‘No, no,’ I lied.
‘Good. Only Avril Collins on the other side couldn’t have looked more delighted when I saw her collect her milk from her step this morning, and I thought: oh shit.’
‘It hardly matters who knows,’ I told her gently. Again untruthfully, because of course it did. ‘D’you know how far … you know … she is?’ I asked cautiously.
‘ “How far gone”, is the expression on sink estates, Poppy,’ she said with a flash of the old Jennie, brave eyes glittering briefly in their sleep-deprived sockets. ‘Amongst the chain-smoking teenage mothers on the eighteenth floor. And you don’t “get pregnant”, you “fall”, as in “When did you fall for Kylie?” ’ She shuddered. ‘The answer is I don’t know,’ she said in a much smaller voice. ‘She won’t tell me. Won’t say a word, in fact. Which is why Dan got so angry.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Absolutely zilch. Stared at her father’s distorted face as he ranted and raved like a madman, then ran up to her room and slammed the door. Locked it.’
‘Oh. So … what next?’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Let it all calm down, I suppose. Try to talk to her tonight, perhaps. One more day isn’t going to make much difference, is it?’
I think we both knew what she was talking about.
‘I doubt it,’ I agreed.
She dredged up a gigantic sigh from the soles of her feet. ‘Anyway. Just came to check you hadn’t heard.’
‘Not a thing.’
I walked her to the door, and since she’d caught me as I was about to go out, picked up my bag and Archie too as we left. When I’d locked the front door behind me, out of the corner of my eye I saw a little huddle of raincoats and brollies outside the shop. Avril Collins, Yvonne and Mrs Fish. They glanced our way, wide-eyed, then re-huddled. I quickly positioned myself between them and Jennie.
Jennie, though, was beyond either noticing or caring. Halfway down my path in the rain, she was gazing into some private world of her own, the drizzle settling like a sparkling cobweb on her wild springy curls, slippers on her feet, coat open to the elements, like Lear on the heath.
‘I thought I’d meet her from school this afternoon. Take her to Topshop, then for a burger. D’you think she’d like that?’ She turned to look at me anxiously.
Ordinarily, yes. But under the circumstances, Jennie waiting at the school gates …
‘Maybe text her first?’ I suggested. ‘So she can think about it?’
‘Good idea.’ She whipped her phone out of her coat pocket. I gently put my hand on it. ‘And maybe go and have a think about what you’re going to say first?’
Jennie’s eyes widened and she gave me a messianic look, full of admiration and fervour. I wanted to say: no, Jennie, I’m no guru, but I do know about this. About running around like a headless chicken, charging down the church path and forgetting to bury my husband, rushing around on adrenalin following shock. Doing the first thing that came into one’s head, acting on impulse. I knew about the next bit too, the terrible depression that followed: forgetting to feed my kids, to dress them, love them. I shuddered as I pocketed my key. Almost couldn’t admit it to myself and knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I knew about doing all the wrong things, and later on wishing so much I’d done otherwise; I knew how guilt – or rather a sense of it, misplaced perhaps – can make us behave illogically, like people we don’t recognize, never thought we’d be.
I didn’t say all that to my friend, though. What I actually said was: ‘Go and have a cup of coffee, get your head together, and then text her, OK?’
She nodded obediently. Ran down my path and up hers, and it occurred to me that we were like a couple of little weather people, popping in and out of each other’s houses, broadcasting rain or shine, depending on our day, depending on the current crisis, telling the village our business. Oh, sod it, I thought, shifting Archie onto my hip as I went down the path. Who cares?
‘Morning, Avril,’ I couldn’t help calling across Jennie’s garden as her other neighbour returned from the shop, eyes darting like a magpie’s. ‘Yes, that’s right, trouble at Apple Tree Cottage.’ I glared at her and marched off to my car, thrusting a surprised Archie into his seat. Regretted it, of course. And if I could come to the boil like that, what hope for Jennie?
