by Fiona Walker
Pip felt a pang in her chest. Raised by parents who had reacted to her sensitivities much as they did the introduction of colour-coded recycling bins, by throwing everything in together, Pip just did ‘over-tired’ and ‘indigestion’ so she assumed the three mince pies she’d crammed into herself had gone down the wrong way. She drained her plastic cup.
Then her heart lifted, the room seeming to spin and fill with glitter, like a snow globe, as Petra Gunn arrived, swathed in Joules tweed and fake fur, wide-set eyes kohled and lips scarlet, as glamorous as a showgirl racing from the stage door to a Bentley for a weekend in the country.
‘Pip!’ She made a beeline for her. ‘How are you? Do you know everybody?’
‘Nobody,’ she admitted.
‘We’ll soon change that. Let me see. Who’s single?’ Her kind eyes moved around the bearded, paunched, bald and dentally challenged, turtle necks in abundance.
‘I’m fine just talking to you!’ Pip bleated.
‘Sure.’ Petra’s smile was as warm and reassuring as a log fire. Stepping closer, she lowered her voice, pulling a hip flask from her pocket. ‘Isn’t this house gloriously authentic? You have to admire the Hickses. One day soon Giles Coren will wheel in a television crew and an average family from Bedfordshire to live here for a week, mark my words. Have a top-up. Gill warned me the rations were mean.’ She slugged a measure of something that looked like blackcurrant cordial into their beakers. ‘Home-made sloe gin. Charlie says it’s far too sweet, but so are we.’
Petra had swigged rather a lot of sloe gin before walking across the Green from dropping the children at the Walcotes’ big, messy, mullion-windowed cottage, which was as warm as a tropical cabana from its bubbling Aga to its glowing wood-burners. The Hickses’ cottage defied science by being colder inside than it was out, the smiles that had just greeted her equally frosty. She might have been stepping into a parish-council meeting, the headcount a familiar quorum of diehard village do-gooders.
Gill had been right to insist she leave the children behind. She wasn’t sure how old Pip was – her guess would be a few years younger than her, maybe late thirties – which made them the youngest there by several decades. The Hickses’ sitting room, which had a small, busy fir tree, hung with old-fashioned glass baubles in one corner, was jam-packed with breakable trinkets, which Brian kept politely moving people away from so they were all crammed at one end, like passengers in a listing ship.
Petra discreetly scanned the ranks for anybody who would fit the sugar-daddy-Father-Christmas bill for Pip, but they were a motley married selection.
‘Carol-singing is usually a bit cheerier than this,’ she reassured Pip in a whisper, thinking of the riotous, rain-soaked laughter last year.
‘I think it’s perfect.’ Pip beamed at her. ‘I liked your message on Facebook today. You haven’t been online in ages. We missed you!’
‘As the message said, I’ve been writing a book, and have finished writing a book.’
‘Yes, I read it and liked it.’ Pip nodded.
Petra looked away, smiling, telling herself off for wanting to be congratulated.
‘Now you’re back you must post more.’
‘I want to catch up with my poor neglected children. Lots of Christmas trips. Now the girls are off school I’m trying to drag them out riding too, to justify pony nuts. I think Prudie’s lost interest.’
‘Is Prudie a pony?’
‘Daughter. She’s into bright lights and stretch Lycra, these days.’
Pip glazed over, as she always did when children were mentioned.
Brian bustled forward to plant a wet kiss on Petra’s cheek, leaving pastry crumbs from one of Pip’s mince pies he’d in the kitchen. ‘Nobody told me our soprano had arrived! So good of you to come, Mrs Gunn. We might even overlook the parish-council meeting truancy.’ He gave her arm a little squeeze to indicate it was a joke
‘Yes, I’m very sorry about that.’ Petra knew from experience that some of the village old guard, like Brian, viewed a woman working from home as her excuse to dodge housework and community obligations like arguing over the thirty-miles-per-hour limit extension along the Broadbourne road.
‘Excuse me, Petra, but duty calls.’ He clapped his hands and, raising his reedy voice, said, ‘If anybody needs to take advantage of the lavatory, can they do so now? With the Jugged Hare currently closed, there will be no facilities en route, and I’d rather we didn’t ask householders we’re singing for if we can use their bathrooms, as happened last year when everybody drank too much before we set out.’ Brian Hicks could de-energise a room faster than a power-cut. He was soon pimping his economy mince pies again.
