The Country Set

by Fiona Walker

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s on your computer.’ She pointed at Petra’s laptop, reading from the screen. ‘“He took her whole areola into his mouth and rolled his tongue around the—”’

  ‘It’s a type of sweet.’ She quickly shut the lid.

  31

  The storm-clouds over the Comptons were blackening fast. It had been dark as twilight since teatime. Commuters rushed home early. Garden tables and chairs were stashed in garages. In Compton Magna, the cottages alongside Lord’s Brook started sandbagging their doors; in Compton Bagot the houses near the millstream bridge did the same.

  Nobody noticed the white van parking at the entrance to the bridleway near the stud.

  *

  Fitz opened the door to the villagers on the Goose Walk, severely depleted in number this year, its feathery star being carried in Gill Walcote’s arms because it had stubbornly and sensibly refused to cross the Green in the high wind.

  ‘Are you the only one in, Fitz?’ Gill asked cheerfully, from beneath a tightly toggled waterproof hood.

  ‘Mum’s working. She’s totally, like, obsessed. D’you want a carrot or something?’

  ‘We expect a bit more than that! You’re traditionally supposed to give us a drink and harvest produce in exchange for a song and a seat at the Michaelmas table.’

  ‘Wait there.’

  He found a bottle of Moët and a big bowl of blackberries in the fridge.

  ‘There you go.’ He thrust both at them.

  ‘The devil spits on blackberries on Michaelmas Day,’ one of the ancient, reedy mob told him, a gnarled elder with a know-it-all smile.

  ‘He spat on mine months ago.’ Fitz closed the door on them as they started to sing a diddly-dee folk number about apple gathering.

  Leaning back against it, he took his phone out of his pocket and checked the app.

  His father and Lozzy were busy tonight, the hurricane stirring everyone up.

  Through the door behind him, the singing petered out and a dissenting voice said, ‘This is madness. Let’s just call a halt to it, shall we?’

  Looking at his phone screen, Fitz couldn’t agree more. They’d had a row, it seemed.

  He could hear the Goose Walkers moving on, arguing about whether to go straight to the pub or not. ‘We haven’t got many provisions for the feast.’

  ‘C’mon, Gill, you know we never use it – a sack of spuds and a bag of frozen mixed veg always suffices.’

  The argument seemed to have started with a cancelled liaison and escalated from there, Lozzy accusing Charlie of neglect, indecision and hypocrisy.

  ‘Not the only one to level that charge.’

  Fitz’s thumb twitched over the screen, tempted to play the hand of God and join in, storm raging in the background.

  He swiftly pocketed the phone as he heard his mother dashing along the corridor from the dining room. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve missed them! There’s a big basket of greens and ginger wine waiting.’

  ‘I gave them some stuff.’

  ‘You’re a star. Sorry I’m a totally flaky mother, love, but it’s finally writing itself. Are the girls watching a movie? I must run them a bath.’

  ‘Reading, I think. They’ve already had showers.’

  ‘My God, today couldn’t get any better!’ She clapped her hands together, dancing off to her daughters.

  Fitz looked at his phone. ‘It could. Believe me, it could.’

  *

  Carly rescued what make-up she could from Sienna’s raid to give herself rock-chick eyes and lollipop lips, prised herself into her tightest jeans, then found an up-do that hid the orange roots and just about withstood the wind under her big fur-lined coat hood on the short walk to the Jugged Hare.

  It was already stripped of most of its furnishings ready for closure, the pictures gone, the bar serving only one lager on draught. The Best Rock Anthems... Ever! belted out from the stereo as a swansong, the vacating publicans in good spirits while giving away all their bad ones.

  ‘It’s a relief to be getting out of the pub game,’ the landlady told Carly, as she handed over a WKD and a large amaretto. ‘His blood pressure’s been through the roof.’ She nodded at her husband, and they all looked up at a crash overhead. ‘Roof might not last much longer.’

  She and Ash were the first of his gang to arrive, enjoying a brief date as they claimed the big sofa in front of the wood-burner. Carly curled up against him, soft sofa back behind her, hard muscle alongside. ‘Check out your guns!’

  ‘What’s with all the lovey-dovey stuff?’

