by James Anson
Michael just went on looking very contented, then sighed and got up to make some tea.
"Fire kept in well, too," said Michael. "I'll bring up more wood and stuff for tonight. Get some sliced bread too, then we can make toast."
Robert settled back on the pillows. "Midnight toast," he said. "Has a cosy ring, doesn't it? Bit like us, all passion spent, reduced to making toast in the midnight hours."
"Here," said Michael. "Have your tea and stop spouting rubbish."
"We shouldn't be doing this, you know," said Robert, slurping tea happily. "It's sinful. Last night should cost you a basinful of Hail Marys for starters."
"Stuff the puritan ethic," said Michael. "We are going to have to shift soon. I'll check the bathroom's clear when you want to nip over."
"Like being in a damned French farce," said Robert. "OK. You go first - make sure the water's hot."
Robert, dressed as warmly as possible, was relaxing on the rumpled bed, watching Michael get into his hunting apparel. Quite a performance, he now realised.
"You're going to have to stop stuffing chocs if you want to keep getting into those breeches," he remarked. "Ah, a braces man, I see. How old-fashioned."
"You try jumping gates in a tight waistband," said Michael, stamping his foot home in his well-polished riding-boot. "Now, where's that back stud? I swear the damn thing walks. Got it."
After a few tries he looked at Robert. "Robert, could you fasten this for me? Can't get my arm that high yet. Still stiff."
"I knew it!" said Robert. "You put that shoulder out again, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you would only have gone on about it."
"I do not go on about things," said Robert. "Well, maybe I do. I'm sick of you coming back from a day's sport looking like a piece of human wreckage. Could kill you sometimes. Here, I'll fix it. Now, mind my delicate feet in those damned boots." He leapt up onto the fireside stool to avoid the boots and fixed the awkward stud, giving Michael's stock a flick as he did so.
"There you are now, all done up like a dog's dinner." Robert blew carefully across the top of Michael's cropped hair. "Hey, you're going bald," he announced in pleased tones.
"I am not," said Michael. "Stop mucking about and get down."
Robert, his arms still round Michael's neck, began to whisper affectionately into a reddening ear.
"You know something," he said, "I like this room. Very cosy. Must bring some chestnuts up tonight. Have an early night. You'll be tired after the hunt - probably need some embrocation rubbing in or something. Get some books from the library, if there are any which aren't on how to kill, cook or maim defenceless creatures."
"Try the top shelf," said Michael. "They keep the exciting stuff up there out of the way of the children."
"Must have a look," said Robert. "Could get some ideas on revitalising my love life. Come on, turn round. Um, you've gone all pink. Now, before you go ..."
"Nice," he said a little later. "Just what I had in mind. Haven't crushed your ruffles, have I?"
The door burst open. "Michael, I want a word with you." It was Colonel Charles Faulkner. He stood there with his mouth open. "Thought you'd be alone," he said stiffly.
"Don't you ever bloody knock?" said Michael. "I'm not, so clear off."
The colonel removed himself.
"Fool," said Michael. "I could have had the Dagenham Girl Pipers in here."
"He wouldn't have minded that," said Robert. "What's that creep doing here anyway?"
"No idea," said Michael. "I heard he was in Germany with his unit. I'm going to have a word with Ag about this." He stalked out.
"Oh dear," said Robert. He picked up Amos, who was staring saucer-eyed after Michael, not used to hearing him yell like that and mean it. "It's all right, Puss. He's not mad at us. Let that be a warning to you. Never get mixed up with an Irishman. Very uncertain tempers. And there's going to be two of 'em at each other's throats today. Now, I'll see to your breakfast."
When Robert went down he found a self-service breakfast had been laid out in the dining- room: great platefuls of kedgeree; sausages; bacon; slices of ham and bowls of boiled eggs. Several young girls from the village and the young Fanshaws were passing out plates and seeing that the less boisterous and/or aggressive were getting sufficient to eat. The room was filled with the deafening bray of hunting types uttering yelps of delight as they spotted old mates between packing down enormous breakfasts.
