Lots of Love

by Unknown

  ‘Keep it.’ He looked away.

  ‘I’m lousy at goodbyes.’

  ‘I have something else for you.’ He reached into his pocket.

  It was the horseshoe nail she had given him the day she’d asked him to take Dilly out. ‘I still owe you this.’

  Ellen stared at White Lies’ stamping feet, filled with so many wishes. ‘You know I’ll never come back once I leave.’

  ‘I know. But I will find you. One day I promise I will find you.’

  ‘Or you’ll break your sword?’ She fought not to break down as she looked at the nail, then reached into her own pocket, pulling the horseshoe from it along with a crumpled envelope.

  ‘Here.’ She thrust the envelope at him with shaking hands, then tried to wrench the final nail from its hole.

  ‘What’s this?’ He pulled out the airline ticket.

  ‘It’s in your name.’

  He pressed it to his forehead, his eyes clenched shut. ‘You know I can’t do it.’

  Ellen scrabbled at the stubborn nail, ripping her fingernails and grazing her skin as she fought to free it.

  At last she had both nails in her hands and shakily held them up to Spurs. ‘These are my two remaining wishes. You have to choose between them.’ She pressed the first nail to his palm and closed his fingers around it. ‘I wish with all my heart that you would come away with me tomorrow.’

  He looked away, almost crucified.

  Blind with tears, she pressed the second nail into his palm. ‘If you don’t, then I wish that we had never met . . . and that our paths never, ever cross again. You decide.’

  Frantic preparations for Ely Gates’s garden party had been going on all week, with smartly liveried vans trundling along Manor Lane at regular intervals, boasting catering, cleaning, marquee erecting and gardening services from their waxed and polished sides.

  Pheely, who had been enjoying a thoroughly good perv at all the activity during regular walks with Hamlet, took every opportunity to pop in on Ellen and update her in the hours building up to her departure. ‘At least three hundred gold-painted chairs went into that marquee today,’ she reported excitedly, on the morning of the party. ‘Dear God, I hope Ely isn’t planning on delivering a sermon.’

  Pheely evidently knew nothing about the surprise wedding ceremony. Nor had Ellen told her of her evening trysts with Spurs, although she didn’t doubt that Pheely had guessed about them. Since returning from Kent, Dilly had been riding Otto to the Springlode yard every day to see Rory and reported back to her mother that Spurs was behaving very oddly indeed, cross-dressing and disappearing at odd hours on an ancient bicycle. Pheely predicted happily that Spurs was about to go all-out, old-fashioned, Granville Gates mad, and concluded that Ellen was leaving the village in the nick of time. But on the whole she’d preferred not to dwell upon Spurs during the build-up to Ellen’s departure. She found the party far more diverting as she sought to pretend that Ellen leaving the village meant nothing to her.

  ‘You could have lent Ely some chairs, come to think of it.’ She wandered about Goose Cottage, checking the labels on every piece of furniture. ‘I must say you’re terribly organised. I’m sure you’ve got bags of time to pop in on the party before you go.’

  Ellen, who had woken up with a lump the size of Yorkshire in her throat, was finding difficulty in making even monosyllabic answers.

  ‘Don’t forget that Dilly has bought a bottle of champagne for us all to share to see you off,’ Pheely reminded her. ‘It cost her practically every penny she has, so I expect you at the Lodge later this morning on pain of death.’ She stooped to collect the ball Snorkel was offering. ‘And you, my darling girl, can settle into your new pad while we toast Mummy on her big adventure.’ She waggled the ball, making the collie leap excitedly in the air. ‘Are you coming to live with me? Are you?’ she teased. ‘Yes! Oh, yes, you are.’

  Snorkel barked adoringly.

  Ellen turned away her head to hide the tears.

  Pheely had insisted on giving the collie a home, pointing out that Snorkel and Hamlet were madly in love and adding that she loved Snorkel’s sense of humour. It was a huge source of relief for Ellen, who had agonised over what to do about the dog when she left, although it made it no easier to face the final farewell.

