Country Lovers

by Fiona Walker

  ‘I’ve tried that.’

  ‘Try it again. Humour me.’ He swallowed back another yawn. The hat smelled of something scented. Lavender maybe, or lime. It was nice.

  She stood beside him. ‘This won’t—’

  ‘Shh.’

  There was a low whine from the cat flap. An owl hooted.

  ‘He won’t—’

  ‘Shh.’

  The scent was stronger now she was close beside him, heady and citrussy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn her head to glance up to a window in the house, guessed that was where Kes was sleeping. The owl hooted again. Their breath condensed in baby dragon clouds by their faces as they waited. He felt her arm accidentally brush his. All at once he was plugged into the mains.

  They waited a long time. Electricity pulsed through him.

  She shifted impatiently, breathing. ‘You know Blair Robertson’s here?’

  ‘Yes,’ he breathed back.

  ‘Is that okay with you?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it—’

  ‘There!’ She flicked her torch back on.

  The fox was behind the chicken run, eyes gleaming through the honeycomb pattern of wire. He looked far from frightened. He was gazing at the little coop in which Lester’s laying bantams were roosting.

  ‘Little sod. They’re all wile and instinct,’ Pax said admiringly, moving forwards to call for him, reaching down for some feta to throw within sniffing distance. Laurence the fox seemed to weigh up his options, pale eyes unblinking – all-night stake-out versus Greek mezze – and then slunk round to eat the scrap before trotting forwards to eat more from her hand. She scooped him up calmly, the young fox surprisingly trusting as she delivered him back to his big hutch where he began tucking into a bowl of dog food.

  ‘Thank you.’ She turned back to Luca, ducking her head with a polite grimace. ‘Again.’

  He braced himself for a sarcastic remark about pony lessons, but it didn’t come.

  ‘Pax, I’m not being nice to you because Ronnie asked me to. It’s because…’ The reasons were too conflicted to explain, the hour too late.

  ‘It’s because you’re nice?’ she suggested.

  ‘Yes. That.’ He gave up.

  She smiled, stepping forwards and reaching up to his face. ‘Goodnight, Luca.’

  For a ridiculous moment he thought she was going to take his bearded cheeks in her hands, the volts ramping up. Instead, she gripped the flaps of his trapper hat and lifted it off his head, cramming it back on her own and turning away in a waft of lime and lavender.

  ‘Goodnight, Pax.’

  PART FOUR

  16

  Shocked emojis greeted Gill’s Monday morning revelation to The Saddle Bags’ WhatsApp group that she’d spotted Blair Robertson driving away from the stud at first light: it was either him or Gary Lineker.

  Unimpressed, Bridge sent a ‘meh’ face, although she was ashamed to catch herself Googling both men afterwards to check out the comparison. She maintained a dignified silence through the two-day debate that followed, phone buzzing non-stop as the Bags argued whether or not footballers were sexy, photographs traded like Top Trumps, mostly of ageing pundits with fake tans, the general consensus being not, although they were all very taken with a vintage shot of George Best posing naked on a silk sofa, Miss World 1977 in his lap.

  Enough! She interjected on Tuesday evening. You know the rules, ladies. NO retro pin-ups, sexism, exploitation or excessive body hair. To which she’d added a photo of Princess Leia in a gold bikini kissing a Wookie and a row of namaste emoji.

  But the conversation refused to die. By the following morning Mo had shared a picture of a sexy Chelsea forward who she was always telling Bridge looked like Aleš. That’s his Balbo. Deny it!

  More goatee than GoT, she pinged back distractedly over breakfast, bracing herself for another facial hair debate. Instead, she received a rain-soaked selfie of Mo and Gill setting out on a hack captioned Lightweight!

  If only they knew how heavy her heart was.

  Some of us have jobs to go to! Bridge drew beards on their picture and shared it back before setting off for Compton Magna Primary school – lazily taking the car, telling herself she should be relieved to let the duo brave the icy, needle-sharp rain that had driven in from the east.

