‘He’s fine,’ I said confidently as Thumper twirled and snorted, pawing the sawdust I’d put down for him, nostrils flaring. What had happened to him? Was he on drugs? Up to his forelock on barbiturates, or something? Or had it been my driving? I had, admittedly, touched the odd kerb along the way. ‘Just settling in, that’s all. It’s all a bit new to him, you see.’
‘Still, he looks a handful,’ Frankie remarked. ‘I wouldn’t want to cling on to that tomorrow. I do think you’re –’
‘DON’T tell me I’m brave!’ I snapped.
I left her looking after me in open-mouthed astonishment as I strode back across the field, off to re-park the lorry somewhere less conspicuous than in the middle of the village, a tiny bit of me wishing I’d never, ever, started this.
That night, however, when Clemmie and Archie were safely in bed – Thumper too, certainly to the extent that I couldn’t hear him stamping and snorting from my bedroom, and last seen, when I’d snuck out to the barn in my dressing gown, quietly munching hay, albeit with a slightly wary expression on his face – yes, that night, as I stood in front of my dressing-table mirror, I felt reassured. I’d poured myself into my kit – pour being the operative word – and now felt something like courage returning. All the riding I’d ever done in my youth had been in jeans and wellies, but Dad had cajoled a neighbouring teenager into lending me some clothes. The skintight jodhpurs and an ancient jacket of mine, which didn’t so much nip in as charge, ensured I looked the part. I could barely breathe, of course, but surely that was the point? All accessories – long black boots, velvet cap, snowy white stock – were borrowed from Dad’s same friend and completed the glamorous, sexy look, I decided, gazing delightedly at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed and my eyes very bright, which helped, but then I had drunk nearly a whole bottle of wine. For Dutch courage. So that when I slapped my whip against my boot and snarled, ‘Knock’em dead, Poppy. You show that snooty lot you were practically born in the saddle,’ even I was pretty sure it was the drink talking. My reflection sniggered in agreement.
Later, when I’d polished off the remains of the bottle in front of the telly – madness not to – I went upstairs to bed. My equine ensemble had by now come adrift, all restraining buttons and zips undone and agape. Whip in hand and still in my boots, I swaggered across the bedroom to draw the curtains. I felt a bit like John Wayne. But before I reached the window I caught sight of my reflection in the dressing-table mirror, and halted. This, I decided, swaying slightly, was what I’d look like post-hunt, after a hard day in the saddle: windblown, unkempt, but exhilarated. All woman. Steadying myself on the back of the dressing-table chair I straddled it backwards, swivelling to see what my bum looked like in the mirror. Not bad. I executed a rising trot to see how it would fare going up and down, away from the meet, as it were. Very passable. Then I hung on to the chair and leaned forward to mimic a gallop, bottom out of the saddle, bobbing slightly, whip flourished. Suddenly I froze, mid-bob. Mr Fish, across the road, was drawing back from his bedroom window in alarm, no doubt hastening to find Mrs Fish and tell her that the young widow opposite was not so much finding her feet as strapping them into black leather, brandishing sex toys, and heading to Sodom, Gomorrah, and beyond.
21
As I clambered into the lorry the following morning the drink was still talking, but telling me something very different. Dad had come over early, as promised, and found me locked in the bathroom feeling neither sexy nor brave, courtesy of a paralysing hangover and a very scary horse. Thumper, when I’d flapped out in dressing gown and wellies to politely suggest he might like to get up and have some brecker, had rounded on me with such indignant wild eyes and flaring nostrils that I’d turned and fled. Typical man, I thought, running back inside. He spends the night at my place then, the next morning, acts like he’s never seen me before in his life.
‘I’m not coming out, Dad!’ I bleated through the bathroom door. ‘He’s morphed into one of the seven horses of the Apocalypse. Thinks he’s in a Schwarzenegger movie!’
‘Nonsense, he’s just feeling a bit displaced. I’ll go and have a word, love.’
Sure enough, when I peeked through the bathroom window sometime later, under my father’s professional guidance Thumper had indeed meekly succumbed. He was now washed and dressed and tied up outside the barn, his tail still a bit wet, but sleek and gleaming, mane plaited, shiny tack in place. It was inevitable, then, of course, that the white-faced daughter would be subjected to the same kind but firm hand, and soon I was being herded into my bedroom to change into clothes that didn’t feel nearly so glamorous as they had the night before, and thence into the lorry, at which point I informed my father I was going to be sick.
