by Fiona Walker
‘Don’t be silly. That’s Lester. Angus Bowman’s the one holding the horse,’ Gill wiped more dust away. ‘Devastatingly handsome, isn’t he?’
It was a group photo from the early eighties, faded to pastel, featuring a mud-splattered horse with an even muddier rider in an orange bib, smile as wide and white as his stock. ‘Now he looks like a young Robert Redford. I’m amazed they didn’t burn this.’
‘That horse had just won the Melton Hunt Club Ride for the third year running. The Captain bred him. Ronnie could have run away with everyone in that picture and it would still have stayed framed on a wall.’
Petra peered at the other characters, the men timeless in tweeds and flat caps, the women with bad eighties hair, Princess Diana piecrust collars and Puffa gilets. One, scowling beneath an impressive Neighbours mullet, had a familiar bear-like stare.
‘Gill, that’s you!’
‘I always liked that hairdo.’
‘You were his fiancée?’
‘God, no! I was barely twenty and swotting away at veterinary school, although I admit I was more than a little in love with him. Angus Bowman was my first big crush. His fiancée was Lucy here, in the trilby, one of Daddy’s shining stars at the equine practice. They made such a lovely couple. She was utterly heartbroken when he ran off with Ronnie. She took a job in Canada eventually.’
‘What happened to him?’ She looked at the handsome face, all class and cock, that politically incorrect James Hunt sex appeal lethally attractive even in faded sepia. ‘Are he and Ronnie still together?’
‘God, no. She’s with him now.’ Gill pointed at another eighties shot, far higher up on the wall and featuring a familiar eventing pin-up in his lean, white-smile youth lounging on top of a Burghley winner. ‘He’s married to her.’ She pointed to one of several figures in a nearby picture. ‘Although when this photo was taken, she was married to him,’ she pointed to another figure in the shot, ‘and rumour’s always had it she was shagging him at the time.’ Her finger tapped a very familiar face, destined to grace postage stamps one day.
‘But that’s...’
‘Quite. I’ve no idea what became of handsome Angus. When Ronnie bolted, they went up north somewhere and dropped out of view. Ronnie got back into eventing after a few years, but I never came across his name again. He must have stopped race riding. The point-to-point world is so small everyone knows everyone else even that far up-country. He had no family connections to speak of – I think he’d been born in what was then Rhodesia. Hunts can be very insular, so my guess is he’s somewhere in the fells being a latter-day John Peel.’
‘The legendary disc jockey and champion of new music?’
‘Now you’re just teasing me. Angus was the Bay Austen of his day.’ She tapped the sexy vintage smile with her finger. ‘All the Bardswolds village wives were in love with him in the Abba years, his sports car always parked outside houses of husbands who worked away a lot. When this was taken, he was probably thirtyish, ready to settle down and have a family. He’d have done that perfectly happily with Lucy, who was bright and spirited enough for him, but instead he got caught up with the one village wife no man could ever resist.’
‘I bet Ronnie did far more than thinking up cherry-picking innuendos,’ scoffed Petra, secretly and shallowly flattered that Gill had bracketed her with a wife no man could resist.
Somebody knocked politely on the loo door. Putting the picture back, Petra and Gill squeezed outside together to find a small queue had formed, headed by Pax’s husband, a tall terse Scot flying on one too many sherries, as he told the legendary little show judge beside him: ‘Sensible thing to do wi’ an old wreck like this is empty it and auction it.’
The judge looked appalled. ‘Surely that’s not what the family intend.’
‘There’s a lot of legal stuff ta get through before anything’s decided.’ He shrugged. ‘They’ll give it until Christmas.’
‘To do what? Put decorations up?’ Gill laughed incredulously. ‘That’s not enough time to change anything here. The next crop of foals isn’t due until March.’
‘There are a lot of horses to sell.’ He disappeared into the loo.
‘Never known a bad Percy horse,’ sniffed the show judge.
‘Make jolly nice hunters,’ Petra said brightly, hurrying past to take her leave. She was appallingly behind schedule and would have to tow the pony trailer under the influence of two glasses of sherry, which she always hated doing, unlike the many Fosse and Wold followers here, well-practised in the art of reversing an Ifor Williams with a hip flask of sloe gin in their system.
