by Sarah Mason
Monty comes charging in at breakfast the next morning, 'Isabel, me dear,' he pants, 'I'm glad I've caught you. Will says you're going to Bury St Edmunds.' I'd asked Will last night if I could borrow the Land Rover to get to my meeting with the marquee company. They want me to approve the final design for the 'Big Top'.
'Er, yes. Do you need anything?'
'Could I come with you?'
'Of course.'
'And Flo?'
'Absolutely.'
'When were you going?'
'Sort of now-ish.'
'Take my car, it's the old Jag. Bring it round to the front while I go and get Flo.' I give Will's keys back to him and pick up my handbag. 'Am I insured?' I ask Monty.
'I'm not sure any of us are, me dear.'
'Yes, all the cars are insured third party' says Will, smiling at my look of apprehension.
'By the way, Mrs Delaney,' I say. 'My runner, Dominic, is arriving this morning. He's interviewing all the entertainers from about eleven onwards. If he turns up before I get back, would you mind terribly showing him to his room please? He's staying tonight.'
'Of course,' she answers shortly, without actually making eye contact with me. I think she is secretly thrilled that I will be out for most of the morning. Her idea of a happy day seems to be one with at least ten miles between us.
I carefully drive Monty's old car round to the front of the house and soon enough Monty and Flo emerge, accompanied by three dogs. I lean over and open the passenger door for one of them and Flo clambers in.
'Monty do you want to drive?' I yell through the open door.
'No, me dear. You drive, I'll stay with the dogs.' He waits until all the dogs have settled themselves in the back and then squeezes in beside them.
'Good morning, Aunt Flo. How are you?' I greet her.
'Fine thank you, dear, except that my knee is playing up a little.'
'What's wrong with it?'
'What did you say?'
'I SAID, WHATS WRONG WITH YOUR KNEE?'
'Arthritis, dear.'
There's a loud snort from Monty at this. 'Arthritis? She wouldn't know the meaning of the word.'
'I heard that, Montgomery,' says Aunt Flo from the front.
'You should see the doctor about your selective hearing, not your knee.'
'The doctor said my knee must be very painful. More painful than your foot, I would imagine.'
'Your foot?' I ask Monty in concern. I regret pursuing this line of questioning almost as soon as I say it.
'Old war wound, me dear. Can barely walk on it.'
'War wound, hmph! You fell down the cellar steps. You had been drinking!' says Flo of the front seat.
'Take that back, Madam!'
'Well!' I say, feeling we ought to stop this little interchange before it gets to bath chairs at dawn or something, 'are the dogs with us for any particular reason, Monty?'
He leans between the front seats. 'They need to go to the vet.' I notice that one of them is the little white Westie that gets pushed about by the others.
'What's her name?' I ask, nodding to the Westie.
'Meg. We haven't had her long. One of the estate workers found her wandering about. I just want her checked over by the vet to make sure she's okay.'
'Poor thing.'
Making conversation never seems to be an issue with Monty and Flo, so they chatter constantly and I drift in and out, thinking of my lists and the things I need to do. We arrive in Bury St Edmunds and arrange to meet back at the car in an hour's time. I spend the next sixty minutes looking doubtfully at a drawing of the Big Top and madly praying that the entire thing won't collapse on top of me and five hundred guests. I arrive back to find Monty and Flo waiting for me by the car.
'How's Meg?' I ask as I climb in. Monty is already in the back so I am assuming he still wants me to play chauffeur.
'Absolutely fine.'
'What have you got there, Aunt Flo?' I ask, indicating her large plastic bag as I reach for my seatbelt.
'Grasshoppers.'
I blink. 'God, sorry, I thought you said grasshoppers!' I release the handbrake, reverse out of the parking space and set off back to the house.
'I did. They're grasshoppers.'
'Oh. And, em, what do you want with those?'
'They're for my pet tarantula.'
I nearly run over a couple of pedestrians. 'Your pet what?'
She looks at me as though I really ought to get my own hearing problem sorted out. And soon. 'My pet tarantula. Poppet.' I have a quick look around my immediate vicinity while we wait at traffic lights in case Aunt Flo has brought her along for the ride.
