As I set off up the stairs he called, ‘By the way, if you really want that driving lesson it’ll have to be first thing in the morning. Say seven-thirty sharp – can you be there?’
Chapter Fifty
I was there, early – interrogating Frank about the reason for the removal of one of the spare wheels. He explained, ‘That’s so his lordship can stand on the running board and pull the levers hisself when you does it wrong.’
‘I won’t do it wrong.’ Oh to be seventeen again, and have all the confidence that goes with it!
At exactly half-past seven I heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles, and looked up from my inspection of the foot pedals to see Monty riding into the stable yard. Dofting his cap to me he eased his sidling horse over to where Frank was now waiting – and dismounted.
Dismounted. What an incredibly dull word for the supple strength and casual control of that movement of his – I was dazzled. Luckily no-one noticed, so I could bend over the motor and enjoy my moment of dazzlement to the full until a voice above me asked, ‘Ready then?’
By which time I was able to produce a sisterly grin and say, ‘Of course’ – while skipping up into the driver’s seat.
With a wince he shook his head. ‘No, Eve, I’ll take it out of the yard – we’ll find somewhere with rather fewer walls for your first sally.’
My first sally – we were far out in the park in a place well-shielded with trees when he drew up, and announced, ‘Right, your turn now.’ Rearing up he swung one long leg over on to the running board – by the time the other had joined it I was already ensconced in the driving seat. He neighed, ‘Watch it, Eve – I nearly kicked you in the jaw just then! Whoa there – no starting without my hands on the reins. That’s how I began with Sophie, and I’m going to do the same with you – my hands guiding both of yours.’
To enable him to achieve this he slid his left arm right round behind me – at which point I forgot both Sophie and substitute sisterhood and turned to press my cheek into that sandalwood soap and fresh sweat smelling chest of his (with just a hint of horse). His arm tightened round me as he too forgot Sophie – but only for a few luxurious moments, then he murmured, ‘Eve, much as I too would prefer the alternative, I’m afraid it’s a driving lesson or nothing.’
He eased me gently forward, and I obeyed with reluctance – a reluctance the was rapidly dissipated as I got my hands on the levers of power. In fact I soon became rather resentful of his guiding ones. ‘I can do it, Monty!’ Laughing, he released his grip – until that grinding crunch—! Oh well, you know what I mean – you had to learn yourself once – and motors in those days did have fiendish gear boxes, didn’t they?
As it happens I didn’t do that badly, all things considered, and I steered us back into the stable yard exhilarated, excited – and extremely hungry.
Hunger which had to wait, because on Sundays Monty read morning prayers to the whole household in the small chapel his father had built. And read them in the same clipped accent my own father had used.
Afterwards, when we were alone again at breakfast he commented, ‘You’ve gone very quiet, Eve.’
Looking up at him I whispered, ‘In India, when we were on tour, Apa and I always read. the service together on Sundays, and—’ I looked down at my plate. He reached across and covered my hand with his.
Only for a moment, then, ‘I think we both need a refill, Eve.’ I picked up the silver tea-pot.
Breakfast was followed by his usual Sunday ritual of touring the stables. Mr Hayter was waiting in the hall and held out to Monty a shining silver salver – reposing on which was a shabby old string bag crammed full of carrots! I giggled. Monty spun round, ‘You can carry this,’ – and was so quick tossing the bag to me that I fumbled the catch and had to swoop almost to the floor before I could retrieve it. One eyebrow rose, ‘Not quite up to Rikki-tikki-tavi standards there Eve – come along, then.’
Out in the stableyard, Paddy the head groom was waiting to receive us, Sunday best-bowler held to attention at his side. I stepped back to follow respectfully behind them. I was merely the handmaiden, the bearer of carrots – Paddy was in charge, escorting Monty as he visited the occupant of each loose box in turn. From the shadows of the horse, hay and ammonia scented stables I watched Monty – watched the firm yet gentle touch of his pat of greeting, watched him go down on his haunches to run a hand up a suspect fetlock, watched him raise a hoof to inspect it. And I was listening, too, listening to that low, soothing voice he used – held at just the same pitch whether he was discussing the condition of a mare in foal with Paddy, or talking directly to the horse he was handling.
