by Jilly Cooper
Nothing’s going to stop him taking over now, thought a despairing Artie, gazing down from a staffroom window.
‘On this momentous day for Bagley Hall and for science . . .’ Alex was getting into his stride.
Goodness, the Queen’s good at looking interested, thought Dora. As her eyes flickered towards Paris, he nodded. Imperceptibly, Dora’s hand slipped between Denmark’s back legs.
At first, people thought the heavens had opened; then, as there was no rattle of rain on the blue striped awning, they decided it must be a burst pipe. There was a gasp of consternation as the splatter continued and a great gush of water was located, splashing on General Bagley’s plinth and spilling on to the grass.
Bewilderment, rage, horror, shock and broad grins could be seen on individual faces as it struck home that the torrent of very yellow liquid was pouring out of Denmark’s cock.
‘Quick, quick, he’s staling,’ yelled Amber. ‘Stand up in your stirrups, General.’
There was a rumble of laughter. For a second, Her Majesty’s face twitched. The photographers were going berserk, snapping Denmark and his gushing yellow cascade from all angles.
‘The Empire Strikes Back,’ murmured Artie in ecstasy.
For once, the Lord Lieutenant, the personal protection officer and the Officer in Command were at a loss.
‘Stop it,’ howled Randal. ‘For Christ’s sake, someone stop it.’
‘Try one of Sweetie’s condoms,’ suggested Dora.
Then, to distance herself from blame, she rushed forward, trying to stem the flow with her notebook, but the torrent swept it aside like driftwood. A proffered bucket overflowed in a few seconds, a policeman’s helmet met the same fate, as did the end of Miss Painswick’s parasol rammed up as a catheter.
‘Try a tourniquet,’ said Dora.
But no one was around to solve the problem. Alex had not issued any invitations to the bursar’s team of maintenance men. Randal was casting furiously about for one of his plumbers, but after twenty-four hours on, and having been ordered to ‘bloody well hop it,’ they had understandably done so. None of his workforce had been inclined to stay anyway after the snubbing of Little Dulcie.
‘What a pity Graffi and Rocky were uninvited,’ piped up Dora, ‘they’d have stopped it.’
Like Don Giovanni’s Commandatore, impervious to the Victoria Falls beneath him, General Bagley gazed fiercely at the Science Emporium: ‘Serve you right, Mr Bruce, for trying to melt me down.’
‘Can’t stop it, sir,’ a drenched security man muttered to the Lord Lieutenant. ‘Better move on.’
Alex, meanwhile, had lost it, trying with rolling eyes to blurt out his last two crucial paragraphs about a breeding ground for the Hawkings and Einsteins of the future and thanking Randal for his historic contribution, but Denmark peed on.
The pupils and most of the audience were by now quite unable to contain their laughter. Rod Hyde and Gillian Grimston, even Ashton and Russell, were not displeased: Poppet and Alex had got a fraction above themselves recently.
Most of the school just thought: Hengist would have known how to handle it, turning the whole thing into an enormous joke. The gold hands of the school clock had edged round to 12.25. No time for Randal’s speech.
‘I would like to ask Your Majesty to mark your visit by unveiling a commemorative plaque,’ mumbled Alex.
At least the sea-blue curtain didn’t come away in Her Majesty’s hand and the dark blue Parker pen worked when she signed the visitors’ book. Joan, standing like a retired Guards officer in her pinstripe suit, tugged down Jade’s skirt to just above her knees before she shimmied forward to present a big bunch of orange lilies and chrysanthemums, which the Queen passed on to her lady-in-waiting. Jade then managed to redress the balance a fraction by explaining it was her father, Randal Stancombe, who had bankrolled and masterminded the Science Emporium.
Then it was Dora’s turn. Aware of so many of her media contacts watching, she once again turned and smiled quickly at an impossibly proud Paris, before executing a beautiful curtsey.
The Queen said she remembered Dora’s father and how sorry she’d been when he died. Dora in turn said she was very sorry when the Queen had lost one of her corgis in a fight, but that she’d obtained a photograph of Pharos.
‘You must miss her, so I’ve made you a model.’