'Poppet? You haven't mentioned her before.'
'Most people are a little scared of her.' Really? I wonder why that is. 'I thought you might not want to come and have tea with me if I told you.'
Too bloody right. 'Why? Is she loose in your room?'
'Sorry, dear?'
'I SAID IS SHE LOOSE IN YOUR ROOM?'
'No, Poppet has her own tank. She comes out now and then.' When she asks nicely? To eat small children?
'Really?' I say weakly. I fish about wildly for something nice to say about a pet tarantula called Poppet. 'She must be a great comfort to you,' doesn't somehow seem to fit. Monty chips in before I can say anything. 'You'd better not let her out when Simon's around.'
'I'll make sure she's kept in.'
'If she escapes there will be hell to pay. Simon doesn't know about Poppet,' Monty confides to me. I look at him in the mirror. Lucky Simon.
'I won't tell,' I promise. 'Maybe it would be best, Aunt Flo, not to let Poppet out until everyone has gone.' Namely moi.
We arrive back at the house at about eleven and the three of us plus dogs walk back into the kitchen carrying our various purchases. I am just about to say, 'Don't drop the grasshoppers!' to Aunt Flo in a jaunty, jokey sort of fashion when one of the dog leads gets twisted around her legs and she falls forward. I grab the bag containing the grasshoppers from her, breathe a small sigh of relief when she steadies herself with the aid of the kitchen table and go to check she's okay. I subsequently trip over one of the dogs and drop the entire bag on to the floor. I stare for a couple of seconds in utter incredulity as one hundred grasshoppers leap forward with the alacrity of escaping prisoners, unable to believe their luck. The next few minutes are mayhem: the dogs make a mad scramble in all directions to escape; Mrs Delaney starts screaming and gets up on a chair while Harry stares in absolute delight; the rest of us get down on all fours and try to catch the buggers.
'Excellent!' cries Harry. 'Does each one I find count as a bob-a-job?'
'Just get on with it, Harry,' roars his mother from her eyrie.
Now normally, if someone were to point a grasshopper out to me, I would say something like, 'How nice!' or, 'Isn't that a cocktail?' or some other such vague nonsense. Never would I lunge forward and actually attempt to pick up one of the little critters. Yet here I am, faced with catching a hundred of the buggers, all of whom are moving at great speed towards freedom.
I snatch a pan and its lid from the draining board and use it as the central holding cell. We leap all over the place, shouting to each other, panting madly at the sheer exertion of it, trying to catch the pesky insects. Until a voice stops us in our tracks:
'WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? I CAN HEAR YOU IN MY STUDY.' We all stop short and straighten up. I think Simon might be home.
C h a p t e r 12
Simon impatiently rakes a hand through his hair, which is short at the sides and long on top à la Hugh Grant. He is tall, dark and looks just like Will, but he has an unattractive, arrogant air. He is dressed in faded olive green cords and a thin jumper which is pushed up at the sleeves. I notice that the top of his hair is wet. He must just have had a shower, I find myself thinking, but then he has flown across the Atlantic.
I shove my hand, which contains five wriggling grasshoppers, into my coat pocket and clasp it shut. I gulp, trying hard not to think of gras
shopper poop and dry-cleaning costs.
It's amazing how quickly grasshoppers can disperse. Amazing. One of them must have shouted, 'Quick! Run, boys! Run for your lives!' and the others must have taken heed. We have about thirty in the pan which means there are seventy or so more on the hoof. And I can only see about three of them.
I'm glad to say that Simon looks taken aback to find me in the heart of this little group. He moves towards me. 'Isabel? Is that really you?' he says in surprise. 'Dad told me you were coming back. How lovely to see you again!' This is ironic considering our previous meeting. His voice is slightly clipped and makes him sound peculiarly pedantic. He obviously doesn't know whether to shake my hand or not but since he's caught me on the hop and my right hand is holding five grasshoppers in check, I move forward and kiss him on the cheek. He looks abashed at the greeting.
'Good flight?' I ask quickly.
'The old red-eye. But yes, fine, thank you.'
As an afterthought, he moves forward and kisses his relatives too.
Once the greetings are over, I tilt my head to one side, raise my eyebrows and assume an enquiring look, as if to say, 'And is there anything else?'