  ‘I’m allowed to admire my husband, aren’t I?’

  ‘This about that dog?’

  ‘No!’

  He grinned. ‘Cos I think I’ve sorted that. Jed’s gonna take her on.’

  ‘Jed does coursing.’

  ‘Ssh! Keep your voice down. It’s what she’s bred for. She’s a working dog.’

  ‘No way is she going back to that life. The sanctuary won’t let her go to someone like Jed.’

  ‘It’s a private home. He’s got his girlfriend and her kid living there. They all know their lurchers.’

  ‘He said you don’t like any of that stuff.’

  ‘I don’t. It’s boring. Jed looks after his dogs, though. Think of the dog, Carl. And Ellis. The kid loves that dog. He can see him every day if he’s living a couple of roads away.’

  ‘Her. Pricey’s a girl.’

  ‘Jed’s called her Killer.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Picked her up this afternoon.’

  ‘You’re winding me up.’

  ‘Gotcha!’ He laughed at her horrified face, eyes creasing in delight as he cuffed her. ‘Had you going there, didn’t I?’

  ‘Jesus, Ash.’ She rubbed her face, almost tearful with relief.

  ‘No, he’s actually called her Tequila – Te-killer, get it?’

  She stared at him fixedly, waiting for the second ‘Gotcha’. It didn’t come. ‘He really has got the dog?’

  ‘He really has.’

  Carly thought about Jed’s flick-knife eyes, staring into the distance earlier. Had Pricey been his all along? Had he been the poacher targeting Bay Austen’s deer herd that night who had left his dog for dead, and was now reclaiming the fiercest of fighters and survivors?

  ‘I can’t let this happen.’ She shook her head. ‘He lamps on Manor Farm land. She almost died there. He’s going out there tonight after this storm blows over.’

  ‘Fucking shut up, will you?’

  ‘Ash, there’s nobody in here.’

  ‘He’s got six dogs,’ he breathed. ‘No way will he take the new one, okay? He’s not trained her or anything yet. I thought you’d be pleased.’

  His phone rang. He spilled her sideways and went to answer it by the door to get away from the music. She watched him anxiously over her shoulder. Something was bothering him this evening, beyond the usual titanium-clad aloofness. He kept checking his watch and glancing at the windows. It was too early for him to be jumpy about his cousin’s poaching excursion, and the storm was still crazy out there.

  ‘Let’s not talk about the dog again, okay?’ she said, when he rejoined her.

  He put an arm round her and flashed his big armoured smile. ‘You look dope tonight.’

  ‘Is something up, bae?’

  ‘Nothing’s up.’ He traced his fingers along her jawline and up into her hair, dropping his mouth to her ear to murmur, ‘But my cock will be later.’ He kissed her mouth. She could always taste a lie on his lips.

  When the lads turned up, Carly grew even more suspicious. They were all just as evasive. There were furtive looks, eye shrugs and gestures that told her they’d be talking about something else if she wasn’t around. While Flynn was playing with his leather wrist cuffs and telling her about the ‘nutcase’ horses he’d been trying to shoe that day in high winds, she could hear Ash talking to Ink behind her, words hissed loud enough for her to get the gist of something going ahead that night.
Ash didn’t sound happy. ‘It’s shitting on your own doorstep, isn’t it?’ Was he talking about the lamping or something more?

  His phone rang again and he did his dash to the door, Ink and Hardcase headed to the bar for another free round.

  ‘Alone at last, sweetlips.’ Flynn was being ultra-attentive, his double denim eyes taking a tour of her push-up bra and tight trousers.

  Carly leaned forwards and whispered, ‘What’s the fuck’s going on, Flynn?’

  ‘Search me.’ He made it sound like a genuine invitation, the after-party rock-star swagger in play, with a big grin and a rake of the highlighted hair.

  ‘Spit it out or you’ll be spitting out your teeth.’ She gave him her best death stare.

  ‘God, I love it when you talk rough. But seriously, sweetlips, I haven’t a clue. I just know, whatever it is, this storm’s fucking it right up.’

  *

  The train from Marylebone was massively delayed, the hurricane causing havoc on the track as trees and branches crashed down on it.

  It had been almost an hour late into Oxford, where Lester and Pip had got on. They almost made it to Banbury station when they lurched to a stop again.