  As another morning crawled by trapped in Auriol’s office bringing order to chaos, Bridge reminded herself that the pay-off would be to blast across a field on Craic entirely self-funded. She wasn’t officially on the payroll until the beginning of February, but her quick-thinking boss – recognising that Bridge was a shaman of the spreadsheet who had saved her skin through the Ofsted inspection – had insisted upon ‘on-the-job-training’ to keep the office manned. She’d even found enough in the budget for an ‘emergency stipend’ (which given it was cash-in-hand and largely made up of old pound coins, Bridge suspected was not entirely LEA approved).

  This week, riding felt like an indulgence while her work/home and bank balance found new levels. She relished her new pet challenge, even if organising Auriol felt like herding cats and her marriage was in the doghouse.

  Several humdinging rows with Aleš had meant no lovemaking for four days. There was no Fantasy Ash any more to cheer her along, just typing callouses. When Aleš had set off for work that morning he’d left her with his VAT return to file instead of a kiss. All a stark reminder that you must be careful what you wished for. Her and her big witch mouth. Literally, she kept catching herself sucking her misshaped lip. A ‘pastie lip’ her dad would call it, although Bridge’s latest diet meant no pastry was allowed near it.

  She returned home for a cottage cheese lunch at the folding picnic table, her sitting room unrecognisable as the cosy nest of a week ago, the familiar, squishy sofas in Aleš’s lock-up, stacks of flooring materials in their place. Last Friday – reeling from two days’ chaotic ‘on-the-job training’ in the midst of Compton Magna Primary School’s inspection – Bridge had come home to find her sitting room stripped bare, Aleš laying chipboard over her beloved flagstones in preparation for parquet she didn’t want, using her bad-spell pentacle as a design, his dedication absolute, his temper darkening daily.

  Yesterday’s quarrel meant he had already abandoned the project. Bridge blamed black magic and too much lip.

  A message from Pax lifted her spirits: See you around 3.30. Kes and I are making a cake. Don’t forget to bring your friend.

  On your marks, get set – bake! She sent a row of smiley faces, then texted Carly: Still up for later? When a thumbs up came back, she quashed disappointment.

  Bridge knew it was selfish to want to keep her playdate visit to the stud all to herself and yet a lifetime of chameleon friendships meant she sensed a mismatch. Carly was very black and white, lacking the molten, volcanic emotion which had drawn Bridge so instinctively to Pax, a woman who had stuck her head above the married-with-kids parapet to admit what all the rest of them struggled to say. She was a freedom fighter, whereas Carly was in for the long siege.

  Her phone buzzed – Petra joining in the Bags’ WhatsApp chat at last. Keep the footballers coming, ladies! Need inspiration. Beards mandatory… I have Cavaliers nostril-deep in muff here.

  Raising a dry chuckle as she imagined Gill’s shocked face reading it, Bridge was tempted to interject with I’ve told Aleš my lady garden is going wild if he doesn’t shave his, but discarded the idea because it was only half the story and she didn’t trust them not to guess the rest.

  She yawned. Last night’s row – another corker – had been a game of two halves, the first of which had been Aleš’s discovery of naked George Best on her phone’s gallery, along with Lineker in his underpants and Ginola all silver-foxed up in a tight polo neck. He was now convinced she had a kink for ageing soccer stars. Served him right for snooping, Bridge thought as her phone lit up with laughing-crying faces from Mo.

  The second half of the Mazurs’ domestic meltdown had been far closer to the bone, sparked by Aleš sugges
ting that they should start looking around for somewhere bigger to live now that she was earning too. A plot on which he could build his family a home with enough rooms for more babies – one more, maybe two. All they needed was a bit of land. No, not for Craic; he’d laughed when she suggested it. Chickens, maybe. She wouldn’t have time for horse riding. It was a full-time project planning and creating their dream home to grow old in together.

  ‘I will lay parquet in all the rooms for my darling wife!’ he’d announced with the theatricality of W. B. Yeats saying he would lay his dreams at her feet.

  At this, Bridge had bridled. ‘I don’t like fecking parquet!’

  ‘But you ask me for engineered flooring, kochanie.’ Aleš had looked hurt. ‘I just got best rate on European Bordeaux oak in Midlands.’

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I like the flagstones. I like this cottage. I don’t want parquet!’ she’d wailed, knowing that what she meant was I don’t want more babies and I don’t want to grow old.

  With a bright chirrup, a calendar reminder appeared on her phone: PICK UP KIDS. Guilt cold-splashed her face.

