Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  Perhaps it was because she was the total antithesis of his mother. Perhaps it was because she was the only girl who didn’t look at him longingly and decide that she could change him. But Tor was the first girl Bertie ever telephoned to ask out on a date. The first girl to receive flowers from him.

  She was certainly the first girl he’d ever asked to marry.

  Tor kept Bertie at arm’s length for months, knowing instinctively that he was trouble and utterly convinced that he would get bored of the novelty. But he didn’t. His devotion grew and grew, and in the meantime, Tor laid down some ground rules. He wasn’t to touch drugs for as long as he expected to remain with her. Drinking she didn’t have a problem with, but he wasn’t to drive whilst drunk. She wasn’t a party-pooper, she insisted. It was merely a question of survival. To many people’s amazement, Bertie cleaned up his act. To many people’s annoyance, as well, because when he was charged with drink and drugs he tended to pick up bills, in bars and restaurants. It was a miraculous transformation.

  And he spent more time at the Dower House. It was the prettiest little Strawberry Hill Gothick cottage, set in about two acres of grounds. It had been shut up for most of the time while Bertie rampaged around London, but now he opened it up again and was gratified at how charming it was. It had been furnished with antiques his father had sent over from the big house before he left for America; not the really valuable stuff, but some good pieces, some pretty paintings. Between them, he and Tor lovingly restored it, until Bertie found he preferred the Dower House to his flat in London and could never wait till the weekend to hit the A40.

  It was Tor’s idea for him to set up in reclamation. The nation was just beginning its obsession with renovation and doing up the Dower House had given Bertie a taste for hunting down authentic building materials. It was a business that went from strength to strength. Eventually he sub-let his Fulham flat and decamped permanently to the Cotswolds, striving to build up the business into something that would support a wife and, perhaps eventually, children. It proved to be right time, right place, and he had the knack, built up the contacts, developed a nose for sniffing out places on the verge of demolition and subsequently finding clients that were in need of bricks, tiles, gateposts, window frames. He secured himself the yard next to the railway station in Eldenbury and soon his stock was leaving the yard almost before it was unloaded from the fleet of trucks he’d purchased.

  He took Tor up in a hot-air balloon to ask her to marry him. Incredibly corny, he knew, but Bertie had never made many romantic gestures before so he tended now to go over the top. She knew it was serious because he gave her his mother’s engagement ring, a beautiful square-cut diamond, and he cried when she said yes, held on to her and promised her the world, everlasting love, babies, devotion, anything she wanted. She laughed and asked him to give up smoking. He tossed his packet of Dunhill over the side of the balloon.

  Tor wasn’t the sort of girl who liked a fuss. She knew what suited her and that she was the best person to do it. Most of the girls she knew had legions of beauticians and hairdressers on their wedding day, but she chose to do her make-up herself. Professionals always tried to push you into something you didn’t want, like lip-liner and powder, which Tor found always added about ten years to her. She was naturally pretty; she didn’t need much artifice. She just needed someone to help her put the pins in her hair before she put the veil on.

  She sat at her dressing table for the last time as Miss Lyndhurst and admired her reflection. Bertie was going to love her underwear – a laced-up corset that was going to need pulling tighter than tight before she put on her dress. She’d had it specially made to measure to enhance her cleavage and minimize her waist. It killed, but it was only for a day. The most important day of her life.

  Her mother knocked on the door. A parcel had arrived by Federal Express, addressed to the bride. Tor supposed it must be a present from someone who couldn’t make it; she racked her brains but she couldn’t think who. There was no clue. Just an oblong box, beautifully wrapped in gold tissue. Inside was a photo album covered in cream leather – a wedding album. Tor opened it and was puzzled to see there were already photos inside.

  The first page bore a photo of Bertie smiling – she recognized his suit as the one he’d worn on his stag night. And sure enough, in black italic calligraphy someone had written on the fly page ‘Bertie’s stag night’. She thought it was a lovely idea – it must be from one of the other stags who’d seen fit to bring a camera and actually managed to stay vertical in order to take pictures.

  There were pictures of all the boys at dinner.

  Bertie giving a speech.

  Bertie proposing a toast.

  Bertie doing a line of coke…

  The next picture was taken at a wider angle. Tor could see now that the line of coke was on someone’s stomach. The next picture revealed that it belonged to a beautiful, stark naked girl. The next revealed yet another girl, poised beside Bertie, ready to do another line that had already been chopped up.

  Tor dropped the album as if it was made of coals.

  She looked in the mirror and realized that the next time she looked in it, she would still be Miss Lyndhurst. For the rest of her life, probably. She felt her heart break as she slipped out of her underwear and into her dressing gown, then called down to her mother.