The Faulkner brothers were at opposite ends of the room, obviously on Agnes's instructions. Robert glared at Charles - even the knowledge he was anti-blood sports had done nothing to warm a chilly relationship and Robert considered Winifred, Charles's wife, to be the most poisonous woman he'd ever met. He looked round for his group.
They were standing together, looking bemused at the throng. He hurried over and made sure they were getting enough to eat, and answered questions on the Hunt, doing his best to be fair through gritted teeth. Jack had come in and was talking to Michael, who now resembled a large depression from Ireland.
Robert moved over to find them at loggerheads over Miranda riding side-saddle at the Hunt, Michael finally prevailing after a description of the heavy going. Jack was a fond parent, but believed that everyone should take a few falls in their time. His last one meant he was not riding at the moment. Michael, having won his point, called his dog to heel and went out to supervise the hounds' arrival. Robert sped upstairs to make sure Amos was shut securely in their room and present him with a slice of ham, a present from a lady admirer who had met Robert and his cat having a walkabout in the grounds.
When he returned the Hunt was mounting up after quaffing the Stirrup Cup. Sam was now in the kitchen, making overtures to the cook. Robert hurried out to give Piper a handful of sugar lumps he'd acquired and have a quick word with Michael, who was now in excellent spirits. Piper was delighted with his sugar lumps, crunching noisily.
"I hope you have a good run," said Robert, "seeing it's a drag."
"Spoken like a true friend," said Michael, grinning down at him. "And what the hell do you think you're doing?" he roared, walking his horse over to Toby, who had apparently been demonstrating to a young lady his prowess at standing on his head in the saddle.
Michael had a short conversation with him, which left the lad quite unsubdued.
Miranda, now mounted astride, yelled "Hello" at Robert, who waved back and then retreated to the house where some old ladies were cooing over the hounds.
"Oh, aren't they just sweet, Mr March?"
"Yes," he said. "But you should see the list of slaughtered poultry the Hunt has to pay for every quarter. Menace to anything that moves, that lot. We'll just see them off, then we can go out on our trip."
He paused to inform Agnes, who was just organising a chain-gang to brush, sweep and tidy all the rooms, that their room was off limits so Amos would not be disturbed, and departed with his party in two cars.
The outing, he was pleased to recall later, was very successful. The village, mercifully not under a pall of snow, had its photo taken from all angles. The Brewers and its customers rose to the occasion with a decent light lunch, Robert having been on to them earlier. They stopped at Highgreen Farm to see a modern dairy farm in operation, the tour conducted with great aplomb by Ashley and ending in the farm parlour for hot tea and cake. They also sampled Jess's new venture, home-made ice-cream, which even Robert voted a great success. Almost everyone wanted to take a cheese home, which were provided. The tour of the village church was conducted by the vicar without mentioning the fabric, but as souvenirs were bought, that was not necessary.
Then the group were invited to the vicarage for a drink or hot beverage. On the way back Robert pointed out his home proudly, and they immediately insisted on stopping to view his garden - not that there was much to see, but what there was, was admired. He was asked was he in the Yellow Book? Shades of Oscar, thought Robert, till he remembered the book put out by the National Gardens Scheme. He said modes
tly that he hoped to throw open his little plot when the village did theirs in early summer. And why not? he said to himself. Then he found a tour of the farmhouse was being requested.
Thanks to Jess and the Aga (which was admired) it was warm inside, although he was startled to see one lady studying a framed photo of the Irish Showjumping team carefully.
"Mr March, isn't that - ?"
"Oh yes," he said. "I was travelling with the team then. Liaison, that sort of thing. We know each other quite well."
"I could tell," she said happily. "He looks well on a horse, doesn't he?"
"Yes," said Robert shortly. Several other replies had occurred to him of a more acid nature, but they would not have been fitting in the circumstances.
On their drive home, taking a detour to see a local beauty spot, they saw the Hunt in the far distance and drew up to watch.
"They are never going to jump that wall," said an awed voice.
