by James Anson
"Good. So if you want to keep on enjoying it, think about what we are going to do. Good thing you have a paying job."
There was a short silence.
"Was going to mention that," said Michael. "I have till the New Year, anyway. Had a big row with Agnes. Told her what she could do with the job and gave in my notice. Never mind, we still have my pension and I'll find something," he added with confidence.
Robert looked at the ceiling and sighed. "I knew it would come to this. We'll end up selling matches in the street while the workhouse looms and destitution stares us in the face."
"You're not mad, then," said Michael with relief.
"No, more resigned. I had Agnes on the phone, telling me how you hauled some sprig of the nobility off his horse and knocked him into the middle of next week - losing her a large fee. She seemed to take that personally. I told her money wasn't everything. She didn't seem to agree."
"No-one," said Michael, "treats a horse like that little shit was doing in front of me and gets away with it. He had spurs on, for heaven's sake. Ag is letting some right rubbish into the classes. All they have is money. I'm not paid to coddle rough-handed loud-mouthed brats. I was there to teach decent horsemanship."
"You won't get into trouble?" asked Robert worriedly.
"No. His father came round. I told him what happened. He took a look at the horse and said I should have hit young Adrian harder. That's why I don't take Flash down there any more. He was ideal for nervous riders but I'm not having his mouth damaged by that ham-handed lot."
"That's my lad," said Robert. "It's all right, love. I've seen this coming. Get us a drink each. That whodunit you like will be on in a minute. We'll watch that and to hell with the lot of them."
Later, sprawled over and beside Michael on the sofa, Robert was taking a very roseate view of life. He helped himself to another handful of crisps, casually brushing crumbs off onto his partner as they watched the last moments of the film.
"I told you he did it," said Michael triumphantly.
"Mindless rubbish," said Robert, "but entertaining. That plot had more holes than a colander and the police work was farcical. I'm sick of bone-headed country policemen being helped out by brilliant amateurs with titles - and flats in Grafton Square."
"That's it!" said Michael. "You write a good old-fashioned whodunit. You'll have the police work dead right. Set it in the country - no-one wants to read about murder in darkest Fulham. I haven't read a good one in ages. They're all mad on sex now - it's boring."
Robert looked at him in fascination. "No, I couldn't," he said. "It's a very old-fashioned genre, written by nice middle-class ladies living in cathedral closes with well-tended gardens. I used to meet them at those awful literary luncheons. Have to admit, they were better company than the would-be Hemingways or Angry Young Men. Had more conversation for a start."
"You have a well-tended garden," Michael pointed out. "The villagers are always admiring it. Never give my horses any credit for the luxuriant growth."
"Don't be coarse," said Robert. He giggled suddenly. "I know two things about a horse, and one of them is rather coarse," he recited, then had another sip of wine. "Who said that, Mike?"
"You," said Michael promptly. "And while you're up, bring another bottle over - save too many trips."
Robert weaved his way back, bearing a second bottle of wine, just in case. "Going to regret this in the morning, you know," he warned. "Still, you could be right. I need to write something different. Yes!"
He bounced to his feet again, staggered slightly, and dug out a large notepad. "Here, you take notes while I dictate."
"Just remember I don't do shorthand or work on an empty glass," said Michael.
Robert refilled the waiting glass. "Go to work on an egg," he said solemnly. "All right, now let's go. Scene, a picturesque manor house in the Home Counties. I'll use your cousin Simon's - without that bloody swimming-pool. Has to be near enough to London for people to be able to dash up there with nefarious purposes. Set it in the thirties, I think."
"I wondered why Simon's expensively heated pool had been scrubbed," said Michael.
"Don't interrupt, please," said Robert. "But rural enough for someone to - say - listen to the sad song of the nightingales. Fair makes you want to weep. Walled garden, stables, tennis court, the lot. Time, in the deep midwinter."
They harmonised the carol for a moment.
"No nightingales," said Michael firmly. "Not in December. They will all have their little heads down."
"All right, Percy Edwards," said Robert. "'Tis the raven himself that croaks. Don't write that."
"Nice line, that," said Michael. "Evocative."
