by Jilly Cooper
‘Cun I speak to Tubitha?’ he said acidly. ‘Can’t you ever find a boyfriend who speaks the Queen’s English?’
Snatching up the telephone, Tabitha flounced out.
Helen was looking round at the Turner of Cotchester Cathedral against a rain dark sky, at the Landseer of mastiffs and the Stubbs of two chestnut mares under an oak tree.
‘That’s new,’ she said, nodding beadily at the Lucian Freud of a whippet and a rather muscular nude.
‘It reminded me of Nimrod,’ Rupert smiled down at his lurcher, who was striped black and brown like a bull’s eye.
Having romped all day with his new friend Bogotá, Nimrod was stretched out on the sofa, fawn belly speckled with mud, paws in the air, chewstik shoe in his mouth, gazing adoringly up at his master out of one shiny onyx eye.
‘What used to hang in its place?’ asked Helen perplexed.
‘The Ingres, I sold it.’
‘How could you?’ said Helen appalled.
‘I hate big dark lard-like women,’ said Rupert, glaring at Hermione, who bored with charming Eddie, came bounding towards him. Rupert was her real prey.
‘What happened to that Colombian lad you were thinking of adopting?’
‘He’s here,’ said Rupert, beckoning Xav.
Getting no reaction from the boy’s impassive, watchful face, Hermione cooed: ‘May I have one of your chocolates?’
As she helped herself, putting her red lips over the knob, Lysander got such giggles he had to hide behind the curtain.
‘I bet you don’t know what my name is,’ Hermione smiled winningly.
‘Yes I do,’ said Xav.
‘Bet you don’t.’
‘Yes I do. It’s Mrs Fat Bum.’
‘Rupert’s father’s brought a bumbo,’ murmured Flora, as a shaking Lysander disappeared again.
‘Dinner,’ announced Taggie.
All Taggie’s efforts to make the dining-room look pretty had paid off. The pale scarlet walls and ivy-green curtains were echoed by a centrepiece of snowdrops, holly and Christmas roses. The only lighting reflected in glass and silver came from the flickering fire, fifty white candles and the picture lights over the family portraits.
‘That was me,’ said Eddie, nodding at a handsome youth in uniform.
‘Oh, what a relief,’ Helen’s voice quavered. ‘You’ve changed nothing here.’
‘Except wives,’ said Rupert. That’ll teach her to be nicer to Taggie, he thought, as Helen brimmed and bit her lip.
Rupert, on the other hand, had taken a shine to Flora and, as there was no seating plan, put her on his left with Hermione as the lesser of three evils on his right, and Helen between her and Eddie, who was on Taggie’s right. Marcus, Tabitha, Lysander and Kitty could sort themselves out.
‘It’s perfect,’ he called out to Taggie as he cut into the goose, dropping the first slice into Nimrod’s waiting jaws.
‘That’s far too much for me,’ whimpered Helen as he handed her the first plate.
‘I’ll have it,’ said Hermione, piling on most of the little brown potatoes.
Having filled up glasses and handed round the vegetables, Marcus found himself sitting next to Kitty. She might have a face like boiled bacon, but she was so adorable and, having worked for Rannaldini, had lots of gossip about soloists, conductors and helpful agents.
She refused red wine, when he tried to fill up her glass, because she was having another baby.
‘Lysander’s coming to the ante-natal classes,’ she said proudly.
‘I love rolling around on the floor with a lot of women,’ yelled a jubilant Lysander down the table.
‘That goose was something else,’ sighed Flora, finally putting her knife and fork together.
‘Have some more,’ said Taggie.
‘Yes please,’ said Eddie.
Tabitha didn’t even bother to toy with a piece of goose as she read Dick Francis under the table.
Please give me Lysander, she prayed.
Please let Rannaldini call, prayed her mother.
‘I think we ought to drink to the cook,’ said Eddie, with his mouth full, ‘To Helen,’ he said, draining his glass.
Everyone, except Helen, howled with laughter.
‘I love you,’ mouthed Rupert down the table at Taggie.
‘I think we ought to drink to absent friends,’ Hermione smiled round, ‘Bobby and Cosmo.’
‘Abby,’ said Flora and Marcus.
‘And Malise,’ said Helen with a sob.
‘Of course,’ said Rupert, ‘Malise!’
After everyone drained their glasses there was an embarrassed pause.