*
In the lunchtime heat of the Jugged Hare car park, the pub’s harassed landlady was shouting for her husband from the kitchen door, and the taxi driver was complaining that her fare was going to be double, but the High Noon stand-off continued as Kit finally marched out with a breathalyser test to be witnessed by Paranoid Landlord, an impatient taxi driver, the Australian with the Range Rover and the temperance zealot who had hijacked his car.
After another hiatus, because he needed his reading glasses from the car to make sense of the miniature print instructions, he snapped off the plastic end of the tube and breathed into it.
They all watched the crystals turn green in a rising tide towards the red limit line. They stopped a few millimetres short.
‘You’re legal!’ declared the publican happily. ‘That calls for a drink.’
‘Fair dos, mate.’ The craggy Australian offered Kit a handshake. ‘Now can we all fuck off home?’
Kit ignored the hand, indignation still boiling in his head. ‘I’m not your mate, and I’m already fucked off without fucking off anywhere else. Now I am going to Stratford to be immeasurably cheered up by civilised company.’
‘You do that, mate.’ The Australian’s tar-black eyes were murderous.
Chastened, Ronnie took the key out of the ignition and stepped from the car. ‘I owe you a big apology.’
Kit was struck afresh by how tiny she was, her blonde head barely level with his shoulder. The indignant fury went out of him almost instantly, finding his ghost to be no more than a small, blue-eyed stranger, whose face was pinched with sadness beneath the apologetic smile as she held out his keys. ‘This was a bad day to pick a fight,’ he muttered, the victory hollow. He had no real desire to drive the car any more, just the principle. He felt hot, tired and more than a little thick-headed; he still couldn’t remember which road to take to Stratford. ‘In fact, I might leave it here, after all.’ He looked at the keys in her hand. She had very small neat fingernails, he noticed. ‘I’d be grateful to take you up on your offer of the taxi. Do what you like with the Saab. You yourself shall keep the key of it.’
‘Safer leaving it here than in London.’ She looked at him curiously, the wise warmth in her eyes too generous to deny, its ability to burn right through his bluff painfully familiar. They must have been an incredible childhood duo, Hermia Austen and Ronnie Percy.
She was right, although he was too proud to acknowledge it. It would be far better leaving the car parked in a Cotswold village for three months than on a busy north London road where a resident’s permit cost more than his petrol bills – it had been keyed so often it looked as though it had silver go-faster stripes.
‘I hope New York makes you happy.’ Getting back into the Saab, Ronnie restarted the engine, poking her head out of the window to tell her Australian friend to follow, then looked up at Kit again, the blue eyes still all too wise. ‘It certainly can’t make you any more miserable.’
‘Who does she think she is?’ Kit raged, as she drove off. ‘Insufferable bloody woman!’
‘Isn’t she just?’ Blair raised an eyebrow, gave him a quick, unfriendly smile, then got back into his car. ‘But she’s the best mate you could dream of, mate.’
Climbing into the taxi, Kit remembered his overnight bag was in his car. It hardly mattered. He’d been a toothbrush and T-shirt nomad for so long, he knew they were as easil
y bought in transit as carried.
Hermia would have found a way to make him laugh amid his predicament, the man who’d been taken for a ride by her best friend, now valet parking his car for him. He checked the time on his phone, noticing a raft of new messages from Orla. As the taxi belted away from the village, he didn’t look up, his future in his hands, two thumbs taking charge.
*
The wake had thinned to hardened locals as Petra hunted for a family member to say goodbye to, villagers gathered in tight knots in the panelled drawing room. The Compton old guard always loved a party. Having fetched yet more fresh supplies in Tupperware boxes from her car boot, Pip had a queue at her cake table again, which meant Petra could wave a gay farewell as she hunted for her hosts. She lost Gill to a group of local horsy types, managed to dodge Bay, whose loud voice she heard regaling a pack lounging on the sofas with talk of poachers and night surveillance, until finally she spotted a cloud of red hair as Pax headed into a side room carrying a fresh bottle of oloroso to top up glasses. Following, Petra put her head round the door just in time to catch Pax necking the sherry straight from the bottle, tear-reddened eyes softening with relief. The room smelt strongly of cigarette smoke.