  If only saying farewell to Fins were possible, but the great black and white hunter was still out on manoeuvres. At least Ellen could comfort herself with the thought that his welfare was no longer in doubt – in fact he seemed more concerned about hers, delivering regular gifts in the early hours that she discovered waiting for her on the doorstep each morning. That week’s total already ran at three voles, several fledgling birds and a fat rat. Yet she longed to see him properly ensconced in a new home before she left. Life al fresco in Oddlode might be a riot in summer, but winter was another matter. She needed to know that he would be safe, and loved.

  ‘I’ll look out for him, darling,’ Pheely had promised. ‘You’re the one whose safety I fear for. As if it’s not enough to spend most of your life jumping from planes or riding waves, you’re now flying long-haul to uncharted waters to become a back-packing drop-out. God, I envy you.’

  Pheely had also asked if she could have Ellen’s surfboards to incorporate into a sculpture that she had been commissioned to undertake for the new leisure centre in Market Addington. And she had been impossibly touched when Ellen gave her laptop to Dilly. In exchange, she now gave Ellen the parting gift of a necklace wrapped in an oversized red-spotted handkerchief. It was a chunky pendant made up of intricate Celtic silver knotwork, tarnished with age and neglect, the burnished pink stone at its centre dark-edged with dirt. ‘Watermelon tourmaline,’ she explained. ‘It’s quite rare and has amazing properties – I call it the “funny side” gemstone, because it helps one see happiness in adversity. It opens the heart chakra.’ She winked, knowing that Ellen didn’t believe in that sort of claptrap. ‘And it’s a locket – you can put something in it. I kept a little recreational party grass in it at one point, but the clasp is a bit loose and I was always finding my bra full of best home-grown sensimilla.’

  ‘Thanks – I’ll treasure it.’ Ellen pressed it to her cheek.

  ‘Rubbish – you’ll trade it for a taxi-ride in Kazakhstan.’ Pheely giggled. ‘I’d far rather you treasured the kerchief. That was Daddy’s. I thought it was rather fitting – you should bundle your possessions into it.’

  Ellen forced a smile: the oversized handkerchief was pure Disney runaway cliché. ‘I’ll tie it to my backpack,’ she promised.

  ‘You do that.’ Pheely boffed the ball against Snorkel’s nose. ‘Mummy’s seeing the funny side already, isn’t she?’ She glanced up at the kitchen clock. ‘God, I must go back and glue Godspell’s clay facial piercings back on.’ She sighed and threw the ball. ‘My work cannot be hurried, and Ely is getting rather fractious. How was I to know all that body jewellery would drop off in the extreme heat of the kiln?’

  She had insisted that she must work on the party’s sculptural centrepiece until the very last minute, and had appalled Ely by arranging for two junior members of the Wyck family to transport it to Manor Farm in Reg’s pick-up later that morning.

  ‘I can hardly carry it myself,’ she pointed out, smiling naughtily, ‘and they’ve promised they’ll be careful. Besides, they need a way of double-crossing Ely’s threshold, bless them. His gate policy beggars belief, and he believes the Wycks are beggars. Do you know he’s hired West End bouncers to man his manor this year?’

  In the interests of appearing benevolent and a true Christian, Ely always invited the entire village to his party and could not exclude the Wycks although, according to Pheely, he tried his best to discourage them from lowering the tone.

  ‘Daddy used to call the Gates jamboree Royal Faux Pas-scot because they are such dreadful nouveau snobs.’ She was heading back out into the garden. ‘Ely insists that men wear ties and ladies hats. He only relaxed the rules on morning suits when a few drunken revelle
rs from the Lodes Inn deliberately misunderstood and came in their birthday suits. And who wouldn’t, given glorious weather like this?’ She tipped her face up to the sun. ‘What perfect party weather.’

  Always held on Saturday, the only non-royal day of the famous Ascot race meeting, the annual garden party at Manor Farm boasted endless champagne and Pimm’s, lavish catering, a grand raffle, live music and – of course – the now legendary local horse race. Part village fête, part horse show, part open house, the day was one of the most eagerly anticipated in the Oddlode social calendar.

  This year, the village ladies, who had spent months planning their outfits, were in for a treat. Great secrecy surrounded Felicity’s celebrated floral display, which reportedly took up an entire end of the huge open-sided white marquee and was concealed by a vast white screen of cotton sheets until the time came for the dramatic unveiling.