Petra waved them away, wishing she’d stayed on at the Polar Express sleepover.
‘We need Father Christmas, some reindeer and a mariachi band to liven this outing up,’ she grumbled to Pip, eyeing a few late arrivals hopefully. ‘Especially Father Christmas.’
‘You’re here and you’re one of loveliest people in the village,’ Pip said, which bucked Petra up.
She felt guilty for always avoiding Pip and finding her so grating. With her unflattering reindeer sweater peering shyly between the toggles on her duffel coat, she looked harmless and sweet, her shiny face direct and expectant, first year to fifth-former.
The first year suddenly looked very pink. ‘Don’t look now but guess who’s just arrived.’
‘Santa?’ she suggested hopefully, turning to see.
Six feet two of big smile, floppy hair and sex appeal in a shooting coat smiled back at her. ‘Good evening, Mrs Gunn. I hope your safety catch is off.’
*
Lester had taken a bath, his hair still wet and combed back neatly. He was wearing the thick jumper that Pax had brought him from Scotland, which was excellent at keeping out even the chilliest draughts, with which his cottage whistled.
He liked to watch the news at six o’clock, his routine timed to meet it perfectly, Stubbs and Laurence must be fed, his pot of tea brewed, and a round of toast just melting with butter. Routine mattered enormously to Lester. The Captain and Johnny had ribbed him for it, but it settled him.
Tonight the order of service was broken by a sharp rap on his door as he spooned a little tinned dog food onto Stubbs’s dry mix and the rest into a bowl to take out to the fox.
He set down the spoon and waited. It was probably the carol singers. Let them go to the house.
The rap came again, a distinctive four beat, an old familiar knock.
Hissing through his teeth, he went to answer it.
Ronnie was holding a large leather-bound photograph album. The blue eyes, bright with bad temper and Percy honesty, were resolute. ‘May I come in?’
Lester hesitated, every urge to refuse, even though it went against his grain to be rude. Behind him, his toast popped up, making him jump. His fingers stayed, big-knuckled and bent, on the latch, longing to push it closed. Fingers that struggled to plait a mane these days, or open a jar of hoof oil. Fingers that could no longer easily tear the sack on a red birth bag or buckle up a bridle when it had been cleaned.
He stepped back and nodded.
She blew out a short, bolstering breath as she passed by him and he knew in that moment that seven magpies would have to fly.
*
Pip revelled in the chemistry between Bay and Petra, just as magical as she remembered it last time. Sparkier, perhaps, because Petra was sharper and unkinder, refusing to rise to his bait, Katharine Hepburn to his Bogie. He obviously found the ice-maiden act hugely attractive.
‘I hope Brian’s got “O Come O Come Emmanuel” on his carol sheet.’ He smouldered at her over a hip flask. ‘It’s our song, darling Petra.’
She stepped back, crossing her arms. ‘I prefer “O Come All Ye Faithful”.’
‘“Ding Dong Merrily on High”.’ He did a mean Leslie Phillips impression.
‘“Angels from the Realms of Glory”.’ Cold smile.
‘Have it “Away in a Manger”.’ An e
yebrow went up.
‘“Go Tell It on the Mountain”,’ she hissed.
Pip was impressed. Play it mean, keep ’em keen, girl. She was determined to be their Cupid tonight, come what may.
Petra was accusing Bay of spiking the punch now, both looking round at the carollers; Brian’s elderly choir were coming alive a top-up at a time, cheeks as pink-tinged as the couple watching them. The two of them were beautiful together, she thought dreamily, holding out her own punch glass to be refilled as quiet Chris Hicks darted past.
Petra was sampling it, struggling to swallow as she took a gulp. ‘Jesus, there’s a lot of rum in this – how did you sneak it in?’
‘A skill handed down from father to son.’ His smile turned intimately to Petra’s ear, but Pip heard the whisper. ‘Your sloe gin is a far headier mix, Mrs Gunn, as are your eyes.’
‘Stop it,’ she scoffed, widening them at Pip, who grinned back encouragingly.
Worried this was already getting way out of hand, Petra was desperate to draw her into the conversation, Bay’s hand now running disconcertingly up and down her sleeve, his eyes trailing around her well-padded, frost-proof layers. She tried to catch Pip’s eye again to beckon her over, but she’d retreated to the mantelpiece and was gazing dreamily at Bay’s hand, which had now relocated from Petra’s arm to playing with the buttons on the back belt of her coat.
