The Larton Chronicles

by James Anson

Part Three – In The Deep Midwinter

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr Halliwell cast a regretful glance through the window at the unseasonable December sunshine, then studied his client's sour-milk-at-twenty-feet expression. Not for the first time he wondered if he had been hasty in turning down his Uncle Alfred's offer to set him up as a tea planter in Ceylon.

  "The book is still being a problem then?" he remarked.

  "Damn thing's stuck fast," complained Robert. "No idea how Georgette Heyer managed it. My people refuse to be dashing and romantic like hers - just sit about bitching and exhibiting as much social grace as Mike."

  "He isn't up with you, then?" said Mr Halliwell. "A pity. I have an illustration job we could put his way."

  "No, he isn't," said Robert. "I've already heard all the regrets from your girls outside. Bugger's off on a horse, chasing about with the rubbish in the Home Counties."

  Mr Halliwell deduced with no difficulty that Mr Faulkner was off on a hunting jaunt which had, as usual, led to words between him and his partner.

  "Look," said Robert, "I might have to borrow that place you have in Wales - where you sent George when he couldn't come through with chapter twelve. It's like the Dardannelles back in Gloucestershire: shotguns banging away at all hours and muddied oafs on horseback crashing about. Can't hear myself think some days."

  "Well," said Mr Halliwell, "we would like you to get on with the book. I hope you like Wales - it tends to be wet. Let me know if you feel you really need to get away from it all. And I hope to see a rough draft from you shortly," he added encouragingly.

  "Ha," said Robert bleakly. "I'd better be off. Have to stock up on the way home. You know, pâté de foie gras, quails' eggs and some decent curry powder. Never heard of the brand they sell at Baggot's Store. It's foul."

  He made his farewells of Mr Halliwell's staff, graciously accepting, for Amos, a slice of smoked salmon saved from a sandwich. His drive home was uneventful, after pausing to stock up at Gretton supermarket as per Mrs Paget's list. They seemed to be consuming mountains of Vim, he noted. He made another stop at the everything-for-the-farmyard emporium with Michael 's list for the usual array of tins, bottles and plastic tubs of yuck.

  He was just meditating on what on earth Stockholm Vegetable Tar could be - or be for - when he realised the entrance to the farmyard was blocked by a horsebox. He was about to leap out and give the driver a piece of his mind when he realised it was theirs.

  "Oh shit," said Robert. "He's back early. Just when I needed peace and quiet."

  He made his way round to the kitchen, was joyfully welcomed by Sam, and slammed on the kettle. He could hear Michael and Captain Porter from the riding centre exchanging news as Michael settled his horse back in its stall. Robert had disliked Captain Porter on sight and seen nothing since to modify his first impression.

  Michael charged into the kitchen. He looked disgustingly healthy and energetic - much better than when he had left, apart from the black eye. Amos gave a purr and coiled round his feet. Michael grabbed Robert into a vigorous hug.

  "Lay off," growled Robert, with an irritated wriggle. "And don't go inviting that sod in for a cup of tea. This isn't a transport cafe, you know."

  "No, I've had warmer welcomes in transport cafes," said Michael, looking injured.

  "Terry's off back to the Centre. You don't like him, do you?"

  "No," said Robert: "a) he's got a big mouth, b) he's too fond of recruiting you for a drinking partner at the Brewers, c) he's a bloody lazy sod, and d) if I was Jack I'd keep an eye on him."

  "Ah," said Michael. "I wouldn't worry about Agnes's virtue. Mrs Porter will kill Terry if he ever moves in that direction. Would it help if I went out and came back in again? You're not putting out much of a welcome mat."

  "You're not welcome," said Robert. "First, I expected another week of comparative peace and quiet to get on with the book. Second, I've been having your family on the phone every five minutes. I took it off the hook and had half the village round to see if I was unconscious on the floor."

  "You've lost weight," said Michael. "Stopped eating too, have you?"

  "Don't you start," yelled Robert. "Had Jess offering me tempting dishes - seemed to think I was pining for you. Couldn't tell her I can't eat when my writing isn't going well. Oh, sit down and have some tea." He passed over a mug of tea and slab of cake.

  Michael, relieved the first storm was over, sat down. "Well, we've got a good tasty dinner," he said. "Pressie from Auntie."