‘And I think we ought to drink to absent fiends,’ said Flora, as Rupert filled her glass again. ‘To Rannaldini!’
SEVENTEEN
The flickering bright blue halo had retreated like a genie into the Christmas pudding. Chateau d’Yquem gleamed topaz in the wine glasses. Gertrude, Taggie’s little mongrel, bristled in a green paper admiral’s hat on her mistress’s lap. Xav, who never seemed to go to bed, was sprawled on his father’s knee, tunelessly singing ‘Cars in the bright sky look down where He lay’ because it made Rupert laugh.
Why doesn’t my father love me a millionth as much as that? thought Marcus wistfully. He was so frantic to practise he was beginning to twitch like a junkie. All the pieces he’d been learning seemed to be sliding away. Across the table his mother looked shell-shocked.
‘I cannot believe you are forty-four,’ Hermione was telling her. ‘I hope I’ll be as lovely as you when I reach your age.’
‘Which is in about two minutes,’ said Flora crossly.
‘Why don’t you take an evening class?’ urged Hermione. ‘There are courses for antique restoration, archery, ball-room dancing – you might find a new chap there. They’ve even got a class for understanding teenagers.’
‘My father would profit from that,’ said Tabitha acidly, glancing up from Dick Francis. ‘Where’s Grandpa?’ she asked Marcus.
‘Ringing my grand-mugger,’ said Xav.
‘I didn’t ask you, smart ass,’ snapped Tabitha.
‘It’s true.’ Rupert came to Xavier’s defence. ‘He proposes to her every Christmas.’
Bored with counselling, Hermione looked sourly at Xav, still on Rupert’s knee, which was exactly where Hermione would like to have been. Rupert had always had a strong head, but he had drunk so much during the day, and Xav’s eyes were so much improved that it was debatable as to which of them was now squinting the most.
‘Very caring to take on a coloured lad,’ observed Hermione.
‘Piss orf,’ drawled Xav in exactly the same bored voice as Rupert.
Lysander got the giggles again.
‘Why don’t you run along to bed,’ suggested Hermione. ‘You could play my cradle song tape, or Mummy could read to you.’
‘Mummy can’t read,’ said Xav. ‘I’ll be reading to her soon.’
‘High time you went to boarding-school, young man,’ said Hermione irritably. ‘Are you going to Harrow?’
‘Eventually,’ said Rupert forking up Christmas pudding at great speed. ‘This is miraculous, Tag.’
‘I suppose King Faisal went there,’ mused Hermione. ‘But I do feel single-sex boarding schools encourage homosexuality.’
‘Not nearly so much as women like you,’ said Rupert coldly.
Hermione burst into merry laughter.
‘You are a tease.’ Then, turning to Marcus, she asked pointedly, ‘Did you go to Harrow?’
‘No, he went to Bagley Hall,’ said Taggie quickly, seeing Marcus go scarlet, ‘As a day-boy because of his asthma.’
‘Have you got a girl friend?’ persisted Hermione.
‘He’s got me,’ piped up Flora, noticing how Helen winced.
Hermione also shot Flora a not-much-cop glance and, mistakenly thinking she would endear herself to Rupert by being good with a miserably squirming Marcus, asked: ‘How long have you had asthma?’
‘All my
life, I think.’
‘They say it’s inherited,’ Hermione was determined to keep Rupert’s attention.
‘Must have skipped a generation, then,’ said Rupert, as Eddie returned to the table and pretended to admire Hermione’s ruby pendant in order to gaze down her front. ‘Marcus gets his heavy breathing from my father.’
God, Rupert’s a bitch, thought Flora and, to distract everyone, held her cracker out to Xav. This and subsequent bangs sent all the dogs, including Gertrude, racing out of the room. Xav slid off Rupert’s knee in pursuit of his puppy.
Feeling terribly sorry for Marcus, Kitty, who was wearing a paper crown redder than her face, asked him if he’d had some nice presents.
‘Marvellous, Dad and Taggie gave me some light-weight tails, one gets so hot in concerts.’
‘Now you’ve got to get some work to try them out,’ said Rupert.
‘Hasn’t he told you,’ cried Flora, ‘he’s too flaming modest, he’s got a recital in Cotchester Town Hall on 21 February. You’ve all got to come.’
Marcus smiled deprecatingly at the excited faces, but his moment of glory was short-lived.