  Pretending to sleep opposite Pip – who hadn’t stopped talking – Lester was still in shock. The whole day had been a sensory overload, a nightmare that never ended. Nothing had prepared him for the crowds, the wind, and the sense of being swept along by both from point to point. Pip had followed her phone map everywhere as she ticked things off her list: gallery, open-topped bus ride, restaurant, theatre. She might as well have been shopping in Asda.

  Poldark the Musical hadn’t been as Lester was anticipating at all. He hadn’t seen the most recent television series. He remembered the one forty years ago with Angharad Rees and Robin Ellis. Ann Percy had been a closet fan, sneaking across to Lester’s cottage to insist they watch it together on his little black-and-white portable – ‘Jocelyn says it’s a load of pansy frock-coat nonsense.’ He recalled rather enjoying the spectacular scenery and high drama. Today’s stage show had borne no resemblance to it. He was still trying to work out how all those oil-torsoed men waving scythes about fitted into tin-mine closure and smuggling. Then there were the swirling lights, trampolines, strobes, high wires and the sheer noise. Lester had used up an entire asthma inhaler.

  ‘Just popping to the loo.’ Pip rattled off along the aisle and he opened one eye to check she was out of sight before sneaking a look at the programme.

  He must try to be more grateful. Pip had tried so hard, even getting their names on the stage door to meet some of the cast after the show – she said one of the lead actors was a friend of a friend, but he didn’t come out of his dressing room – then treating him to an old-fashioned black cab. Oxford was starting to look post-apocalyptic, the driver telling them somebody had been knocked unconscious by falling debris in one of the college quads. They’d both agreed to skip tea at The Grand Café and come straight home.

  He was worried sick about the horses. Pip had called Alice several times from her mobile phone with no reply. He should never have left them, never caved in to Pip’s day trip determination and his own cowardice avoiding Ronnie. Glancing at the programme, he also knew he’d done something he would never have done while the Captain was alive: he’d been selfish. He hadn’t had a day off since June, when the Captain had laid off the weekend helper. Once the horses came off the pasture for winter, Lester had no idea how he would cope, but the only person who seemed to have noticed this was Ronnie, and he’d rather muck out the foal barns single-handed than prod his pitchfork into that hornets’ nest.

  He looked up as Pip returned from the loo white as a sheet.

  ‘Kit Donne’s in first class!’ She slid into the seat beside him. ‘With a nun.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The theatre director – you know, he was married to Sandy Austen’s sister, the one who died on the road. He’s supposed to be in New York.’

  ‘Probably visiting his wife’s grave. He’s a good man.’

  ‘He could at least have called ahead. His house is still filthy! I haven’t cleared it up since his daughter was there, and she definitely said Hallowe’en. Now it seems he’s found God and come back early.’

  ‘Doesn’t do to make assumptions.’

  ‘Forgive me, Lester, but you Librans are very tricky people. You can never say no. It’s his birthday too. He’s supposed to be soaking in the sun in Puerto Rico or the Caymans or wherever New Yorkers go for tropical weekends.’

  Lester closed his eyes and wished he was somewhere tropical too. His aching hips, clogged lungs and pounding head craved soothing sea air. He’d always dreamed of retiring to a little beach shack with coconut palms and clear blue ocean.

  ‘As soon as we’re at Broadbourne station,’ Pip went on, ‘I want you to distract them and I’ll drive straight up there for a quick whip-round and bed-make. Oh, God, I’ve only glued half of Shakespeare’s head back together.’

  ‘We’re going straight to check the horses,’ Lester said emphatically. ‘Can you try calling Alice again?’

  *

  Kit had never had a birthday like it. He’d always known Orla had a kooky imagination – one of the things he adored about her was the offbeat thinking that veered left-field so often – but bringing him back to the UK for a weekend was madcap enough. Booking a weekend in the Cotswolds was veering on a psychedelic trip. He wasn’t entirely enjoying it.

  ‘You’re a grumpy Brit,’ she’d told him, when revealing her surprise at the JFK check-in desk. ‘You’re only happy somewhere wet and cold. I want to see you happy, so I’m taking you back to your birthplace on your birthday.’