"Yeah. Mike thought so too," said Robert. "Let's press on - and shift that hand!"
The next morning Michael stepped carefully round the kitchen, searching for the Alka Seltzer. Robert was seated at the table, holding his head in case it fell off.
"Rob, get this down you," Michael instructed.
Robert reached out a shaking hand and took the glass. "Never again," he said fervently. "Do you have to eat breakfast in front of me?"
"I'm hungry," said Michael, dropping another slice of bread in the sizzling bacon fat.
Robert gulped and fled to his study.
An hour later, having reluctantly decided to live after all, Robert emerged for a reviving cup of coffee and noticed with surprise and relief that Michael had cleared the washing-up. He picked up the large notepad from the sofa and began to read. After a while he reached for his glasses, sat down and began to make more notes. He was still busy when Michael returned from work.
"What's cooking?" Michael inquired.
"You are," said Robert absently. "I must get on with this. Make me some toast, will you? Open a tin or something."
"I picked up a pie from Jess. Had an idea your head would be down, working. Just have to put it in the oven. How's it coming?"
"The pie, my head or the masterpiece? Let you know later," said Robert. "You know, I feel like ice cream."
After dinner, as they both consumed ice-cream, Michael read through the plot summary and extra notes.
"I like it," he said finally. "Sounds like the sort of book I'd want to read."
"Good," said Robert. "Now all I have to do is persuade Mr Halliwell to persuade my publisher he'd rather have this book than the other rubbish. Shouldn't be a problem. Anyway, it's Halliwell's, not mine. Won't bother to read up on the Hunt stuff, I can pick your brains for that. It's going to be very popular, making my victim an MFH."
"Surprised you didn't have him eaten by his hounds," said Michael. "Happened, you know. In Ireland. To - "
"Not over my ice-cream!" said Robert. "In fact, not at all. God, you're full of gruesome stories, and it's the cheerful look on your face while you tell 'em that makes 'em worse."
* * * * *
Muttering darkly, Robert searched his desk. Where the hell was that bill from Forizo for the seaweed and blood and bone fertilizer? He liked his plants to enjoy a varied diet.
He paused and looked suspiciously at the clock on the mantlepiece. Yes, the inevitable bunch of papers were stuck behind it. He turfed them out. Now let's see ... Water rates - not due already, surely. Grocery bill, letter from the horse bookshop. Hang on, let's see ...
Dear Mr Faulkner, I am afraid we have to draw your attention to the unsatisfactory state of your charge account. No doubt this has just slipped your notice, but -
"Mike, I'll kill you," said Robert firmly. Ah well, problem solved. That's Mike's Christmas present. I'll pay off his charge account. Almost as good as giving him the damned books, and a lot less trouble. He made out the cheque, put it with a letter in an envelope and sat back with satisfaction, then swore and resumed his search for Forizo's bill.
Chapter Thirteen
On the morning of Christmas Day Robert looked at the bright green eggs ready and waiting for him unappreciatively. The colour was startling. No doubt Michael meant them to be festive. It was b
est not to inquire. Himself was whistling happily at the stove, constructing a huge fry-up.
"Eggs all right?" Michael inquired.
"Um," said Robert. "Nice and hard, the way I like 'em. Shove over the paprika. Heard you coming home - about three, was it? You fell over the step."
"So I did," Michael admitted. "We had a few jars after Mass. Good thing I wasn't stopped on the way home."
"Amos is going to have that mouse in shreds by dinnertime," said Robert.
Michael, deftly sidestepping Amos flinging his catnip mouse about the kitchen with enthusiasm, agreed. Sam was curled balefully in his basket, wearing his new flea collar - a present from Robert. He seemed to have taken the gift as an insult. Michael settled with his meal, took a forkful, then gazed solemnly at Robert.
"It's funny not going out first thing to see to Piper," he said. "I hope he's all right. I'll ring Jack later, remind him about his bottle of Guinness."
