by Jilly Cooper
‘Stupider than me?’ said Lysander in amazement.
‘It is not funny!’
‘I’m really sorry, Dad.’ Lysander noticed with a stab of pain that his father had removed his mother’s photograph from the mantelpiece. Probably Mustard’s doing. Dragging his mind back to the present he heard his father saying:
‘I realize from your letter that you only came down to tap me. Well, I’m not helping you. You’ve got to learn to stand on your own feet. I suggest you send that horse on which you’re always squandering money to the knackers, and get yourself a decent job. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a governors’ meeting.’
Lysander went quietly outside, but when he saw a gloating Mustard peering round the net curtains, something snapped. Raising two fingers at her, he scooped up Hesiod, who was now weaving and mewing round his feet, and bolting down the garden path, shoved the cat into Ferdie’s car and jumped in after it.
In the ensuing pandemonium with Jack nearly getting his eyes clawed out as he tried to swallow Hesiod whole and Lysander trying to separate them and Mustard running down the drive in her medium high heels, crying, ‘Stop thief’, Hesiod started shitting with terror and was forcibly ejected by Ferdie outside the Science Lab.
‘I expect they’ll start experimenting on him as soon as they’ve cut his vocal chords,’ said Ferdie as he stormed down the drive.
Then, seeing Lysander’s stricken face, ‘I’m only winding you up. Quite resourceful of Jacko though, trying to eat that mog. Obviously knows he’s going to have to fend for himself from now on.’
‘What you talking about?’
‘Hatchet didn’t cough up.’
‘He didn’t.’ Lysander rubbed his bloody, lacerated hands on his jeans. ‘Can I borrow another fiver? I must put some flowers on Mum’s grave.’
Unclothed as yet by any lichen or the grime of age, Pippa Hawkley’s headstone looked poignantly white and defenceless beside all the other gravestones lurching higgledy-piggledy in Fleetley Village churchyard.
Almost as white and defenceless as her son, thought Ferdie, as he watched Lysander chuck out some dead chrysanthemums which had blown over and refill their vase with four bunches of snowdrops.
Philippa Hawkley 1942–89, Requiescat in Pace, read Ferdie, and tears stung his eyes as he wondered how anyone so vivid and vital as his ex-headmaster’s wife could ever rest peacefully. Worried that Lysander, who was now swaying beside him, was going to black out, he urged him back into the car and turned up the heat. He ought to belt straight back to London. Yesterday’s Arabs had rung his boss and complained about being bundled into a taxi. Instead he decided to take Lysander for a drive.
7
The sun, an even later riser than Lysander, at last put in an appearance, lighting up frost-bleached fields, yellow stone walls and striping the drying road ahead with tree shadows. As the countryside grew more hilly and deeply wooded, Ferdie drove past a beautiful house on the side of the valley with smooth grey trunks of beeches like the Albert Hall organ pipes soaring behind it.
Lysander was temporarily roused out of his gloom, when Ferdie said the estate belonged to Rupert Campbell-Black, ex-world show-jumping champion and now one of the most successful owner-trainers in the country.
‘Look at those fences! God, I wish Rupert’d give me a job.’ Lysander craned his neck to gaze into the yard. ‘I could ride all his horses and he’d know how to get Arthur sound again. Sometimes I think Arthur’s enjoying retirement and doesn’t want to get sound at all. I can’t work in London any more, Ferdie, I’m having a mid-life crisis at twenty-two.’
‘I realize that,’ said Ferdie. ‘I’ve got plans for you.’
Driving on another ten miles, through tree tunnels and woods carpeted with fading beech leaves and lit by the occasional sulphur-yellow cloud of hazel catkins, they passed a tiny hamlet on the right called Paradise. Five minutes later, Ferdie crossed over into the county of Rutshire, and pulled up on the top of a steep hill.
Climbing out, almost swept away into a dance of death by the violence of the wind, they found themselves looking down into a most beautiful valley. From the top, vast trees descended the steep sides like passengers on a moving staircase. Over the trees were flung great silken waterfalls of travellers’ joy. These seemed to flow directly into a hundred little streams, which flashed like sword blades in the sunshine as they hurtled through rich brown ploughed fields or bright green water meadows into the River Fleet which ran along the bottom of the valley. Ahead, a mile downriver, a little village of pale gold Cotswold cottages gathered round an Early English church like parishioners respectfully listening to a sermon.