‘Drink,’ he ordered, handing me his hip flask as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the cab from the opposite side.
‘Don’t be silly, Dad, it’s ten-thirty and I haven’t had any breakfast.’ I couldn’t eat the toast he’d proffered earlier, nor drink the tea. Couldn’t even swallow my own saliva.
‘All the more reason to drink,’ he told me sternly. ‘No one does this sober, love. Your mate Angie tells me she’s drunk before she gets to the first fence sometimes, and everyone has a nip at the meet. You’re just having yours now. Anyway, you’ve got a hangover. Need the hair of the dog.’
He talked me into it. And let’s face it, it wasn’t hard. If the smart crowd were already quaffing merrily outside Mulverton Hall, I’d definitely need a head start. I nervously snatched the hip flask and took a gigantic swig.
‘See?’
I nodded, unable to speak on account of the heat radiating at the back of my throat. But, boy, it was good. I took another swig just to make sure and we rumbled off: Dad at the wheel, Thumper in the back, Clemmie and Archie following on behind with Jennie. My party, in fact. All there for me. As the whisky hit my empty tummy I began to feel a bit like Scott of the Antarctic, or the female equivalent, Amy Johnson, perhaps; at any rate, some super-cool heroine spearheading some major expedition of some sort.
After a while, having navigated a maze of lanes, we rattled over a cattle grid between some crumbling stone gateposts. A muddy field awaited us and Jennie, behind, gestured that she’d drive on up the lane to park somewhere less sticky. As we rumbled towards the neatly parked rows of lorries and trailers, I looked around expectantly. Horses were being unloaded, all, to a fetlock, immaculate, but their riders, I noted, were in varying degrees of dress. A few, already mounted, were in full rig, but one or two were less formal. A stunning redhead, for instance, trying to do up her girth and yelling at her huge excited grey to ‘Keep still!’ was in a Barbour and tracky bottoms. At least I had the right kit, I thought smugly, as Dad expertly tucked the lorry alongside hers. I jumped out with new-found confidence, straight into a cow pat. It squelched up my lovely, shiny, leather-clad ankles.
‘I didn’t see any cows!’ I cried in dismay, looking around accusingly and coming face to face with a hefty Friesian, who gazed back opaquely.
‘The cattle grid was a clue,’ Dad remarked mildly as he went round to unload Thumper and as I tried to scrape it off on the grass. ‘You’re better off in wellies, love, until you get on.’
Beside me the stunning redhead peeled off the tracky bums and Barbour to reveal a pristine equestrian ensemble. She added immaculate boots and hopped smartly on board.
As Dad walked Thumper down the ramp he looked around speculatively at the surrounding country. ‘Oh, OK.’
‘What?’ I said, squeezing myself into my very tiny jacket. ‘I honestly can’t breathe in this, Dad.’ I was standing completely rigid, arms out like a scarecrow, as he brought Thumper round.
‘Never mind, you won’t be breathing much anyway,’ he muttered.
‘What?’
‘Come on, up you get.’ He gave me a leg up, at which point all my jacket buttons popped off.
‘I’ve just realized where we are,’ he said, glancing about. ‘You kick off with about six or seven jump
s round these fields followed by quite a hefty ditch. Hold on to the mane and don’t worry if you pull the plaits out. No one notices once you’ve set off.’
‘What? Jumps? So soon? Do I have to? Oh, God – look at my jacket!’ I wailed, but Dad had already smoothly produced a spare stock pin from his pocket and was busy pinning me back together again.
‘Well, no, you don’t have to jump if you don’t want to, you can go with the non-jumpers. There’re always a few. But that’s not really why we’re here, is it, Poppy?’ He gave me a flinty look, which he was capable of occasionally. Fastened the pin with a sharp snap. ‘We’re here to show some metal, aren’t we?’
‘Right,’ I agreed faintly.
