by Jilly Cooper
Nodding to acquaintances, but not stopping, Rannaldini wandered over to the group round the Ferraris, which now included a slavering Ideal Homo wearing pale blue shorts and a little white sunhat.
‘Papa,’ Natasha hugged him joyfully, ‘you must meet Lysander.’
While Flora had slept off their sexual excesses in Rome, Rannaldini had studied scores, dictated letters and even held auditions on the balcony of his Roman villa. A tan as dark as treacle toffee was now enhanced by a white suit of such impeccable cut and panache that it instantly set him apart from the crowd both as host and warlord of the manor. Lysander gave a sigh of pure wonder. Prepared to detest Rannaldini, he hadn’t counted on such charisma or blazing vitality. He’d never met anyone as smooth or as sexy.
‘That is the sharpest suit,’ he stammered, ‘where did you get it?’
‘Some back street in Singapore,’ said Rannaldini with a smile which softened the glittering, deadly nightshade eyes.
God, the boy was heartbreaking close up. With a competitive surge of excitement, Rannaldini wondered if Flora had fallen under Lysander’s spell and ignored her, nodding on the other hand to Ferdie and the Ideal Homo, who said: ‘I agree with Lysander. That suit is to die for.’
‘Better watch out you’re not run over by a snowplough,’ mocked Flora, determined to disguise her longing.
‘Where’s Kitty?’ asked Lysander.
‘Organizing tea.’
‘Doesn’t she get to watch?’ demanded Flora disapprovingly.
‘Kitty doesn’t understand cricket,’ said Rannaldini.
‘Didn’t go to that kind of school,’ added Natasha bitchily.
The umpires, Mr Brimscombe and Rannaldini’s dog handler, Clive, neither of whom were paid to be impartial, were leading the players on to the field when Lysander was sent flying by two blond bullets, Marigold’s sons. Jason was wearing a T-shirt saying: I’m afraid of no-one in the world except my Dad. Markie was carrying a cricket bat almost bigger than himself.
‘We’ve got Rocky IV at home. Will you come and watch it after the match and will you bowl to us?’ asked Jason.
‘Wait till the tea interval.’ Lysander tucked his billowing shirt into his white trousers. ‘I’ve got to field. How was going back last term?’
‘Fine,’ said Markie. ‘Mummy cried so much, I felt I should cry too, but only to make her feel better. How’s Arfur?’
‘Come and see him. He likes your father’s grazing.’
‘Come on, Lysander,’ yelled the Archangel Mike.
He’s sweet with kids as well, thought Natasha as Lysander loped on to a pitch as emerald-green due to illicit sprinkling as Georgie’s new leotard which Flora was now wearing.
In the bandstand, sweating members of the London Met sawed their way through the Trout Quintet, wishing they, too, were under water. The group round the Ferrari were now joined by Marigold, who’d been working the crowd touting for the church fête.
She was feeling low because the jeans she and Lysander had bought in February were now within three inches of doing up. Telling herself they would have been too hot was no help at all.
‘How’s it going?’ she whispered, accepting a glass of Ferdie’s champagne.
‘Not as well as you and Larry,’ whispered Ferdie, ‘but watch out for fireworks this afternoon.’
‘I hope you girls are going to help at the church fête,’ said Marigold.
‘I’ll be abroad,’ said Flora hastily.
‘So will I,’ said Natasha.
‘Shame. And I thought you could decorate a room for free, Meredith.’ Marigold turned to the Ideal Homo. ‘It would make a lovely raffle prize.’
‘It would not,’ said Meredith huffily. ‘There’s a recession on, dearie, if you hadn’t noticed.’
Having met Lysander, he was not going to forgive Marigold for not calling him in to redecorate Magpie Cottage. ‘Talk about the reincarnation of the Paradise Lad,’ he muttered to Flora as he parked his small bottom beside hers on the bonnet of Ferdie’s Ferrari.
The wine waiter of The Heavenly Host opened the bowling. Squaring his shoulders Bob hit him for four.
‘Oh, well clouted,’ said Marigold, who got very hearty on such occasions. ‘Don’t eat all Ferdie’s Jaffa cakes, boys.’
‘Is Hermione here?’ asked Flora, who wanted to suss out the opposition.
‘No, thank God,’ shuddered Meredith. ‘She’s playing Salome in New York. When she gets to the seventh veil the entire audience rears up and yells: ‘“No, no, keep it on!”’
