The Country Set

by Fiona Walker

  ‘Bit windy, isn’t it?’ She played it cool as they both watched a wheelie-bin lid flap open in a gust. ‘What about the dogs?’

  ‘The secret is to lie low and wait until it’s just passed over,’ he explained, sucking at a gap where he’d lost a tooth, pale eyes distant. ‘The minute it’s calm, Bambi and his mates all come out from their hidey-holes. Rich pickings.’

  There had been a storm the night before Pricey was found, Carly remembered. Janine had insisted Jed wouldn’t be out in it, that it had to have been townies, but the opposite was true. He loved nothing more than waiting out a storm, like a looter after a riot.

  ‘Our lords and masters will be tucked up in their four-posters,’ Jed told her, with relish. ‘They don’t like getting wet, and drones can’t fly in this.’

  ‘Count me out.’

  ‘Scared of storms?’

  ‘Terrified.’ She gave him a sideways look. ‘You just ask Ash to go?’

  ‘Not his thing, is it? Never was.’

  ‘No.’ Carly smiled to herself as she turned back up the path. She’d had a niggling worry that the late nights with his mates might be taking in some less than legal detours, but if they had, no off-roading, guns or lamps had been involved.

  In the house, he’d left the radio on, the debris of a large cooked breakfast spread around the kitchen, his appetite laying waste to the sausages and eggs bought for the kids’ tea. Maddening, but another positive sign – if he’d cooked a fry-up, he felt good. Carly quickly cleared it up and gathered the day bags of nappies, snacks and formula to take over to Nanna Turner with Sienna and Jackson.

  Ash had left his phone on the shelf in the hall when he was putting on his coat. The battery-low warning was beeping. She plugged it in to charge for him, the screen lighting up and unlocking as she did so, a photograph of herself greeting her, an old pouty one with take-me-to-bed eyes. She wished he’d put the kids on there instead. She hardly recognised herself without dark under-eye bags and a nagging remark on her lips.

  ‘What you two need is a date night,’ Janine told her, half an hour later, as they Cif-ed the glossy black kitchen of one of the flashy new builds on the Broadbourne road. ‘It’s drink-the-bar-dry at the Jugged Hare tonight. They’re closing down at the weekend. VAT dodgers apparently. Ash and the lads are going. You could tag along.’

  ‘Thanks, but that’s not a date, that’s a piss-up.’

  ‘You’re a Turner now. They’re one and the same. C’mon, Carl, you’ve got to make an effort.’

  ‘Me make an effort? Your brother hasn’t taken me anywhere since we moved here. He hasn’t flossed his teeth since we moved here.’

  ‘He’s still fit, though, isn’t he? Look at you! No make-up, roots as wide as the Fosse Way, and you’ve broken those lovely nails I did for you already. Give him something to want. Give him the girl on the phone again, yeah? He misses her. I’ll babysit. You’ve Sky Movies, haven’t you?’

  Feeling cornered and defensive, wishing she’d never shown the picture to Janine, Carly stomped off to clean the marble-tiled bathroom, checking out her reflection in its mirrors and groaning. Janine was right. If she was going to use animal behaviour to help Ash back up to alpha stallion, she had to look like a dominant mare.

  *

  Ronnie scowled at the sight of Bay Austen’s Land Rover parked between her little car and Alice’s Mitsubishi, his dogs barking at hers from the back. She whistled the two heelers onto her back seat and went in search of Alice, whose pony trailer was now crammed to the roof with paintings, ornaments and furniture. ‘Just gathering a few keepsakes. I don’t want to get into a fight about it,’ she’d told her mother earlier, clearly very much steeling for a fight as she hawked out Major Frank’s medals and her grandmother’s awful Staffordshire spaniels. Ronnie had told her she could have what she liked, then taken her dogs out.

  It’s all set dressing, she thought sadly. After our final curtain call, a lifetime’s props and costumes are shared out. To make a fuss was just scene-stealing. Ronnie knew no amount of spoils would fill the void that feeling undervalued by her parents had left.

  Now Bay had rowed in like a pantomime villain. She wasn’t sure she could face him. Funerals aside, their last encounter had left a catastrophically bitter taste, although being Bay he would throw enough sweets to the audience that nobody would notice.