Robert very nearly replied that he was afraid they were and averted his eyes. He'd long ago realised that for his own peace of mind it was better not to watch Michael's hell-for-leather galloping on the hunting field. From the lack of gasps, he presumed no-one had actually fallen so they proceeded on their way.
After a very good afternoon, it had even had some sunshine, they arrived back to find all the large bathrooms crammed with hunt persons scrubbing off acres of mud. The dry-cleaning bills would be excessive, Robert gathered.
Apparently everything had gone well, apart from Toby falling foul of his Uncle Mike again and narrowly missing being sent home. The general opinion was that he was lucky to be back in one piece. Michael, Robert gathered, was soaking in a bath somewhere.
Robert went to the kitchen to check on his cat, who was now supplementing his Whiskas with treats from the kitchen. Sam, fast losing his rakish outline, was snoring in his basket.
Robert retired to their room, picked his way through discarded and very muddy boots, jacket and breeches and brewed himself a cup of tea before settling in the large wing-chair by the fire. They seemed to have acquired a travelling rug from somewhere, which he tucked round himself. Curling his feet up, he basked in the warmth. He had never felt less like moving anywhere.
Michael entered, his hair on end and very pink-faced.
Robert sniffed. "God, that's sexy - carbolic, isn't it? You need to shave, too."
"I know," growled Michael. "Think I'll grow a beard."
"You won't," said Robert. "You look awful in a beard. Sort of a short King Kong. Did you have a good day?"
"Apart from nearly taking a strap to young Toby, and being cursed with a couple of kickers whose riders didn't know what to do with them, yes," said Michael. "How did seeing Larton in midwinter go?"
"Pretty good. They all want to come back and see it in the summer now. I was thinking of throwing our place open for the National Gardens Scheme. Just a few days in the summer, when the rest of the village does it. It would work out quite well, you know.
First they do the vicarage with its lily ponds, then Colonel Heaton's with his old roses and bees, then our place. My water garden will be developing by then. They can finish at that home with the green shutters where you flirt with the lady."
"Mrs Armitage and I are just good friends," said Michael primly.
"As she's pushing eighty-six I'm inclined to believe you there. And now you're home with lots of free time, I was thinking ... You can design us some cards to sell for the church and/or garden fund."
"Only if St Elfleda's gets a cut," said Michael firmly, "or forget it."
"I do wish you were a Methodist or something," said Robert. "All right then."
Michael, who had started to dress for dinner, glanced at Robert, who was still curled up in the chair and was now busy making notes.
"You've not changed," said Michael. "Better get a move on. Dinner's in half an hour."
"'S all right," said Robert, "just tell 'em my leg's acting up, there's a good lad. I picked up lots of local colour for my whodunit and had some more ideas. I had tea at Jess's and lunch at the Brewers so I'm not hungry."
"There's not a thing wrong with your leg. Look, Rob, we are guests and agreed to help out."
There was snort of derision from Robert.
"All right then," said Michael. "Unwilling guests. But we do have to go down and do our bit as promised."
"Gawd, you're awfully Brit. at times," said Robert. "Half expect you to say, Remember Dunkirk."
"Rob," said Michael, "I'm off downstairs now, and I expect you down in fifteen minutes, dressed and with a bright smile on your face, or bared teeth - I don't really care which - but down, understand?"
"Oh, fuck off," said Robert.
He found himself eyeball to eyeball with his partner.
"Fifteen minutes," said Michael, "or I'll come and fetch you." He left.
Robert looked after him consideringly. While he was tempted to press his luck, Michael was quite likely to throw him over one shoulder and dump him in the middle of the drawing-room for a joke. He'd go down and do his party piece, but Michael would regret it.
As he began to dress Amos let out a plaintive miaow. "Feeling lonely, pet? I'll take you down to the kitchen and Cook. You can sit by her fire with Sam."
Michael, keeping an eye on the staircase, saw with relief that Robert was descending.
He looked magnificent: cool, remote, hazel eyes flashing, with his cat tucked under his arm. Pity he was going to be hell to live with till he calmed down.
When Robert returned to the drawing-room, having left Amos curled on Cook's ample lap, he found Michael talking to Colonel Heaton, a favourite drinking companion.