As Rannaldini was now well out of earshot, everyone howled with laughter.
‘Must be bliss for Bob having her away,’ said Marigold.
‘Bliss! Bobby’s got a good body, hasn’t he? Oh, well hit, that’ll be a six.’
‘Bob is nice looking actually,’ admitted Flora. ‘Pity he’s losing his hair.’
‘He’s just receding to match the recession. Bobby’s always been trendy,’ giggled Meredith. ‘Oh, good shot,’ as Bob snaked a single past first slip. ‘This is going to be a rout. Poor Paradise, more like Inferno in this weather.’
It was getting hotter. A silver haze writhed above the pitch. A sweep of mauve willow herb wilted beneath the smouldering ash-grey woods which bordered the ground. Birds, exhausted with feeding their young, were mute. Ferdie, running with sweat, wished he was thin enough to remove his shirt and get brown like all the other blokes. He couldn’t take his eyes off Natasha – he’d never seen anyone so pretty. Full of patter normally, he was suddenly so shy he could only fill her glass and ply her with cherries as dark red and shiny as her lips.
A hundred for no wicket. The village were getting tetchy. They’d hoped for a glimpse of Georgie, who’d been singularly elusive since she’d moved in. Rumours of marriage problems, spread by Mother Courage, were circulating faster than greyhounds on a track. Guy, however, was much in evidence, looking very cheerful. Batting only at number seven, rather to his irritation, he was now being sweet to the wives of the fielding Paradise players, admiring their tans and their babies, making a manly show of reluctance when asked to sign autographs, intimating that he hoped to be playing for Paradise this time next year.
By contrast, Larry, who was going in at number three, was sitting in the shade furiously shaking The Sunday Times Business section. He’d run out of people to shout at on the telephone and it didn’t look as though this stupid opening partnership would ever get out. He was livid to see Mr Brimscombe umpiring – the Judas. After the massacre of the honeysuckle round Flora’s bedroom, Mr Brimscombe had been tempted to return to his old boss, but had decided that Larry was a bad-tempered bugger. The Paradise Pearl cutting had taken in Rannaldini’s conservatory and the promise of a fat rise and an even taller mower from which he could look over the hedge at Natasha sunbathing topless by the pool had persuaded him to stay on.
The situation was getting desperate, a flustered Paradise had started dropping catches. Lysander’s supporters had moved back into the shade under the mulberry trees and, when he was sent to field on the boundary near them, barracked him because his side was doing so badly.
‘Can you ring Ladbroke’s for me?’ he shouted to Ferdie. ‘My card’s on the dashboard. Cover Point just told me Blue Chip Baby’s a cert in the 4.15. Can you put on five hundred pounds on the nose?’
In the light of his new bank balance, Lysander had considerably upped his stakes.
‘Rich as well,’ murmured Meredith excitedly.
‘Spoof you for him,’ sighed Natasha.
‘Bloody stupid putting on that kind of money,’ snapped Ferdie.
‘You got anything to eat?’ called Lysander, who’d already accepted an iced Carlsberg.
‘I’ll make you a sandwich.’ Natasha leapt down off the bonnet. ‘Would you like chicken or smoked salmon?’
Mulberries were falling on the parked cars. The crowd were melting. Bob and the horn player had put on 140.
‘If someone doesn’t get out soon,’ grumbled Marigold, ‘Lar
ry won’t get a knock.’
‘God, she’s pretty,’ mumbled Ferdie, as Natasha sauntered on to the pitch with Lysander’s sandwich.
‘Quite,’ said Meredith, who’d hung two pairs of cherries over his ears like earrings, ‘but an awful bitch.’
Lysander, however, only had time for one bite. Things were getting so desperate that the Archangel Michael beckoned him over.
‘You bowl?’
‘A little.’
‘Can’t do worse than this lot.’ Mike lobbed the ball at him. ‘Wicket’s harder than Rannaldini’s heart. Try and keep the ball up to the bat.’
‘This should be interesting,’ said Ferdie, as he finished off Lysander’s sandwich.
‘Bowler’s name,’ shouted the scorer.
‘Hawkley,’ yelled Mike.
The crowd, particularly the women, perked up. So this was the gorgeous man who’d moved into Magpie Cottage. The London Met, bored with playing classical music, launched into ‘Hey, Goodlookin’.’
Meredith waved in time with a chicken drumstick.