‘You look very pretty in tweed, Mrs Gunn.’ He dipped his head and peeped at her through his lashes, a practised cliché of floppy-haired flirtation.
‘You must remember Pip Edwards?’ She reached out a hand and pulled the reindeer jumper towards them by its bobble nose. Pip’s mouth was still hanging open.
‘Of course.’ He leaned down to plant a kiss on each of her wide pink cheeks. ‘That jumper is most becoming. I’d love Rudolph’s eyes to follow me round the room.’ He caught Petra’s gaze, as intimate as lifting a pillow on a lover’s face. She looked quickly away, grateful to spot a fellow councillor beckoning her over.
She was soon listening to a long list of complaints about the village-hall committee and observing Bay from a discreet distance, village ladies now fluttering in to land beside him, like aviary birds to a perch. Despite demonising Father Willy, taking on board lectures from Ronnie and Gill and reliving the nauseous shame she’d felt after their kiss, the MC of her SMC was putting a shout out for all her erogenous zones to get jiggy. She had to be very, very careful not to drink too much.
Bay was grabbing a brace of mince pies from Chris Hicks, who bobbed with her tray as though serving a prince. The mince pies disappeared, like pills, with another swig of punch and a shudder – Petra almost sympathised: they were horrible. Then he caught her eyes on him and gave her a look so overtly sexual he might have been suggesting a quickie on the Hickses’ couch.
‘Do tell me more!’ she demanded enthusiastically of her fellow councillor, who looked delighted and started slagging off the school governors.
At the door, Brian was banging a small dinner gong as he announced it was time to get going, ‘Coats on, ladies and gentlemen, take a song-sheet and check torch batteries.’ Few had actually taken their coats off, so it wasn’t long before they assembled outside, grateful for the frosty warmth, listening to their host’s pep talk. He was holding up a fisherman’s lamp on a crook, which illuminated his bobble hat, and sounding like an SAS leader briefing a Black Op: ‘We will take the reverse route to last year, proceeding around Compton Magna clockwise from number one, the Green, then anti-clockwise from the Old Vicarage to the Almshouses before making our way back past the church and along Plum Run, calling in on the barn conversions.’
‘Does he call out “left, right” when we’re on the move?’ Bay muttered, appearing at Petra’s side.
‘He gives a local history lecture,’ she whispered, glancing round for Pip.
‘We’ll hang well back.’ His voice was seductively hoarse.
A breathless little-voice gushed, ‘Isn’t this great?’ from Petra’s other side and she sighed with relief to find Pip there, duffel coat buttoned up over the reindeer jumper and scarf wrapped round her head.
‘Once we reach Compton Bagot,’ continued Brian, ‘we’ll proceed anti-clockwise again, along Back Lane and on to the Orchard Estate, emerging adjacent to the war memorial and looping past the old cricket field, which means we can take in some of the properties along the Broadbourne road, which the residents there always appreciate.’
‘Otherwise known as Developers’ Death Row.’ Bay chuckled. ‘Every time they knock down a shabby bungalow to build a glass-fronted gin-palace, Brian sees another crisp red fifty in the Santa hat.’
Petra glanced anxiously at Pip, who lived in one of the shabbier bungalows, but she was listening with rapt attention to Brian, nodding evangelically.
‘The outlying farms are not practicable to visit,’ he droned on, ‘although we will make the effort to get to the Stokeses in Lower Bagot Farm out of respect to our community’s oldest residents. Those with mobility issues can leave at any time. I have someone on standby with transport, should it be required.’ He thrust the Skoda keys at Chris. ‘I anticipate a finish time of approximately twenty hundred hours.’
Glancing at her watch, Petra imagined Charlie spilling exhausted into the Pimlico flat to shower and collapse in front of the television. Feeling full of bonhomie and spiked punch, she texted him a selfie to cheer him up and make him grateful he was still in London, then realised how tipsy she must be. She’d never sent Charlie a selfie in her life.
A warm arm threaded through hers. ‘Let’s sing, ladies.’
Pocketing her phone, she wished he was there.
It was a big relief to see Bay slide his other arm through Pip’s and Petra was struck again with gratitude that she was there as chaperone.