‘Below you,’ shouted Ferdie over the wind, ‘lies Rutshire’s valley of Paradise, much larger and more ostentatious than its Gloucestershire namesake. But where everyone wants to live, and where house prices go up rather than down.
‘Here,’ – Ferdie indicated several splendid houses peeping like lions out of the woods on either side – ‘you will find the most Des-Reses in England, because of the magnificent views and the money that’s been spent on them. Rupert Campbell-Black refers to the area as Non-U-Topia because so many Nouveaux have moved in. It’s also been nicknamed the Rift Valley because so many marriages break up.’
‘So what?’ grumbled Lysander, who was cold and having to hang on to his baseball cap and to poor Jack whose ears were getting blown inside out.
‘I did a bit of research while you were unsuccessfully tapping your father,’ yelled Ferdie, who being fat, felt the cold less. ‘You know your friend Rachel? Well, this is the empire of her husband’s conductor-boss, Rannaldini. His is the biggest house up on the right. It’s called Valhalla. The garden’s sensational in summer. You can see the maze and there deep in the woods you can see a little gazebo – Rannaldini’s out-of-control tower – where he has total privacy to edit tapes, study scores and bonk ladies who approach unseen from the other side of the wood.
‘Rannaldini only spends a few weeks a year here,’ explained Ferdie, ‘because he’s always jetting round the world avoiding tax and outraged mistresses, when he’s not terrifying the London Met into submission. Rumour has it,’ he added knowingly, ‘that if things get too hot in England, Rannaldini’s got his sights on the New York or Berlin Philharmonics.’
‘I get it,’ said Lysander, shoving Jack inside his coat. ‘Rannaldini’s house might go on the market and you’d get it on your books first and make a killing.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ferdie, getting back into the car. ‘It’s always worth watching this area.’
Driving down the hill he turned off at a signpost saying: PARADISE 2 MILES.
‘You make a killing,’ he went on, ‘selling a house here to a couple. Then, when the marriage breaks up in a few years, you make another killing finding them two separate houses and, if you’re lucky, flogging the old one for them.’
Paradise, which had been voted Best-Kept Village in Rutshire for the last ten years, lived up to its name. Even on the bleakest day it was sheltered by the towering tree-covered hills. The churchyard and the gardens that lined the main street were already crowded with aconites, snowdrops and early crocuses. Winter jasmine and evergreen honeysuckle climbed to the roofs of the cottages, from whose chimneys, opal-blue smoke rose straight up, hardly ruffled by the wind. Although the duck pond was frozen, there were fat ruby buds on the black spiky branches of the lime trees which framed the village green.
Next to the church behind ancient stone walls hung with tuffets of mauve aubrietia lurked a charming rectory. As well as an excellent village shop called The Apple Tree, which stocked everything from videos to vine leaves, Paradise boasted a garden centre called Adam’s Pleasure which sold petrol, and a restaurant, called The Heavenly Host, with its duck-egg-blue shutters drawn, which opened only in the evenings.
Ferdie and Lysander, however, shot with indecent haste into the saloon bar of The Pearly Gates Public House.
‘Morning, Ferdie,’ said the landlord who h
ad tipped him off about local houses on several previous visits.
Sustained by a couple of large whiskies and a plate of very hot steak-and-kidney pie and chips in front of a roaring fire, Lysander began to feel slightly more cheerful.
Apart from a couple of pensioners gazing at half-pints of beer, the place was deserted except for the vicar, who, in between drinking large glasses of red wine and writing Sunday’s sermon, gazed surreptitiously at Lysander.
‘They ought to invent a killer cocktail called the Holy Spirit,’ murmured Ferdie, whose pink cheeks had turned bright scarlet in the warmth.
On the walls, dominating the coaching scenes, village cricket elevens and gleaming horse brasses, were two framed photographs. One was of a haughty-looking, grey-haired man with his eyes shut waving a stick, the other of a strikingly handsome woman with dark, curly hair and her mouth so wide open that Lysander was tempted to toss her the piece of the pastry he was feeding to Jack.
‘Who are they?’ he asked Ferdie.