‘Talking of special occasions, I’m going on Desert Island Discs on Saturday at seven-thirty,’ announced Hermione. ‘My agent Howie Denston said that at least Sue Lawley and I have lovely legs in common. I hope you’ll all tune in.’
‘Better alert the monkeys to evacuate the island,’ muttered Rupert.
Looking up from the tangerine she was peeling, Taggie hastily asked what records Hermione had chosen.
‘All my own – so fascinating to compare the different accompanists – and conductors. Rather exciting – the programme coincides with a special New Year announcement.’ She beamed at Rupert.
‘Do tell us,’ asked Taggie.
‘My lips are sealed. But I’m dying to see the inside of Buckingham Palace,’ she added roguishly. ‘Have you ever wanted a knighthood, Rupert?’
‘No.’
‘Lady Thatcher offered him one twice,’ said Taggie quickly.
‘Because I have it on good authority that Rannaldini is going to get his K in the New Year’s Honours list.’
‘Sir Roberto,’ said Flora flatly. ‘That should increase his pulling power.’
‘He can have one-Knight stands,’ said Lysander.
Unable to take the roars of drunken laughter, Helen fled the room. Outside she ignored Nimrod and Bogotá, who were engaged in a furiously, growling tug-of-war over Hermione’s Hermes scarf.
Going in search of Helen five minutes later, Taggie found her washing up in the kitchen, rubber-gloved hands whisking round the hot suds, glasses upside down on a tea-towel.
‘Poor Mrs Bodkin looks so tired, I thought I’d give her a hand.’ The reproach was implicit. ‘It’s lovely and cool in here, I always find goose a bit rich.’
‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Taggie, ‘I’ll take people upstairs, and then we can have coffee.’
I’m being a bitch, thought Helen miserably, but I can’t help it. Taggie’s got everything – youth, looks, children, Rupert’s love and the beautiful house and garden which was once mine.
Although Lysander beamed drunkenly across the table at him, Marcus had never felt more de trop than when left pretending to drink port with the men, who talked non-stop about horses.
Tomorrow, Lysander and Rupert would hunt until two, then the helicopter would take them and Eddie to Kempton in time for Penscombe Pride’s big race at three-thirty.
‘He’ll walk it,’ said Lysander.
Marcus took another surreptitious squirt from his inhaler. The steroids he’d been taking to combat his allergy to dogs and new paint had given him a wretched sore throat.
‘Should be a good crowd out tomorrow,’ said Eddie. ‘Always liked the Boxing Day Meet, mind you hunting’s gone to the dogs since so many people who do their own horses come out.’
Fortunately for Marcus, Flora put on ‘Let’s Ride to Music’, and ‘The Galloping Major’, thundering through the house, soon flushed out the men.
‘Boom, boom, boom,’ went the regimental drums as screaming with drunken laughter Eddie and Flora, cheek to cheek, clasped hands outstretched, trotted up the hall to ‘D’you ken John Peel’, followed by Lysander and Kitty, and Rupert and Taggie, then broke into a canter to ‘Bonny Dundee’ with a pack of dogs barking excitedly behind them.
‘Right wheel, halt, dismount,’ shouted Rupert as the band swung into Aida which had been his and Eddie’s old regimental march.
Unfortunately Hermione, returning from a respray upstairs, couldn’t resist singing very loudly along, so everyone gave up marching and allowed her to put on ‘Santa of the Universe’ jumping out of their skins as ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ filled the house.
‘What with my first wife continually hitting the roof and Hermione taking it off, I’m not going to have a slate over my head soon,’ grumbled Rupert.
Flora, Rupert, Marcus, Kitty and Tabitha, who’d actually put down Dick Francis, were playing consequences. Taggie, who was too slow at writing to play, was handing out liqueurs. Lysander, an even slower writer, was playing chess with Eddie, who was telling him about Rupert’s mother.
‘Played chess together during the first dark days of the war when no-one knew if Hitler was going to strike. Wonderful woman, turned me down again this evening – know we’ll end up together.’
Hermione, meanwhile, had rather startled Rupert by sinking to the floor at his feet, her dark head in danger of being singed by his cigar. He’d go off piste down her cleavage in a minute.
‘Where are we?’ he asked
‘Woman’s name,’ said Flora.
