It was through Diz that she first heard of the Westovers of Hopton Manor. Bernie and Diz made regular visits to the Jolly Waggoner, their local pub, and while there, usually managed to pick up some quite useful items of village gossip. That this worked both ways, so that they in their turn passed on some choice titbits about life at the Rectory, Bet didn’t doubt; in fact it probably accounted for the odd suspicious glance she received while waiting to be served in the village shop, or boarding the twice-weekly bus to Stourwick. And might even account, who knew, for her name being omitted from the flower-arranging roster. Be that as it may, the Westovers were, apparently, the local lords of the manor. At one time they had owned a sizable chunk of the surrounding countryside, including the village itself.
Their seat was Hopton Manor — about three miles from the village on the Stourwick road — and had been since the time of Elizabeth I. Like most old families, they’d had their ups and downs. In fact they had been going downhill pretty fast by the time the nineteenth century came along, until old Saltpeter Westover providentially invented a patent cure for constipation in horses, called it Hopton’s Elixir, marketed the stuff all over the Empire and re-founded the family fortunes. Now, however, they were down to their last 750 acres, and according to a Mr Jarman, who appeared to be an authority, the manor itself was in none too good a shape. The present incumbent, so Mr Jarman said, was a woman (‘The old man, ‘e ‘ad no boys’), one Cynthia Westover. Ms Westover, unmarried although well on in her forties, was said to be rather plain, rather tough, combined farming with horse breeding, and was considered by the village to be a good sort. Under her somewhat haphazard rule, life at Hopton Manor continued to maintain that necessary flavour of feudalism spiced with the bizarre (Spanish manservant, alcoholic house parties and assorted skeletons in the cupboard) deemed essential by the indigenous inhabitants of Hopton if the Westover family wished to continue to retain its status as their feudal overlord.
‘You see, Mum’ — for once Diz was actually helping with the washing-up — ‘from an anthropological point of view, Suffolk is quite extraordinarily interesting. Because of its geographical position — out on a limb sticking into the North Sea — the Industrial Revolution simply passed it by. As a result, in the rural areas like Hopton you still get these rigid class-distinctions. Nothing’s ever happened to break them up. Anyone who didn’t like it emigrated yonks ago, and the ones that remain don’t want any change. Did you know that for years Suffolk had the highest incest rate in the country?’
‘No,’ Bet said, handing back a plate still liberally coated in egg yolk, ‘but even I can see it isn’t Hampstead.’
Chapter Three
What with one thing and another, in the end the Redfords didn’t move in until the first week in February. Three days beforehand Pete dropped his bombshell. He would, he said, be unable to get away on The Day until early evening. This was gloomy news indeed and surely a recipe for disaster, making as it did a complete nonsense of all their carefully laid plans. But there it was; nothing, he told them, could be done about it; an emergency meeting of the Top Ten must take precedence over everything else — and he hinted that share prices would tumble and the economy breakdown if he failed to turn up at it. Privately Bet took all this with a pinch of salt, but wisely held her peace.
‘Have you ever heard of anything so inconsiderate!’ Pol wailed over the phone. ‘God knows, he does little enough, you would have thought he could have torn himself away from the office for this one day. But of course, as you know only too well, Bet, his home and his wife have always been way down on Pete’s list of priorities.’
From her end Bet made a few compassionate noises, but in truth found it hard to be entirely sympathetic. Why did her sister have to moan so much? However, deciding on balance to assume the somewhat uncharacteristic role of peacemaker — what had Bernie said? we must start as we mean to go on — she put on her soothing-little-sister voice and said What about Diz taking the day off from college to give moral support? She knew perfectly well he would be doing this anyway — he wouldn’t have missed the move for anything —but it seemed politic to appear to be making some sacrifice in the cause of the Redfords’ future comfort.