  Lester had been quite right to take himself off to see a different show.

  Three steps into the vestibule and she hesitated, her feet lining up beside the rows of hunting boots. Even with the wind rattling every window, she could hear Alice’s sharp little bark coming from the kitchen.

  ‘We’re as frustrated as you, Bay. Mummy’s so ruddy maddening.’

  ‘All she has to do is sign the interim transfer documents for the land, then the money will be there for you to pay HMRC.’ Bay’s drawl had deepened from how she remembered it, the young stag then, barely twenty, now wearing the crown antler with a deer-park bellow.

  ‘She says she doesn’t want a penny of it and it’s all for us, but she’s obviously stalling,’ Alice confided. ‘I thought she’d be back with the dogs by now. That’s why I called you so we could make sure she signs the ruddy thing. I told her to come and find me.’

  ‘She brought Marlboro Man?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Aussie eventer married to old Vee-Vee.’

  ‘No, thank God, although he’ll be here later. She’s already sold him some horses. She came here this morning to pull them out from the herd. They’re picking them up later.’

  ‘Always could sell a horse, Ronnie.’

  ‘Just hates selling land. Granny was the same.’

  ‘Especially to Austens. Especially, in your mother’s case, to me.’

  Too right, thought Ronnie, marching towards the kitchen.

  ‘Hardly matters, given the whole place will be up for sale soon enough,’ Alice said matter-of-factly.

  Almost at the door to the kitchen, Ronnie stopped.

  ‘So you’re planning to dispose of the lot?’ Bay sounded surprised.

  ‘The idea was to sell just this house initially, but we’ve spoken with a couple of estate agents who recommend putting the farm up as a whole. We’d first have to find a little yard to base Lester and the mares – not so much retiring to stud as retiring the stud – but otherwise there’s nothing to stop the sale once Mummy’s signed her claim over.’

  Ronnie put her hands to her mouth, absorbing the truth of it spoken aloud. The very thing her father had dreaded.

  ‘The village all seem to think she’s coming back. Barry Dawkins and his band of supporters are already rallying the hunt committee to offer her a joint mastership next season.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Bay. Pax insisted we give Mummy a chance to step in and run it, but she’ll never do it.’

  ‘I’m surprised Pax is happy to see the place sold.’

  ‘She’s outnumbered. Don’t get me wrong, we’d all love to keep it – my oldest wants to be a National Hunt trainer and this would suit him perfectly in a few years. Tim’s dying to set up his own British winery so would like to annex some of the south-facing hillside for vines. And God knows Pax deserves to get back in the saddle more than any of us – she knows her breeding too – but it’s just not practicable.’

  Ronnie’s hands tightened across her mouth, hearing the very thing her father had wanted.

  ‘We’re not the Waltons,’ Alice went on, with her shrill laugh. ‘The brutal truth is it costs far too much to run an old pile like this. We’ll talk Pax round to selling. Mack’s completely on side already.’

  ‘Good old Uch Aye Ganoo.’

  ‘He’s a smart cookie. Made a better job of being husband to her than you ever would have.’

  Ronnie’s eyes narrowed, remembering the Scot’s cold detachment at the funeral, Pax’s obvious unhappiness.

  ‘Better first husband,’ he corrected idly. ‘You don’t think Ronnie’s going to try to move Marlboro Man in, do
you? He must be looking to trade up to a younger cougar now. Suit him nicely, the set-up here.’

  ‘Over my dead body!’ The shrill laugh rang out again.

  Ronnie had heard enough.

  She marched back out to her car and took off down the drive, her mind made up.

  She would not see the stud sold.

  If they couldn’t trust her, she must put up somebody too trustworthy to doubt.

  Abandoning her car in the gateway to Sixty Acres, she walked her dogs to the family tree, its branches slapping and cracking in the wind. Uncle Brooke was upside down as usual, as were several cousins.

  Pulling out her phone, Ronnie scrolled through her contacts. At the end of the Ls was the most dependable man she knew. Seeking Luca O’Brien’s help risked infuriating Blair who believed a man that could be relied upon to drop anything to come to her aid was not one a lover should trust – he’d been very quick to dismiss O’Brien as a possible manager on the day of her father’s funeral – but Ronnie knew Luca better than that.