Putting down his cigar, Rupert wrote ‘Hermione’. Handing his turned-over piece of paper to Tabitha, he touched her hand. The rows over The Engineer had upset him very much, he’d probably buy her the damn horse in the end.
Eddie and Lysander were so drunk they couldn’t remember whose move it was.
‘Think I should marry her?’ Eddie nodded in Hermione’s direction.
‘God, no,’ Lysander turned pale. ‘She’s awful.’
‘Damn fine looking, damn rich, sort out my Lloyd’s lorses.’
‘Not worth it, anyway she’s got a husband.’
‘Must be loopy to leave a beautiful woman like that at Christmas.’
‘He’s gay.’
‘Whaddja mean?’
‘Queer.’
‘Good God.’ Eddie’s teeth nearly fell out.
Lysander giggled. ‘Don’t let her get her Santa Claws into you.’
‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, Santa Claws, that’s good,’ Eddie choked on his third glass of port.
‘Good King Wenceslarse looked out,’ sang Hermione on CD and in real life.
I cannot stand it, thought Helen, who was perched on the arm of Marcus’s chair. I’ve seen King Wensceslas’ statue on the Charles Bridge, she wanted to shout, and he wasn’t good at all, and the stupid story about St Agnes’ fountain and the pine logs is garbage. But none of these drunken philistines would be remotely interested unless she told them she had been on the bridge with Rannaldini.
Sensing her anguish, Marcus reached back to retrieve Boris’s present.
‘Please open it, Mum, it’s really nice.’
‘Do have a drink,’ pleaded Taggie.
Helen shook her head violently, sending tears flying out of her eyes.
The group round the fire had finished the first round of their consequences.
‘You start, Tabitha,’ said Flora. Tabitha unrolled her piece of paper. ‘Penscombe Pride,’ she began, in her flat little voice, then starting to smile, ‘met Hermione – on top of the muck heap, Pridie said: Give us a blow job. Hermione said to Pridie: I am about to have my period. Pridie gave her the clap, Hermione gave him a great kick up the ass, and the consequence was . . .’ Tabitha burst out laughing.
‘Tabitha,’ protested Taggie, ‘that’s enough.’
‘Why must you spoil everything?’ Tabitha turned on he
r step-mother like a viper.
About to send her to bed, Rupert heard a clip-clop on the flagstones, and cheers and shouts of laughter greeted a grinning Xav, riding into the drawing-room on Tiny, Lysander’s delinquent Shetland pony. Xav had got Tiny’s measure completely and punched her on the nose if she ever tried to bite him, but he couldn’t stop her lashing out at Hermione, sending the discomfited diva scrambling like a camel to her feet. Having vented her spleen, Tiny proceeded to hoover up the straw from Helen’s Body Shop basket, until she encountered a pearl bath drop and curled up her lip.
‘Quick, get a camera,’ Rupert told Marcus.
But Tabitha had flipped.
‘You never let me ride ponies into the house,’ she screamed. ‘That child is spoilt rotten, he got far more presents than Marcus and I put together. It’s bloody unfair, you love him far more than you do us.’
‘Bloody, bloody unfair,’ beamed Bianca, appearing in the doorway with her telephone. ‘Hallo, I’m afraid Tabiffa’s in the bath.’
‘And she’s revoltingly spoilt, too,’ yelled Tab. ‘I was never allowed down at this hour.’ And storming out, she slammed the door shaking every piece of china.
Helen burst into tears.
‘Why is everyone always fighting in this house?’ she sobbed. ‘Why can’t you all be nice to each other?’
You could start off by controlling your daughter, thought Flora mouthing, ‘Don’t worry’ at Marcus.
‘They should bring back National Service, particularly for women,’ said Eddie. ‘Checkmate.’
Appalled that Xav and Bianca could have caused such a terrible row, Taggie leapt forward to comfort Helen who was now wailing: ‘I can’t go on, I can’t go on, oh Malise.’
‘Take that pony back to the stable at once, Xav,’ ordered Rupert.
‘In the bleak mid-winter,’ sang Hermione on the CD, as Mrs Bodkin put her head round the door:
‘Telephone for Mrs Gordon.’
‘Talk about the ungay Gordon,’ grumbled Flora, as Helen shot out of the room, sending Boris’s present flying, ‘And that’s five hundred pounds down the drain, poor Boris. She’s a frightful drip,’ she added.