Now, however, as I drove along the edge of the common in Wessington, I considered it rationally; wondered if Frankie really would be stupid enough to be seduced by a teacher. I’d thought about it overnight and decided, on balance, it was unlikely. In which case, who was the boy? Some family was going to be equally shattered, surely? And for some reason hard to fathom, stemming as it did from time immemorial, and belying what had happened in the Garden of Eden when God had firmly pointed the finger at Eve as she tucked into the apple, the fault always lay with the boy. ‘He got her into trouble,’ the Avril Collinses of this world would say; not, ‘She got him.’ I glanced at my toddler son in the rear-view mirror as we sped along in the weak, milky sunshine which was struggling to make an appearance now the rain had ceased. ‘You be careful, my boy,’ I whispered. ‘You steer clear of those pretty girls.’
He grinned toothily back.
The kennels were at the far end of the common, down a bumpy little track which terminated in a farmyard. Two functional, breeze-block enclosures for the hounds ran in parallel lines down either side of a pristine yard, and a white Victorian cottage crouched at the far end. One or two dogs bayed a welcome as I arrived, but most were sleepy and silent. I drove through the yard and parked right outside the house, where I would be able to see Archie, who was now asleep. But as I got out I realized it looked a bit arrogant, parking so close to the windows. I was about to go and move the car, when I saw Mark himself was sitting on the front doorstep watching me, so it was too late. One of the hounds was upside down between his legs, and he appeared to be doing something to its paw. I approached nervously as he regarded me, tweezers poised. The hound wriggled briefly, but was instantly limp and submissive after a curt word from Mark. I stood before him.
‘I’ve come to apologize. My horse kicked Peddler and I panicked and didn’t tell anyone. I meant to, really I did, but everything happened so quickly and I realized I’d committed the worst sin and I lost my bottle. I’m so ashamed and so sorry I killed your hound.’
He continued his steady gaze, his dark eyes in his smooth brown face like two bright pieces of coal.
‘You’re Peter Mortimer’s daughter, aren’t you?’ he said eventually in his slow, country brogue.
‘That’s right. D’you know Dad?’
‘Everyone knows your dad. Where d’you think we get our horses from? That bay of yours could make a decent enough hunter, but he should have told you it kicks.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t know.’
‘It’s his job to know. I’ll take it off the price of the next one I buy from him. I’ve told him as much. It’s all right, he’s already rung.’
‘Dad has?’
He nodded. Resumed his inspection of the paw which I could see, close up, had a huge thorn in it. He removed it carefully with the tweezers and glanced back at me.
‘I appreciate your coming, love. And your dad ringing. There’s many that wouldn’t.’
‘Oh.’ I felt a wave of a relief. A slight easing from the hook. ‘But you were very fond of him,’ I said anxiously. ‘Peddler. I was told he was your favourite.’
‘Doesn’t do to have favourites. But he’d been with me the longest. Was the oldest and boldest, certainly. The most disobedient too.’ He grinned, briefly revealing very yellow teeth.
‘Oh, really?’
‘Why d’you think he was on his own? Little bugger, sloping off like that, away from the pack. Couple of weeks ago, out cubbing, we was drawing your woods near Massingham, and we lost him. Eventually found him with some scruffy mongrel with a huge plastic collar, giving her a good seeing-to.’
Blimey. Leila.
‘He was an old rogue and make n
o mistake,’ he told me. ‘And no doubt he’d been somewhere else he shouldn’t when he slunk back and your horse kicked him. Wouldn’t surprise me if he died with a smile on his face. Perhaps that’s why I liked him so much, the scoundrel.’ He got to his feet, releasing the hound who twisted himself the right way up and leaped instantly to put his paws on Mark’s shoulders and lick his face frantically.
‘Things die in the country, love,’ he said, pushing the hound down. ‘Badgers on the road, deer caught in wire. There’s carrion and carnage wherever you look. Don’t fret about it.’
I sighed gratefully. Didn’t speak, but felt lighter, less hunched.
‘And as I say, I’ve told your dad I’ll be having a discount next time.’ He was clearly very pleased with this. ‘And he wasn’t snitching on you, neither. As a matter of fact I already knew it was you, and he knew I knew, which was why he rang.’
I nodded, the Chinese whispers of the horsy world anathema to me; irrelevant too, so long as all was well.
‘Cup of tea?’ he asked as he turned to go inside. I glanced back at the car. ‘He’s asleep,’ he assured me, ‘and you’ll see him from the window.’
