The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous trc-4

by Jilly Cooper

  Kitty didn’t. She was thinking of the contrast between the noisy, self-confident sophistication of the Paradise party — excluding herself of course — and the scruffy excited crowds, mostly parents and children in anoraks, retired couples or earnest men in shorts and hung with cameras and binoculars.

  ‘Dreadfully suburban,’ shuddered Meredith, as he whisked Kitty past bright pink double cherries, weeping willows, little concrete ponds and pebble-dash islands crowded with birds.

  ‘I fink it’s beautiful,’ said Kitty, admiring the little teals with their glossy blue, green and chestnut heads and the black swans whose necks unfurled like ferns.

  ‘’Ooo, ’ow sweet.’ She bent down to stroke the little brown striped Hawaiian geese who wandered round soliciting bread and rubbing against people’s legs, tame as Lassie.

  ‘That bird with a white collar looks just like Percy,’ said Meredith.

  ‘It’s called the common shoveller.’ Marigold was eager to show off her ornithological knowledge.

  Guy, who’d been a keen birdwatcher during the walking tours of his youth, was equally eager.

  ‘The courtship of the ruddy duck is absolutely fascinating,’ he was telling Larry.

  Seeing a notice which said GO QUIETLY, TREAD GENTLY, Kitty thought it sounded like a prayer. There must be a god to produce such a marvellous variety of different coloured birds, and what a wonderful quacking and honking and hooting they make. From every bush came scuffling like a teenage party.

  ‘Interior designers could pick up a few tips.’ Meredith was studying the black, rust and white plumage of a passing eider duck.

  ‘Listen to what it says about the courtship pattern of the great whistler,’ cried Marigold putting on her spectacles to read another notice: ‘The male arches his body and neck, flinging up droplets followed by head up, tail up. Usually several males frantically display before one female.’

  ‘Sounds like the husbands of Paradise showing off to Rachel,’ said Georgie sourly. ‘Oh my God, I forgot she was dead.’

  Noticing Kitty’s glazed eyes suddenly spilling over with tears, Meredith mouthed to Marigold, ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ mouthed back Marigold.

  Picking up this exchange, Hermione turned to Rannaldini: ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Kitty could adopt a Canada goose? They’ve got a scheme here. It would give her an interest. I’ll go and jolly her up.’

  Showing off her deeply caring nature and her charmingly curved legs, she moved forward putting her arm through Kitty’s.

  ‘I’m so delighted about Rannaldini’s new job. I know he’s been a naughty boy, but when you think of stags, stallions and male dogs, and how much more glamorously the male birds are kitted out than the females, it’s no wonder men are different. Bitches, does and female birds are gentle, sit on their nests and stay at home. Sex really isn’t that important.’

  It is with Lysander, thought Kitty sulkily.

  She noticed a mallard, his emerald head gleaming in the sunshine as his tabby wife nestled beside him in married contentment.

  Like Lysander and me, thought Kitty, I’m plain and tabby, he’s beautiful and resplendent, but he loves me.

  ‘I know you’ve still got a crush on Lysander.’ Marigold took Kitty’s other arm. ‘He’s so sweet. We all had one on him once, just like the flu.’

  ‘Some of us still do,’ sighed Meredith, admiring the blond hairy legs of a hulking German tourist.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Meredith,’ reproved Marigold. ‘And don’t be rash, Kitty. Valhalla’s a beautiful place and Rannaldini’ll buy some gorgeous apartment for you in New York. It’s no fun lowering one’s standard of living.’ Marigold sighed even more deeply. ‘And think of the travelling you’ll do.’

  And the packing, thought Kitty wearily.

  ‘He will not always say what you would have him say,’ sung Hermione warmly, so crowds turned and gawped at her, ‘But now and then he’ll say something wonderful. They’re holding an Infertility Workshop in Rutminster next week,’ she went on. ‘Why don’t you go along, Kitty? A problem shared is a problem solved.’

  Surging ahead Larry, Guy and Rannaldini turned off to look at the flamingos. Soft orange and Barbara Cartland-pink they stood about on one leg making a very unmelodic, jangling din.

  ‘Sounds like one of Boris’s symphonies,’ said Rannaldini bitchily.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ said Larry.

