The Larton Chronicles

by James Anson

"Could you persuade him to do more?" asked Mr Halliwell. "I think this story here is absolutely crying out for an illustration."

  "Ah," said Robert. "Trouble is, Mike's very shy about people knowing he can do this sort of thing. Told me he'd just learnt in the army so he could sketch maps and design gun emplacements, that sort of thing. Ag, his sister, told me he'd always done sketching. Used to worry their old man, in case he turned out to be gay - boring old philistine. Sounds the sort of idiot who gets his gun dogs done in oils. Very macho hunting, shooting family. Only thing I've really got against Mike, that. Think it's engrained."

  Mr Halliwell gazed reflectively at the charming study on the far wall of two retrievers flanked by a heap of defunct ducks. "I see," he said. "But it would help the book, you know, if you could persuade Mr Faulkner to do some more. Now, there is a lot of organisation to be done, and some parts definitely need rewriting, but it does have a lot of promise."

  "Right," said Robert. "You can leave Mike to me. But first, we have a problem. Remember I told you Mike was going into business with his brother-in-law - the one who makes Lord Emsworth look like Albert Einstein?"

  "Lord Bourton is well spoken of in hunting circles," said Mr Halliwell mildly. "What seems to be the problem?"

  "They need an accountant," said Robert. "Neither of them has the least idea of business. Mike comes from a long line of impoverished Anglo-Irish squireens who, faced with a bill, stuck it behind the clock on the mantlepiece and hoped it would go away. I've spoken to Agnes - you know, Mike's sister - and she says Jack is much the same. The only way they would recognise VAT for instance would be if it had 69 after it."

  Mr Halliwell looked thoughtful. "I may have the answer for you," he said. "My nephew Mervyn is looking for new clients. He is an excellent accountant."

  "How does he feel about horses?" asked Robert. "If he's not besotted with them those two won't want to know."

  "He came fifth at the three-day event at Badminton last year," said Mr Halliwell.

  "Would that satisfy Mr Faulkner?"

  "It would," said Robert. "But I'd like to know more about him."

  Mr Halliwell recounted all on his horse-mad nephew, who seemed to be just what was needed, and they arranged a meeting.

  "I'll ask him to get in touch with you," said Mr Halliwell, "and then you can see if he would suit you both. Now, about the book ..."

  Chapter Eleven

  For the next three months Robert, half buried in a sea of papers, sorted, wrote, rewrote, condensed, expanded, flew into a tantrum when he found errors, and at least twice a day said it was all too much and he was going to put his head in the oven or drown himself in the Piddle (average depth six inches), he really didn't care which.

  Michael, now used to these excesses, mumbled words of comfort, read over extracts and pointed out errors - which was what he was supposed to do but which still got him yelled at -and at the same time was fighting his own battle with the local planning office for his covered school and new tack-room.

  "Can't understand it, Robert. They let thingy build that great awful Spanish hacienda on the old Bates farm. How did he get permission? It looks like a Spanish brothel."

  "If you mean Crispin Gould's lousy house, he's an MP," said Robert, rewriting a page for the tenth time.

  Michael looked up from the Horse and Hound. "Is he? I don't remember voting for him."

  "You wouldn't," said Robert. "He represents Drexbury in Birmingham."

  "Why the hell doesn't he live there, then," said Michael wrathfully. "Can't stand him.

  He wears a bright blue anorak with PEACE on the back."

  "Would you like to live in Birmingham?" said Robert. "People have died of old age trying to get off their motorway."

  "Maybe I should have a word with Colonel Heaton," said Michael. "After all, he is ours, isn't he? Ask him to put a word in for my covered school, giving employment to the masses and all that."

  Robert did his usual speech about the country falling apart, law and order at an all-time low and you are bothering him about a covered school, and yes, it wasn't a bad idea because he'd be at the village hall that week.

  He regretted encouraging Michael later, when he had to get his merry partner to bed after a very congenial meeting with Colonel Heaton (another hunting man). In a very short space of time he and Michael had apparently become soul mates and spent some time playing war-games over several drinks at the Brewers.

  "Well, you'd have liked him," Michael protested. "He's very keen on conservation."

