by Jilly Cooper
‘Piss orf,’ drawled Xav in exactly the same bored voice as Rupert.
Lysander got the giggles again.
‘Why don’t you run along to bed,’ suggested Hermione. ‘You could play my cradle song tape, or Mummy could read to you.’
‘Mummy can’t read,’ said Xav. ‘I’ll be reading to her soon.’
‘High time you went to boarding-school, young man,’ said Hermione irritably. ‘Are you going to Harrow?’
‘Eventually,’ said Rupert forking up Christmas pudding at great speed. ‘This is miraculous, Tag.’
‘I suppose King Faisal went there,’ mused Hermione. ‘But I do feel single-sex boarding schools encourage homosexuality.’
‘Not nearly so much as women like you,’ said Rupert coldly.
Hermione burst into merry laughter.
‘You are a tease.’ Then, turning to Marcus, she asked pointedly, ‘Did you go to Harrow?’
‘No, he went to Bagley Hall,’ said Taggie quickly, seeing Marcus go scarlet, ‘As a day-boy because of his asthma.’
‘Have you got a girl friend?’ persisted Hermione.
‘He’s got me,’ piped up Flora, noticing how Helen winced.
Hermione also shot Flora a not-much-cop glance and, mistakenly thinking she would endear herself to Rupert by being good with a miserably squirming Marcus, asked: ‘How long have you had asthma?’
‘All my life, I think.’
‘They say it’s inherited,’ Hermione was determined to keep Rupert’s attention.
‘Must have skipped a generation, then,’ said Rupert, as Eddie returned to the table and pretended to admire Hermione’s ruby pendant in order to gaze down her front. ‘Marcus gets his heavy breathing from my father.’
God, Rupert’s a bitch, thought Flora and, to distract everyone, held her cracker out to Xav. This and subsequent bangs sent all the dogs, including Gertrude, racing out of the room. Xav slid off Rupert’s knee in pursuit of his puppy.
Feeling terribly sorry for Marcus, Kitty, who was wearing a paper crown redder than her face, asked him if he’d had some nice presents.
‘Marvellous, Dad and Taggie gave me some light-weight tails, one gets so hot in concerts.’
‘Now you’ve got to get some work to try them out,’ said Rupert.
‘Hasn’t he told you,’ cried Flora, ‘he’s too flaming modest, he’s got a recital in Cotchester Town Hall on 21 February. You’ve all got to come.’
Marcus smiled deprecatingly at the excited faces, but his moment of glory was short-lived.
‘Talking of special occasions, I’m going on Desert Island Discs on Saturday at seven-thirty,’ announced Hermione. ‘My agent Howie Denston said that at least Sue Lawley and I have lovely legs in common. I hope you’ll all tune in.’
‘Better alert the monkeys to evacuate the island,’ muttered Rupert.
Looking up from the tangerine she was peeling, Taggie hastily asked what records Hermione had chosen.
‘All my own — so fascinating to compare the different accompanists — and conductors. Rather exciting — the programme coincides with a special New Year announcement.’ She beamed at Rupert.
‘Do tell us,’ asked Taggie.
‘My lips are sealed. But I’m dying to see the inside of Buckingham Palace,’ she added roguishly. ‘Have you ever wanted a knighthood, Rupert?’
‘No.’
‘Lady Thatcher offered him one twice,’ said Taggie quickly.
‘Because I have it on good authority that Rannaldini is going to get his K in the New Year’s Honours list.’
‘Sir Roberto,’ said Flora flatly. ‘That should increase his pulling power.’
‘He can have one-Knight stands,’ said Lysander.
Unable to take the roars of drunken laughter, Helen fled the room. Outside she ignored Nimrod and Bogotá, who were engaged in a furiously, growling tug-of-war over Hermione’s Hermes scarf.
Going in search of Helen five minutes later, Taggie found her washing up in the kitchen, rubber-gloved hands whisking round the hot suds, glasses upside down on a tea-towel.
‘Poor Mrs Bodkin looks so tired, I thought I’d give her a hand.’ The reproach was implicit. ‘It’s lovely and cool in here, I always find goose a bit rich.’
‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Taggie, ‘I’ll take people upstairs, and then we can have coffee.’
I’m being a bitch, thought Helen miserably, but I can’t help it. Taggie’s got everything — youth, looks, children, Rupert’s love and the beautiful house and garden which was once mine.