  But Rannaldini was deep in thought, anticipating the wonderful tussle he would have, knocking those bolshie but stunningly talented New York musicians into shape. The concert at which he’d raised so much money for the Gulf had been good for his image. Before he left he might do the same for the Royal Society for the Preservation of Birds. They could do an ornithological programme. There were so many composers — Delius, Respighi, Sibelius — to choose from. In the tower was a serenade to the lost birds of Italy which he’d written in his youth. He’d get it out and have a look this evening.

  ‘Guy is such a pig,’ Georgie was now whispering to Marigold. ‘A girlfriend rang me yesterday to say I must read Love in The Time of Cholera because its whole premise is that you can only keep a wife happy by lying and lying to her. And that was the bloody book Julia gave Guy for his birthday.’

  At least, she comforted herself, Guy was being really sweet to her at the moment and David had rung while Guy was out getting the papers and presumably ringing Julia this morning, and she and David were having dinner on Monday.

  ‘I’m so lucky with darling Bob,’ said Hemione smugly as they moved towards a small wood. ‘He is so devoted. Oh, aren’t those coots sweet — I wonder if coots really are queer.’

  ‘I want to go to the Wild Goose Hide-away,’ giggled Meredith, bounding up some steps into a wooden hut. ‘Well, perhaps I don’t,’ he said shooting out on discovering a lot of bearded men with knobbly knees peering through binoculars.

  But the Paradise party, who’d already started up the steps, pushed him jovially back into the hide-away. Inside, wide windows looked on to the Severn estuary which stretched out like a great white luminous STOP sign. In front little lakes were dotted with birds. To the right on the far shore, pylons and cranes rose out of a smoky haze.

  ‘Look at the Canada geese,’ cried Marigold.

  ‘There’s a beautiful Bewick swan,’ observed Guy, then raising his voice for the benefit of the cognoscenti. ‘The Bewick’s call during flight is “tong, tong, tong, bong, bong, ongong, ongong”.’

  ‘Jourdain describes the call as a “varied din of honking notes”,’ volunteered one of the men with knobbly knees.

  Kitty caught Meredith’s eye and, in order not to laugh, turned to examine a wall chart listing sightings, together with descriptions of the species and the numbers seen.

  Running her eyes down the list which included great-crested grebes, all kinds of swans, ducks and geese, herons and even a kingfisher, she suddenly started to shake with helpless laughter, until she was gasping and clutching her sides.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ asked Marigold alarmed.

  ‘Look.’ Kitty pointed to halfway down the list where in a very round hand someone had written DONALD DUCK. As a description they had put: Blue coat, yellow beak, and under the number recorded they had written, Sadly none.

  ‘That’s not really funny, Brickie,’ reproved Guy. ‘People take birdwatching very seriously.’

  ‘Lysander could have been here.’ Kitty wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Having started laughing, she found she couldn’t stop.

  ‘Better take her home,’ whispered Marigold.

  ‘Come on, old girl.’ Larry put his arm round her shoulders, ‘Don’t want to overdo it.’

  ‘Off her trolley,’ mouthed Guy to Meredith.

  ‘Wouldn’t you be,’ said Meredith with unusual sharpness, ‘if you were married to that?’ He nodded at Rannaldini and Hermione who were straightening their clothes and smirking as they emerged from the Goose Observation Tower next door.

 
The birds look so happy, thought Kitty, meekly allowing Larry to lead her back. They’ve done their bonking and now they’ve got their little families. She watched a drake and a duck striking out from the shore, proudly leading a convoy of tiny fluffy ducklings.

  They had sanctuary here at Slimbridge but they could leave when they want to. Suddenly she remembered the cow loose in the barley during the drought last summer who had rolled its way over the cattle-grid. It had looked so carefree. Anyone could get out if they wanted to enough.

  ‘Tong, tong, tong, bong, bong, ongong, ongong,’ muttered Kitty.

  Larry glanced at her nervously.

  ‘I’ll take over,’ whispered Georgie, taking Kitty’s arm. ‘David Hawkley is so attractive,’ she told Kitty, lowering her voice. ‘If you can imagine a macho, intellectual Lysander.’

  ‘Lysander’s perfect as he is,’ said Kitty indignantly.

  A sharp breeze was already scattering pink cherry blossom over the dark water like confetti.

  ‘You know I really love Guy,’ admitted Georgie. ‘The most important thing in marriage is companionship and a huge bit on the side to cheer one through the bad patches. Divorce is so damaging for children.’