Peering into the box at Pharos sitting on a royal blue satin bed, for a second the Queen bit her lip and Dora was afraid she was angry. Then she said Dora’s version was lovely and very like Pharos and thanked her very much.
She was about to move on, the wind lifting the green feathers in her hat, when something in her kind face made Dora take a deep breath: ‘As the most powerful person in the land, could Your Majesty possibly bring back our headmaster Hengist Brett-Taylor? We feel the heart has been torn out of our school since he left and we’d like him back.’
‘That’s enough,’ exploded Alex as the Queen smiled and, handing the blue box to her lady-in-waiting, moved on. Alex was so livid, he forgot to present her with a copy of A Guide to Red Tape.
Many pupils and staff positioned on the other side of the Mansion didn’t think they’d get a chance to see the Queen close up, but she left from a different side, passing Trafford high up in the battlements, who grabbed Miss Painswick’s Union Jack and cheered his head off. On the way down the drive, Her Majesty was near the window and able to wave and smile at Little Dulcie.
135
Meanwhile, like the far-distant Oxus, a steady yellow stream of liquid still flowed out of Denmark’s cock.
‘Heads will roll,’ screamed Alex. ‘Who filled up that horse with water and how dare Dora Belvedon ask the Queen to bring back Hengist? It was probably her that filled up the horse, she was hanging round it long enough last night.’
The day couldn’t have gone worse. He would now have to cope with Poppet’s rage, because the Queen never reached RE. Not to mention Gordon Brooks, apoplectic because he’d driven all the way down from Manchester to find Boffin’s experiment had ended up on the cutting-room floor. Stancombe was understandably angriest of all. All the press would concentrate on General Bagley’s horse, no doubt already writing tomorrow’s headlines about the Royal Wee, and hardly mention his heroic and historic contribution. And he’d just seen that white devil Paris Alvaston kissing Dora yet again.
Alex then had to host vegetable curry for nearly eight hundred, without any drink.
The day couldn’t get worse, but it did when Dame Hermione slipped a bill for fifty thousand pounds into his top pocket.
‘What is this?’
‘My fee, Alex. I’ve given it to you at half-price for Cosmo’s sake and of course there’ll be ten per cent off if you pay cash, which I know you can,’ she added roguishly.
Alex was jolted. How could she know any such thing?
‘There was no question of a fee,’ he spluttered.
‘Indeed there was. I never give my services for nothing, even if it’s a fee for charity. A performance like today’s takes so much preparation – like you, I am a true professional.’
How dare she? It was Cartwright’s fault, he’d obviously agreed a fee with her. Cartwright could get out before Christmas.
The vegetable curry lunch in the great hall without any alcohol was not a prolonged affair, but it gave Ruth Walton time to commiserate with Randal Stancombe.
‘The Science Emporium is awesome; posterity will always remember you for it.’ Then, lowering her voice: ‘I’ve missed you so much, Randal, why don’t you pop round for supper tonight?’
‘I’d like that, Ruth,’ said Stancombe.
Rod Hyde, meanwhile, was sitting in a window seat with Anthea Belvedon, whom he regarded as a very pretty lady and an excellent JP.
‘Why don’t you pop round later for a jar?’ he asked. ‘I could show you over St Jimmy’s. I’m sure our school could sort out your Dora. We’re thinking of starting a boarding house for challenging students.’
‘I�
��d like that,’ said Anthea, who wanted to pay back Randal for bringing Lorraine and flirting with Ruth Walton. She was fascinated to hear about Rod’s new villa in the Seychelles and thought he was rather excitingly masterful.
Poppet, determined to regain the ascendancy, insisted after lunch that Trafford unveil his ground-breaking maquette of a sculpture to replace General Bagley. The royal party had gone, but there were plenty of dignitaries and press still around. Trafford, creator of Shagpile, Tranny by Gaslight and Sister Hoodie, was always good copy.
Poppet, requesting quiet with a cymbal clash of bracelets, pointed to the maquette in front of her on the table, but hidden by a tarpaulin. She then introduced Trafford: ‘One of our most exciting Young British Artists, who’d like to introduce his concept of a new work of art to replace General Bagley, whose image many of us strongly feel to be outdated.’