Although Lysander beamed drunkenly across the table at him, Marcus had never felt more de trop than when left pretending to drink port with the men, who talked non-stop about horses.
Tomorrow, Lysander and Rupert would hunt until two, then the helicopter would take them and Eddie to Kempton in time for Penscombe Pride’s big race at three-thirty.
‘He’ll walk it,’ said Lysander.
Marcus took another surreptitious squirt from his inhaler. The steroids he’d been taking to combat his allergy to dogs and new paint had given him a wretched sore throat.
‘Should be a good crowd out tomorrow,’ said Eddie. ‘Always liked the Boxing Day Meet, mind you hunting’s gone to the dogs since so many people who do their own horses come out.’
Fortunately for Marcus, Flora put on ‘Let’s Ride to Music’, and ‘The Galloping Major’, thundering through the house, soon flushed out the men.
‘Boom, boom, boom,’ went the regimental drums as screaming with drunken laughter Eddie and Flora, cheek to cheek, clasped hands outstretched, trotted up the hall to ‘D’you ken John Peel’, followed by Lysander and Kitty, and Rupert and Taggie, then broke into a canter to ‘Bonny Dundee’ with a pack of dogs barking excitedly behind them.
‘Right wheel, halt, dismount,’ shouted Rupert as the band swung into Aida which had been his and Eddie’s old regimental march.
Unfortunately Hermione, returning from a respray upstairs, couldn’t resist singing very loudly along, so everyone gave up marching and allowed her to put on ‘Santa of the Universe’ jumping out of their skins as ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ filled the house.
‘What with my first wife continually hitting the roof and Hermione taking it off, I’m not going to have a slate over my head soon,’ grumbled Rupert.
Flora, Rupert, Marcus, Kitty and Tabitha, who’d actually put down Dick Francis, were playing consequences. Taggie, who was too slow at writing to play, was handing out liqueurs. Lysander, an even slower writer, was playing chess with Eddie, who was telling him about Rupert’s mother.
‘Played chess together during the first dark days of the war when no-one knew if Hitler was going to strike. Wonderful woman, turned me down again this evening — know we’ll end up together.’
Hermione, meanwhile, had rather startled Rupert by sinking to the floor at his feet, her dark head in danger of being singed by his cigar. He’d go off piste down her cleavage in a minute.
‘Where are we?’ he asked
‘Woman’s name,’ said Flora.
Putting down his cigar, Rupert wrote ‘Hermione’. Handing his turned-over piece of paper to Tabitha, he touched her hand. The rows over The Engineer had upset him very much, he’d probably buy her the damn horse in the end.
Eddie and Lysander were so drunk they couldn’t remember whose move it was.
‘Think I should marry her?’ Eddie nodded in Hermione’s direction.
‘God, no,’ Lysander turned pale. ‘She’s awful.’
‘Damn fine looking, damn rich, sort out my Lloyd’s lorses.’
‘Not worth it, anyway she’s got a husband.’
‘Must be loopy to leave a beautiful woman like that at Christmas.’
‘He’s gay.’
‘Whaddja mean?’
‘Queer.’
‘Good God.’ Eddie’s teeth nearly fell out.
Lysander giggled. ‘Don’t let her get her Santa Claws into you.’
‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, Santa Claws, that
’s good,’ Eddie choked on his third glass of port.
‘Good King Wenceslarse looked out,’ sang Hermione on CD and in real life.
I cannot stand it, thought Helen, who was perched on the arm of Marcus’s chair. I’ve seen King Wensceslas’ statue on the Charles Bridge, she wanted to shout, and he wasn’t good at all, and the stupid story about St Agnes’ fountain and the pine logs is garbage. But none of these drunken philistines would be remotely interested unless she told them she had been on the bridge with Rannaldini.
Sensing her anguish, Marcus reached back to retrieve Boris’s present.
‘Please open it, Mum, it’s really nice.’
‘Do have a drink,’ pleaded Taggie.
Helen shook her head violently, sending tears flying out of her eyes.
The group round the fire had finished the first round of their consequences.
‘You start, Tabitha,’ said Flora. Tabitha unrolled her piece of paper. ‘Penscombe Pride,’ she began, in her flat little voice, then starting to smile, ‘met Hermione — on top of the muck heap, Pridie said: Give us a blow job. Hermione said to Pridie: I am about to have my period. Pridie gave her the clap, Hermione gave him a great kick up the ass, and the consequence was…’ Tabitha burst out laughing.
