the cake, or make speeches, but for another couple, Caro and Felicity, the latter pale and trembling, the former the colour of her pink hat and jacket, to take centre stage. And the only speech being given, was by Caro. Her voice rang out, shrill and accusatorial, as she directed a ferocious diatribe at her step-mother-in-law, the gist of which, if one sifted through the scorching profanities, was that she considered her to be a dirty, low-down, conniving thief. Felicity's mistake, I gathered later from those closer to the action, was to interrupt, albeit in a low, quavering voice. At which point Caro took a swing at her. Felicity ducked, and Ludo leaped in to restrain Caro, with a half-nelson. At this identical moment, my husband made his entrance, seemingly from nowhere, but actually from the tent flap behind the disco. With a dramatic leap from stage to dance floor, his face an unfamiliar shade of white, he landed centre stage. He pulled Ludo off Caro, swung him around to face him, and landed his own punch on Ludo's jaw. It sent Ludo tottering back in astonishment and onto his bottom. As a collective gasp went up from an already captivated crowd, an unrestrained Caro found her own target, and delivered a mighty slap to Felicity's cheek. It was at this salient moment that the pig chose to enter the arena at racing speed. It stampeded through the crowd and sprayed guests left, right and centre as they ran, shrieking, for cover.

  31

  The pig continued to storm: he careered around the dance floor like a bull in a ring, knocking people off their feet, sending champagne glasses flying, upending tables and spindly gilt chairs at the fringes of the dance floor. Mouth gaping and barking loudly, he was huge, bewildered and terrifying. Women ran shrieking for exits, clutching their hats, and a huddle of bridesmaids who'd taken cover under a table rose up like a flock of birds as Leonard charged towards them, scattering them in all directions in a flutter of ivory silk. Men shouted orders to each other, to surround him, to corner him. One whipped off his jacket and fell on him, attempting to wrap the pig's head in his coat, to blind him. But Leonard was big, clever, and surprisingly nimble. Despite the fact that his trotters failed to gain purchase on the parquet dance floor and he slithered frantically, he still evaded capture; bucking like a bronco, tossing the coat off his head and the fifteen-stone man from his back, breaking out of the circle.

  Through the mayhem I caught a glimpse of Felicity. She was looking dazed, sitting at the side of the marquee on a chair, for all the world as if she were watching the dancing, although her horribly shocked face and a huge red mark on her cheek gave a lie to that. Caro was sitting a few seats along from her on another gilt chair, slumped and spent. She was also staring into space, like a prizefighter who's done her worst. She reached out and caught my arm as I ran past her.

  ‘She took our money,’ she muttered up at me, her eyes as vacant as a village idiot's. ‘All of it.’

  I shook her off and, ignoring the pig show too, raced to the scene of another crisis. Just to the right of the dance floor, amongst the round tables and chairs, my husband, looking nothing like his quiet, gentle self, was, to my horror, squaring up to Ludo again, fists, whilst not raised, still clenched. Ludo, meanwhile, back on his feet now, had his arms outstretched, palms up, doing his best to dissuade him.

  ‘Ant!’ I screamed, racing up.

  As he swung round, even I could see I was the oil this fire didn't need. His eyes met mine with a glittering aggression I didn't recognize, and he turned, regenerated it seemed, back to Ludo. Happily, Clarence, on my heels, had sized up the situation, and in an instant had plucked me as a cat would her kitten, by the scruff of the neck, and flung me at Malcolm, whilst in another he'd got between Ant and his target. He took Ant's shoulders and walked him firmly backwards, eloquently suggesting over his shoulder to Ludo, in words of one emphatic syllable, that he might disappear, all the while making soothing small talk to Ant, along the lines of, ‘Come on, Ant, that'll do mate. Calm down.’

  Unfortunately, at this exact same moment, Leonard decided to leave the dance floor and pick a fight with Clarence. Clarence neatly sidestepped the charge on his legs, pushing Ant out of the way too, whereupon Leonard charged the top table instead. He bombed under one end, and as his trotters got caught in the long Irish linen, seamlessly performed the tablecloth trick, appearing out of the other end wrapped entirely in white, as silver, china, glasses and flowers flew up into the air, then smashed down onto the table.