  Robert looked round suspiciously. "Have you brought anything dead back with you?" he asked, taking a quick look in the fridge in case any feathered corpses were neatly laid out in there. He'd already checked the passageway for anything hung up by its heels, maturing.

  "Never forgiven me for that chipped tooth, have you?" sighed Michael. "Not my fault they left some shot in the damned bird. No, it's just a salmon. Aunt Maud said why didn't I bring you again? She would have liked to see you."

  "You jest!" said Robert. "I nearly died of hypothermia in that unheated bedroom, then sprained my ankle and spent two days on that hard sofa in the library, surrounded by books on how to kill or maim God's creatures. Everyone was blind drunk by eight-thirty, you were either on a horse or paralytic. How did you get the black eye?"

  "Just a misunderstanding," said Michael blithely. "Let's hope it's not in The Sun."

  "You'd better ring Jack later; he's in a snit over something."

  "He can wait," said Michael. "Haven't had my welcome home yet."

  "Fool," said Robert. "All right. Come here."

  After dinner they settled by the Aga with their drinks.

  "That was damned good," said Robert. "And now you're well fed and lubricated you can give me a hand with the Christmas cards."

  "So how are you getting on with the book?" asked Michael, as they worked through the pile of cards and envelopes.

  "Not," said Robert. "Tell you about it again. Jess invited us to Christmas dinner at the farm. I've accepted. Be better than with your lousy family."

  "Good," said Michael. "According to Terry, Ag's bagged James Glenbucket as a visiting Master for the Hunt over Christmas. He'll be going out so all the big hunting crowd will be there." He sighed. Robert glared at him. "You remember Jamsie," Michael went on. "He was over here for the International last year, when we all had lunch at The Dorchester."

  "Must have been when someone else was paying the bill," said Robert. "Oh no! Not that mad Irish idiot who drank doubles like water, sang 'The Minstrel Boy' and told Agnes her face was born to be the ruin of the world?"

  "Sounds like Jamsie," said Michael. "He tends to run mad when Millicent lets him off the leash. Leads a very quiet life down in Mayo - not by choice."

  "So we can have a nice quiet Christmas together," said Robert, "watching all the rubbish on the box. I'll put the book away - might feel differently about it after a break. Hell, if I write one more card I'll go barking mad. You can't send one of those Snaffles ones to Mr Halliwell; he's anti-blood sports. Here, this one with robins. Make it from both of us."

  Michael picked up a card and studied it closely. "Haven't I seen this design somewhere before?" he inquired.

  "Probably," said Robert. "I found it on your desk. Decided it shouldn't go to waste.

  Vicar liked it too so we've had some cards printed. We're selling them for repairs to the church clock and tower. About time that clock was fixed."

  "Why?" said Michael. "It's been telling the wrong time for twenty years now. Only confuse people, having it fixed. Wish you weren't so progressive. And that you'll be just as generous when I'm after alms for our new church."

  "What do you need a new church for?" Robert inquired. "There's only eight of you at a full house and that includes Father Hammond and his assistant."

  "Up to twenty-five now," said Michael. "We have permission to move out of our draughty tin hut and into a nice warm building. As soon as we get the money and a piece of St Elfleda we are away."

 
; "Yuck," said Robert. "Bloody medieval. I'll have to warn the vicar that popery's on the march again. Now, let's see ..." He began to sift through the cards and threw one out.

  "We are not sending Amy a card. It will only encourage her."

  "She sent us one," said Michael. "And invited us to her Hunt Ball."

  "Which," said Robert, "we will not be attending. I've been to one, remember? Terrible the things that went on."

  "Yes," said Michael regretfully.

  "Oh God, is that the time?" Robert sprang to his feet.

  Michael watched in surprise as he began to haul on extra clothing: another pair of socks, jersey, fur-lined boots, jacket, and then wrapped his scarf firmly round his neck and pulled on his mittens.

  "You're off out, then?" Michael inquired.

  Robert gave him a look as he zipped up his jacket with difficulty. "Bloody carol service. I'm playing the harmonium," he said gloomily. "Volunteered like an idiot, didn't I, when old Mother Braithwaite came down with rheumatics. Hope they've remembered to turn the heat on this time. Shouldn't be more than an hour. Have a hot drink ready: I'm likely to need it."