  ‘Oh, my darling, they are in for such an eyeful.’ Pheely clapped her hands eagerly as she danced out of the Goose Cottage gates. ‘I refuse to let you fly away before you see it. I guarantee you will never forget it, even if you can’t remember my name in a month’s time.’

  Ellen said nothing as she watched her go, knowing that the butterfly had been fluttering cheerfully from pupa to pin-board, avoiding the nectar that had almost poisoned their friendship.

  Pheely had not mentioned Spurs once.

  Holding the locket to her cheek once more, Ellen sat down on his favourite garden bench and watched the lightest of angel-wing clouds scud across the blue sky. Not long until her plane cut through it, she thought, imagining feathers floating to the ground as she soared into the air. She would have an empty seat beside her, of course.

  The lump was almost cutting her throat now.

  It was perfect wedding weather. Across the county, brides were patting their barrel curlers worriedly and knocking back champagne to calm their nerves.

  Ellen tried and failed to envisage Godspell under the caring attentions of hairdressers and beauticians, fretting about her veil, a stress spot and the chances of her lipstick lasting.

  She climbed up the bunkhouse steps and looked across to the manor, just able to make out a few attic windows. Slumping down on the steps, she pressed the locket to her lips and kissed it for luck.

  It sprang open. Pheely had packed it full of her killer grass.

  Smiling despite herself, Ellen snapped it shut again and watched two magpies having a heated argument on one of the manor’s chimney stacks.

  Two hours later, now somewhat stoned, Ellen watched a procession of colourful hats and dresses float past as she stuffed her rucksack with the few things she planned to take with her. Her more precious possessions were packed in one of the boxes to go to Spain, but most of her stuff had already been donated to a local jumble sale.

  Snorkel watched her from the bed, blue eyes troubled.

  ‘You’ll be fine.’ Ellen ruffled her thick coat, unable to look at her. ‘You’ll love having a live-in boyfriend and a wild garden to play in.’

  Horses were clattering past now, already en route for the race. Ellen checked her watch and winced. It was after eleven. Her heart spun on its aorta. Time to go. Time to go. Time to go.

  She’d planned to put everything in the car and lock up the cottage before making the trip to the Lodge to say farewell. But as she packed up the jeep and checked around the house, making sure that every box was arranged ready for the removers, that the furniture was cleared of clutter, the beds free of linen and the cupboards emptied of contents, she felt a great ball of panic welling up inside her.

  I can’t leave him here, she realised. I can’t leave him.

  She stopped in the dark turn of the stairwell and took deep, gulping breaths. But the lump in her throat was strangling her now.

  During the previous sleepless night, she had made the decision to get as far out of the village as possible before the wedding, even though her flight wasn’t until late evening.

  It was already much later than she’d promised Pheely that she would drop Snorkel at the Lodge, but she didn’t trust herself to leave the cottage without breaking down. If he really loved me, he’d be coming with me, she told herself firmly, trying to pull herself together. He doesn’t love me enough to leave.

  ‘And black is white.’ She heard a voice in her head – brusque and argumentative, too authoritative to deny.

  ‘Bugger off, Mum,’ she moaned, burying her head in her hands.

  ‘If you really loved him, you would bloody well go there and stand up to be counted. Remember Emily Davison.’

  Ellen groaned: Pheely’s dope had got her a lot more wired than she’d planned. She had only smoked the tiniest toke, tucking the rest of the stash into the airing cupboard with a note as a treat for Spurs and Godspell. It was her wedding present to them – God knows, they’d need it. But now her head reeled, as she heard her mother’s imaginary voice in her head.

  ‘Typical!’ the voice lectured. ‘Getting high on wacky tobacco at the most important moment in your life. And you’re driving. Have you read the statistics?’

  Ellen watched Fins trot up the stairs towards her, eyes shining.

  ‘Oh, God.’ She covered her own eyes to stop herself seeing things. ‘Any minute now, Richard will demand cybersex.’

  On cue, her mobile phone rang.

  ‘Ellen, dear!’ the brusque voice rang in her ear. ‘Just calling to wish you bon voyage. Everything okay?’

  Was this still a dope daydream or was that really her mother’s voice, Ellen wondered vaguely. She reached out to tickle Fins’ neck, feeling soft fur slide beneath her fingernails. He purred and pushed against her, collapsing on his back, paddling his paws into her wrist and head-butting her ankle.