The colonel's good lady's sciatica having struck, she was unable to attend. Robert, aware that she couldn't stand Agnes, guessed that the sciatica was diplomatic. Agnes was doing her Lady Macbeth 'welcome to fair Dunsinane' act as she announced Mr and Mrs Crispin Gould. Robert noticed Jack, Colonel Charles Faulkner and his lady twitch, and distinctly heard Michael say something in Irish which sounded rude before he poured himself a large whiskey. As theirs was a strong mutual dislike it could be an interesting evening, thought Robert. Michael and Polly had been an item at one time, too - Mrs Crispin Gould was a local farmer's daughter.
All we need now is bloody Amy, Robert thought.
"Ah, Mr March," said Agnes. "I think you know Lord and Lady Merton. I'm putting them at your table. I know you'll find lots to talk about."
Robert considered this extremely unlikely. He couldn't stand Amy, and her husband had no conversation.
Agnes looked down the room to where her brothers were in close proximity. "I must go and see to - er - things," she said.
Robert watched her have a brisk word with Michael. He replied with the sort of expression on his face which invites any lady of spirit to slap it, hard. Agnes, with great strength of will, refrained.
Robert watched, entranced, and pulled out his notebook. Wouldn't miss this, he thought: better than the telly.
"Evening, March," said Colonel Heaton. "I would have liked to go out this morning but the damned joints have stiffened up again. Had a good run, did you?"
Robert had long ago given up trying to explain to the colonel that he didn't share Michael's mania for hunting, so he just grunted an assent and inquired about the colonel's arthritis. From that, they moved on to his knee, the Colonel's hip replacement, and what did he think of that damned suggestive play the BBC had on last week?
Robert said all it had suggested to him was the need to stock up on library books for the winter season if that was the best on offer. It had gripped Michael so much he'd fallen asleep in the first ten minutes, only surfacing towards the end and then to make disparaging remarks about the heroine's horse's hocks.
"Better go and have a word with young Gould," said Colonel Heaton, "before that woman calls us in for dinner. I only came to oblige Bourton. See Colonel Faulkner 's here. Damned prig. Most disliked man in the regiment, John says."
* * * *
*
Have to admit one thing, Robert thought over his meal, I was right. The new cook is fantastic.
He glanced over at Michael, then looked away again. He appeared to be demonstrating to Polly Gould his horse leaping over every obstacle on the Hunt, with aid of a stalk of celery balanced on the condiment set. Never nice to watch the object of your affections being a bloody idiot, thought Robert. On his right, Amy was boring on about her undistinguished offspring. Lord Merton, on the other hand, was discussing badgers and their protection with enthusiasm. Robert joined in and promised his support.
"Poor buggers need all the help they can get," he remarked.
Amy said she was surprised he was still living in the village. Surely he found it terribly tame after the fleshpots of London? She made it sound as though his life in London had been one long round of dissipation, which was sadly untrue. Robert replied that home was where the heart was, threw in some sentiments about the beauties of nature and the simple life à la Patience Strong and hoped it made her feel ill.
On taking another look at Michael, he saw that he and Charles were now far too close together. Only the restraining influence of Colonel Heaton appeared to be stopping gauntlets from being flung down with some force.
Agnes got up and said she was sure they'd all like to move into the drawing-room for coffee. There would be bridge later, or if the gentleman preferred it, a few games of billiards.
Robert groaned. He loathed bridge and knew the temperature in the billiard room was on a par with that of the North Pole. What he really wanted to do was find a long sofa in a warm room to stretch out on. His leg really was aching now. He remembered thankfully that there was one in the library, which was kept warm for the books. He had just settled himself (the fire was warm indeed) when Jack appeared.
"The old girl's not in here, then?" he said, looking about hopefully.
To Robert's annoyance he looked like settling too.
"Good," Jack went on. "Expect her to start yelling Hi de Hi at any moment. Not needed. They're a nice enough crowd. Wish she'd do something about Mike. He and Charles are just about squaring up out there. Leave 'em to it, I say. Both bloody Irishmen past seeing sense."