I felt a bit better, actually, now I was on board. And although most people looked sleek, effortless and born to hunt – a beautiful blonde, slim as a reed, rode past, nonchalantly rolling a cigarette on her taut thigh – I had seen one or two harassed riders struggling with recalcitrant mounts. Well, one. And she was about eight, on her own, with a shaggy Palomino. Dad popped across to hold the circling pony while she got on and I grinned chummily at the child. Perhaps we could ride together? She trotted off smartly, alone, waving to friends up ahead. Happily, though, with Dad by his side, Thumper seemed to have morphed into My Little Pony again and was once more displaying those pixie-perfect manners. Could Dad run alongside me perhaps? Hold on to the reins?
‘Wish I’d brought a horse myself,’ he remarked as we made our way across the field and through a gate towards the main body of the hunt in the distance: a swarm of sleek horses with riders in black and pink coats, the hounds circling at their feet, expertly controlled by a mustard-coated whipper-in. It was like a scene from a Cecil Aldin print. ‘I could have come out with you,’ he said wistfully.
I gazed down at him, stricken. ‘Why didn’t you?’ I wailed, casting wildly about for a stray horse as we approached. ‘Oh God, that would have been perfect! Why didn’t we think of that? Why didn’t we – No, Dad, don’t let go!’
It perhaps wasn’t the entrance I’d envisaged in the safety of my own bedroom: safety-pinned, muddy-booted, clinging pathetically to my father and humming ‘Raindrops on Roses’ manically to myself, as I do in moments of stress. But if my own appearance was disappointing, the setting was everything I’d imagined.
This was a lawn meet and although we weren’t actually invited to trash the ancestral grass, we were bidden to gather on the drive right at the front of the house. Mulverton Hall was Georgian, treacle-coloured, mellow and all one would hope for, I thought, as I gazed up admiringly. Tall sash windows winked back at me in the sunshine from a benign, aristocratic facade, like some old boy in his dotage who knows he’s still got it in him, twinkling away merrily. On closer inspection it was crumbling at the edges, but then old boys often are, and the window ledges were peeling too. It also appeared to have some alarming damp patches, but that didn’t detract from the charm. At the bottom of the flight of stone steps, which culminated in an extravagant sweep on the gravel, the hunt had gathered: chatting and laughing atop their steeds, knocking back the port, horses gleaming, bits jangling, voices carrying fruitily in the crisp morning air. It was a perfect day: bright and blue with just a hint of a breeze to ruffle tails and catch lipgloss.
I spotted Chad and Hope immediately on a pair of placid-looking bays. Naturally they were immaculately turned out, although the crash hats with industrial-sized chin straps slightly detracted from the look, I decided. The old and bold, I noticed, had just rammed velvet caps on their heads and to hell with health and safety.
‘I know them,’ I told Dad excitedly, standing up in my stirrups and waving enthusiastically.
Chad caught my eye, looked surprised then smiled delightedly. He seemed about to ride across but when he alerted Hope, she turned, gazed flatly, then gave me a thin little smile before turning back to the glamorous girl on the grey she’d been talking to. Chad looked undecided a moment, waved over-heartily and stuck by his wife.
‘They’re busy,’ I told Dad, sinking back into my saddle.
‘Ah.’
Luckily I’d spotted Angie, looking drop-dead gorgeous in skintight jodhpurs and a dark blue hunting coat, blonde chignon netted and tied with a velvet ribbon. Ah yes, hairnet, I thought, aware of my own locks tumbling rather luxuriantly down my back. If she had the sartorial upper hand, however, she nearly fell off her horse when she saw me.
‘Poppy! Good God. Whatever are you doing here?’ She muscled her classy chestnut through the throng towards me, open-mouthed.
‘Surprise!’ I grinned. I was feeling slightly pissed now, courtesy of that hip flask. ‘Dad lent me a horse. I thought I’d see how the other half live.’
‘Well, you might have told me! I could have lent you some clothes,’ she said gazing at my jacket, somewhat aghast.
‘D’you know, I wish I had,’ I said, leaning forward confidentially, meaning it. ‘It’s all been a bit of a nightmare. What with keeping Thumper in the back garden and –’
‘You didn’t!’
‘No, but almost. And I could have popped him in with yours, couldn’t I?’
‘Of course you bloody could! Oh, honestly, you are an idiot, Poppy.’ Her eyes were still bulging, though, which was quite satisfactory. ‘Can you ride him?’ She jerked her whip at Thumper.