  Gratefully abandoning Aleš’s VAT return, she drove to Broadbourne where her sister-in-law pressed her with strong black coffee and showed off the latest high-tech gadgetry Aleš’s brother had installed throughout the house he’d built for his ever-expanding family. ‘I just say “Alexa, turn on light” and it turn on light!’

  ‘Queen, I just say “Aleš, turn on the light”. Same difference, and no spyware is sharing my private conversations with marketeers.’

  Driving home, her indignation mounted as she wondered whether Aleš had told his sister-in-law about the row, and that was why she’d been so keen to showcase her house.

  Flynn’s pickup was parked in her husband’s cherished spot outside the cottages, his dog barking from the open back canopy which housed shelves of different sized horseshoes and a gas forge to heat and shape them.

  He came out of his front door, shrugging on a coat as she unlocked hers. They exchanged neighbourly hellos, Zac on her hip and Flavia toddling alongside. Reaching back for the folded buggy, Bridge discreetly admired his rock god looks as he closed the pickup’s tailgate, grateful to have her Safe Married Crush back in play.

  ‘See you at the wassail later, maybe?’ he called over the roof as he climbed in.

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ She’d forgotten it was the village’s annual knees-up to wish for a good harvest, staged in the orchard just after dusk. Aleš loved it, throwing himself into the singing and cider-drinking because it reminded him of celebrations at home in Poland.

  When she got inside she found he’d messaged her phone with a sticker of a bear throwing love hearts around. No aubergines in sight.

  Bridge looked at the chaotic mess he’d left downstairs, had a brief vision of herself trapped in a newbuild with endless VAT returns, a slalom of highchairs and smart speakers that listened to her every ‘feck’, and decided not to reply just yet.

  *

  ‘Take another picture, Mummy!’ Kes hugged his new BBF again, striking a pose. ‘Gronny!’

  Pax waited as he waved his grandmother back into shot from the end of the lead rope, then captured them on her phone, grateful that poor Internet and a bad marriage meant she’d always shunned Instagram, the picture of privileged indulgence briefly flashing on screen. If Kes had thought Ronnie was the best thing ever before the Shetland arrived, now that she’d found him a pony to ride on, that love was unconditional and carved in stone.

  The Shetland was adorable, she had to admit. Berry-eyed, bargy and infinitely bribable, he was a grey-and-mud force of nature, bursting with greed and small-man syndrome. It was obvious that he lived for food, attention and, above all, hero-worship, instantly luxuriating in the love of a five-year-old boy. As soon as he and Kes body-slammed, nuzzled, mutually scratched and hung out, it was also clear that this was going to be all-out devotion.

  ‘A match made in heaven!’ Ronnie concluded, posing with Kes and the Shetland for her writer friend from the village who had led the pony across the fields, and who was dressed incredibly glamorously for the task, Pax thought. ‘Aren’t they just adorable?’

  Pax remained cautious, aware that the pony had another job to do, and uncertain the threesome would prove a safe one, her worries compounded when the yard’s trickiest stallion was introduced to his new companion on the cobbled yard.

  To begin with, it was picture perfect as they touched noses, Ronnie’s friend taking more pictures before waving a cheery farewell to head back across the fields.

  Then, with an ear-piercing squeal, the Shetland flattened his tiny tufty ears and swung his head to nip Beck on the shoulder. Pax drew Kes into the safety of an empty stable as Beck flew straight up on his hind legs, landing back on the cobbles with a fierce roar, shaking and striking out at the unimpressed hairy Gael, who skipped round and cracked a double-barrel kick against his cannons. Luca only just hung on as the stallion ran backwards and went up on his hind legs again, eyes white-rimmed, convinced the interloper had to be a big cat in disguise.

  ‘Let’s put them out together for a bit!’ Ronnie ordered, marching the Shetland towards the side arch.

  Pax heard Luca objecting that it was too soon, but Ronnie took no notice.

  ‘What’s that thing, Mummy?’ Kes pointed at Beck’s huge erection flapping around beneath his belly as he was led dancing past.

  ‘His willy,’ she said, catching Luca glancing across at her and wishing she’d used a more technical term.

  ‘Does he need a wee-wee? Can we go and watch?’ He was already scrabbling back out through the door. Pax followed, praying she wouldn’t have to explain away attempted sodomy on a Shetland.