  ‘GET THAT PIG OUT OF HERE!’ roared Tim, brick red in the face, glancing hopelessly at his wife, the only one sufficiently versed in pig husbandry to assist. She gazed blankly back as if to say – pig? What pig?

  Meanwhile younger members of the male guests had taken up the challenge. Shimmying out of their jackets they hurled their coats at Leonard like matadors, and themselves after them, a strong smell of testosterone in the air. It was as if they sensed their moment had come: that Alice's wedding had to be rescued. Perhaps past beaus were amongst the gallant young men who attempted to rugby tackle the pig into submission, but Leonard was strong, and very angry now, and not even Clarence, who, having satisfied himself his antisocial and aggressive don was spent for a moment – arms hanging limply, shoulders hunched – could pin this boar to the floor. He slipped, he slithered, he evaded capture. And the awful thing was, he'd spotted the cake.

  His little piggy eyes lit on it: three-tiered, white and gleaming, in splendid isolation on a table in the corner. One could almost see the thought processes whirring. Could something so tall, so white, so patently unlike swill in a trough, smell so delicious? Was his nose deceiving him, or was it really full of fruit and brandy and molasses and dripping with sugar? He cantered steadily towards it as yet more shirt-sleeved heroes flung themselves in his path; but every time he squirmed free, his eyes, beady and determined. He got up and made inexorably for it again, until, that is – a cry went up. Not a human cry, but a loud, desperate, porcine honk. It stopped him in his tracks.

  We all swung around; Leonard too. There, at the entrance to the marquee, sat Mum, revving a quad bike. A small trailer was on the back, wire meshed, and once used, I recalled, for transporting chickens. Inside it now, honking her heart out, was a very horny Boadicea. She'd smelled Leonard, and she wanted him. Mum later told us she'd taken a small piece of wood from Leonard's trailer for her to smell. Boadicea had eaten it whole, as if demonstrating what she had in mind for him. For a moment Leonard hesitated. The cake was big, but this girl was hot; circling her cage, mad for him, desperate. And what's more, other potential girlfriends, who, after all, he'd come here with the sole intent to roger senseless, hearing Boadicea's cry, were baying for him in the background. Once more, the wheels of his piggy brain were visible. Food… or sex? Sex… or food? How many male hearts did not go out to him? Offer their sympathies?

  Boadicea, sensing indecision, dug deep and gave one lusty primeval bark; a bark full of longing, a bark he couldn't resist. Leonard turned and trotted hypnotically towards her. He went to the back of the trailer, where Henry, Mum's accomplice, was poised, ready with the tricky little assignment of opening the cage door and letting Leonard in, but not Boadicea out. He hadn't grown up on a farm for nothing, though, and the operation went faultlessly. The pigs were united, in every sense. Within seconds, for the benefit of the entire wedding party, Leonard climbed aboard, and with his mouth hanging open, and with that glazed, faraway expression females of all species are familiar with, he jigged away making the two-backed beast, whilst Boadicea, now she'd got her man, looked for all the world as if she was quietly planning a dinner party.

  The crowd went wild: cheering, whooping and clapping. It seemed Mum's ins
pired insight into the male psyche had saved the wedding. After all, the cake was still standing, only one tray of canapés had been eaten, the broken champagne glasses were quickly swept up, chairs righted. Leonard and Boadicea were driven away, up the hill to where the rest of the sows were waiting: not quietly, like ladies, but noisily, like ladettes, honking furiously, fighting each other tooth and trotter to be next, livid with Boadicea for stealing a march. Henry later told me, saucer-eyed, that as Leonard was shoed into the pen, the sows, real froth dripping from their mouths, reversed towards him – ‘reversed, Evie’ – and that, give the lad his due, he satisfied them one after the other, and sometimes twice, with the biggest bit of kit Henry had ever seen, ‘shaped like a corkscrew!’

  Meanwhile, back at the marquee, the wedding reception was recovering its equilibrium. Bridesmaids' tears were mopped, the top table was relaid with fresh china and glasses, and Alice, being a game girl, and no wuss, was encouraged to see the funny side. Was led to believe it was a wedding that would go down in the annals of history, one to be relived, reshown – had anyone got it on video? They had, well, there you are! And Alice, not being a dewy-eyed ingénue, but a cool and sassy twenty-six, rose to the occasion, and did not sob that her wedding had been ruined, but roared with laughter, along with friends, about what a hoot it had been; what a day.