‘Of course I can,’ I said confidently, remembering now why I’d wanted the element of surprise. I’d quite forgotten. I straightened up in the saddle. ‘Don’t forget I grew up with horses, Angie. You remember my dad, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled down, seeing him for the first time. Dad raised his flat cap. ‘Hello, Mr Mortimer. I imagine you were in on this, then?’
‘Peter,’ he told her with a grin. ‘Yes, all the way. And Poppy’s quite right, she did grow up with them, but very much in the proximate sense. They were in the paddock and she was in the house doing her mascara. She took a great deal of interest from the window.’
‘Dad,’ I protested as they both roared with laughter. But worryingly, he had a point. Although I’d ridden as a child, as a teenager I’d been a bit more interested in Cosmo than Horse and Hound. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? Hands fluttering, I gratefully accepted a glass of port from a girl proffering a tray.
‘Have you had one?’ I asked Angie.
‘Oh God, yes, three. Always do. Makes it less painful if I come off.’
‘We’re coming off?’ I said alarmed.
‘Well, not necessarily, but who knows? Depends where we go. But you stick with me, Poppy. There are a lot of idiots out today, always are at the opening meet, and those are the ones who do the damage. Cut you up at fences, refuse slap bang in front of you. And hold on tight. I don’t want to be playing nursemaid when I’ve got other fish to fry.’ Her eyes darted around. ‘Have you spotted him yet?’
‘Who?’
‘The new master.’
‘Why would I? I don’t know what he looks like.’ She wasn’t to know I had my own fish to fry.
‘Well, he’s obviously going to be in pink, isn’t he? There – on the chestnut.’
I’d been busily scanning the broad-shouldered black coats for Sam, and was unprepared, therefore, for the man in pink, the one she indicated, to lift his hat as he greeted a friend, present his chiselled profile, and for it to be one and the same.
I stared for a long moment. ‘Sam Hetherington’s the new master?’
‘Yes.’ Angie turned, surprised. ‘You know him?’
‘He’s my solicitor.’
‘Is he?’ She looked astonished. ‘Oh yes, someone said he was a lawyer. Good God – you never said!’ She rounded on me accusingly.
‘Well, I didn’t know you knew him, did I?’
She gazed at me; blinked. ‘I suppose I don’t, yet,’ she admitted. ‘I will, though. He’s gorgeous, don’t you think? All mine, by the way,’ she added quickly and not for the first time. ‘I’m landing this one. He’s divorced, apparently, and this is his man
or house, and very soon I’ll be installed within, doing up the drawing room. If you’re very lucky I’ll ask you to dinner.’
God, she had had a few drinks, but so had I, and I opened my mouth to remind her that, actually, she hadn’t seen him first, I had; perhaps adding haughtily that I wouldn’t dream of getting into a fight over a man, but anything I might or might not have said was forestalled by Sam himself.
‘Can I have your attention please, ladies and gentlemen!’
A deferential hush fell instantly. He was standing up in his stirrups, smiling around in a convivial manner. I gulped. Golly. Quite commanding. As he swept his hat gallantly from his head – no strap – to reveal his springy curls, he looked sensational. I’d forgotten about that heart-stopping smile, the crinkly eyes. Angie and I gazed rapturously as he went on to welcome everybody, thanking the local landowners and farmers for letting us ride across their fields – his, mostly, which with perfect manners he declined to mention – reminding us about gates and crops, cattle, oh, and the forthcoming hunt ball. He ended by adding that he hoped we all had a jolly good day. He looked like a young King Henry on St Crispin’s Day, rallying his troops, wind in his hair, hat under his arm. As he smiled, I swear a ray of sunlight glinted on a pearly tooth.
No time to bask in it, though, because suddenly I was jolted from my reverie by a loud blast on a hunting horn and Thumper and I were shoved unceremoniously out of the way by the huntsman and whipper-in, hounds at their heels, as they set off down the drive towards open country. The rest of the field bustled about importantly, waiting to be led by Sam. With fire in my heart and port in my belly, I couldn’t help but leg Thumper through to the front.
‘Hi, Sam!’ I called, aware of shining eyes and a very broad grin. Not his.
If he was surprised, he mastered it beautifully. He touched his hat and smiled.
‘Good morning, Poppy.’
A Rural Affair Page 26