by Sarah Mason
'Er, no, I can't say I have.'
'Wonderful. They perform a sort of dance. Next time I see them, I'll come and fetch you.'
'Er, great!'
'You must call me Aunt Flo, like the boys. After all, you're practically family!' This makes me smile broadly with pleasure.
After I have finished my beans, a mere snip for me after my kitchen days, I make the excuse of needing the loo, but take my handbag with the sole intention of touching up my make-up. Aunt Flo is making me feel positively dowdy. 'Just popping to the loo!' I announce. 'Is it still … ?' No, Izzy, they've moved the lav just for the hell of it. Quite fancied it in the library.
When I return, Mrs Delaney is ladling the coq au vin on to plates, while Will lays the table by chucking a few mats around, ripping off some kitchen towel for napkins and then dumping a heap of cutlery on the table. Monty looks over at me. 'You'll excuse the informality, won't you, Izzy? I know Elizabeth would have been absolutely horrified!'
'No, it's fine!' I protest, 'I would hate you to go to any extra trouble for me! It's sweet of you to let me stay at all.' I quite like the cosy family casualness of it all, not just because it's the complete opposite to what I do all day.
We all sit down and after the vegetable-passing and claiming of cutlery the conversation naturally settles on the subject of the charity ball.
'I must say, it's terribly exciting!' says Aunt Flo.
'But what next, Aunt Flo?' interjects Will. 'Simon has been talking about making Pantiles more commercial for a while, but now that it's started where will it stop? He's talking about water-skiing on the lake! He's even got hold of a mini speedboat for it! What's next? A theme park?'
'Simon wouldn't do that!'
'Don't be too sure!'
'When exactly is he coming home?' I ask between mouthfuls. The coq au vin is absolutely delicious, especially after the amount of salad I have had to eat this week. I smile appreciatively at Mrs Delaney.
'I spoke to him earlier. He's in Chicago at the moment,' says Monty. 'He's coming home next week sometime. He's not altogether sure when.' This has a curious dampening effect on my spirits. It's almost as though I want the family to myself for a while longer and now he's going to come back and spoil it all. 'This takeover is all-consuming for him.'
'The takeover was announced last week, wasn't it?' I say with an unmistakable air of oh-yes-I-read-the-papers-too. In actual fact I asked Stephanie to give me the low-down before I left the office so my ignorance wasn't neon-highlighted. 'A manufacture company.'
'That's why he's over in America. He's trying to get some of the company shareholders to part with their shares,' says Monty. 'It's a hostile takeover.'
'What does that mean exactly?'
'Well, I'm no expert. From what Simon has told me, it's when a company gets taken over against its will.'
'Can you do that? Take over a company against its will?' This sounds fairly typical of Simon. A corporate bully as well.
'If you own the majority of their shares you can do anything you want. I'm not as much of a businessman as Simon but I understand his company has been buying up shares in this company on the stock exchange. Once they reached a certain percentage they had to announce their intention to launch a hostile takeover – hence the recent press report. Now he's approaching people who already own some of the company's shares and offering to buy these shares at a higher price than they would currently get on the stock market.'
'And will these people definitely sell their shares to Simon?'
'Oh no! They don't have to, but the company he's trying to buy is struggling financially. They have just issued their sixth serious profit warning so understandably the share price is dropping. Long-term the company might end up bankrupt, and then the shareholders would get absolutely nothing for their shares. So they're probably better off selling to Simon now.' Monty shrugs.
'But why does Simon want the company if it's struggling?'
'Because he can see a way for it to make money again. I think he offers the shareholders a stake in the future profit of the company. Obviously he'll have to make a huge amount of change. Sack all the directors and management for a start. But once they start to make a profit again, the share price increases and Simon gradually sells off his shares at a higher price than he bought them for. It's no small undertaking; his company has a huge amount of financial backing from banks and a big team of advisers whose bill will probably run into millions.'
'Millions?' I echo disbelievingly. Have those crafty EU people changed our currency into lire overnight?
'He stands to make a huge amount of money from it; it's his biggest deal yet. Very risky though.' Monty takes a sip of wine.
'I've had to ask Daniel to close the gates every night,' says Will. 'The press have started corning up to the house to snoop about. They actually quoted Mrs Delaney in the last article!'
'Last time I ever speak to the press,' Mrs Delaney says grimly. I involuntarily wince. I feel quite sorry for them. 'I only told them that I didn't know when Simon would be home.'
'Izzy, when he arrives next week, just don't ask!' says Aunt Flo, obviously bored. 'Tell me more about the ball! Do we get to go? I hear they're having a circus theme!'
We laugh a lot during the evening. Even Mrs Delaney at times, has the corners of her mouth turned up. The wine flows and a cheese board is produced. Will and Monty are on marvellous form.
That night I deliberately leave the curtains open as there are no streetlights to disturb my slumber, climb into my enormous bed and pull the covers right up under my chin. I watch the huge oak trees swaying gently in the distance and listen to the blissful sound of owls hooting. I feel happy again after a very miserable month. I snuggle down and close my eyes, peaceful in the knowledge that I won't be waking up to the grime and dirt of the city but to the greenery of this English Eden. And Simon won't be coming home to spoil it for me just yet either.