‘Rannaldini conducting Mahler and Hermione Harefield, his mistress, singing it. That’s her house on the left.’
Out of the window, Lysander could see tall yellow chimneys, beckoning like fingers between two great black yew trees.
‘She’s a world-famous diva,’ continued Ferdie mopping up gravy with a third piece of bread. ‘She met Rannaldini when he was conducting Rigoletto in Milan ten years ago. It’s been a staggeringly successful partnership in and out of bed. You must have heard of Harefield and Rannaldini – no, perhaps not.’ He shook his head. ‘They almost outsell Nigel Kennedy.
‘Hermione’s incredibly beautiful and a pain in the ass, which Rannaldini probably enjoys because he’s rumoured to go both ways. Hermione’s husband, Bob, is the orchestra manager of the London Met. He’s a seriously nice guy with the flattest stomach in Rutshire. He should have the narrowest shoulders, shrunk by so many musicians sobbing on them as a result of Rannaldini’s tantrums.’
Ignoring Lysander’s reproachful glances at his empty glass, Ferdie picked up the car keys.
‘Come on, I haven’t finished the tour.’
Outside, the sun had gone in. The cottages along the High Street huddled together for warmth. As they drove out of the village up the south side of the valley, they passed a cottage with a waterfall and a swing hanging from a bent apple tree.
‘That’s Jasmine Cottage,’ said Ferdie slowing down, ‘which also belongs to Hermione and Bob Harefield. Last year they rented it out to your pianist friend Rachel and her Russian husband Boris. Then Rachel went abroad on a concert tour, and Boris was left behind, babysitting and writing incomprehensible music no-one wanted, so he started looking around sexually. In the autumn they moved back to London hoping it might be easier to find work, but it doesn’t seem to have helped the marriage, if yesterday’s eye-gel incident is anything to go by.
‘And that ravishing house, hidden in the willows on the left belongs to Valentine Hardman. He’s a top lawyer with a mistress up in London, so his wife Annabel threatens daily to throw herself into the River Fleet.
‘And that vulgar pile up on the left,’ Ferdie nearly ran over a pheasant as he peered through vast electric gates up a long drive, ‘is Paradise Grange. It belongs to Larry Lockton, chief executive of Catchitune Records who make a fortune out of Rannaldini and Harefield. Larry keeps buying companies, but I suspect he’s hopelessly overleveraged and riding for a fall.
‘Now Larry’s another bloke Rannaldini’s led astray,’ added Ferdie, driving on. ‘Larry used to be a fat little man who never smiled because he had bad teeth. But he was so jealous of all Rannaldini’s mistresses, he wanted one, too. So he had his teeth fixed, lost three stone and got a new haircut like Mel Gibson and started bonking his secretary. He’s even bought her a bonkerie in Pelham Crescent. I sold it to him,’ explained Ferdie, not without complacency. ‘Ground floor with a nice garden and fitted cupboards for all the skeletons. Larry’s wife, Marigold, used to be very pretty. She was his childhood sweetheart, but once he started to make his pile and began climbing socially, she got Weybridged and dressed like the Queen, eating too many white chocolates, and throwing herself into charity work like a rugger ball with a difficult bounce.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘Hang on – there is a reason.’
Driving on up the hill Ferdie pulled into a gap. Through the trees across the valley half a mile to the right of Valhalla they could see a Georgian house, smaller than Fleetley, but exquisitely proportioned, with soaring stone angels on each corner of the roof.
‘That house, Angel’s Reach, was totally unmodernized with a fantastic wild garden,’ said Ferdie. ‘It’s been bought by Georgie Maguire and her husband, Guy Seymour, who are spending an absolute fortune on it.’
Lysander opened a bloodshot eye. ‘Even I’ve heard of her. Wasn’t she a pop singer in the sixties? Mum had all her records.’
‘That’s right. Now she writes songs as well.’
‘I’ve always thought she was seriously attractive,’ said Lysander.
‘Georgie and Guy paid a million five.’ Ferdie edged the car on until they could see a long lake glinting gold in the falling sun below the house.
‘My guess is they can’t afford it, but they’re gambling on her new album, which is produced by Larry Lockton and Catchitune, being a massive hit.’
‘Aren’t Georgie and Guy supposed to be the happiest couple in show business?’ sighed Lysander enviously.