*
‘I have no desire to rake over the past, Lester.’ Ronnie held the cup of tea he’d poured for her neatly in her lap, legs crossed at the ankle, her slender fingers supporting the bone china saucer, as though she were perching on a Regency sofa at a palace. He’d almost forgotten she could be lady-like, that she had been brought up to entertain the highest echelons, not just wield a pitchfork.
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. I brought the album because I didn’t know quite how to start this conversation, but I think we’d both prefer it stayed closed, don’t you?’
‘As you wish.’
‘I want you to keep it. You and I are the only ones in it still alive, two- or four-legged. Put it on a shelf if you’d rather not remember.’
He nodded.
‘You know I’m not staying, don’t you?’
He stared at her, his eyes struggling to make out the exact expression on her face. He had always found that the pretty hid their feelings better. She had none of his folds and dewlaps, his deep shifting furls of skin that pinched together in pain or sagged low in tiredness, puffed up with sleep and sank back in grief. All he could see were the eyes. Still big, blue and resolute.
She was running away. It was what she did nowadays. He should have guessed when she turned up in the big horsebox with hardly any luggage. Pip told him you wouldn’t know she’d moved into the house from going in there.
‘Where will you go?’
‘Germany. My crossing’s booked straight after Christmas.’
‘But the new lad starts after that.’
‘The lad is a man, Lester. He’s a good man. He’s going to try to get here sooner, but if not, I expect you to make him welcome. And he will be in charge.’
He said nothing and she let out that low, lovely laugh. ‘We’ll see about that, he thinks.’
‘Don’t read my mind, Mrs Le— Ronnie. You won’t like what you find there.’
‘You’re angry, I know. You hated me coming back, but you damn well don’t want me to leave now I’m here. And you certainly don’t want the stallion to go.’
‘You’re not taking that stallion.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s our future.’<
br />
‘He could never settle here. You can see how damaged he is, how dangerous. He’s been here a month and getting him in a round pen puts us both under threat. He was happy in Germany. He knew his job. He’ll be better for going back there. It’s all sorted out. We’re both happier there.’
He put down his tea because the cup was rattling in the saucer. ‘Old Cruisoe isn’t what he was.’
‘I don’t propose we use him again. We’ll buy in outside stallions via AI.’
‘No! This stud has always stood sires.’
‘And it will again, but not while we’re turning it round, re-laying the foundations. I can negotiate reduced fees once I’m over there. I have a lot of good contacts. I’m also going to look for a stud manager to take over next summer, after the Horsemaker leaves.’
‘Let the lad sort the stallion.’
‘No, Lester. I promised myself I’d take him back there and I will. It’s my fault he ended up like this. I need to make amends.’
‘And what about making amends here? What about what you did to us here?’
‘Ah, yes. I thought we’d get on to that.’ She sipped her tea, the eyes fixed on the leather binding of the album.
‘You should have come back twenty, thirty years ago.’ He said it again.
‘I couldn’t, Lester.’
There was a bark in the kitchen: Stubbs waiting patiently by the work surface on which his food had been put in his bowl and left.
‘You had no reason to run.’ He stared at his hands. ‘All that nonsense stopped.’
‘And I’m sorry for that. I don’t think that was right at all.’
‘It’s not your business to think for me!’ he shouted, shocking himself.
Her cup and saucer went down, her hands running across her face, then raking back the shock of blonde hair unchanged in half a century. He could feel the energy coming off her, the righteousness and disapproval turned back on him.
‘I have no desire to rake up the past, as I said, but I will make one point, if I may. I’ve been a mistress several times in my life. It’s not something of which I’m particularly proud – and I know you disapprove enormously – but it happened and I won’t hide from its consequences. I have loved men who have made their marriage vows with other women. They had families and careers and friends and private lives quite separate from what we shared, some happy, others less so. One man in particular, Lion, was somebody I cared for very deeply. He’s a secret that I’ve shared with very few people in my life. We were lovers for fifteen years, and remained close afterwards. Then, quite suddenly, Lion died. His family, those work colleagues, those friends, they mourned him. They were united in their love for him and their grief for him, and quite rightly so. He was a wonderful man, a very loved man. My mourning took place in another room, entirely separate, entirely unacknowledged. It was among the loneliest times of my life. I had nobody with whom to share my own grief. Nobody knew about us, you see. Just a few hoteliers and restaurateurs who called us Mr and Mrs Smith. And all I wanted, what I really needed, was just one person to say, “I know how much you loved him.” Just once. Because it mattered. We mattered.’