A great rumble of disapproval at her words turned to envy as the artist in question was seen to be holding a large glass of whisky.
‘General Bagley’s like, male, imperialistic, aggressive,’ Trafford told his now very hostile audience. ‘I wanted to create something like female, tender, loving and of the age.’
Poppet was in ecstasy, nodding in agreement as Trafford drained his whisky and whipped off the tarpaulin to reveal a maquette of two very stocky women going down on each other.
Alex turned green; his wife was made of sterner stuff.
‘How apt – an act of reciprocal love,’ she cried. ‘Do we have a title?’
‘It’s called Minge-drinking,’ said Trafford.
Hengist would have given everyone the rest of the day off. Alex, true to his puritan ethic, insisted afternoon lessons went on as usual. Stancombe then joined him in the head’s office, where, judging by the shouting, the battle of Randal’s Handle was joined. After twenty minutes, Randal stormed out and Alex went on the rampage.
He had never been so humiliated in his life. He was determined to track down the ringleaders responsible for the General Bagley fiasco. Denmark was still peeing merrily and to top it, some joker had leant a sign saying ‘Flood Warning’ against the General’s plinth.
136
At dusk, a very tired Dora ran back to Boudicca to change out of her school suit. Trying to absorb the enormity of the last two days’ events and the miracle of Paris loving her, she was suddenly racked with terror.
Up to now she had led a charmed life at Bagley. Hengist had adored her and after he’d gone to prison she’d been protected because her mother was a great friend of Alex and Poppet. But if Anthea had been relegated to row twenty-two under the awning, her mother had clearly lost caste and there would be nothing to stop Alex expelling her for begging the Queen to bring back Hengist.
If, in addition, she were expelled for the General Bagley escapade, Paris as her accomplice might get chucked out too and she’d never see him again, or Patience and Ian, who’d been so lovely, or Cosmo, Bianca or Artie or all her friends.
Paris had just texted her to ask where she was and she’d texted back to say she’d see him at supper. Cosmo, who’d managed to infiltrate himself into the unveiling of Trafford’s sculpture, had also texted her that he’d overheard horrible Rod Hyde asking her mother for a drink at St Jimmy’s later. Dora shivered as she remembered how well Anthea and Rod seemed to be getting on, on their hard seats. Her mother would love St Jimmy’s because it was free. And how dare the old bitch not pop back to Foxglove Cottage to feed and let out Cadbury, then smack him if he made a puddle?
Dora had reached her dormitory and just taken off her suit jacket, when Joan barged in, bellowing:
‘You were hanging round General Bagley’s statue last night, Dora Belvedon, and you’re no doubt behind that disgusting act of sabotage. Well, you’re for the high jump. Mr Bruce wants to see you in his office at once.’
‘OK, OK.’ Dora raced out of Boudicca towards the Mansion, but the moment she was out of sight, she turned right instead of left, belted down the drive and didn’t stop running until she reached Foxglove Cottage.
She was just being knocked sideways by an ecstatic Cadbury when her mobile rang. It was Stancombe. He’d tracked down an event horse called Kerfuffle, advertised in Horse & Hound, in which Dora had expressed an interest on her last leave-out.
‘Lots of people are after him. Want to come and see him this evening?’
Looking at a horse was much better than being expelled and, out of the corner of her eye, Dora noticed Cadbury had chewed up one of Anthea’s new silver sandals.
‘Yes, please,’ she said.
‘Where are you?’ asked Stancombe.
‘At Foxglove Cottage.’
‘Where’s Mummy?’
‘Having a drink with Rod Hyde.’
‘Good. Don’t tell her anything until we’ve bought the horse. She’ll say I’m spoiling you. I’m tied up as we speak. I’ll send a car to fetch you. See you in a bit.’
Dora was not pleased when creepy Uncle Harley rolled up ten minutes later. She’d only taken Cadbury into the garden, fed him and chucked the remains of her mother’s sandals in next door’s dustbin; she’d had no time to ring Paris to tell him where she was going or change out of school uniform into jodhpurs.
Uncle Harley was not pleased when Dora insisted on bringing Cadbury and sitting in the back with him.
‘Who’s going to guard your mum’s house?’