‘Thanks.’ I followed him in, surprised and pleased. I only knew Mark Harrison by repute, but knew enough to know he didn’t suffer fools, or even court much human company. And that he commanded huge respect. He was of indeterminate age, anywhere from a raddled thirty to a sprightly fifty, and a countryman like my dad; the type of man who, despite loving animals passionately, was no-nonsense and unsentimental about them – in my father’s case reserving his sentimentality for other things. But if I’d been expecting a carbon copy of my father’s living arrangements inside, I was surprised. Mark’s house was as neat as a pin. No saddles, bridles and whisky bottles littered proceedings here, just an immaculate three-piece suite with plumped-up cushions, a well-vacuumed carpet, and a row of gleaming glasses on the sideboard. The only hint that this was a horsy household were the banks of framed photographs on one wall: hounds, horses, puppy shows – some accompanied by rosettes, and very occasionally, people.
As he disappeared to boil the kettle, I crossed the room to study them. Beautiful hunters with hounds at their feet, puppies with raised tails and keen eyes; Mark as a young man, looking almost exactly the same as he did now, those sharp bright eyes in the smooth face, the clothes and the quality of the print the only hint the snap was taken some time ago. Some of the smaller ones were black and white, presumably from his father’s era: men in Harris tweeds and voluminous breeches. One photo, small and in colour, albeit faded by the sun, caught my eye. It was of a group of young people in their late teens or early twenties: a very pretty girl in dark glasses, two young men, one on either side of her, one of whom was Mark, and one …
‘Is that Sam Hetherington?’ I pointed in surprise at the boy with long hair, in jeans and a T-shirt, as Mark came back with a couple of mugs. He handed one to me and followed my gaze.
‘Day after his twenty-first birthday, aye. We’d tied one on the night before, make no mistake. Look at our eyes – like piss holes in the snow.’ He gave a quick bark of a laugh. ‘We had a lot of fun together, Sam and me.’ He sipped his tea thoughtfully. ‘His father was the master, just as Sam is now, and my dad the huntsman.’ He pointed to a black and white photo of two men in hunting coats, taken outside a manor house years ago. ‘This cottage was part of the Mulverton estate then. Not now, though.’ He smiled. ‘I bought it off him, didn’t I? Sam was grateful too, he’s that strapped for cash. Death duties hit that family hard,’ he said grimly.
‘Oh. I didn’t know.’
‘That’s why he went back to America, to make some dosh.’
I held my breath. Somehow I felt if I was quiet, I might hear more. I was aware there was a lot I didn’t know and wanted to. But Mark was a taciturn man, and eventually I had to prod.
‘You knew him when you were little?’
‘Oh yeah, Sam and I grew up together. Played every single day as kids, and then he went away to school. Boarding, you know. But we rode and drank in the pubs all holidays long when he was back, until he went to New York, that is. It was one of them relationships the liberal luvvies wouldn’t understand; too feudal for them. They wouldn’t get their anxious little brains round me being in hunt service and him being lord of the manor. But it worked. Still does. He’s a good man, Sam. One of the best. Too bad his wife pissed off with that Chad Armitage.’
I turned. Stared at him. ‘What?’
‘I said too bad his wife did a runner with his best friend. There, that’s her, see?’ He jabbed a finger at a photo, and I turned back as if in a trance. He pointed out the pretty girl in the dark glasses. Very short hair, an elfin cut. Of course, it was Hope. Smiling coolly, confidently at the camera, two hungover lads beside her grinning sheepishly. Her chin was raised, her weight on the back foot. I turned back to Mark.
‘Hope was Sam’s wife?’
‘Briefly, yes. They were all at Harvard together. Sam and Hope got married very young, not long after that photo was taken, in fact, then she fell for his best friend, Chad. He took that picture. Anyway, she divorced Sam and married him instead.’
‘But …’ I was flabbergasted. Tried to marshal my thoughts. ‘But they’re all such friends. They all live near each other, ride out together, hunt –’
‘Oh, it all happened years ago. Chad and Hope have been together for ages now, got two kids, and Sam didn’t want to lose Chad’s friendship. When he was in the States, Chad’s family was like his own. He stayed with them in the holidays – the Hamptons and all that. And he’s a nice guy, Chad. But that Hope. She reels him in occasionally, you know?’