"Oh my Gawd," said Robert. "I keep expecting to hear 'And he's never stayed away from home overnight before'. Now look, he's in a nice modern stable with all mod. cons. He's got Miranda, young Toby and Jack dancing attendance on him with congenial companions to talk to. He probably won't want to come home at all. Personally," he went on, "I'm finding it pleasant not being awakened at 5 a.m. by Piper kicking his door demanding breakfast. Flash seems to prefer to sleep late. Besides, you've left him with me before now."
"I know," said Michael, still looking like a concerned parent. "But I trust you with him."
Robert shook his head as Michael left to give Flash his Christmas breakfast. I suppose that's one of the nicest compliments he's paid me, he thought.
Michael finally returned with a package and envelope. "Here," he said. "I think the size is right. I took an old one of yours in to measure it by. The lady at Scotch Wool said you could put it in the machine. The other's a voucher from the Garden Centre at Gretton. I thought you'd like to pick something there yourself."
Robert was wriggling into his new jersey with alacrity. "This is great," he said.
"Thanks. I'll get myself a good clematis - rather fancy having one twining up our back wall. Here," he handed Michael an envelope. "I found your final demand over the charge account at the bookshop. I thought I'd clear it for you. Stop you worrying about it."
There was a silence.
"That was very thoughtful of you," said Michael, who hadn't been worrying about the account at all. He did his best to look appreciative.
Robert looked at him and sighed. "All right. And there's a bottle of Irish whiskey in the cupboard there and a new pair of green wellies in my wardrobe."
Michael grinned broadly. "Thanks," he said with feeling. "Let's have one now."
He was just opening the bottle while Robert stood by the Stone's Ginger when the phone went.
"You keep on with that," said Robert. "I'll answer the damn thing."
"If it's Jack, ask about Piper," Michael instructed.
"Oh Jack," said Robert. "Before you start, how is Piper? He's fine. Mike, it's for you."
Robert picked up his drink and took it upstairs with him, cogitating on what to wear for Christmas dinner at Highgreen Farm. Jack could, he knew, meander on for hours on the phone about nothing at all. He wondered idly about an Event Agnes was supposed to have on over the festive season, source of much rumour in the village, though Robert doubted that they would be there.
Now, I'll need my wellies for the trot round the farmyard, he thought, take the jersey for then, too.
He began to sort out his best clothes while half-listening to Michael on the phone. He seemed to be arguing; his accent got much thicker in times of emotion. Robert heard him replace the receiver then explode in some fine Irish curses. Michael invariably swore, made love and cooed in Piper's ears in his native woodnotes. Robert often wondered about asking for a translation. But then you know what those operas come out like. It's about time Mike was getting ready.
"Mike! Get a move on!" Robert yelled. "I don't want to be revving up the car and you still in the bathroom."
"Bad news," said Michael. He appeared in the doorway wearing his lowering Heathcliff expression. "Won't be getting that time off. They need me for this damned house party Agnes is throwing."
"Oh no," said Robert. "We are going to spend Boxing Day happily watching Where Eagles Dare on TV so you can be rude about it, me not stirring from the Aga and you with your wellies off for once, not careering halfway over Gloucestershire in peril of life and limb."
"I know," said Michael. "I was looking forward to it. But Glenbucket's gone and broken his leg. They have him in traction."
"Not a horse, is he?" asked Robert, concerned.
"No," said Michael. "It's Jamsie, the eleventh Earl. Remember I told you about him? The idiot fell down the steps of his wine cellar. Millicent wanted to shoot him, she'd been relying on his fee to clear some back bills. Agnes had him all lined up as her main attraction - and there's more." He paused.
Robert poured them each another drink. "I have a feeling we are going to need this. Now, Mike, start at the beginning. I'll let you know if you lose me along the way."
"Well," said Michael, "it seems Agnes had this idea to throw Old Hall open for Christmas and New Year - to invite a select group of tourists to stay and enjoy a real Dickensian Christmas in a genuine stately home, filled with a genuine stately family. You know the sort of thing. 'Come to gracious Old Hall, lived in by the Fanshaw family (when funds permitted) for over three hundred years. Thrill to the haunted room, tremble at the dungeons ... '"
"What dungeons?" Robert inquired. "The house was only built in 1640."
"On ancient foundations," said Michael. "Remains of Druidic temple in the garden where village maidens were sacrificed in nameless rites."