  ‘Mum,’ she felt Fins dig his claws into her arm and watched the beads of blood appear, ‘why doesn’t anything add up any more?’

  Jennifer Jamieson coughed. ‘I’ll get your father.’

  Ellen cocked her head as a drop of blood landed on her frayed cut-offs. She could hear her mother saying something about ‘. . . must be having second thoughts.’

  ‘Ellen?’ Theo came on the line.

  She burst into tears.

  ‘Sssh . . . sssh, duckling. What is it?’ her father soothed. ‘Is it Richard? . . . Are you frightened about going away? . . . What is it, my little duck? What can I do to make things better, eh?’

  Ellen was sobbing so hard that it took her a while to answer. When she got the words out, they sounded so embarrassing that she laughed as she wept. ‘T-tell me a fairy tale, Dad.’

  Theo stalled. ‘A what?’

  ‘A f-fairy tale.’

  ‘I don’t know any,’ he confessed eventually. ‘I can tell you a joke . . .’

  Ellen sobbed all the harder, ripping the locket from her throat. Pheely had been wrong. She couldn’t see the funny side.

  ‘An Englishman, a Scot and a Spaniard walked into a bar—’ her father started buoyantly, desperate to cheer her up.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ Ellen interrupted, watching Fins stalking back down the stairs. He was fatter than ever. ‘There was a little mermaid, who grew up on the sea-bed. Are you with me so far?’

  ‘Um, yes . . .’ Theo answered cautiously.

  ‘When she came of age, she swam to the surface of the ocean to sing upon the rocks with the other mermaids. But before she could join them, she saw a man drowning and she saved his life . . .’

  ‘The cottage door is wide open, Snorkel is rollicking around in Hunter Gardner’s paddock, there’s a rucksack on the bed in the attic and she’s written the weirdest message on that lovely white wall you painted.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Dilly was barely listening to her mother’s breathless report as she tacked up Otto, her head full of thoughts of the race.

  ‘Yes. It says MERMAIDS RULE. Oh dear, perhaps giving her that dope wasn’t such a good idea. Where do you suppose she can be?’

  ‘At the party?’ Dilly suggested, buckling up the throat-lash wit
h shaking hands. ‘I told you she wouldn’t be able to leave without watching Spurs ride. Oh, God, I wish Rory was here. Why did I say I’d meet him there? I’m too nervous to do this right.’

  ‘Here, let me.’ Pheely removed her hat, plonked it on the gatepost and took over.

  On the manicured Manor Farm lawns, the garden party was already in full swing, and there was an excited air of anticipation as guests held on tightly to their hats in the buffeting wind. Word had got out that Ely was set to make an announcement, and wild rumours had started to pass between the clusters of eager locals. Only a few had heard the engagement story doing the rounds among the pensioners. Most assumed that it was connected to the Gateses’ burgeoning empire.

  Almost everybody was aware that Ely wanted to set up a hotel in Oddlode, and villagers knew that he had his eye on his brother’s dilapidated mill. The most popular train of thought was that he had found a way of getting his clutches on it. He was very close to Gina and Pat, the ambitious owners of the Duck Upstream, so it would make sense if they had all got into cahoots and staged a buy-out.

  ‘The bounder’s planning to set up a theme park, I hear,’ muttered Hunter Gardner, his low-slung chin disappearing angrily into his cravat.

  ‘Possibly.’ Pru Hornton smiled winsomely, draining her third glass of champagne-and-Valium, convinced that today, at last, Ely would announce he was leaving fat Felicity for her. He had been behaving very strangely lately.

  ‘Look at him, showing off in that ridiculous car of Giles’s,’ Hunter grumbled as Ely performed another circuit of the huge circular drive that cut through his garden, loudly reminding his guests that there would be a very special surprise shortly before the race. ‘And why, in God’s name, has he put ribbons on it? The chap’s gone totally barking mad.’ His hat flew off in a gust of wind.

  Trapped in the Aston Martin with her husband, Felicity was looking anxiously at her watch. The centrepiece of her floral display had still not arrived, and Pheely was not answering the phone at the Lodge cottage. She clutched her mobile to her chest.

  ‘Fear not.’ Ely patted her large thigh. ‘It will be here.’