'So what's going on?' Simon repeats.
With Simon's ignorance of Poppet's existence in mind, I bleat, 'We were … em … we were … er …' I am blatantly playing for time here and we all know it. Simon is making me feel incredibly nervous. Perhaps I can continue in this vein until everyone forgets what the original question was? We all follow Simon's eyes as he catches sight of a particularly lazy grasshopper half-heartedly jumping after his fellow ex-cons.
'Racing grasshoppers!' interrupts Monty.
'GOD, YES!' I practically yell in admiration. I have to hand it to the man, it's a stroke of sheer genius.
'Racing grasshoppers,' says Simon in a somewhat disbelieving fashion.
'That's right,' says Monty. 'We were racing grasshoppers. All of us. Apart from Mrs Delaney of course,' Mrs Delaney is standing on a chair looking ashen so she can't feasibly be included.
'Well perhaps you could race your insects a little more quietly?' he asks dryly. 'I have to get back to work. I'll see you all at dinner tonight. It'll be nice to catch up, Isabel.' He says all of this without any semblance of emotion and leaves the room without another word.
I turn around slowly to face the others. The remaining grasshoppers have legged it a long time ago.
'I stepped on one,' says Aunt Flo, looking distressed.
'Flo, you were about to offer them up as dinner to a spider and you're upset about stepping on one?' Monty says incredulously.
'Ah, yes,' she acknowledges, nodding thoughtfully.
I bite my lip. Somewhere, a grasshopper chirrups to itself. I look around at everyone and we all start to giggle.
Dominic arrives shortly afterwards. None of the family are around so I manage to hurry him through to the drawing room without interruption. I quickly brief him on the list of entertainers he needs to interview and he looks absolutely aghast at the amount of work he has to do. I haven't got the time or the inclination to soften the blow so I give him a couple of pats on the knee and return to the library and my plans.
I had forgotten, however, how seriously Dominic takes his food. He honestly thinks something absolutely heinous will happen to him if he goes without the stuff for more than a couple of hours. He sleeps with a packet of Penguin biscuits by his bed, 'just in case'. (Of what? A hypoglycaemic burglar?) So it comes as no surprise that at some point during the day he manages to locate the kitchen and befriend the most important member of the household: Mrs Delaney. His charm is utterly effortless. When I arrive in the kitchen hoping for an aperitif before my first meal with Simon, Dom is sitting on the table with a packet of biscuits and a glass of wine by his side. There is no mistaking the love light in Mrs Delaney's eyes. He doesn't even have a coaster.
'Evening, Izzy!' he says cheerfully, a huge beam on his face. 'I've just been telling Mrs Delaney here what an excellent place I think the countryside is! Do you know they get post here and everything! Marvellous! Biscuit?' He proffers the packet.
I shake my head and frown. Dominic hasn't been out of London much. He was born a mere brioche-throw away from Harrods and thinks cows only make guest appearances in butter commercials. Someone once told him they didn't have cash-point machines outside of the capital and I think he believed them.
'How were the entertainers?' I ask. 'Any good?'
'Fantastic! I particularly enjoyed the stilt-walker! He nearly took his eye out on the chandelier though. I've booked him, the jugglers, one of the magicians and a sort of balancing thing with a bicycle. Plus all the others that the previous venue had chosen. And don't worry, Izzy, I wrote everything down so you can fill in your precious tables.'
I relax slightly. I've spent the entire day sorting out the food and drink, cloakrooms, loos and numerous other details. Ordering the flowers for the tables alone took me an hour on the phone. I still have to go over the practical arrangements with Mrs Delaney which I'm not really looking forward to.
Will and Monty come in through the back door together, looking fresh-faced and energetic, and pronounce themselves hungry enough to eat the table.
The appropriate introductions are made and the men make a big show of pumping hands and squaring shoulders (which always makes me smile as any minute I expect them to burst into a rendition of 'I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay' with their hands on their hips). I fetch Will and Monty a bottle of beer each from the fridge while Dominic looks sheepishly at the Nancy-boy glass of wine in his hand.
'So you two know each other quite well, do you?' asks Will.