  "Right," said Michael. He settled himself on the sofa with the weekend paper, a large bag of crisps and Sam draped over his feet. Robert looked at them enviously then plunged out into the night.

  Michael was just considering a lager (the crisps had been salty) when the phone rang.

  He considered not answering it, then reluctantly stirred himself.

  "Parsons Farm," he announced in his thickest Irish brogue.

  "Don't play the fool, Mike," said Lord Bourton. "Bad news, I'm afraid. That idiot Porter fell and broke his ankle tonight coming out of the Brewers so I'll need you to take his classes for the rest of the week. Can't help out m'self - all tied up with this rubbish Agnes has on for Christmas. See you in the morning then?"

  There was a strained silence.

  "Yes," said Michael through gritted teeth. Just when he needed a couple of days with Robert -some fence building was needed there.

  He glanced at the clock. Better put the kettle on. Very shortly he heard the side door open. Robert entered strictly on autopilot as he made his way to the Aga; he was patriotically red, white and blue with cold. Michael hurriedly poured a good slug of rum into his hot drink and passed it to him. Robert settled in front of the Aga, dragged off his boots and planted his feet on the front. Michael waited for the smell of scorched sock and shriek of agony, but none came. Michael supposed Robert was too numb to feel anything.

  He fetched a rug from the bedroom and tucked it round Robert, then planted Amos on his lap for extra warmth.

  "They didn't have the heating on then," he said.

  Robert closed his eyes. "Too right. Vicar forgot to tell the verger. Usual story. We all sat there done up like arctic explorers. No wonder old Ma Braithwaite gets rheumatics. I'm just surprised they haven't had to chip her frozen body away from the harmonium before now."

  "I'm having a word with the vicar," said Michael. "Not having you down with bronchitis again. I didn't know you could play the harmonium."

  "Didn't catch it deliberately," said Robert. "It's my London chest." He produced a highly dramatic wheeze. "Have a lot of hidden talents, I do," he added smugly.

  Michael grinned and gave him a friendly cuff, which spilt some of Robert's toddy and got him yelled at.

  * * * * *

  Robert glared at his library book and made another note on his bedside notebook. It was invaluable for a writer, though it did gain some odd messages like light-bulbs!!! That was the eighth mistake he'd found in the first ten pages of this historical epic. He must have a word with Linda on the Library Van; not up to their usual standard at all. At least he was starting to warm up now. There was a rap on the door.

  "Rob?"

  "Come in," said Robert.

  Michael entered, carrying two glasses. "Nightcap," he said. "Saw your light was still on and thought you might like a hot drink. That looks exciting, from the cover."

  "Like most covers it's deceptive. Real load of rubbish. Thanks for putting my blanket on. Feel less like an icicle now. Hope you're not lurking with intentions - it's too damned cold for that."

  "No," said Michael with a sigh. "My back's giving me hell so your virtue is safe. I had a fall on my last day out with the lads."

  Robert put down his book and whipped open Michael 's towelling robe. "Bloody hell," he said, taking in an expanse of bruises and grazes. "I might have known. Get the ointment and Deep Heat."

  Michael modestly covered himself up again and went for the tins.

  "It wasn't Piper's fault," he said on his return. "Er, would you mind warming your hands first? He cast a shoe. I had to take out this big awkward lump that had four left feet. He tripped over a hummock. I was distracted - haven't left a saddle that fast in years." He gave a reminiscent grin.

  Robert sighed and started the first aid, ignoring the yelps of protest. "Suppose all the other idiots fell about laughing," he remarked. "Never did say who did this for you before I came along."

  "Didn't I?" said Michael. "They had warmer hands, too. Hell, that hurt!"

  "Good," said Robert. "Now you can give me a cuddle and get off to bed."

  "Can I borrow your book?" asked Michael. "Haven't a thing to read in my room."

  "Your room's full of books! All right, see how many mistakes you can spot. It's one of those 'Gramercie, fair maiden' sort. Funny, Linda on the van usually gives me good ones."

  "Linda, eh?" said Michael. "Now, about that cuddle ..."

  There was a short but enjoyable scuffle.