‘Tabitha,’ protested Taggie, ‘that’s enough.’
‘Why must you spoil everything?’ Tabitha turned on her stepmother like a viper.
About to send her to bed, Rupert heard a clip-clop on the flagstones, and cheers and shouts of laughter greeted a grinning Xav, riding into the drawing-room on Tiny, Lysander’s delinquent Shetland pony. Xav had got Tiny’s measure completely and punched her on the nose if she ever tried to bite him, but he couldn’t stop her lashing out at Hermione, sending the discomfited diva scrambling like a camel to her feet. Having vented her spleen, Tiny proceeded to hoover up the straw from Helen’s Body Shop basket, until she encountered a pearl bath drop and curled up her lip.
‘Quick, get a camera,’ Rupert told Marcus.
But Tabitha had flipped.
‘You never let me ride ponies into the house,’ she screamed. ‘That child is spoilt rotten, he got far more presents than Marcus and I put together. It’s bloody unfair, you love him far more than you do us.’
‘Bloody, bloody unfair,’ beamed Bianca, appearing in the doorway with her telephone. ‘Hallo, I’m afraid Tabiffa’s in the bath.’
‘And she’s revoltingly spoilt, too,’ yelled Tab. ‘I was never allowed down at this hour.’ And storming out, she slammed the door shaking every piece of china.
Helen burst into tears.
‘Why is everyone always fighting in this house?’ she sobbed. ‘Why can’t you all be nice to each other?’
You could start off by controlling your daughter, thought Flora mouthing, ‘Don’t worry’ at Marcus.
‘They should bring back National Service, particularly for women,’ said Eddie. ‘Checkmate.’
Appalled that Xav and Bianca could have caused such a terrible row, Taggie leapt forward to comfort Helen who was now wailing: ‘I can’t go on, I can’t go on, oh Malise.’
‘Take that pony back to the stable at once, Xav,’ ordered Rupert.
‘In the bleak mid-winter,’ sang Hermione on the CD, as Mrs Bodkin put her head round the door:
‘Telephone for Mrs Gordon.’
‘Talk about the ungay Gordon,’ grumbled Flora, as Helen shot out of the room, sending Boris’s present flying, ‘And that’s five hundred pounds down the drain, poor Boris. She’s a frightful drip,’ she added.
Rupert agreed. ‘God, I hope you marry Marcus.’
Looking into her eyes, which were the light emerald of the winter barley rampaging over his fields, he picked up the sadness and remembered the gossip.
‘Still hung up on Rannaldini.’
‘I guess so, he recurs like malaria.’
‘You could do better.’
‘And I have to say that when I was at Bagley Hall, you were voted the man to whom we most wanted to lose our virginity.’
Rupert smiled.
‘If I wasn’t bespoke,’ he jerked his head towards Taggie, who was anxiously pouring a glass of Armagnac for Hermione, ‘I couldn’t think of anything nicer.’
‘You will go to Marcus’s concert, won’t you?’ pleaded Flora.
But Rupert had been distracted by the return of Helen suddenly looking radiant, tears dried like raindrops in a heatwave. Bewildered by her mood swings, Marcus sloped off to check with Mrs Bodkin who had telephoned.
‘He wouldn’t give his name, but it was a foreign-sounding gentleman.’
Marcus so hoped it was Boris, who had been screwing up courage to ask Helen out. But when she finally opened his present, the beautiful porcelain nightingale had shattered into a hundred pieces.
Alone in the kitchen Taggie cried and cried. An exhausted Marcus had finally got Helen to bed. Arthur, woken by the din, had been taken home by Lysander and Kitty, who had annexed Flora as well. Tab wasn’t in her room and had probably taken refuge with the grooms over the stables. Eddie had passed out on the sofa, leaving his teeth in one of Hermione’s crystallized greengages. Taggie had put a duvet over him. Hermione’s limo had borne her away to an early flight in the morning.
The dogs had collapsed on their bean bags. The dish-washer swished and swirled round the last consignment of rare glasses and coffee cups. Helen would have been appalled that Taggie hadn’t washed them by hand.