  "Yes," said Robert bitterly. "He's against chemicals on the land in case they upset his pheasants before he can shoot them."

  However, permission was granted and Michael set off on horse-buying jaunts and other matters for the Centre, leaving Robert still hard at work. One bright spot was Mr Halliwell's nephew, Mervyn, who turned out to be ideal. After taking him out with the drag hunt, Michael announced he'd, "do fine, Robert. Never blinked an eyelash at Millers Bank."

  Robert sighed. Oh, well. Maybe that was how HRH picked her accountant, too.

  Near the end of the second month Michael arrived home very late from a successful horse- buying mission to find all the lights still on at 4 a.m.

  He put the kettle on, assured the animals this did not mean a super-early breakfast and made his way to Robert's study, which was in its usual state of confusion: Amos snoozing in the 'out' tray and cups scattered about. From the debris, a red-eyed creature blinked up at him, like a mole caught in the daylight.

  Michael shook his head. "Have you any idea of the time?" he asked.

  "Couldn't even tell you the day," said Robert, yawning. "Been at this since early morning. Has to be finished for the weekend."

  "I'm making you some hot chocolate and then it's bed," said Michael. "You look like something brought up in a cellar. Now you've got me home for three days I can help. I can't do any more at the Centre - the builders are in. Ag's in charge there. She interfered so much we put her on strength. She's good at getting people moving."

  "Yes," said Robert. "Trying, but efficient, that's Ag. Get the horses?"

  "Yes, and at the price I wanted," said Michael. "Kettle will be boiling, and it's chocolate. Coffee will only keep you awake."

  "Nothing will keep me awake," said Robert. "Oh damn, where's that note!" He started scrabbling through his papers. "Mike, shift Amos, will you? He's probably sitting on it."

  Michael picked up the plump Persian and began to cuddle him. Amos playfully batted him with his paw, then breathed cat food affectionately over him.

  "Got it!" said Robert. He watched Michael stroking his cat. "Wish I wasn't so tired," he added gloomily.

  Michael fetched the chocolate and steered Robert firmly to his room. "You are having a long lie-in tomorrow, and don't argue - today, rather."

  Robert didn't even protest but fell into bed and was asleep almost immediately.

  "It's disgraceful, that's what this is," said Robert happily, looking at the well-filled breakfast tray on his lap. "I should be working, you know. I'll tell Halliwell it's all your fault I'm going to be late with the rewrite."

  Michael, unmoved, helped himself to a large slice of toast.

  "Gerroff!" yelled Robert. "I'm hungry."

  They shared the marmalade and ate in calm domesticity.

  "It's our anniversary at the end of the month," said Robert. "What are you giving me?"

  "You don't need anything, you've got me," said Michael. That earned him a whack across the knuckles with the blunt side of Robert's knife.

  "You wait!" said Michael, sucking them. "Anyway, I'm taking you out for the evening."

  Robert looked at him warily. He wanted to believe that could mean a trip to London to see Phantom of the Opera, followed by a good dinner at an expensive restaurant with Michael picking up all the bills. But on past form ...

  "It's not going to be like last year, is it?" he inquired suspiciously. "Where we ended up at the village hall seeing that awful film, followed by two p
ints of warm beer at the Brewers and a bag of chips on the way home?"

  "No. Straight up," said Michael. "I'm taking you to a show with a meal afterwards. Won't have to dress for it either - well, put on a tie. I've got the tickets."

  "Hum, we shall see," said Robert. "And you can stop eating my breakfast. Any more coffee? Mike, I need a favour from you."

  "What?" inquired Michael, fixing him with a suspicious eye.

  "It's the book," said Robert. "It needs a dust-wrapper or whatever you call it. I'd like you to do one for me."

  "That's a specialist job," said Michael. "I'm not doing it."

  "You've done six illos for me already," said Robert. "So what's the difference?"

  "It's not the same at all," said Michael. "You have to do a full cover and there's always trouble with the spine and the lettering. Very awkward to get it right."

  "You've got three clear days," said Robert. "So you can sit down and practise."

  "I was hoping to practise something else in bed," said Michael.