  He hadn’t the heart to point out he’d been born in the Lake District.

  ‘I sorted it through this amazing agency called Fairytale Fantasies, who find castles and shit to stay in. We’re in this totally princess tower on a hilltop. Look.’ She’d shown him a Gothic folly he recognised with a painful lurch as the one at Eyngate Park. ‘We get a butler and a Michelin chef. And – this is the best bit – they meet us from the train with a horse and carriage. How d.a.f is that?’

  ‘What is DAF?’

  ‘Dope as fuck.’

  ‘And that’s a good thing?’

  ‘You’re so funny!’

  The nun thing was even weirder. She’d cooked it up with the play’s costume designer, the whole company apparently in on it.

  ‘You kinda remind everybody of Captain von Trapp, so I thought it would be cute to be your Maria.’

  Orla’s disguise – which had seemed like a delicious and kinky private joke when she’d changed into it in the VIP suite at Heathrow – had been intended as a short-term measure to see them through the train journey anonymously so that she wouldn’t be bothered by passengers wanting selfies. Who would guess the middle-aged man in a country coat and newsboy’s hat travelling with a nun in tinted nerd glasses, a wimple and dowdy knee-length habit was secretly on a Fairytale Fantasies mini-break with a former A-lister? Kit was reminded of a joke he’d once heard at a stand-up gig: ‘I’ve just been on a once-in-a-lifetime holiday. Never again.’

  The normally hour-long train journey had already doubled in length, thanks to Hurricane Claudia. Having started off out of Kit’s comfort zone – the flirty footsie beneath the table, a stockinged sole sliding up his leg to massage his crotch – it was now out of Orla’s, and she was coming thoroughly derailed.

  Wimple slipping, glaring at the rain lashing against the window as they waited for debris to be cleared from the track, she was close to tears behind the tinted glasses. ‘I hate this shitty country.’

  ‘A sentiment shared by regular users of this particular commuter line.’

  ‘Don’t do the Alan Rickman sardonic thing on me. That grumpy Brit thing isn’t working.’

  ‘I am a grumpy Brit.’ He emptied the last of the bottle of duty-free vintage Ruinart into their plastic cups.

  ‘I knew I should have gone with t
he Austrian schloss,’ she hissed, downing hers in one. ‘Or Vegas. Everybody loves Vegas. There’s loads of castles in Vegas. And lions. And we could get married. Joke.’ She saw his frozen face.

  Across the aisle an elderly couple were eyeing them suspiciously.

  Kit wished she’d chosen anywhere else, but kept quiet. It must be costing her a fortune. She still behaved as though she was earning movie rates, taking cabs all over Manhattan, flying business back and forth to LA just to have breakfast with friends, on first-name terms with the staff at all the Fifth Avenue boutiques. Kit, who walked everywhere, hunted around for bucket flights and made clothes last for years, knew to within fifty pounds what was in his bank account, which wasn’t a lot. He also knew exactly how much Orla was earning, which was no match to what he’d seen her spend in the past month.

  Her phone rang now. Sister Maria’s expression was not one of serenity as she listened, calligraphic brows digging lower and lower into her furious hot-coal eyes. ‘They’ve cancelled the fucking horse and carriage.’

  Kit sighed with relief.

  The couple across the aisle looked over their Evening Standards in alarm.

  Cracking open the second bottle of Ruinart did little to improve her mood, especially when the phone rang again, her eyebrows like two matador daggers now.

  ‘The roof’s blown off the fucking fairy tower.’

  Riding on a wave of good champagne and old-fashioned British spirit, Kit found this far more amusing than he should.

  ‘I’ll excommunicate you if you laugh,’ she snarled, eyes on fire behind the metal frames. ‘Now I want the grumpy fucking Brit back.’ She glared at her phone screen. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Have they offered alternative accommodation?’

  ‘A yurt. We still get the butler, but there’s a short walk to the john.’

  They glanced out at the rain-lashed gloom. The train carriage rocked in the wind.

  ‘We’ll book a hotel,’ Kit said, unlocking his phone screen.

  ‘I hate hotels.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since I spent half my twenties wanting to kill myself in hotels.’ Her face was pale and clammy, her hand trembling as she lifted the cup to her lips.