'Dom and I share a flat together.' I can feel Dominic watching us intently and I try to ignore him. Luckily Monty engages him in conversation about the entertainers he has seen today.
'How has your day been, Izzy?' asks Will.
'Oh, fine. How about yours?'
'Equally fine. I suppose you haven't had a great deal of conversation about crop yields though, have you?'
'Not a great deal, no. Were they good?'
'The conversation or the crop yields?'
'Either.'
'The crop yields were average and I'd much rather have a conversation with you.'
'Oh, I wouldn't have a great deal to say about crop yields, I'm afraid,' I say, blushing slightly 'Or any other farming issues, for that matter.'
'Thank God for that! I rarely meet anyone who hasn't got an opinion about the estate and how it ought to be run! Can I get you another drink?' He indicates my already empty glass and gets to his feet.
'Thanks,' I say and hand over my glass. Dominic pokes me with his elbow and raises his eyebrows suggestively. I give him a look.
'Good evening everyone,' says a quiet, authoritative voice behind us. We swivel around to see Simon standing in the doorway. Will immediately goes forward to shake his hand.
'Hi Simon! Good trip?' he asks.
'Fine thanks. How are you?'
'Fine. Beer?' Their manner is cool and detached and I get the impression that all is not rosy between the two brothers. Will goes to the fridge to get the drinks and Monty makes the appropriate introductions between Dominic and Simon.
'How's the estate?' Simon asks Will as he hands him a bottle of beer. Will glances at me.
'Nothing to report,' Will answers shortly and hands me my refilled glass. Simon comes and sits down.
'So, Isabel, how's the ball going? I must say I was surprised when Dad told me you were organising it.'
'The ball's going well. We're managing just fine,' I say firmly.
'When is it?' he asks.
'Two weeks on Saturday.'
'And when does the real disruption begin?'
'Only a few days before, when the main marquee goes up.'
It feels strange to be talking so formally to a man I once knew so well. I know about the scar on the back of his leg from where he had a mole removed. I know he absolutely hates mushrooms unless they are ch
opped up finely. I know he always wants to be the shoe when he plays Monopoly. I watched him cry his eyes out when his first dog died. Yet here we are, talking as though we only met this morning.
Thinking of this, I say suddenly, 'You were at the launch of the Zephyr trainer a few months ago.' I don't want it to go unacknowledged. After all, we are no longer children.
He thinks for a second. 'Yes, I was. Did your company manage that one?'
'I did, actually.'
'Did you?' He looks at me, puzzled. 'Were you there?'
'Yes, I saw you.'
'You should have said hello.'
'I was going to but you didn't seem to recognise me.'
'Well, no offence, but you were eleven when I last saw you.'
'Oh.' I feel rather foolish, the wind having suddenly been taken out of my indignant sails. What an idiot I am. I could have sworn he recognised me but that explains why he didn't say anything.
Aunt Flo provides a welcome distraction by floating in and looking like a hothouse flower among us hardy perennials. Dominic looks positively thrilled to meet someone so exotic and they exchange a noisy greeting.
She comes over and lightly lays a hand on Simon's shoulder. 'Are you out of that dreadful work mode yet, Simon dear?'
He grins at her and takes a swig from his bottle of beer. 'I'm ready to talk about anything you want, Aunt Flo.'
She sits down in an adjacent chair. 'You know, you'll never get a serious girlfriend while you work so hard.'
'I don't know that I want one.'
'Did we hear a rumour about you and a certain young lawyer?' Her eyes twinkle merrily at him.
'Did you?' His eyes smile back at her but his mouth is set.
'Are you seeing anyone, Izzy? We haven't asked!' says Aunt Flo.
I'm startled by the sudden swing of the spotlight on to me. 'Em, I've just come out of a relationship, Aunt Flo.' Cripes, that sounds amazingly serious, as though we were engaged or something. 'But it wasn't anything very significant,' I hasten on, 'more of a fling really!' The word 'fling' hangs jauntily in the air. Sluttishly, even. 'He used to work a lot,' I try to explain. 'It was Rob Gillingham. He's the son of David Gillingham, the insurance people?' Now, I just sound as though I'm showing off. Dear God, someone shoot me, please.