"Just a moment," said Robert. "You are referring to four times Great-Uncle Herbert's Folly, are you not? Admittedly in a ruinous condition. Whatever he did with village maidens, sacrifice wasn't on the agenda. I've seen the bills for that Folly, one of 'em hasn't been paid yet."
"They won't know that," said Michael. "And it goes on - 'Meet the aristocratic Fanshaw family whose title dates back to the Crusades ...'"
"It does not," said Robert.
"' ... enjoy a typical English county gathering. Thrill to the pageantry and colour of the local Hunt ...' Well, you get the picture."
"Oh, I do," said Robert. "So a typical country gathering at the home of the aristocratic Fanshaw family would be you, with a glass in your hand talking about warble flies, Colonel Heaton talking about his time in Afghanistan, and Pompous Potter talking about the village drains. It's a less than exciting prospect. And the vicar too, talking about the church fabric's need for constant support. Still, I suppose he and the colonel are a start ..."
"Colonel Heaton is at a cavalry club reunion dinner and the vicar is at some clerical round-up," said Michael. "Jack had a flaming row with Crispin Gould in the Brewers last week, so the local politician is out, too."
"Ah," said Robert. "What about a showbiz personality? That actor who drinks, lives over at Birtle Gap? He did all right at the flower show."
"He is hardly County," said Michael with hauteur.
"Snob," said Robert. "We haven't a spare Royal so who is she getting?"
"Me," said Michael. "I have a title. It's an obscure but perfectly genuine, old Irish one."
There was a thoughtful silence.
"You never mentioned before that you had a title," said Robert, looking at his companion as though he'd just developed a social disease.
"Why should I?" said Michael. "I never use it. And take that look off your face: it's not like the Hapsburg jaw or hereditary madness."
"You know my views on titles," said Robert. "Load of gilded parasites sapping the life-blood of the country."
"What do you mean, parasites?" yelled Michael. "Jack and I pay our taxes like everyone else. And I'm not even a British subject."
"I wish you were," Robert yelled back. "I'm living wit
h an alien. You could be a spy."
"For who?" said Michael. "It's a good thing I don't take you seriously, Rob."
There was a moment's silence.
"I'll put the kettle on," said Robert. "Get some mince pies out. We need a break."
They both ate a mince pie and had some coffee.
Robert looked up. "OK, that was my fault. I forget some things aren't funny to you.
But shouldn't you have married and bred to carry on the line and all that rubbish?"
"Charles has three strapping lads," said Michael. "His Denis will do, unless he breaks his neck point-to-pointing. Very poor seat on a horse."
"Oh well," said Robert philosophically. "I'll have my feet up on the Aga, keeping nice and warm while you're going round doing your impersonation of Old Mother Riley's slightly posh nephew. I'll enjoy the peace and quiet and think about you."
"However," Michael began, taking a quick look at the clock, "Agnes does feel that I alone am not an adequate replacement for dear Jamsie. I haven't his charm and savoir faire, she says. So she decided what was needed was a literary gent - preferably one whose books actually sold in the States. Someone witty, handsome and charming, who wouldn't mind giving up his Christmas holiday to help out."
"Did she now?" said Robert. "Do I happen to know this paragon?"
Michael nodded.
"Thought so," said Robert. "It would have been tactful of her to inquire first if I wanted to take part in her damned charade."
"You know Agnes," said Michael. "Single-minded. She was sure you'd enjoy having some good dinners and meeting interesting people rather than spending your time watching me emptying glasses."
"Was she now?" said Robert. "Look, Mike, you go upstairs and change. I'll have a word with Ag and Jack - see if we can't come to an arrangement. It might be fun."
Michael looked at him in disbelief, then retired to change.
Robert rang Old Hall and said he would be happy to help out with the Countess of Bourton's little problem but that a few things had to be discussed first - like the transferring of whatever they had been going to pay Jamsie to himself, and more importantly, the matter of Michael's dismissal. Had Agnes in fact considered that it would also entail dissolving the partnership agreement between her husband and Michael, who would naturally require a full cash settlement?