Only Rupert and Gertrude, the mongrel, who had taken umbrage over the new puppy and the crackers, and escaped through the cat door, were missing. Nimrod, the lurcher, brought out a rubber cutlet he had been given for Christmas and squeaked it to make Taggie laugh. But she went on crying so he slunk back to his basket.
‘I’ve lost my dog, my husband and the present list. No-one will know what anyone’s given anybody,’ sobbed Taggie.
She jumped at the crash of the cat door. There was a scampering of claws and in charged Gertrude, wearing Rupert’s black tie, and hurled herself on Taggie.
She was followed by Rupert squinting worse than ever. A blond lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, an empty brandy bottle swung between his fingers.
‘Gertrude and I have been hiding, we don’t want Mrs Fat Bum as a stepmother.’
‘She’s gone,’ sobbed Taggie.
‘Angel, what’s the matter?’
‘I wanted to show I was a better wife than Helen.’
‘Oh, darling,’ Rupert folded her in his arms. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit, but I can’t stand my first wife, and I loathe Hermione and Marcus gets on my tits and Tabitha’s impossible, and all I want to do is screw you stupid.’
‘I’m stupid anyway,’ said Taggie, but she stopped crying.
‘I was such a wreck when I met you,’ mumbled Rupert, ‘Helen just reminds me how vile I was. You’ve taught me to love.’ He kissed her wedding ring finger. ‘You’ve twisted me straight. I’ve got a present for you.’ Rootling in his pocket he produced a silver locket.
Inside were Daisy France-Lynch miniatures of Xav and Bianca.
Taggie nearly started crying again.
‘Oh how lovely, I wish there was room inside for you as well. Oh, thank you.’
‘I want a night inside your shining armour,’ said Rupert, fumbling with the pearl buttons of her silver cardigan. ‘I’m probably past it, but let’s go and try.’
‘Only if you promise to come to Marcus’s concert,’ said Taggie.
Unable to sleep, Marcus heard the two of them come to bed, softly laughing. Outside the clouds had rolled away leaving a pale grey sky so crowded with stars the constellations were indistinguishable. He had just made the agonizing decision that he couldn’t go back to the Academy next term either. Tab would return to Bagley Hall in a fortnight, he couldn’t leave Helen alone in the Old Rectory in this state.
EIGHTEEN
Dame Edith Spink, composer, conductor and musical director of Venturer Television and the Cotchester Cha
mber Orchestra, had been responsible for Marcus’s recital in Cotchester.
Built like Thomas the Tank Engine, she had leant on Cotchester Musical Society of which she was president.
‘Boy’s extremely talented,’ she boomed, glaring at the wilting committee through her monocle, ‘and incredibly cheap for one hundred pounds.’
This was a considerable plus because the musical society never had any money.
Marcus had already learnt Chopin’s Grande Polonaise, The Bee’s Wedding and Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata for the concert he’d cancelled because of Malise’s death so he decided to play them again. The Appassionata was fiendishly difficult, but it would be a compliment to Abby, who had dominated his thoughts throughout the long winter in Warwickshire, and who had promised to bring Rodney over from Lucerne for the concert. He would kick off with two Scarlatti sonatas and, then as a compliment to Boris, end the second half with his titanic Siberian Suite.
This had dismayed his piano teacher, Miss Chatterton, known at college as ‘Chatterbox’, when Marcus visited her in her leafy North London suburb the day before the concert.
‘Levitsky isn’t remotely audience-friendly,’ Chatterbox absorbed modern jargon, then flogged it to death. ‘The provinces hate contemporary music, particularly if they can’t pronounce it. You’ll have them leaving in droves. At least end with the Chopin so they’ve got something to look forward to.’
‘The programme’s already printed,’ sighed Marcus. ‘Anyway I can’t let Boris down, he’s so low.’
Boris’s thumping great crush on his mother showed no signs of abating, even though Helen wasn’t responding at all. She had hardly thanked Boris for the porcelain nightingale and, claiming she was too busy with Marcus’s recital to see him, had thrown herself into the role of supportive mother with a vengeance.
The lovely golden walled cathedral town of Cotchester had been a royalist stronghold in the Civil War. After an appalling journey with wind and rain nearly sweeping him off the motorway, Marcus arrived around teatime at the town hall, a splendid baroque edifice two hundred yards down the High Street from Venturer Television.
His hopes of a peaceful couple of hours rehearsing were shattered by Helen who was standing on the steps pointing in horror at his poster and brandishing a programme.