  "Haven't got time for that," said Robert briskly. "Need my cover done first. And you can stop looking deprived."

  "I am deprived," said Michael indignantly.

  "Only since Tuesday," said Robert. "Come on, I know you'll do a great job. This is the idea the art department had ... I don't like it myself."

  Michael glanced at it. "Bugger," he said. "If I can't do better than that ..."

  "Yes, indeed," said Mr Halliwell a few weeks later. "The firm is very taken with the book. How did you persuade Mr Faulkner to do the extra illustration and the dust-wrapper? It's a very fine piece of work, by the way."

  "I know," said Robert. "Threats mostly. Just remind them they won't be getting his work free."

  "I take it you will deal with that for him," said Mr Halliwell.

  "Yes," said Robert. "He's up to his ears in horses at the moment, and I'm a lot sharper on money than Mike is. Comes home in the evening full of all the disasters, happy as a sandboy."

  "Everything set fair then?" said Mr Halliwell.

  "Hope so," said Robert cautiously. "I'm nervous of getting too complacent. Them up there don't like you being too happy - part of the puritan work ethic - start throwing thunderbolts at you. Damn, given myself away, haven't I?" He grinned.

  "I'm delighted for both of you," said Mr Halliwell. "I have far too many emotion-racked writers baring their souls in this office. It's a refreshing change."

  On arriving home, Robert found his companion carefully earthing up a row of potatoes.

  "You good lad," said Robert with approval. "Was wondering how I was going to con you into doing that. Why aren't you hard at work at the Centre?"

  "Free afternoon," said Michael. "I insisted on it now we have Captain Porter to take classes as well. I'm entitled to two, actually, a week. How was your day?"

  "Very good," said Robert. "Halliwell says they are pleased with your cover. The book seems to have passed all the hurdles and I'm negotiating your fee for the artwork."

  "Oh." Michael had gone slightly pink to Robert's amusement. "I get paid for it?"

  "You do, and don't go and spend all the money on your damned horse."

  "Baby needs new shoes," said Michael sadly.

  "Oh God, slurring his feet again," said Robert. "Don't know why you don't put the bloody thing on castors. You know, Mike, I'd just as rather we stayed home tomorrow than traipsed out somewhere. Have a quiet evening in front of the Aga and I'll cook something decent. Unless you've booked somewhere?"

  "Don't worry about that," said Michael cheerfully. "Only have to walk down to the village. That's where it's all happening."

  "You've done it again, haven't you?" said Robert. "Lousy, cheating, Irish villain. I should have known. Go on, what's my treat then - local shove-halfpenny board contest at the Brewers?"

  "No," said Michael. "You just wait. It's very exclusive, everyone will be there."

  Next evening, dressing for the big event, Robert watched Michael carefully for clues.

  He put on his best cavalry twills, one of his 'going to church' shirts and best jacket, which all indicated something more than a trip to the local pub.

  "All right," said Robert, "the suspense has gone on long enough. What are we going to do this evening?"

  "We will be present at 'An Evening of Entertainment, With Buffet, at the Larton Village Leisure Centre'," said Michael. "The object of the exercise is to raise funds to send our Pony Club team to the White City next year."

  "Oh fuck," said Robert. "Will there be a bar?"

  "At five pounds a ticket there better had be," said Michael. "I don't think we'll be able to stand the entertainment without one or two drinks. Oh, and it will be opened by a local celebrity."

  "Who?" inquired Robert. "Not that actor, the one who drinks?"

  "Which?" asked Michael. "Oh, no, not him. Jack's opening it."

  "Now there's a thrill," said Robert. "After all, the villagers see him trotting about doing his shopping every day. Now, seeing we will be in such exalted circles, will my moleskins and sports jacket be acceptable?"

  Robert looked round the crowded room, nodding occasionally to his neighbours.

  "Well, they are certainly all here," he remarked. "Your brother-in-law ... I see Agnes had the sense to be absent. Colonel Heaton; the vicar; that bloody Gould; a couple of local MFHs. Who's that over there, next to the vicar? Oh God, it's Amy. Put on some weight, hasn't she?"