‘Which probably means they’re both screwing around,’ said Ferdie cynically.
Lysander shook his head in bewilderment. ‘It’s quite awful. What’s the point of getting married if you spend your time bonking other people?’
‘This monstrous regiment of womanizers,’ said Ferdie with a shrug. ‘Paradise husbands ring up from London on Thursdays to remind the housekeepers to get their wives out of the freezer so they’ll be unfrosted by the time the master returns on Friday night.’
‘Why the hell do the wives put up with it?’ asked Lysander with a shudder. ‘At least Dad didn’t bonk other women.’
‘When your husband’s as rich as Croesus, you get used to a certain lifestyle and you can’t bear to give it up.’
‘I’ve got Croesus in my face,’ said Lysander, peering gloomily in the driving mirror. ‘Let’s go home, Ferd, I want to see Dolly and explain about The Scorpion before she goes into orbit. This place is seriously depressing.’
‘It is,’ said Ferdie, swinging the car round, ‘particularly for someone like Marigold Lockton. She loves that shit Larry to distraction, and that’s where you come in. You’re going to be her toy boy.’
‘How old is she?’
‘About thirty-eight.’
‘I can’t bonk an old wrinkly like that,’ said Lysander in outrage.
‘You’re not going to bonk her, just hang about and rattle her husband, and make him so jealous he’ll come roaring back. It worked with Boris Levitsky and Elmer Winterton. This time you’re going to get paid.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Lysander. ‘I can’t get a husband back if the marriage is dead. You can’t reheat baked potatoes.’
‘First you’ve got to look at the wife,’ said Ferdie. ‘If she’s gone to seed, you unseed her, and make her look like a mistress. Put back the gleam in her eye, let her taunt her husband with a scented body that’s quivering with lust for someone else.’ Ferdie rubbed the windscreen which was steaming up. ‘Get the weight off, get her some decent clothes (I bet there’s a raver lurking beneath Marigold’s polyester V-necks). Above all, make her stop nagging and act detached. No more flying leaps to catch the telephone on the first ring.’
‘You’ve really studied this.’ Lysander looked at Ferdie with new respect as they drew up outside the big electric gates of Paradise Grange.
‘We are about to repackage and remarket a product,’ said Ferdie. ‘Let’s go see Marigold.’
8
Up a long drive through sp
lendid parkland dotted with noble trees, Paradise Grange reared up, a sprawling bulk of grey stone topped by turrets and battlements. On the perfect lawns still-frozen patches merged with great sheets of snowdrops and on the roof a flag flying the famous yellow-and-purple Catchitune colours was fretted by the bitter wind. Although it was still early afternoon, carriage lamps blazed on either side of the great oak front door. There was no answer when Ferdie rang the bell which played the Hallelujah Chorus. But as he pushed open the door he bumped into Marigold Lockton, deliriously excited that he might be a returning Larry and followed by an overweight, furiously barking, spaniel.
There’s no way I’m going to get Larry Lockton back for that, thought Lysander. Marigold looked absolutely dreadful, rather like a Beryl Cook lady masquerading as Mrs Thatcher. She was twenty pounds overweight, with red eyes and red veins criss-crossing her unhealthily white cheeks. An Alice band on her mousy permed hair emphasized a corrugated forehead. A V-necked polyester dress in overcooked-sprouts-green showed off a neck and arms as opaque and pudgy as the white chocolates with which she constantly stuffed herself. She had clearly also been stuck into the vodka for several hours.
Her first carefully elocuted words to Ferdie were that he could forget about the house he was finding her in Tregunter Road.
‘Even if Larry’s plannin’ to put Paradise Grange on the market, Ay’m not movin’. The kiddies love their ’ome; whay should they lose it and whay should Ay after all the work Ay’ve put into redecoratin’ it?’ She pointed to the oak panelling in the hall which had been painted a rather startling flamingo pink.
‘Larry wanted the kiddies brought up in the country.’ Her voice rattled like a sliver of bone in the Hoover as she led them into a vast drawing room. ‘So he stuck me down ’ere, mayles away from the shops. Now he’s packed them off to boardin’ school to get a posh accent and some smart friends, and he’s given may daily help and Mr and Mrs Brimscombe, our couple what live at the bottom of the drayve, a month’s notice to force me out.