‘Who’s going to guard me?’ snapped Dora.
Outside, night had fallen like a shroud. No stars or moon pierced the sooty gloom as they left Bagley village and sped out of reach of street lamps, lighted windows or even chinks of light under doors, deep into thickly wooded country where trees writhed under the rising wind’s lash, down by-roads carpeted with red and orange leaves, which danced in the headlights like the flames of hell. Even Uncle Harley’s jewellery didn’t lighten the dark. In horror Dora realized she’d forgotten her mobile.
‘Can I borrow your telephone to ring my boyfriend?’
‘There’s no signal here.’
Dora clutched Cadbury tighter. Kerfuffle had better be good.
As Uncle Harley turned through pillars topped by winged monsters, with eagles’ heads and lions’ bodies, and drove up a long, pitted, bumpy drive, Dora couldn’t see any horses beyond the rusty broken railings. As the car rattled over a sheep grid, she thought she must be careful of Cadbury’s legs if they had to make a run for it. Ahead towered a house, shaggy with leafless creeper, which fell over the windows like too-long fringes.
‘Where are we?’ she asked nervously.
‘Here,’ said Uncle Harley.
Meanwhile, over the border in Rutshire, Mags Gablecross, avid to hear details of the Queen’s visit to Bagley, was awaiting her husband the Chief Inspector’s return for supper, when the telephone rang. It was Debbie, Larks’s former cook, asking if Mags knew of Janna’s whereabouts.
‘She’s in Wales with Emlyn. They’re getting married, isn’t it lovely?’ Then, when Debbie didn’t react: ‘Are you OK, Debs?’
‘Yes – no. I’m worried, Mags. I’ve handed in my notice here. Janna was right all along about Ashton. He’s vile and he never stops watching my boys. I think he’s put a two-way mirror in the shower.’
Mags shuddered. ‘How horrible.’
‘It may sound stupid, but I think something evil’s going on. Russell Lambert had a birthday party here at Ashton’s place back in August and instead of wanting me to help out, Ashton insisted I looked tired, and packed me and the boys off to the seaside for the weekend.
‘Anyway, it’s Ashton’s birthday today. Stancombe called him first thing about some party this evening. I picked up the phone by mistake and got the impression’ – Debbie’s voice shook – ‘Randal was lining up some little girl “for dessert” – those were his words – then Ashton laughed and said he’d be bringing something much more to his own taste.’
‘You don’t know where this party’s going to be?’
‘No idea.’ Debbie started to cry.
‘I thought I was imagining things but Brad went to his dad for the day, and when I got back from Tesco’s this evening, there was no one home. When I phoned Brad’s dad, he said he’d dropped Brad off an hour ago and Ashton had insisted on minding Brad until I got back.’
‘There was no note?’
‘Nothing. Oh Mags, I’m so worried Ashton has kidnapped him.’
‘I’ll get on to Tim at once,’ said Mags.
Over at Bagley, Paris was equally demented. Dora hadn’t returned to supper and she wasn’t answering her mobile. There was no sign of her at Boudicca when he dropped in and when he raced down to Foxglove Cottage, the place was in darkness.
‘Randal’s always had the hots for her. I know the bastard’s going to serve her up at Ashton’s birthday party and dispose of her afterwards. I can’t handle it, Cosmo. I love her so much.’
‘Randal’s safe with Ruth,’ said Cosmo soothingly, ‘she asked him over to supper.’
‘Well, fucking ring and check if he’s there.’
‘Bit early. I don’t want to rouse his suspicions. Oh, OK then.’
Mrs Walton answered immediately: ‘Randal? Oh, it’s you, Cosmo darling, any chance of you popping over later? I seem to have been stood up by Randal. Cosmo! Cosmo!’
But Cosmo had hung up.
137
Stancombe must have been looking out because the moment the car drew up, the heavy studded oak front door creaked open and he pulled Dora in out of the bitter cold. Inside it was tropical, which had given him the excuse to wear nothing but a very white, mostly unbuttoned shirt, black velvet trousers and a great deal of Lynx – hardly horse-buying kit, reflected Dora. The sort of soppy music her mother liked was belching out of speakers.