  They were passing the Slimbridge shop which still had a Mothering Sunday sticker in the window.

  I don’t want no bits on the side and I’ll never even have children to damage if I stay married to Rannaldini, thought Kitty numbly, and a Canada goose that flies in and out of a bird sanctuary isn’t enough.

  A pretty young mother was coming out of the shop. She had a sweet child who was trailing a black toy pig by the hand.

  Over the hills and far away she danced with Pigling Bland, thought Kitty, biting her lip to stop herself crying.

  ‘The most important thing,’ Hermione came up on the left, ‘is that Rannaldini needs you. It’s wonderful to feel you are indispensable to a genius.’

  ‘Bob must find it a huge comfort,’ snapped Georgie.

  Hermione bowed her head. ‘He does, he does.’

  I’m not their age, thought Kitty. I don’t remember advertisements about things looking better on a man. I’m still young and I love Lysander.

  Rannaldini, Guy, Georgie and Hermione, bored with anonymity, were not displeased when a big party of foreign tourists stopped them for autographs. Where foreigners had rushed in the shy English were not slow to follow.

  ‘We really must go,’ laughed Hermione five minutes later.

  I love Lysander, he is the father of my child, thought Kitty. Rannaldini had lied and cheated and betrayed her and been utterly, utterly reprehensible. Now he was asking a busty Swedish girl her name so he could personally inscribe her autograph book.

  ‘We’re having our sixteenth anniversary in October,’ Marigold was saying. ‘Ay suppose we should be awfully grateful to Lysander. We maight not be havin’ it at all if he hadn’t made Larry so jealous.’

  ‘Home for tea at Valhalla,’ said Rannaldini, putting a warm caressing hand on the back of Kitty’s neck as they walked towards the cars.

  ‘What a lovely afternoon,’ cried Hermione, smirking as he stroked her bottom with the other hand. ‘Let’s make a regular thing of it.’

  Georgie shivered. ‘It’s getting cold.’

  ‘How d’you think I feel with no coat,’ murmured Guy, then smiling at Kitty. ‘The best part is going home to crumpets and Brickie’s chocolate cake.’

  They were all smiling at her now, some of them realizing the extent of her unhappiness and trying to boost her spirits.

  ‘You look tired, Kitty,’ said Rannaldini when they got back to Valhalla. ‘Miss Bates will get tea. You sit by the fire. Come and see my new toy,’ he added to the others.

  65

  They all trooped off to admire Rannaldini’s new helicopter. As Kitty went wearily into the house, Lassie danced towards her, striped body weaving and snaking, black-rimmed eyes full of love, peeing on the flagstones in her delight.

  I can’t leave her, thought Kitty.

  Not even pausing to wipe up the puddle, she ran down the dark passage. Outside Rannaldini’s boot room Lassie had chewed up what Kitty first thought was a twig. Then she realized it was the baton Toscanini had given Rannaldini on his death bed.

  ‘It’ll be your deaff bed, Lassie, if we don’t get out of here.’

  Gathering up the puppy in panic and rushing into the kitchen, she found Miss Bates still looking dreadfully embarrassed.

  ‘Mrs Rannaldini, there’s something I must tell you. Then I’ll get you all tea.’

  ‘You’ve looked after Rannaldini and me so well,’ stammered Kitty, terrified of any delay, ‘we’re so griteful. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

  ‘No!’ Miss Bates was so insistent that in the end Kitty sat her down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Mrs Rannaldini,’ said Miss Bates, frantically rotating the gold bracelet on her slender wrist. ‘I have to tell you that while you were fast asleep in bed, knocked out by one of Mr Rannaldini’s sleeping pills, I went to bed with Mr Rannaldini.’ Her voice faltered. ‘I’m desperately sorry, he’s just so attractive.’

  For a minute Kitty looked at Miss Bates incredulously, then she burst out laughing.

  ‘Is that all? For an ’orrible moment I fort you was going to ‘and in your notice. Promise to stay and look after ’im.’

  In the utility room Kitty found an ancient cat basket and, wiping it down, shut a quaking Lassie inside, who was convinced she was going to the vet.