‘Hi, Teddy!’ Lysander grinned at Mr Brimscombe as he paced out his run. The two had become great mates when Lysander was sorting out Marigold. Lysander had been a nice young lad, always prepared to carry logs or dustbins, even if he couldn’t mow in a straight line.
His shirt billowing out, long-legged and loose-limbed as a West Indian, Lysander loped up to the wicket. A split second later the ball had removed Bob’s middle stump. The crowd exploded in joy and relief which turned to ill-disguised mirth as Larry came in to bat. He had padding on his thighs, chest and gut and he was wearing Ian Botham gloves, Astra-turf trainers with plastic studs, a short-sleeved cricket shirt that was much too tight for him, a helmet and a face guard. His bat had never been used. Fortunately the laughter was drowned by loud applause as Bob came back with seventy-eight runs on the board.
‘What sort of a ball was it?’ asked Larry pompously.
‘I think it was a red one.’ Bob mopped his brow. ‘It’s like a furnace out there.’
‘And here’s Larry Lockton,’ said the commentator, ‘who, we’re told, had a trial for Surrey.’
As Larry made a prolonged fuss about taking guard, Lysander walked back rubbing the ball up and down his trousers.
‘Oh, to be that ball,’ sighed Meredith.
Lysander’s second ball hit Larry on the snow-white pad.
‘’Owzat?’ howled the Paradise slips.
‘Out,’ intoned Mr Brimscombe to the noisy chagrin of Marigold.
‘Bollocks,’ bellowed Larry, mouthing like a gorilla behind his face guard.
‘Out,’ confirmed Clive the doghandler, who didn’t like Larry any better.
‘Don’t think you’ll ever get your fucking job back,’ roared Larry as he stalked back to the pavilion.
‘Must have been a trial to Surrey, rather than for them,’ giggled Meredith as Marigold rushed off to give solace.
Lysander had taken a devastating five wickets for nine runs and ended his second over with London Met looking suddenly in trouble, when Guy came in. Immediately the band launched into ‘Rock Star’.
‘Mum is clever,’ admitted Flora. ‘It does sound lovely played by a proper orchestra.’
‘Mr Rock Star himself,’ crackled the loudspeaker. ‘No mean cricketer if my spies tell me right.’
With his athlete’s stride, his powerful body, his strong handsome face and arctic-blond hair glinting in the sunlight, Guy looked worthy to have pop songs dedicated to him. He wished Ju Ju was watching and where the hell was Georgie? Who could blame him being unfaithful to a woman who never gave him any support? Then, just as he was taking guard, he saw her arrive with Dinsdale, wandering round the wooded side of the pitch, past Lysander who was now fielding in the deep again. Her newly washed hair was tied back with a blue ribbon and she was wearing a duck-egg-blue shirt tied under her slender midriff and yesterday’s flowered trousers.
‘And if I’m not mistaken, here’s Georgie Maguire herself; Mrs Rock Star’s just arrived in time,’ said the commentator, and the band struck up again.
Guy kicked off with a wristy single to loud applause. Then the tenor, who had the reputation for being a big hitter, blocked four balls, then clouted a six over Lysander’s leaping outstretched fingers deep into the dark midgy wood behind. Next moment, Lysander, Georgie and Dinsdale, followed by a racing-up yapping Maggie and Jack, disappeared in search of it. At first the players were happy to sit down and rest, then all eyes were turned to the wood as Dinsdale emerged carrying the ball. Waddling across the pitch he proudly dropped it to shouts of laughter at his master’s feet.
As the field changed over, it was Lysander’s turn to bowl again and all the Paradise fielders yelled for him to come back because the ball had been found. Then everyone waited and waited and waited until, finally, a good five minutes later Lysander and Georgie came out of the wood grinning from ear to ear. Lysander was ostentatiously wiping off the remains of Georgie’s peach-pink lipstick with the back of his hand and Georgie’s hair had escaped the blue ribbon.
Once more the whole crowd burst out laughing and the band struck up: ‘If you go down in the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise’ at Rannaldini’s instigation. Guy was shaking so much that Lysander proceeded to bowl and catch him with his first ball for only one run.
Flora had wandered over to join Rannaldini by the pavilion as Guy stormed past.
‘You’re a single parent now, Dad,’ she called out. ‘As Lysander was being free in the forest with Mum, he should wear your sweater.’
Rannaldini’s eyes sparkled with evil amusement.