  "I just can't believe this," said Robert, some time later. "This show is plumbing new depths of incompetence. I thought the handbell ringers were the bottom but ... Mike, if that brat doesn't stop kicking the back of my chair I'm turning round and strangling the little pest. Going to kill you when we get home. Thank God, intermission."

  They moved to a side room where an excellent buffet was being served. Miranda bounced over to them. "I've got my hair up," she announced. "How do you think it looks?"

  "Like you've got a basket on your head," said her fond uncle.

  "It looks very smart," said Robert, glaring at Michael. "You look just like a duchess."

  Miranda dimpled happily, told her uncle he was a pig then started avidly discussing the pony club's chances with him. Robert went to get a life-saving drink and found himself joined by Father Hammond who thanked him for his contribution to the Harvest Festival.

  "We're so very few on the ground round here, Mr March. It was very thoughtful of you. All going to be distributed to the local pensioners, of course."

  Robert said fine, but let him know in more time next year, and made a note to check his garden when he got home and find out just what had been removed and donated. Still, it seemed to have broken the ice between him and Michael 's priest.

  Michael joined them, carrying two drinks. Father Hammond went to chat to the vicar.

  "Thanked me for my harvest festival offering," said Robert. "Let me know next time so I can make up a good batch for you."

  Michael blushed. "Well, I knew you'd given a batch to the vicar and our lot was so measly. Your stuff looked great, Robert. Good buffet, isn't it?"

  "Terrific," said Robert, having mellowed considerably. He went back for seconds, stopping to chat with Jess and Ashley. He assured Miranda that, yes, she would be getting a copy of the book when it came out, and yes, he would autograph it personally for her (she was indifferent to her Uncle Mike's contribution). Amy stopped him to say how pleasant it was to be back in the village to see all her old friends. They didn't seem to have changed at all. She dropped several names, all totally unknown to Robert, then invited him to her next Hunt Ball.

  Robert declined gracefully, saying how sorry he was Michael would be unable to attend also. Much fortified, he then went for the second half of the entertainment.

  "I wouldn't have missed it for anything," he said to Michael as they walked home.

  "Your Miranda couldn't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow. And as for the curate's recitation about the crippled, dying bootblack, whose brother brings him the flowers
..."

  "I thought it was very affecting myself," said Michael.

  "Yes, I noticed you had your hands over your face, shaking," said Robert. "And Jack yanked Miranda out with his hand over her mouth. Good thing Ashley was busy at the buffet. No, that had to be the worst."

  "No," said Michael firmly. "I disagree. Mrs Johnston's interpretation of Joan of Arc being burned at the stake is engraved on my memory."

  "Oh, yes," said Robert fervently. "I thought I'd bust something trying not to laugh.

  When the red streamers started blowing in the wind from the machine I nearly creased myself. Then the drinks at the Brewers after hours - kept expecting PC Plod to burst in and arrest us all."

  "He couldn't," said Michael. "He was playing darts in the saloon. And save me some of those chips. Don't know where you put it all, skinny little runt."

  They paused at the bridge.

  "Pigs are in for the night," said Michael. "River's a lot less niffy, too. You've done a good job there, my lad. ' In such a night ... '" he announced loudly, "' Stood Dido with a willow in her hand upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage ... '"

  "Did she now?" said Robert. "How many did you have?" he asked affectionately.

  "You can talk," said Michael.

  "Well, one tries to do one's best, in some small way, to benefit our tiny community."

  Robert imitated with deadly accuracy the head of the Parish Council, known to his enemies as Pompous Potter.

  "Poor bugger," said Michael. "He'll find himself in one of your books next."

  "Never!" said Robert. "I wouldn't have him. And why are we standing here getting midge-bitten when we could be at home, snug in front of the Aga?"

  "I'm waiting for some moonlight," said Michael. "Got something to tell you. There!"

  He beamed with approval as the scene was lit by a silvery light. "Just wanted to tell you.

  The years with you have been the happiest of my life. That's all."

  Robert blew his nose hard.

  "Typical mick," he said. "Tells me that over a row of pigpens. Come on, Butch. Let's go home and I'll make you a big pan of chips."