The furniture van from London being scheduled for eight-thirty a.m., Pol duly arrived the evening before. All through the previous week a steady stream of delivery men had called at the Rectory, someone had come to lay carpets, and on Monday the kitchen units arrived — teak and copper and costing almost as much as the house itself. Each evening Nell, Bernie and Diz would inspect the new arrivals, mostly with scorn and ribald laughter, but also, Bet suspected, in Nell and Bernie’s case, with considerable envy. She herself, creeping in later when no one was about, couldn’t help admitting the kitchen was pretty impressive, though the carpets weren’t really her cup of tea and some of the light fittings she thought quite frightful. The problem of Pol’s twice-weekly daily had been solved without the help of old Monty Cornwall or his wife. A Christine Barnet, young, lively and sensible — rather plain, too, which was an asset with Pete around — had appeared one morning in answer to Bet’s notice, and at what seemed, in comparison with Hampstead, an incredibly reasonable hourly rate, had agreed to clean the Redfords’ part of the house. Mrs Barnet, born and bred in Hopton, was one of the younger members of a vast family called Kettle, whose tentacles apparently stretched as far as Stourwick, and Bet was fairly sure that the day after Christine’s visits, the smallest happenings at the Rectory would be the main topic at breakfast tables throughout the county. All the same, Christine was a nice girl, and Bet hoped — but doubted —that Pol would be suitably grateful for her assistance.
On the evening of Pol’s arrival, Pol and Bet sat in Bet’s kitchen; Diz was upstairs working and the Sparsworths were out somewhere. ‘Absolutely typical,’ Pol said. ‘The one moment in our entire marriage when I really need Pete, he isn’t here.’ Bet, unable to stop herself, gave a derisive snort. It worked. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Bet, I’m always moaning, and you haven’t anyone to moan about. But P. is such a bore, I can’t help it.’
‘Don’t mind me, I’m used to it.’ Bet knew she sounded waspish, but too bad. ‘If you find Pete such a bore, why on earth are you so annoyed he won’t be here tomorrow?’
‘You don’t understand, do you? You never did. Just because you thought Miles was perfect — I’ve had doubts on that score myself, and so have quite a few other people — you think everyone else’s husband must be the same.’
For a moment the desire to pull her sister’s beautifully cut, beautifully blow-dried blonde hair almost overcame Bet, but sense prevailed. ‘Look, Pol, don’t let’s quarrel, it’s so silly. Here we are in this lovely old house, living under the same roof for the first time in nearly thirty years’ — Pol winced — ‘do let’s try and make a go of it. I mean, even without Pete it’ll be fun seeing how all your things go. And Diz will be here to help. He can be a bit tiresome, I know, but he can be funny too. Then there’s ... ’
To her horror, she suddenly became aware that Pol was about to burst into tears. Ignoring the still, small, anarchic voice inside her that proclaimed she was the one who should be crying, she was the one who had something to cry about, not her selfish sister, she gently stroked Pol’s hand as she’d so often done when Pol was a little girl. ‘Come on, Polly-Wolly, let’s have a drink, and then we’ll go upstairs and have another look at your bedroom.’
It seemed to do the trick. Her sister closed her eyes, opened them again, blew her nose on a handy Kleenex, smiled bravely and reached for the gin bottle.
Despite Pete’s absence, the day went smoothly. The furniture van turned smartly in at the gate at eight-thirty on the dot, the two removal men, unlike their predecessors, proving extremely competent. What was more, they seemed delighted with Pol’s tip, which turned out to be precisely half what Bet had given her two. But then she wasn’t used to tipping, was she? Miles had always done that ...
Pete arrived soon after five. They were a
ll seated round Bet’s kitchen table — the Sparsworths home early in honour of the occasion — having a much needed cup of tea. It had been decided not to use Pol’s kitchen, splendid though this was, its designer having palpably not catered for people sitting down in it. The two spindly chairs provided were more suited to a smart cocktail bar in Mayfair, or even a smart kindergarten, than for weary people to rest their bottoms on.
‘Just as we’ve finished. One might have known,’ Pol said as Pete’s Aston Martin purred to a halt outside the kitchen window. He appeared a moment later, smiling sheepishly, his arms full of bottles of champagne. ‘Here you all are then. How goes it?’
‘Fine.’ Pol offered a frosty cheek. ‘No thanks to you. Bet and Diz have been splendid, I simply don’t know what I would have done without them.’