Poor Guy was absolutely livid. Never had he needed his green-and-magenta sweater as a badge of former achievement more. A reporter from the Rutminster News who’d witnessed the whole scene wondered if it would be an idea to ring Dempster about the rocking of Rock Star. Larry had suddenly cheered up hugely.
‘Your toy boy seems to have transferred his affections to Georgie,’ he told Marigold nastily.
‘Pity Wolfie’s not here to make some runs for you,’ Flora murmured to Rannaldini. ‘Aren’t you sorry now you pinched his girlfriend?’
‘It was worth eet. Have you missed me a leetle?’
‘No,’ said Flora, then, looking up at him from under her thick eyelashes, ‘I missed you a lot.’
‘Once the London Met and your father are safely in the field we can slope off to the tower, Tabloid will keep watch.’
30
London Met was all out for 160 followed by tea in the great hall which was blissfully cool. White tablecloths had been laid over big oak tables. Huge vasefuls of red-hot pokers and early scarlet dahlias flamed like beacons in each corner. Kitty had provided a wonderful tea. Her sandwiches, made of smoked salmon, prawns swimming in real mayonnaise, scrambled eggs filled with herbs and the most delicate turkey breast, contained more filling than bread. There were also home-made scones to eat with mulberry jam and clotted cream, walnut, lemon and chocolate cakes, beautifully decorated on top and groaning with butter icing inside and a huge rainbow cake on whose white icing she had piped in blue: LONDON MET V. PARADISE 1990. Everything had been done to please Rannaldini. It was a pity that because of the heat more praising went on than eating.
‘I can’t go in there,’ whimpered Georgie, who’d already been mobbed by autograph hunters, as she saw the crowds milling in the great hall. ‘Guy’s about to murder me for disappearing.’
‘I’ll stay with you the whole time,’ said Lysander soothingly. ‘Actually, I’m bloody hungry. Very Gothic this house, isn’t it?’
Nor could the heat of hellfire put Percival Hillary, the vicar of All Saints, Paradise, off his grub. A consummate cadger of other people’s food and drink, with a fish face redder than Ferdie’s Ferrari and breath that could crack a safe at fifty yards, he was now piling his plate with sandwiches and crying in a fluting voice: ‘What a wonderful, wonderful spread.’
‘What a feast,’ cried his wi
fe Joy, who was always described as a ‘tower of strength’. A bosomless chatterbox with a ringing laugh, she spent her time bullying the unwilling into charity work and hovering round Paradise flushing out lapses of behaviour like Milton’s God.
‘I always feel I should wear my fig-leaf outside my shorts when Joy’s about,’ grumbled Meredith.
It was a running battle between Joy, Marigold and Lady Chisleden who actually ran Paradise. Despite her high moral tone, however, Joy Hillary shared her husband’s weakness for good-looking men and was potty about Guy. Guy was only prepared to be buttonholed by her for so long. Yanking Georgie from Lysander’s side, hissing, ‘How dare you show me up in front of the whole of Paradise,’ he shoved her at Joy Hillary.
‘Joyful, my dear, I’d like you to meet my wife, Georgie.’
A staunch vegetarian, who was systematically opening and casting aside sandwiches which contained meat, eggs or fish, Joy told Georgie that she’d just been saying to Guy that she couldn’t understand why there were so many wild oats about this year.
‘Symbolic of the times,’ said Georgie bleakly and, when Joy Hillary looked blank, ‘Men can’t resist sowing them.’
‘No-one sowed them,’ said Joy patiently. ‘The field behind us has been sprayed for twenty years, but we’ve still got wild oats.’
‘At least it’s better than that ghastly rape,’ said her husband Percival, coming over on the pretext of introducing himself, but actually to cut a huge slice out of Kitty’s utterly delectable chocolate cake. Alas, he was just about to plunge in the knife when Dinsdale lifted his big mournful face on to the table, and sucked in the entire cake.
Georgie burst out laughing. Then, seeing their horrified deprived faces: ‘I better absent myself from the scene of the crime and go and congratulate Kitty.’
Even in her current state of self-absorption, Georgie was appalled by Kitty’s appearance. She’d put on weight and her reddened eyes gazed into space as she filled cup after cup from a huge brown teapot. She was always quiet when Rannaldini was around, but she seemed to have lost all her warmth and her interest in other people. She didn’t even smile over the story of Dinsdale’s pilfering the chocolate cake and when Georgie ducked under the table to stand beside her and thank her for letting Flora spend so much time at Valhalla, Kitty said nothing, just lowered her eyes.