  My day, however, continued on its remorselessly un-amusing course. Ant, whom I'd taken my eyes off for one minute to watch the rutting pig show, had gone. I stood on the lawn outside the marquee, casting about frantically. I ran this way and that, cursing myself for being so stupid as to let him out of my sight. Then, suddenly I glimpsed him, sitting on the river bank, further downstream, beside Clarence. Clarence was in his shirtsleeves: his broad back harnessed by red braces, the gold clips glinting in the sun. Ant was a tall man, but he looked slight beside him. And beaten. Shoulders hunched, he was clearly giving a great deal of attention to what Clarence had to say as he contemplated the river. My instinct was to run to him, but sensibly, I hesitated. Gave them a few moments. Then Clarence saw me. He stood up and jerked his head meaningfully. I walked uncertainly towards them.

  Clarence smiled down at Ant. ‘He's all yours,’ he murmured.

  He sauntered away towards Malcolm, who, looking like he was welcoming back a conquering hero, was hurrying up the river bank towards us. Eyes glistening with pride, he was unable to resist hissing in my ear before he scooped his arm through his boyfriend's and swept him away, ‘Did you see him? Did you see Clarence? Wasn't he magnificent?’

  I sat down uncertainly beside Ant. He stayed staring at the water, arms locked loosely around his knees. I too regarded the stream: fast and tawny at this point, rushing and tumbling around the smooth brown rocks. It occurred to me I knew every inch of this river. Every inch of this farm. The silence deepened. As it threatened to persist, a lump rose in my throat. Then Ant turned and gave me a lopsided smile.

  ‘It appears I've made a complete tit of myself.’

  I swallowed the lump and breathed again.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn't say that,’ I warbled.

  ‘Those flowers. That note.’ He shook his head, bewildered. ‘I'm afraid I just saw red. I wanted to kill him. But Clarence says he just saw you through the bedroom window across the street. Saw you in your—’

  ‘Yes,’ I interrupted quickly. ‘Let's not go into what I was in.’

  ‘Still. Quite a familiar thing to write.’

  ‘I know. I'm sorry.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘Well…’ I hesitated. No. Leave it, Evie. Not your fault.

  ‘And then I rang Anna, to see if she knew where you were, and she was really upset. Said she'd seen you hugging some man at her gymkhana, some young chap with dark hair, and that one of the girls, the DC's daughter, had been spreading rumours that you'd been seen snogging him in a stable.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I flipped, I'm afraid.’

  ‘Oh no, Ant, it wasn't like that. I—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he interrupted wearily, running a hand through his hair. ‘Clarence explained that too.’

  Did he? I boggled. Did Clarence know about that? Yes, I'd told him and Malcolm on the barge. Still, it took some diplomacy. Some explaining.

  ‘I don't dispute that you are blameless, Evie,’ Ant went on carefully, judicially even, as if I was the accused in the dock. I cringed. His eyes were still on the river. ‘But the fact remains,’ he turned to look at me and I felt justice approaching rather too fast, ‘the fact remains that this man clearly has designs on you.’

  I couldn't help but smile. At his appalled face. His horror. ‘Is that so extraordinary?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, no,’ he said, momentarily disconcerted. ‘But – he seems to have pursued you relentlessly!’

  ‘He has,’ I agreed. ‘But don't forget, Ant, at the time I had serious misgivings about where your own gaze was settling. I thought you were entranced by Bella Edgeworth.’

  ‘So you encouraged him?’

  ‘No, I didn't encourage him. In fact, if you ask Malcolm, I think you'll find I only agreed to work at the shop if our shifts didn't coincide. If Ludo wasn't there.’

  Ant nodded gloomily. ‘I know. Clarence said.’ He brought his knees up to his chest. Hugged them fiercely. ‘Ludo,’ he spat. ‘Stupid name.’

  ‘Now you're just being childish.’

  ‘And red roses. What a cliché.’

  I smiled. ‘That's how I knew they weren't from you.’

  ‘I don't do clichés,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Or flowers, come to that.’

  He frowned. ‘Haven't I ever sent you flowers?’