  It must have been eight or nine years ago when she’d first encountered the young horseman from County Kildare, mentioning him in a letter to Hermia – I’ve just met my first centaur!!! – one of many letters sent to the wrong address, a one-sided correspondence doggedly maintained for years. She’d been living in Germany at the time, writing excitedly of a talented work rider who possessed a truly extraordinary gift. Like her, Luca had been born into an old equestrian dynasty, his family Italian-Irish show-jumpers. They’d sparked off each other from the start, and been friends for more than a decade now, his skills transferred from competition riding to breeding, his knack for producing winners taking him to some of the best competition studs in the world. Quietly spoken and unassuming, easy to like, his methods were unconventional and his feet just as itchy as her own, but he was so undeniably effective he’d become known as the Horsemaker.

  Blair had always been absurdly jealous, and the boy posed no threat to their short, fiery romantic fuse. She’d deflected one rather charming pass years ago and had no intention of allowing a repeat performance. Closer to her children’s age, he was far too angelic to be her type. But he was perfect for Compton Magna. The moment she’d met him, she’d known she must introduce him to Pax. This was her chance. He was her peace-offering to her daughter and to the whole village.

  He picked up her call in two rings, the soft Irish voice a lullaby even across two continents. ‘How are ya, Ron?’

  ‘You were asleep.’

  ‘If this is a dream, don’t make my teeth fall out.’

  ‘Luca, I want to offer you a yard to run.’

  ‘There they go. Tooth Fairy just made me rich man. Is this for real?’

  ‘Yes. How soon can you start?’

  ‘Jesus, you don’t beat about the bush.’

  ‘Only blackberry bushes.’

  ‘What’s it been – three years? You could at least ask how I’m keeping.’

  ‘You can tell me when you get here.’

  He laughed, a gorgeous, sleepy, rumbling sound. ‘Where is here?’

  ‘England. My family’s stud. We spoke about it.’

  ‘Beautiful place, so it is. But I’m in contract to the end of the year. Then I was going back to Ireland for a bit. Build bridges.’

  ‘Stop off here on the way.’

  The rumbling laugh again. ‘You living there?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘When do you need an answer?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘I’ve got six months to play with at most.’ He yawned. ‘I’m working in France from July.’

  ‘That will be perfect. Long enough for all the mares to foal down, and break in and sell the surplus stock. So you’ll do it?’

  ‘You can break the news to my mammy.’

  *

  Carly redid her roots while she was cleaning her own house that afternoon, painting on the gunk from a cheap supermarket kit, then waiting for it to take, plastic bag tied around her head as she changed the bedding, hoovered and bleached the bathroom, the fumes from Toilet Duck and peroxide combining to make her feel faint. Surely it had been on long enough. She had to pick up Ellis in ten minutes.

  To her horror, when she washed it out, it had turned her dark roots Honey Monster orange. Her head itched furiously. There was no time to do anything more than cram on a hat before belting out to the school. The wind was even stronger now, hurling more wheelie-bins around, several trees down in the orchards along Plum Run, the children’s artwork whipped out of their hands as they emerged from their classrooms.

  Typically, today was the one on which Ellis’s new best friend’s shy young Hungarian mother chose to offer Carly a cup of tea in the workers’ caravan she shared with her husband at the Austens’ farm.

  ‘Children can play, yes? We have girl talk.’

  Carly craved girl talk with somebody other than Janine, but she’d left the house half cleaned, the other two kids with her mother-in-law and she wanted to be alpha mare for Ash. Head flaming, apologising that they’d have to do it another time, Carly refused, the mother scuttling away.

  Ellis kicked up a fuss, refusing to touch his beans on toast at home, picking on his little sister, then charging out to kick a ball at the shed in the garden with such force his light-up trainers glowed constantly like little furnaces.

  Cutting his first two lower teeth, little gums reddened from frantic toy-chewing, Jackson was bawling constantly. While Carly was trying to soothe him, Sienna waddled unnoticed into her bedroom and spread her mother’s make-up everywhere.

  ‘Stick, stick!’ she said proudly, holding up the stub of red lipstick that was now all over her face and the walls.