  ‘Bong, bong, bong, tong, tong, ongong, ongong, this is the flight call of the female Rannaldini.’ Shrieking with helpless laughter, Kitty raced across the lawn, past the glowering maze and turned left to the stables. As the garage was next to Rannaldini’s helicopter pad she couldn’t steal off unobserved by car. The only answer was the kindest horse in the yard.

  ‘Bong, bong, bong, tong, tong. Nuffink venture nuffink win.’ She was already shaking with nerves worse than Lassie, she must try and keep her courage up.

  But as she ran into the yard she gasped with horror. She’d forgotten that all the horses had been turned out except The Prince of Darkness who glowered out of his box as sinister as his name, evil eyes rolling as he scraped and gnawed at his half-door.

  He’ll go for me if I try and put a bridle on him, thought Kitty, almost fainting with terror, then froze as the door of the groom’s cottage opened. But instead of Clive, Janice the head groom emerged.

  Janice was very fond of Kitty; she might not shop at Valentino like Cecilia, but she always saw that the grooms were paid on the nail.

  ‘You do look poorly. You shouldn’t be up,’ she said, noticing Kitty’s violent shakes and her face grey and glistening with sweat.

  ‘Could you please tack up The Prince?’ stammered Kitty, kicking Lassie’s cat basket behind the mounting block. ‘Rannaldini wants to ride him.’

  ‘At this hour?’ Janice looked at her watch.

  ‘He’s got friends over.’

  ‘And he wants to show off,’ Janice sniffed. ‘And I was just off to get the other horses in. What was that?’ She paused at a piteous whine from Lassie.

  ‘Nuffink, ’spect it’s a bird. We was at Slimbridge today,’ said Kitty desperately.

  ‘More like one of the Rottweilers got stuck in somewhere.’ Janice glanced round the yard.

  ‘Please tack up The Prince.’ Kitty tried to disguise her panic.

  The wait seemed interminable, particularly as she had to keep up a tuneless singing to drown Lassie’s increasingly aggrieved whining, but at last Janice put her head over the half-door.

  ‘God, he’s a dangerous bugger. Where d’you want him taken?’

  ‘Leave him for a sec. Rannaldini fort he left his silver-topped whip in the tack room,’ said Kitty.

  She would rot in hell for such awful lies.

  ‘I’ll look,’ said Janice.

  Kitty was nearly frantic with terror.

  ‘Please God take care of us,’ she prayed.

  Taking a huge
breath she unbolted The Prince’s door and just grabbed his reins as he shot out like an Exocet. Not giving herself time to have doubts, she gathered up Lassie’s basket, clambered on to the mounting block and somehow scrambled astride the vast black back which was pitching like a top deck in a force ten gale. With a manic clatter The Prince tore out of the yard, down the rough track in search of his friends. At least he couldn’t savage her if she was on his back. Alarmed by Janice’s screams to come back, however, he broke into a gallop.

  ‘Oooh, it’s worse than the big dipper,’ moaned Kitty, twining her fingers in the thick mane, as trees, bushes and telegraph poles flashed by. All this jolting must be bad for the baby, but far, far worse, Kitty gave a sob, if it had ended up a bloody mangled foetus on the abortionist’s table. The thought made her cling on even tighter.

  Oh, heavens, she suddenly remembered she was hurtling towards the West Gate which was chained and bolted. If she had to get off The Prince to undo it she’d never get on again. Thundering towards a clearing on her left she loosened her grip on the mane to tug the near-side rein. Miraculously the big horse cornered at Rutminster Cup speed into a woodland ride.

  ‘Oh, good boy, Prince, please keep straight,’ begged Kitty. If he carted her under the branches, she’d had it.

  The wind was lifting her hair, tugging at her grey cardigan and her old grey check skirt. To right and left on the woodland floor, bluebells battled to push through the dog mercury, little primroses were stifled by brambles and pale-faced anemones were being drowned like bathers in a rising sea of garlic, which gave off pungent wafts of aioli as it was pounded by The Prince’s flying feet.

  They had reached open fields now. Again Kitty knew she was finished if The Prince’s stable-mates came pounding down to join him. But ahead like the Berlin Wall lay the River Fleet and freedom.

  ‘Go on, Prince,’ yelled Kitty as they slithered down the bank.

  Only baulking for a second, the brave black horse plunged into the swirling brown water. A terrified whine reminded Kitty that if she slid off or let go of the cat basket Lassie was as good as drowned.