‘But Bet always is quite splendid, aren’t you, my duck.’ Pete kissed his sister-in-law on the lips, giving her a slightly unnecessary squeeze at the same time. ‘Now then, you can pour that there slop you’re drinking down the sink and get these ‘ere bottles open. Come on, Bet, where are your champagne glasses? We might as well celebrate in style. And after that your Uncle Pete is taking you all out to dinner.’
Pol gave her hair a pat and fiddled with her pearls. She’d insisted on wearing her pearls despite the unsuitability of the occasion, claiming, perhaps rightly, that they were safer round her neck than anywhere else. ‘That, if I may say so, is the first good idea you’ve had in weeks. By the way, did you remember to bring my electric blanket?’
‘Of course I did. You know your old husband never forgets anything. That’s why I’m a bit late, I had to go all the way back to Chelsea to collect it.’ With the flourish of an expert, he twisted the champagne cork. ‘Now then, fill up your glasses and let’s go on a tour of inspection.’
Dear Pete, thought Bet, she did have to admit he had his points.
Three hours and several bottles of champagne later, the entire party set out in search of somewhere to eat, the Redfords and Bet in the Aston Martin and the other three in Bernie’s Renault. After much discussion they had decided to try a new place, recently opened, so Pete told them, by a cousin of old Fruity Nicholson’s. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, Uncle Pete, but who’s Fruity Nicholson? I’d no idea there were still people around called Fruity — it’s so frightfully twenties, isn’t it?’ Bet looked at Diz sharply; lucky there was no college tomorrow, he’d had three glasses of champagne already.
‘Fruity Nicholson?’ Pete poured himself another drink, ‘marvellous old boy, some sort of relative of Monty Cornwall’s.’
‘He had to be,’ Nell whispered to her husband.
‘Lives in a castle complete with tower, drawbridge, the lot, only a few miles from here. The place was built by some Victorian jam manufacturer, so Fruity said. Well, I asked him if he knew of anywhere decent to eat out in this neck of the woods, and he mentioned that a cousin of his had recently opened a restaurant. The Donkey’s Shoe at Upton Lyttel — superb cooking, so he’d heard, and not too pricey either. Unless anyone else has any other ideas, I thought it might be a good plan if we tried it tonight.’
No one had any other ideas, a Berni Inn in Stourwick on Diz’s birthday was so far the sum total of their experience of eating out locally. Bernie did tentatively suggest The George at Stotleigh, it being so near and time getting on, but his suggestion met with little response. ‘I think we all deserve something a little better than overdone steak and frozen chips, Bernie dear,’ Pol said, smiling kindly at him. Bernie was not to be patronised. ‘Well, I just thought this Donkey’s Shoe, or whatever it’s called, might be difficult to get into on a Friday night, that’s all. I mean, as we haven’t booked —’
‘No need to worry about that! Fruity said just to mention his name at the door — no problem.’
‘Still, it might be wiser just to check ... Oh, never mind.’ Bernie subsided into sulky silence. Nell squeezed his hand.
As things turned out, it was past eight-thirty by the time they arrived at Upton Lyttel, since it was considerably further away from Hopton than they’d been led to suppose, and a number of wrong turnings were taken en route. Already the atmosphere in the Redford car, initially mellow, had begun to deteriorate. All were tired, and looking forward to relaxing in the ambience of Fruity Nicholson’s cousin’s eatery.
Their first sight of the village was not propitious, a double line of parked cars down the main street bearing witness to the popularity of the restaurant, which itself boasted a car park capable of taking only ten vehicles. However, by a stroke of luck some early diners were just leaving as Pete hovered uncertainly in the middle of the road, and he was able to squeeze into the gap left by their car. Bernie, not so lucky, was forced to continue on down the village street for another quarter of a mile.
‘Come on, girls, I’m starving even if you aren’t.’ Pete, apparently oblivious to the obvious fact that the place was full, walked purposefully towards what appeared to be a huge converted tithe barn. The noise was deafening. Fruity’s cousin had hit the jackpot; there was no doubt that the Donkey’s Shoe was the ‘in’ place to visit on a Friday night.