C h a p t e r 8
At six o'clock the next morning I am woken by the sound of Monty up and about and clearly wanting everyone else to be up and about with him. I'd forgotten his habit of doing this. You might wonder how one man could wake a whole household, especially in a house as large as this one. Well, it's quite simple. For Making Everyone Miserable fans everywhere, here is an easy guide: first of all, slam all doors, regardless of whether you are going through them or not; then turn on every radio and TV in the house and sing along to anything on them in a loud voice. Even rap if necessary, though not always in tune or in time. If you really want to get up people's noses, take your portable radio outside and teach the dogs some new tricks on the strip of grass underneath everyone else's windows.
After about twenty minutes I decide I can stand it no longer and stagger bleary-eyed out of bed. I normally sleep in just a T-shirt – much as I would like to be a beautiful negligee sort of woman I find that by the morning the straps are always wrapped around various limbs and threatening to cut off my circulation. I grab the first thing to hand to cover my nether regions, which happens to be the grey pencil skirt I was wearing yesterday, and wander downstairs in search of some soothing tea.
'Morning Isabel!' greets an immaculate Will, who clearly has been up for hours. I manage to close my mouth mid-yawn and open my eyes a little wider. I hadn't expected to see anyone else up.
'Morning,' I mumble, embarrassed by my apparently eclectic taste in nightwear. My T-shirt bears the slogan Party planners do it all night long' – Gerald had them made for our last Christmas party – which isn't really the impression I want to make with Will.
'I was just making some coffee, would you like some?' He walks off kitchen-wards and I stumble after him. I am immediately pounced upon by dozens of dogs, which nearly brings me down but I manage to grab the kitchen table, pull out a chair and fall into it.
'Why are you up so early?' I ask him.
'We're a bit under-staffed on the estate. Simon's always moaning about the wages so I'm having to put in some extra hours. Do you fan
cy a tour this evening?'
'Love to!' I exclaim enthusiastically. He turns his back on me while he fills the cafetière and I take this opportunity to rake my fingers through my hair and wipe away the mascara I know will be lodged under my eyes.
He plonks the cafetière on the table along with two mugs. I frown to myself as I notice the flagrant disregard of coasters. Will Mrs Delaney lynch us both or just him?
'Did Dad wake you up?' he asks as he gets the milk from the fridge.
'Nooo, I was already awake.'
'He did, didn't he?'
'Yes.' I can still hear Monty singing tunelessly outside. I pour the coffee. 'Monty says you've been away travelling?'
'Yes, I went after I finished at Cirencester.'
'Cirencester?'
'Agricultural College. I did always want to be a farmer. I'm good with my hands, you see.' He smiles a teasing little smile and raises his eyebrows suggestively.
God, it's six-thirty in the morning and I haven't even looked in a mirror or cleaned my teeth. Is this how they do it in the country? I look at my coffee mug and fiddle with the handle instead.
'Did you go to university, Izzy?' Will asks.
'Em, yes. I went to Nottingham but I didn't go travelling afterwards. I'd already had my fill of it by then, I think.'
'You and Sophie were moved around a lot, weren't you? Listen, I've got to go and feed the deer. Why don't you throw something more suitable on and come with me and then we can carry on chatting? Much as I like your T-shirt, you night need something a bit warmer. We'll easily be back for eight.'
I hesitate for a second and then nod.
I return to the kitchen ten minutes later dressed in combats, deck shoes and a sweatshirt. Will finds me a pair of wellies from the cloakroom, claims a pair of keys from the dresser and out we go into the fresh morning air. As we soak hay and measure cereal, we fill each other in on what we've been up to since we lost touch. I never got on as well with Will as a child but he always was a joker and a charmer. Always the one to come up with frankly dangerous ideas and carry them out. I had no idea he could be such good company too.
Good to his promise, Will drops me back at the house at five past eight and tells me he'll see me at dinner. I walk into the kitchen via the back door, reeking to high heaven.
A shrill voice hails me: 'Hello! You smell a bit.' Not your traditional sort of greeting but probably fair enough in the circumstances.
A small red-haired boy dressed in a cub's uniform is sat at the table, calmly drinking a glass of milk and eating Shreddies. We're not talking autumnal russet red hair here but bright fluorescent orange.
'Hello!' I reply, 'who are you?'
'I'm Harry.'
I was hoping for a little more detail than that but I'll take what I can get. 'I'm Isabel.'
'The party planner,' he finishes confidently. He's obviously been well briefed. 'You've cut yourself.' I look down at my hand, wrapped in Will's white handkerchief (what a gentleman, no torn-off bits of kitchen roll for him). I had cut it while trying to show off my athletic jumping skills by vaulting a fence. It was only a small cut but it simply wouldn't stop bleeding.
'Yes, I cut it on some barbed wire.'
'Do you want me to swab it for you? I have all my badges in first aid.'
'Er, no, really, it's—'
'Dress it?'
'No, it's em—'
'Lance it?'
'God, no!'
'Splint it?'
'No, really it's—'
'Suck it?'
'Suck it?' I repeat.