‘This is all your bloody fault, Pax,’ a small voice snarled out of sight.
Trying to back away, Petra found herself pressed up against six feet two of hard-riding muscle. He put a finger to her lips, breathing ‘Ssh,’ into her ear.
‘Grumps wouldn’t want us divided like this!’ Bottle in hand, Pax moved across the room in a way that suggested it hadn’t been her first swig of the day, drifting slightly from side to side like a half-passing horse, all quivering Tennessee Williams beauty and high tension. ‘I know it’s a tough day, but we have to face facts.’
‘You should have thought of that before you started offering concessions!’ The growl deepened.
Appalled to be witnessing something so private, Petra shrank back, elbows digging into Bay’s ribs to be let past, trying to catch his eye over her shoulder, but his handsome face was immobile, hands gripping her shoulders, watching Pax as she swayed by the back of a small chintz settee, her voice lowered to a theatrical bass note when she spoke. ‘Mum will only come here with your blessing, Alice.’
A plume of smoke puffed up from behind the chintz with a smack of disapproving lips. The older, smaller sister’s voice, stout as a dressing-down from a headmistress, was high with indignation. ‘She’s a curse, not a blessing! Today’s service was a farce, lover-boy muscling in on it all. He’ll have his Konigs under the table here before you know it. First Angus, then Lion, Henk and now old Mr Sit Tight. She sure as hell chooses the bad boys.’
Despite herself, Petra found the mysterious quartet thrilling, bad boys being an object of desire for any child of the eighties, while glamorous survivors like Ronnie were figures of admiration.
‘She knows more about running this place than any of us,’ said Pax.
‘Tim has fifteen thousand hectares of vineyards under his jurisdiction, I oversee a big mixed farm, you project-manage large-scale renovations. We’re so on this. I still think we’re wrong not contesting the will.’
‘No!’
‘The stud is this close to bankrupt.’ A hand appeared above the sofa now, pinching thumb and fingers together. ‘Just because you’re stressed out by your marriage going through a—’
‘That does not affect my decision.’
Bay was straining across Petra to see into the room better, his hands sliding down her shoulders as he did so, taking her shrug and dress straps with them. She wrestled them back up furiously, hearing a quick ‘Sorry’ breathed into her ear.
Pax was staring in the direction of the door now.
They both froze, then realised she was looking at something above it, a picture or an ornament on the lintel, perhaps. If she glanced a few inches lower she’d see them spying through the gap. Bay’s lips were still up against Petra’s earlobe, motionless, breath held until Pax turned away again, swigging the sherry bottle before addressing her sister: ‘I just want us to do what Grumps asked for. He’d have been so upset to see us fighting like this.’
Alice’s dark head popped up over the chintz sofa back, eyes white-rimmed with fury. ‘He loved fights. And I will fight until my knuckles are bare bone for my children’s futures!’
‘He always did have a cruel sense of humour.’ Another voice joined in the argument now, cool and drawling, as Tim stepped through the open French windows, the last of his cigarette smoke pluming. Ronnie’s pocket-sized rugged son fixed his blue gaze on his younger sister. ‘Remember, if Ma steps out of line or screws up here once, even slightly, we’re straight back to the lawyer. It’s a trust, remember?’
‘Hah!’ Alice laughed scornfully.
Petra felt Bay look round before he drew her aside to duck behind the folded panelling of the false wall. A moment later, a small figure in neatly tailored tweed stormed past, pulled open the door and marched into the study.
‘If I may speak?’ Lester stood at his five foot five full stretch, poker-backed and shiny-booted, small black eyes set fiercely in his gnarled face. ‘With respect to all of you in your hour of grief, your grandfather made his intentions very clear so there’s no point squabbling in here like whelps.’ The rhythmic round vowels, which were rarely ever raised in anger, old-fashioned and monotone as a Home Service broadcast, might have been addressing them from the centre of the jumping paddock where he’d taught them to ride as children with a relentless, repetitive, perfectionist discipline that made all three now flex their fingers to their palms, pinkies out, and put weight in their heels without noticing. ‘Save your arguments for another day. The Captain might not have been one for airs and graces, especially towards the end, but the funeral guests are all leaving, and he would have expected somebody other than myself to thank them for coming and bid them farewell. So bloody well get out there and show some good manners.’