  Hearing his mother’s wails of horror, Ellis reclaimed the ’Splorer Stick from under the stairs and took it outside to whack against the shed instead.

  When Ash came home, he walked into a house of howling, kicking, bleach-smelling discontent. Carly hurried downstairs, cleaning spray in hand, roots still orange. ‘Hello, bae. I’ve got all this covered. You just chill. Good day?’

  He was holding his phone. ‘You moved this?’

  ‘I charged it for you.’

  ‘I don’t like you messing with it.’ He noticed Ellis in the garden, horse-whipping the clothes-airer. ‘What’s up with him? Why’s he got that fucking duster out again?’

  ‘Missed out on date night. Unlike us.’ Carly struggled to sound enthusiastic.

  Ash looked equally unimpressed by the idea, eyebrows curling up over bemused silver eyes. ‘Won’t be your thing, bae. The only booze they’re giving away is the shit liqueurs and alcopops they can’t sell back to the wholesaler. You know the lads will be there.’

  ‘Great!’ She feigned delight. ‘Any port in a storm. About time I got to know them better.’

  *

  Petra hardly noticed the storm building, her mind possessed by craggy Sir Thomas and his ravishing wife Lady Anne – puritanical zealots with an insatiable lust for one another – and dastardly Father Willy, a younger Fairfax son from the Catholic side of the family possessed by a joyful taste for womanliness.

  While she pounded her keyboard, drank countless mugs of tea and wrenched closed the loose window of the Plotting Shed every time it blew open, the wind outside pulled bigger branches from trees and tore tiles from roofs across the Comptons.

  Wilf’s head shot up regularly from his basket as the wind battered the shed, but Petra wrote on oblivious, Father Willy bedding his first conquest, a curvaceous young widow whom he seduced while they hid together in a priest hole during a Roundhead raid.

  Fitz staggered in, like a Sherpa from a blizzard, shortly after four, battling to close the door behind him, fringe whipped into a parting so comical that when Petra turned to look at him she committed the mortal sin of fighting giggles at her teenage child’s appearance.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but it’s pretty wild out there. Should we do anything?’

  Sixteen, sporty and heroic, with
a Duke of Edinburgh gold award and an addiction to action movies, Fitz needed a daring deed. ‘You could put the chickens away.’

  She returned to Father Willy, still in the throes of lust in the confined space, while heavy boots pounded and swords clashed beyond the wooden hatch, his widow writhing under his firm-fingered touch. Bay’s fingers – tanned and square-tipped and deep-knuckled – were vivid in her mind’s eye.

  The Meteorological Office upped its flood warnings from amber to red.

  When the girls were dropped off, Petra’s mum-run friend reported roads closed due to fallen trees and power lines. She saved her work and brought her laptop inside, trailed by a relieved Wilf. Having checked that the ponies and the Redhead were happily holed up in their field shelter, the girls occupied in the playroom, Petra sneaked open the laptop at the dining-room table and carried on writing.

  Sir Thomas Fairfax was returning from battle to see his wife for the first time in many weeks, their reunion rapturous, her bodice ripped by his teeth while her tongue and teeth worked on his ripped body. As she wrote, Sir Thomas quickly metamorphosed from a craggy Indiana Jones to a young Charlie, reunited with his hair and erstwhile lusty sexual appetite. Anne was no longer a minxy blonde, but Petra herself in her twenties, described with the wisdom of her forties, now seeing the ravishing young raver she had been then, not the gawky, fat-thighed wallflower she’d imagined. She and Charlie had been hot. Black Tom and his wife had that Friday feeling.

  The house phone rang just after five o’clock. She ignored it. Let it go to messages. But Prudie was an addicted phone-grabber and trotted through with it a minute later. ‘Daddy says the trains are all over the place because of the storm so he’s not coming back tonight.’

  Waving her away, Petra took it, horny as hell, voice drenched with pheromones. ‘Can you really not make it back? I have a special treat.’ Blackberry champagne, the shag of your life.

  There was nobody on the line.

  ‘He said he didn’t need to speak to you,’ Prudie lingered, ‘but he wasn’t sure you’d got his text, and your mobile’s on voicemail. What’s an areola, Mummy?’