'Essential for snake bites.'
'Do you deal with a lot of snake bites at Pantiles's cub brigade?' I ask, thinking this might be the time to find out about any snake population the estate might harbour.
'Ever since Geoffrey Stoats sat on an adder on a day trip to Warwick Castle it's been included.'
'Poor Geoffrey.'
'Yes, his bottom really swelled up. Almost to the size of … of …' Harry looks wildly around the room until his eyes seize upon an appropriate object ' … well, almost to the size of yours.' He looks at me earnestly, eyes like saucers, confident of his point being well illustrated.
'Really. I'm surprised he didn't die then,' I remark dryly.
'So am I,' says Harry, supping his milk, oblivious of any social gaffes on his part. Goodness, with this fine line in chit-chat I'm surprised there isn't a queue of Brownies outside just waiting to be swept off their feet by this silver-tongued charmer. Mrs Delaney comes into the room.
'I hope Harry hasn't been bothering you,' she says pertly, mouth pursed. She starts to gather brushes and buckets from underneath the kitchen sink.
'No, no. Not at all. He's, er … ?'
'My son. Yes.' Now it's all becoming clear. Harry has obviously inherited his mother's wonderful manner. Let's hope his father has got slightly more going for him than the red hair. Now I come to think of it, I haven't seen any evidence of a father since my arrival. I don't get the chance to ask any more questions, however, as Mrs Delaney makes it abundantly clear that the shutters are down and no one is available for business. She fills a bucket with hot water while Harry finishes his milk. 'School holidays, is it, Harry?' I ask.
He nods happily. 'It's bob-a-job month, starting from next week. I want to beat Godfrey Farlington. He got more than fifty quid last year. Will you give me some jobs to do?'
'Of course, I'm sure I can find something.'
'You're to keep out of Miss Serranti's way, Harry' interjects his mother, who in the meantime has started to scrub the kitchen floor.
'No, it's fine, really. He won't be in my way and please call me Isabel.'
'Isabel then,' she gravely acquiesces.
'So do you both live here at the house?' I ask idly.
'Mum and I have rooms over in the east wing. But we're not usually there, we always eat here with Monty, Flo and Will. And—'
'That's enough, Harry.' Damn, just as it's getting interesting. So, his father isn't around. Unfortunately, I've run out of questions I can legitimately ask. 'I'm just going to get changed,' I say to no one in particular and make to walk to the back stairs. Mrs Delaney gives me a long hard look as I try not to step on the bits of the floor she's already cleaned. I walk on tiptoes and make little jumps which don't actually help at all but at least show I'm trying. 'Oops, sorry … ooh … er … sorry,' I gasp, until it occurs to me about halfway across to ask if I should have used the stairs on the other side of the kitchen.
'You're halfway across now, aren't you,' Mrs Delaney says sarcastically, as I stop and gaze at her uncertainly.
I have to concede the point but I don't like the way she mutters bitterly, 'And in your wellies,' under her breath.
'Yes. Absolutely. Sorry.' I make a dash for the back stairwell, sit on the bottom step and struggle to remove my footwear which seems to have become welded to my feet. I'm tempted to ask if Harry has a badge in removing wellies but they come off suddenly and I escape thankfully. In the safety of my room. I shower quickly and scramble into something a little more work-oriented: a black skirt and red top. I throw on some make-up, which is harder than you think with an injured finger, gather some files together and whizz back to the kitchen.
Downstairs, Aunt Flo and Monty have joined Harry and Mrs Delaney at the breakfast table. Monty has his morning broadsheet held up in front of him. He has obviously flipped straight to the obituaries because he suddenly exclaims, 'Good God, Flo! Josephine Bradshaw is dead!'
'Jo Bradshaw? Dead? Are you sure?'
'I do hope so. They've buried her.'
'Morning!' Aunt Flo greets me. Monty lowers his newspaper. 'Izzy! Good morning to you! Did you sleep well, dear? I hope you were warm enough? Do you need an extra dog?'
I reply that I was positively toasty.
'Well, Jasper here makes a wonderful hot water bottle.'
'I'll bear him in mind.'
'So what are you doing today, Izzy? Working on plans for the ball?'
; There's a snort from over by the sink. We all glance over. Mrs Delaney has her back to us and is innocently washing dishes.
I look back. 'Well, Monty and I are meeting with the representatives from the charity today,' I reply.
'How too, too thrilling!' Flo beams. Another small snort from Mrs Delaney. It really is most distracting.
'Izzy, toast or cereal?' proffers Monty. I glance over towards the sink again. Any nose issues with that? I help myself to cereal.
At nine o'clock sharp two representatives from the charity arrive for our meeting. Monty and I are waiting for them in the drawing room, which is beautifully elegant and decorated in the palest primrose yellow and a delicate shade of eggshell blue. As with most of the rooms, a huge fireplace dominates one wall. The room is so large that there are several groups of sofas and tables. At one end massive French doors open out on to the lawns. We were never really allowed in here as children as it is full of highly breakable china and dainty little tables which seem to balance precariously on one leg. Someone has thoughtfully placed a vase of roses from the garden on the coffee table in front of the fireplace.