‘Who – Sam?’
‘That’s it.’
My mind raced. ‘But – why come back here, then? Why be near her?’
‘Perhaps he needs to be.’ He gave me that steady look again. ‘The Armitages came over here first because of Chad’s work. Bought a house in London, then a weekend cottage out here, because of course Hope knew the area from her days with Sam; it was only natural. Then Sam announces he’s leaving London too, dismisses the tenants, and takes over the reins at the Hall again, something he said he’d never do. Funny that.’
‘Because he can’t bear to be away from her?’ I breathed.
Mark shrugged. ‘Who knows? Not my business.’ He winked. ‘You learn a lot on the hunting field, though. Surprised your mate Angie hasn’t told you all this, but then again, she probably doesn’t know. She wasn’t about in the old days, although she acts like she was born and bred in the saddle.’
I licked my lips. ‘How long were they married for?’
‘Only a couple of years.’
‘So … a bit like going out with someone, really?’
‘Except he loved her enough to put a ring on her finger. Commit the rest of his life to her. And Sam’s not a man to do anything lightly.’
‘No.’
I returned my gaze to the photo again. God, poor Sam. That laughing, carefree young man, with his childhood friend, Mark, and his American girlfriend, who he’d brought home, soon to be his wife, looking about sixteen. Who he still loved? And who, as Mark had so eloquently put it, reeled him in occasionally. No wonder he’d looked haunted when her name was mentioned.
‘Was it Sam who told you about Peddler?’ I asked suddenly. He’d said Dad had rung to tell him, but that he already knew. ‘That it was my horse who kicked?’
‘No, Emma Harding did.’
‘Emma Harding!’
‘The one that was shacked up with your husband, love.’
I caught my breath. Who was this Mark Harrison? This countryman in his isolated cottage with his hounds, who seemed to have no domestic life of his own, but knew everything about everyone?
‘You knew my husband?’
‘Couldn’t miss him. They were down the road. Across that field over there, in the flint cottage.’ He jerked his head out of the window across the meadows, and I realized that, as th
e crow flew, Emma’s cottage, which I’d passed on the road, was surely not far. ‘I’d exercise my hounds in the summer past her back garden – how could I not know? Many an evening I’d go past with twelve couple and see him arrive at her back door on his bike, six o’clock, head to toe in blue nylon. Nothing subtle about his entrances.’
Six o’clock. The children’s bath time. Which Phil never made it home in time for. ‘It seems the whole world knew,’ I said, swallowing. ‘Except the wife, of course. Always the last.’
‘Ah, but you’re well shot of him now, aren’t you?’ he said gently, with a small smile. ‘And he surely got his comeuppance.’
‘He did,’ I agreed, and couldn’t help but smile back. I’d forgotten this man had a philosophical take on death.
‘She said she saw you look guilty as sin when Peddler was mentioned, and that she knew your horse kicked. Couldn’t come running across the field quick enough that evening to tell me, still in her hunting coat, she was. But when she bustled back to her own house, she got a nasty surprise herself. The police were on her doorstep.’
‘The police? Why?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Thought you’d know, love. Apparently it’s all over the village. Fraud of some sort. White collar. The kennel girl’s brother is a cop down at the station and says it’s something to do with business. Where she worked.’
‘Where she worked? You mean, at the bank?’ I said, in astonishment.
He made a non-committal face again. ‘No idea.’
I sat down slowly on the sofa behind me, bewildered; dimly aware of a very plump cushion in my back. But even more aware of something else. The investigation into the bank by the FSA. I’d thought it purely routine. Had told Sam as much. Ted Barker had assured me so. Although … he’d been worried enough to write to me about it, I realized suddenly. To alert me. Something Ted said months ago, at a dinner party at his house in Esher, came winging back; something about how the female high-flyer in the office sailed close to the wind. He’d said it with a smile as he’d mixed me a gin and tonic, but I’d detected a worried tone. It hadn’t meant much at the time. I’d never met the high-flyer. But they’d dropped her pretty smartly, hadn’t they? The bank? The moment Phil had died? I was aware of Mark looking at me.
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