‘Table for six, dear? You must be joking.’ A young man attired in a sketchy imitation of an eighteenth-century shepherd’s outfit peered at them through a bundle of stuffed rabbits and a stook of plastic corn. ‘The best I can do is the annexe. Never mind, you’ll be able to watch Clement at his forge and there’s bags of atmosphere. Go straight through, past the trelliswork, turn right at the sheep dip — you can’t miss it. You may have to wait a bit for your order, mind, we’re rushed off our feet tonight.’ He vanished into the murk. Grim-faced, they pushed their way down the seething barn, found what they assumed was the sheep dip, turned right at it, and at long last came upon their vacant table. The reason for it being vacant on such a busy evening now became blindingly obvious: not only was it placed practically underneath the loudspeaker — at that moment blasting out a rock version of ‘Gathering Peascods’ — but it backed on to Clement’s forge.
For a moment or two they sat in stunned silence. In any case, the din was such that in order to be heard at all one was compelled to shout like the captain of a ship in a Force 8 gale, and it was all too dreadfully plain, that Fruity’s name had not worked its expected magic. Bet, already floating in a happy, alcoholic hinterland, was enjoying herself enormously. She felt like a child on a birthday treat; each new disaster befalling the grown-ups was an added bonus. She would feel like death in the morning, but who cared. The music changed to ‘Greensleeves’ and a laconic shepherdess loomed. ‘Anything to drink while you wait?’ she asked sharply, and shoved a jumbo-sized bill of fare into Pete’s nerveless hands. ‘Three gin and tonics,’ he bawled. ‘We can’t order yet, the rest of our party — ’
‘You’ll have to get a move on, the kitchen closes at ten.’
‘Oh. Oh dear.’ Pete looked wildly round. Pol watched him, smiling sweetly, the heat from Clement’s forge causing the sweat to trickle gently down her perfectly made-up face.
There was another deafening pause, then Bet saw them. Bernie led the way, purposeful, efficient, his face a mask, followed by her two: Diz, gesticulating wildly, and Nell, puce in the face with suppressed giggles. Smiling dreamily, Bet watched them, and for one long, marvellous moment her love for them enveloped her entirely; stupid tears came into her eyes and there was a lump in her throat. How lucky she really was. And thank God for Pete, too, what would they do without him?
Diz hurried forward, one hand outstretched. ‘Mr Stanley, I presume, my name’s Livingstone, David Livingstone, and I’ve walked across two continents to find you.’
‘All-right, all-right, joke over. Anyway, wasn’t it the other way round? I mean, wasn’t it Stanley who went to look for Livingstone, I always thought —’
‘Pete, it may have escaped your notice, but we’ve been told by the waitress’ — Pol glanced contemptuously at the scowling shepherdess — ‘that the kitchens close at ten. If we do
n’t make our orders quickly we shan’t get anything to eat at all, although heaven knows, in a place like this one shudders to think what it will be like if we do.’
In the end they opted for leek soup and venison steaks, there being little left to choose anyway. The food, when it finally arrived, turned out to be tasteless, the bill enormous. ‘Ninety per cent ambience and ten per cent nutrition,’ Diz told them, but by that time they were all too exhausted to care.
‘I suppose I shall have to drive, you’re in no condition to do so.’ Pol brushed past Pete and briskly led the way out of the still-humming restaurant into the cold night air. ‘Would you mind awfully, ducky, I am most frightfully tired, it seems to have been one hell of a long day.’ The others departed to look for Bernie’s car, wandering down the village street, arms linked, chanting some Beatles’ song from the sixties.
Pete climbed ponderously into the back of the Aston Martin and promptly went to sleep. Pol expertly fastened her seat belt, started the engine, and neatly reversed into the car behind. Pete woke with a jerk. ‘What’s happened, darling? What have you — ?’
‘I should think that was fairly obvious, she’s driven into the front of my car, the stupid cow.’ A man’s face thrust itself through the car window, hair on end, eyes blazing. Beelzebub himself!, Bet, still in her trance, looked at the man with wondering eyes.
‘Look here, I’m extremely sorry, but there’s no earthly need to insult my wife; she’s a very competent driver, it must have been the frost on the rear window — ’
‘I don’t care a tinker’s fart what it was. If you had an ounce of sense between you, someone would have thought of cleaning it.’
‘Call the police at once, Pete. I am not going to be insulted like this.’
A Change of Pace Page 4