It was the longest speech anyone had heard Lester make in decades, not since the stud’s last great competitive era when he’d walked cross-country courses with young-rider Pax, talking her through the best routes and strategies, that soft burr of a voice hypnotising her and calming her nerves.
Guilty tears sprang to her big, vulnerable eyes. ‘Christ, how thoughtless of us all. Stand with us, Lester, will you?’ Reaching out her hand, which he took awkwardly, hobbit-small alongside her, they left the room, Alice and Tim stalking sullenly in their wake.
Pressed against the cool plaster beyond the door frame, concealed from the rest of the room by the folded panels of the false wall, Petra and Bay looked at one another in horrified amusement.
‘I have to go,’ she bleated.
‘Of course. And Lester’s right. It’s only good manners to say farewell.’ He kissed her directly on the lips, softly and swiftly, pulling the Chianti cork on a hundred poolside fantasies. ‘Ci vediamo presto. Three o’clock for camp awards don’t forget. You get Sexiest Pony Club Mum.’ And he was gone.
Petra closed her eyes and groaned very quietly. She’d forgotten they were both due to sit through an hour of small girls receiving rosettes, medals and cups. The Safe Married Crush was very hard to steer round gigs like Pony Club Camp when it got as dangerous as this.
21
Ronnie insisted on driving back to Wiltshire, content to hack home on a long rein after a hard day, re-riding each obstacle in her mind as she went. Blair, who never missed a minute marker, was already clock-watching by the time they climbed out of the Fosse Vale, right leg stamping into the foot well, his sympathy limited to a pat on the withers every third kick. ‘This car has two more gears and a turbo, you know.’
‘It’s a steep hill.’
‘And learning curve. I had no idea until today what a headstrong lot you Percys are.’
‘Not any more. The name just died out.’
‘As will this clutch imminently.’ He gritted his teeth as a lorry overtook them. ‘Where in God’s name are we head
ed, Ron? The motorway’s in the opposite direction.’ Another lorry drew alongside, dragging past painfully slowly as an oncoming car flashed its lights frantically. ‘Put your foot down!’
‘I am putting my foot down. We’re taking the scenic route. Slowly.’ Ronnie let the big car coast. Today was taking its toll, her energy flagging, her desire for familiar old roads instinctive, even if her passenger was kicking the daylights out of the foot well in time to Led Zeppelin.
‘Are you moving back to run the stud?’ he asked now.
‘I haven’t entirely decided.’
‘Where does that leave us?’ he snapped. ‘You can’t just abandon your horses mid-season!’
‘There are plenty of stables there.’
She’d bedded into Wiltshire so seamlessly, Blair barely a valley away, friends all around. But her rootstock was wide and shallow as heather. Her feet had itched for a long while, her work–life balance devoid of family ties, and reliant upon others’ grace and favour. The prospect of taking over the stud might nail iron horseshoes to her soul – and losing Blair melt that iron into it – yet the opportunity to make amends to her children was burning all before it, an old-fashioned, toxic reincarnation.
Blair knew her well enough to appreciate there was no stopping her once she had made her mind up about something, and it infuriated him enough to throw practical problems under her slow-moving tyres. ‘The place is close to bankrupt.’
‘I’ll come up with something.’ She’d have to give that one a lot of thought.
A moped was overtaking them now.
‘We’ll start going backwards in a minute.’
‘That’s how I roll.’
‘I like how you roll.’ He turned to her, eyes dark with unease as they swept through narrow lanes skirted with golden stone walls and overarched with oak trees. ‘Where are we rolling?’
‘Through the Cotswolds, of course.’ Ronnie’s fingers rapped on the wheel, tilting a fleeting smile in his direction. ‘It’s a beautiful day. We hardly ever get to be alone together, let alone on a day like this. Let’s just enjoy the ride.’