I noticed how he paid particular attention to the three hunters he’d taken to Ireland with him, and who’d only come back with their grooms last night – and I noticed, too, his lingering moment of greeting with a favourite bay mare – young and frisky, she came prancing to meet him, whickering with pleasure and nuzzling his ear – before looking hopefully round for her carrot. Stepping forward, I dutifully placed it in his out-stretched hand.
After stables it was time for Church. It was Palm Sunday, so kneeling in prayer before the service began I thought of how Christ had calmly ridden into Jersusalem on an ass, despite knowing that soon he would be betrayed for silver by Judas, and that even his faithful Peter would deny him three times before the cock crew at the break of day.
And later I watched and listened again. Watched Monty stride up to the great brass eagle of the lectern to read the first lesson, watched that briefest of touches to check his tie was straight – and listened to his deep, clipped voice reading from the Book of Exodus. And now he didn’t sound like Apa at all. He sounded like Horseface, like Monty – and also like Montmorency Algernon Henry Robert Guyzance, Seventh Marquis of Rothbury. Tall, strong, commanding. The Peacock in His Pride.
Slowly and deliberately he closed the heavy Bible, and walked firmly back to his pew, to take his place beside me.
Lunch – parsnip soup, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by apple pie and thick, creamy custard. As we spread our snowy napkins out on our laps he told me, ‘Make the most of this – Sunday supper is always a cold collation, and I wait on myself.’
Quickly I said, ‘I’ll wait on you tonight.’
He smiled, ‘Thank you, Eve.’ By this time tomorrow I would have left – don’t think, Eve, live for the day.
Over our coffee he explained that after his customary forty winks he always walked round one sector of the estate. ‘Are you coming, puss cat?’ Not really a question – of course I was. It would be the south-eastern sector, today.
As we walked I saw that his eyes were constantly on the move scanning fences, gates, ditches. We paused so he could study an incipient pothole, then continued on our way to visit a small cluster of farm labourers’ cottages. A few words with the deferential inhabitants was followed by a thorough – and gruntingly appreciated – session of back-scratching with his stick for each of their plump pigs. There was a word or two of admiration for an especially fine specimen in an extremely snug sty, before he moved on to survey the adjoining allotments. Oh yes, it was an inspection, alright. Although conducted with good-humour, it was a firm good humour.
After we’d left those oh-so respectful cottagers – with a parting word of reproof to a certain Mr Jenks about some-as-yet unplanted early potatoes, and a final extra-low bob from Mrs Jenks – I said to Monty, ‘You really are the King of the Dung Hill round here, aren’t you?’
He slowed and looked down at me. ‘Jenks has a large family to feed.’
‘Then surely his wife could have told him—’
‘Moreover, he is known to be something of a domestic tyrant.’ And certainly twice the size of Mrs Jenks, I had noticed that – though still not as large as Monty, who was just looking at me, waiting.
I said hastily, ‘That wasn’t meant to be an insult Monty, what I said just now – far from it.’
‘It wasn’t?’ Both his eyebrows were raised thi
s time. Oh dear. ‘No, no – you see in Kumaon dung heaps are really important. So important in fact that there’s a famous story about them—’ I began to tell the story of the man who lived in the village of Anariyakot, ‘That’s quite near Almora,’ who inadvertently ran into the procession of the Demon King, around whose litter there danced terrifying demons beating drums and horrible headless goblins – and every single one dancing with his feet turned backwards – I was telling the story as I’d so often heard it told around the campfire on tour. And as I neared my conclusion I said to Monty, ‘So then brave Aniarya who’d captured the demon king was offered anything in the world he wanted, to let the king go. And do you know what it was Aniarya chose?’
‘I have no idea, Eve.’
‘That all the best dung heaps from the village on the other side of the valley should be miraculously transferred to Anariyakot! So that just shows you how important Kings of Dung Hills are!’
He began to laugh. ‘I don’t think it does, Eve – but never mind, you tell a good story.’