  "Idiot," said Robert, sorting himself out. "Now I'm covered in Deep Heat too." He hit Michael smartly on the head with the book. "Here, and don't start singing at five a.m. when you go to muck out. I need my rest," he commanded.

  * * * * *

  Robert glared at his companion, who was spreading butter thickly on his bread. "All that cholesterol is very bad for you," he announced. "Why don't you try the Eazispread?"

  "It's foul," said Michael. "I told you not to open the morning post till after breakfast, especially when you think it's bills."

  "Which reminds me," said Robert. "Will you stop sticking things behind that bloody clock! We had the final demand for the phone bill while you were away. You needn't worry. I've paid it."

  "I wasn't," said Michael. "It's still here, isn't it?"

  Robert opened his mouth to express an opinion, then sneezed loudly. "Oh, hell," he said wearily.

  Michael looked at him. "You're getting a cold," he accused.

  "And why shouldn't I have a cold?" said Robert aggressively. "Half the damned country's down with the flu. The only reason you're not is because germs are repelled by a strong smell of horse."

  "Yes," said Michael complacently. "Acts like an aphrodisiac with the ladies, too."

  "They must be mad," said Robert, sniffing hard.

  "You disappoint me," said Michael. "You should have leapt on me then, incensed with jealousy, tearing my clothes off and having your evil way with me."

  Robert looked at him. "You jest," he said. "By the time I'd ripped off your woolly jumper, shirt, thermal vest, corduroy breeches, long woolly socks and whatever, I'd be worn out before I got down to the good stuff. Anyway, it's too cold and I'm too weary. My life has fallen into the sear of the yellow leaf, and all that stuff."

  "No, you're always like this when you feel rotten," said Michael cheerfully. "Book's still not working, is it."

  "Right," said Robert and relapsed into a moody silence.

  Michael pulled his jacket on and looked at him worriedly. "I want to discuss something with you tonight," he said. "Hell, is that the time? Jack will be doing his nut, with Porter still laid up."

  "'Bout time that bastard put in a day's work," said Robert thickly.

  Michael gave him a quick hug then hurried out. Robert heard their estate car hurtling out of the yard, crossed his fingers, blew his nose and took his second dose of instant cold c
ure -which as usual, didn't. He read through the previous night's work, then sat back to consider his options. It was no good, he loathed his heroine, not to mention his hero. Was it fair to foist this load of junk on his faithful readers? He worked on it for a while, hoping things might improve, then stopped to make a soldiers' saviour, Michael 's favourite remedy for all that ailed you.

  Settling on the sofa to think for a moment, thanks to the soldiers' saviour when he awoke Michael was back and trotting around the kitchen.

  "Bloody cold out," he said. "Could be a white Christmas." He put the kettle on.

  "Make one for me too," said Robert. "Oh hell, I meant to get something out of the freezer."

  "Sit down," said Michael. "I'll throw something together. How are you and the book?"

  "I'm not so bad. As for the book, you can read what I've written later. I'd like to hear what you think. Go on, move over, I'll do us some spaghetti. Won't take long. Did they give you lunch at the Centre?"

  "Yes," said Michael. He eyed the manuscript. "Should I leave this till after I've eaten?"

  "Definitely. And stop chewing on my neck: I'm not on the menu."

  Later, after a mountain of spaghetti, Michael read through the manuscript. He put down the last page and looked at Robert.

  "Go on," said Robert. "What do you think of it?"

  "You can do a lot better than this. I can tell you hate writing it."

  Robert sighed. "Absolutely right. Light romance and Regency romping just is not me. Pity, I did a load of research, too. Thought at first it was a nasty case of writer's block. Well, what am I going to do? I had a big advance for this book and we have spent it all."

  "Have we?" said Michael. "On what?"

  "Just like you," said Robert. "I suppose you thought that sofa you're lying on was left by the pixies, or Santa. Then there was the rates, the re-plumbing in the bathrooms, that piece of land I bought ..."

  Michael's face brightened. "You didn't tell me about that. We could do with a bigger exercise paddock."

  "It's too boggy. It's going to be a water garden," said Robert, with a steely note in his voice. "And if I find one horse paddling in my pool ..."

  "Ah," said Michael. "Well, it's a grand sofa. Does wonders for my back."