  But Beck was far too frightened for rape and pillage. Huge and light-footed, skin quivering, eyes bulging, the grey was soon backing around the smallest of the high-hedged stallion paddocks while the hairy new arrival charged about looking for something to eat.

  Hanging back, Pax watched Luca and Ronnie lean companionably over the gate to monitor the get-together, Kes rammed low between them, face pressed against the rails, demanding, ‘When can I ride him, Gronny? What’s his name?’

  ‘Oh rats, I forget. A Scottish island, I think. Rum? Mull?’

  ‘Bute?’ Pax suggested, and Luca glanced back over his shoulder, humouring the bad joke with a familiar show of teeth. Bute was also a common anti-inflammatory used for horses. She raised an apologetic eyebrow.

  ‘Muck?’ he suggested.

  ‘Coll,’ she countered, guessing he wouldn’t get it.

  ‘Beck and Coll.’ He got it straight away, green eyes amused.

  ‘Just how I like my men!’ Ronnie ruffled Kes’s hair, hooking him closer as he gazed adoringly up at her. ‘And you’ll ride Coll at the weekend, little man, although dear old Lester isn’t home to teach you yet, so you’ll have to put up with Gronny towing you around while Mummy holds you on. I wonder where the hunt’s meeting on Saturday?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Pax stepped forward to cover Kes’s ears, her mock-furious face to her mother met with a defiant cheer.

  ‘If he’s as like his grandfather as I think, he’ll hunt.’

  ‘He’s nothing like Daddy.’ She gathered her son up into a protective hug at her hip.

  ‘Your grandfather was the best horseman and huntsman this county ever saw,’ Ronnie told Kes.

  Hiding her annoyance, Pax said nothing, watching Beck and the Shetland, at opposite ends of the paddock, one gazing in bewilderment as the other munched into the hedge. It wasn’t the first time her mother had acknowledged Johnny Ledwell’s talents that week, making a big point of giving her late husband a positive PR spin. It was doubtless her way of trying to compensate for a permanently busy landline and clandestine after-dark visits. Not content with seducing married sporting heroes and making five-year-old boys love her, Ronnie was flirting with the memory of the husband she had abandoned, dusting off Pax’s father’s tarnished, Scotch-sodden
memory and putting it on the Percy trophy shelf. She’d been especially zealous since visiting the hospital earlier that day.

  ‘Lester in good spirits?’ Pax asked cautiously. According to Alice, the stud’s old retainer had his finger surprisingly on the pulse, making it more than likely he’d heard the fresh Blair rumours.

  ‘Exceedingly.’ Ronnie gave nothing away. ‘He was eager to know if we’ve got your foot in the stirrup again yet.’ Her sharp blue eyes offered no mercy, looking to Luca for backup.

  ‘I could certainly use the extra help when you do,’ he obliged. ‘I hear you’re an incredible horsewoman. I bet you’d back the babies far better than I could.’

  ‘Hardly,’ she scoffed.

  But Ronnie was on a roll. ‘Now that Kes is on the Compton Magna riding squad, I told Lester you’re raring to go, which perked him up no end. He might even forgive you not visiting him if he sees you back on a horse.’

  Pax had forgotten how manipulative she could be. Dreading Lester’s reaction to her marriage ending, certain of his disapproval, she’d still not visited.

  ‘He was talking about the Wolf Moon Lap. Do you remember it? Probably before your time.’

  ‘I remember it,’ Pax muttered. She turned to watch Beck again, edging along the hedge and calling to the Shetland, who ignored him, only his bottom now visible, poking from the hazel as he laid into it searching for old cobnuts.

  ‘It was one of my grandfather’s traditions, long abandoned,’ Ronnie told Luca. ‘Major Frank Percy was a great believer in setting personal challenges. It quite terrorised my poor father growing up, although he became an extremely good pundit because Frank would give him one shilling to gamble in the flat season and one over jumps and no pocket money in between.’

  ‘Sounds quite a character.’

  ‘They both were. They did so love their racing. Which reminds me, I’m out this evening, meeting up with an old friend after Newbury races. You two will be fine if I’m not back until tomorrow, won’t you? Probably dying to get rid of me.’ She winked.