I preened. Then looking round at his well-tilled fields and lush pastures I decided to make amends, and smiling up at him, said, ‘You certainly look as if you’ve got plenty of water in your mill stream.’
‘What!’
‘That one is a compliment – honestly – it means your estate is very prosperous.’ But there was something about the way he was looking at me, and suddenly I remembered those drawings. Or rather, one of them – the one of him. Giggling I exclaimed, ‘Oh, you didn’t think I meant your own personal mill stream—’ Laughing he shook his head – but moved closer, so I could reach up to whisper in his ear, ‘But I bet that’s true, as well!’
‘Eve!’ He sounded shocked – and I wasn’t quite sure if it was a pretence or not, until he took my elbow and steered me off the track on to a path leading through a corner of his woodland. ‘Let’s cut across here, shall we?’ And for no reason – and every reason – I remembered the herring gutting and the large full and exclaimed, ‘I’ll race you to that stile!’
But this time I won, easily – and turning my back to the stile accused him, ‘You weren’t even trying to win.’
He stood over me, very close now, and murmured in that husky whisper of his, ‘It depends what you mean by “win”, Eve – in this case I feel to lose is to win – since in trailing behind I was able to enjoy more than one glimpse of those extremely shapely calves of yours.’
I looked up at him from under my lashes, ‘But you’ve seen my legs before.’
Reaching out, he let his ungloved hands come to rest on the top rail of the stile behind me, so I was trapped between both of those strong arms of his. Except that I didn’t feel trapped, I felt safe, and warm – and excited. An excitement which mounted as he murmured, ‘I have indeed seen your legs before – and a great deal more than just your legs – haven’t I, my ginger-furred puss cat?’ His hands left the rail and came up under my arms – which raised themselves to slide round his neck – at which his hands slid down to my waist, found their way inside my jacket, and travelled on down to discover the Curve of my hip bones, which he began to delicately trace with his fingertips.
And I nuzzled his neck, and drew his head down so I could lip his ear, licking and tickling it just as that bay mare had done, nuzzling Horseface – no, he was a horse, my horse – and I was his filly – giggling, I pressed my whole frisky young body against his – and in one single, practised movement he swung me away from him with one hand while using the other to lift my skirts and push hard up into my crotch.
For a moment I froze – then I yanked myself away from him and fled to the shelter of the nearest tree. I pressed back against its trunk, my whole body tensed, watching him. Never turn your back on a tiger, Eve.
Except that now this tiger looked as shocked as I was.
His hand rose in a small helpless gesture of apology as he exclaimed, ‘Eve, that was unforgiveable of me! Just momentarily there I mistook you for a – , for a—’
Don’t say it, Monty, don’t say it! He didn’t, and that second betraying ‘a’ faded into the air and was lost in the rustling of leaves, giving me time for my wits to return and say, ‘Eve Gunn – you mistook me for Eve Gunn – the first Eve Gunn.’
Eagerly he seized on the lifeline I’d thrown, ‘Yes – yes, that’s it. Just for a moment there I forgot Thursday evening.’
As I had done. Or rather, I’d only remembered Thursday afternoon – as he had done. That’s all, I told myself fiercely – he was thinking of me. Mistaking myself for me, that’s all…
Meanwhile, he simply stood there waiting, waiting for me to make the first move. Slowly I left my tree – an oak tree – and asked him, ‘Well, are we going over the stile, then?’ At his nod I put my hand on the top rail and vaulted over.
As we walked on he said, ‘By the way, Eve, the correct etiquette when a lady crosses a stile is for her to step up one side and then step down the other, accepting a guiding hand from the gentleman she’s walking with, should this be required – rather than that flying leap of yours.’
‘Oh, but my method is so much quicker.’
‘In future, Eve, just step over discreetly, please.’ He sounded almost desperate.
But I still argued. ‘It was you who told me to shorten my skirts.’
‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘The trouble is that in this modern age the signals are becoming increasingly blurred, since girls’ skirts are getting longer, and women are wearing theirs shorter than ever before.’ I said, ‘Especially housemaids.’