  ‘You picked me some buttercups, once. When we were in Devon.’

  ‘I don't remember that.’

  ‘I do.’

  He blanched. Made a face. ‘OK. Maybe I haven't been great in that department.’

  ‘I've no complaints.’

  ‘But…’ he hesitated. ‘A little bit of romance…?’

  ‘Is quite good for the soul,’ I agreed softly.

  He sighed. Narrowed his eyes up at the sun. ‘And me, the big expert on the Romantic movement.’

  ‘Oh, I think Coleridge and the gang would have been fairly horrified by Valentines and flowers.’

  ‘It's almost an insult, don't you think?’

  ‘What, to a woman's intelligence?’

  ‘Let's see if she falls for this old chestnut?’

  I shrugged, disinclined to put a stone in his sling. We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, gazing out across the river to the farmhouse, perched on the brow of the hill: solid, square and familiar. Comforting, somehow.

  ‘So… were you tempted?’

  I sensed an unusual desire in Ant, guarded and taciturn by nature, to get to the bottom of this.

  ‘By Ludo?’

  ‘Well, he's young, handsome, virile, no doubt,’ he almost spat. ‘And clearly besotted with you.’

  ‘I was flattered,’ I said finally. ‘And I enjoyed that feeling. The feeling that I was being noticed.’

  ‘But you didn't confuse it with anything else?’

  ‘Oh, I didn't fall in love with him,’ I turned, shocked.

  He smiled. ‘No, I can see you didn't. Although, I think he did with you.’

  I blinked, baffled. ‘God knows why. I mean, look at him.’ He followed my gaze to where Ludo, handsome, smiling and crinkly-eyed, was entertaining Alice's young friends just outside the tent. They swarmed around, flicking back their hair, laughing up at him. ‘And look at me. A frowsty, middle-aged housewife.’ I pulled at my billowing kaftan: laughed. ‘Fading looks, marshmallow for brains—’

  ‘Big heart,’ he interrupted, giving me his steady look. I met his blue gaze, knowing he wanted to kiss me. But I had a confession – not of the Ludo kind, something else. I looked away.

  ‘About my heart, Ant,’ I said slowly.

  ‘What about it?’ He took my hand. I carefully extracted it.
>
  ‘I think I should tell you… in fact, it's only fair to tell you, I've been very jealous of Bella Edgeworth. For all sorts of reasons. Brains, beauty, youth, of course, which we now know she doesn't have for much longer…’ I paused. Pushed on. ‘But the thing is, Ant…’ I swallowed; licked my lips. ‘Well, the thing is, I'm not sure that if Bella were to make a miraculous recovery, if a cure for her particularly virulent form of cancer were to be found tomorrow, and she was the first lucky recipient,’ it was all coming out in a mighty rush now, ‘I'm not sure I'd be so magnanimous. I have a nasty feeling that the reason I'm welcoming her daughter – your daughter – so graciously into my home is because her mother is not going to be around. I have an awful feeling I'm not a very nice person.’

  There was a silence as Ant digested this.

  ‘When you told me she was dying, a tiny part of me felt sort of relieved. You should know that, Ant. You should know, before you wander round this city dewy-eyed and delusional, telling everyone what a generous, big-hearted wife you have, what sort of woman she really is. I'm no Bob Geldof,’ I added in a small voice.

  ‘I think we should also remember,’ he observed at length, and was it me or did his mouth twitch, ‘that only a very small part of you thought that.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘And that many women wouldn't have admitted to it. Would have kept quiet.’

  I struggled with this, tugged at the grass, tearing it up in handfuls, frowning. He wasn't going to let me have my hair shirt.

  ‘You don't seem very shocked,’ I muttered. ‘I thought it was quite a confession.’

  ‘I know you did. But let me tell you, Evie, if everyone held a mirror up to their soul like that, if everyone examined their motives so minutely, it wouldn't be a pretty sight. I too have a confession to make. If that man was found dead in a ditch tomorrow after his brakes failed on a sharp bend, I wouldn't be crying my eyes out either. In fact I might be dancing on his grave.’

  Rather shocked, I followed his gaze to Ludo, who, back in brother-of-the-bride mode, was welcoming an elderly couple to the party, escorting them into the tent, but not before shooting an anxious glance over his shoulder in our direction.