Which he promptly capped with, ‘And fishergirls who take their boots off—’ then, abruptly, ‘We’ve got to stop this, Eve.’
‘Have we?’
‘Yes.’ And from his tone of voice I knew he meant it – especially when he added a touch sharply, ‘And it would help if you wore your hair in a plait, as I asked you to.’
I touched the green ribbon bow at the nape of my neck. ‘It’s just that i always wore my hair tied back like this on a Sunday, in lndia – Apa liked it this way, but—’ I managed a shrug, but failed to keep the uncertainty out of my voice as I added, ‘But if you think it looks too orange—’
‘Eve, you have beautiful hair, and it looks delightful tied loosely back like that, but – it would be much easier for me to think of you as a schoolgirl if you wore a plait.’
‘But I’m not a school-’
He cut in with, ‘Could you pretend, Eve – please.’
He did sound desperate now, so I agreed, ‘Alright. But I don’t really know how proper schoolgirls behave.’
He said encouragingly, ‘You’ll soon pick it up when you have to – you’re a quick study.’
Flattered by that compliment I offered, ‘I did see one in a play, once—’ and glancing round I spotted a suitable piece of wood, pounced and swished it vigorously up and round. ‘There, I’ve got a hockey stick!’
He dodged, laughing, ‘You, my sweet puss, would be lethal in a hockey match – you’d slice everyone else’s head off!’
‘Oh, is that how you score?’
‘Of course it isn—’ then, ‘You never stop teasing me do you – one way or the other.’
‘Don’t you like being teased?’
‘Yes Eve, I do – that’s part of the problem. Look, why don’t we have another race – to that big elm – and this time, I’ll win.’
He did, too – though I ran as fast as I could.
We talked about trees all the way back home – all the way back to Overby, I mean. A nice sedate topic, and one on which I was able to air my superior knowledge gleaned in Himalayan forests. I remember explaining to him about how oak trees in Kumaon are always stunted and misshapen because the women climb them and cut off their branches with the sickles they always carry at their belts. ‘Oak leaves are used for fodder, you see.’
‘That sounds a rather dangerous job for females, especially on those slopes – don’t the men take on that one?’
I shook my head. �
�All the men do is repair the terraces – women do everything else.’ I said indignantly, ‘There’s even a proverb admitting it! They always say in Kumaon: “Without a woman, everything is in darkness.”’
And all at once he was completely silent. I glanced up at his set face. Sybella at Sunset. For her, only that quick, Eastern sunset – one moment light – and then nothing but darkness.
I was floundering for a safe topic – until I said, speaking too quickly, ‘Bhotias are different, though – the women do a lot of work, of course, but the men do the really dangerous job, of going over the high passes to trade with Tibet. And the men spin, you know, all the way, as they’re walking along.’
‘Good Lord, that is surprising. What do they spin, goat hair?’
‘Wool, mostly – I’ve got a Bhotia blanket, it’s at ho—’ My turn now to let a single syllable fade away, unended. I said, ‘It’s at Helspie, I’ve left it at the croft in Helspie.’ Then, I couldn’t stop myself from adding, ‘Your home is lovely, isn’t it?’ Even I could hear the longing in my voice.
He didn’t answer. instead, after a moment, he said, ‘Eve, it’s my turn to tell you a proverb, now. It’s a Yiddish proverb, as it happens – my father told it to me, he could speak a smattering of that language.’
‘I can’t speak any Yiddish.’
‘Nor can I. But in English it goes like this,’ and with a voice as firm and clear as when he’d read the lesson in Church he quoted: ‘“He who has no wife is without joy, without blessing – and without virtue.” Looking straight at me he repeated: ‘“And without virtue.”’
Yes, you did try to warn me, didn’t you? But I wouldn’t listen. So we went on into the house and I plaited my hair and prattled like a schoolgirl as I poured your tea – Monty’s tea – we took our tea in the schoolroom, that afternoon, and he left me up there while he attended Evensong. I curled up on the window seat and slept, until he woke me by tickling my nose with a feather from one of his own pheasants. I said, ‘That should be a peacock’s feather.’
Eve Page 51