  Lucy thought back to the wedding day, more than ten years ago now. Bertie and James had long been friends. They’d been at prep school together and James had been appointed by the housemaster to keep an eye on Bertie when his mother had died, and James, being an honourable sort of chap even then, had been a stalwart. They mucked around on ponies together in the holidays when they were young, then hunted girls together throughout their adolescence. They were total opposites, with Bertie egging James on to be more daring, and James holding Bertie back from his wilder antics. They complemented each other beautifully.

  When Bertie decamped to London, James often stayed with him; he shared his flat during his stint at Sotheby’s and dropped by in later years whenever he was on a buying trip, often finding he didn’t go back home to Honeycote for days. And now, their businesses were similar but not in direct competition, so they often helped each other out with tips and contacts, went off to auctions and country house sales together.

  They’d all been invited to the wedding – James and Mickey and Lucy. It had been a beautiful day, the sunlight dancing on the Thames as they drove through Putney to the church.

  Where they waited. And waited. And waited. Finally Tor’s mother had arrived, pale with shock, and the silent word had been passed around. The wedding was off.

  Lucy didn’t think Bertie had ever really recovered. But it had been his own fault. He was drawn to trouble like a moth to a flame. He couldn’t help himself and so he had paid the price. She didn’t like to think what damage being jilted had done him. The life he led now was a mass of contradictions. He’d go off to London on binges for weeks on end and come back to the Cotswolds looking ravaged. Or he’d have wild parties at the Dower House, when his friends from London would come down and trash the place. Lucy didn’t have to guess at what went on because Bertie shared a cleaning lady, Mrs Titcombe, with James, and she would report the damage back to him in wide-eyed outrage. The last straw had come when she’d found two people copulating on the billiard table one morning. Bertie had found it funny until she had refused to clean for him any longer.

  Bertie also had a darker side. Often, after he’d partied for weeks on end, he would become a recluse, locking himself up in the Dower House, not coming out for days, not answering the phone even though it was obvious he was there. Lucy privately suspected these were the times when he went cold turkey. Bertie had never used drugs in front of her, but she was no fool. After all, there was an awful lot he probably wanted to forget. But it seemed he had just enough sense, just enough self-control, just enough will-power to pull himself back from the brink every now and again.

  So, fond as she wa
s of Bertie, Lucy didn’t want him to set his sights on Ginny. Beneath his magnetic, seductive exterior were dark, murky waters, treacherously deep, ready to pull you under. It was Keith who deserved Ginny. Lovely, lovely Keith who needed the love of a good woman. The further Ginny could be kept from Bertie, the better.

  Though that might be easier said than done.

  12

  ‘You insufferable, arrogant bloody pig!’ Suzanna was torn between absolute fury and desperately trying not to laugh. To add to her frustration, Patrick was standing with his arms crossed, smirking at her.

  ‘You know I’m right.’

  They were in an enormous fabric warehouse, looking at a bolt of sun-coloured silk embroidered with bumble bees. Suzanna stamped her foot, knowing she was behaving like a brat.

  ‘But I love it. And the bees can be the Honeycote Arms emblem – we could use it on the menus – ’

  Patrick shook his head definitely.

  ‘Twee. Cotswoldy. Yuk.’

  ‘Are you calling me tasteless?’

  ‘No, I think you’ve just got carried away by some overpriced material that you’ll get sick of in six months’ time.’

  Suzanna looked at him with narrowed eyes, realizing with absolute fury that of course he was right.

  ‘So what do you think we should have, Mr Arbiter of Good Taste?’

  ‘The one you chose first of all. The plain, simple, tasteful cotton that actually goes with the paint we’ve ordered.’

  ‘We could have changed it.’

  ‘Go with your first instincts.’

  Suzanna relented, despite herself, knowing it was her turn to back down. She and Patrick were gradually devising a way of working together. They both had strong opinions, but respect for each other, which sometimes made for a battle, but definitely an interesting life. They’d worked on sample menus, agonizing over whether to provide free nibbles before the start of a meal (they settled on a complimentary basket of home-made breads) and petits fours with coffee (Suzanna suggested Hershey’s Kisses – they were delicious, perfect with coffee, stylish – and one less job for her to do). They’d also chosen a logo: simple, squat, bold capitals with slightly accentuated serifs for the pub’s name, and a slightly less dramatic font to print up menus, wine lists and general information. Most importantly, but boringly, everything they had chosen was priced up, ready to be put into the pool with everything else to go before the progress meeting next week, when it was all going to be either rubber-stamped or thrown out. Keith had made it quite clear that he was going to be ruthless at this meeting – no sentiment, no argument – so Suzanna and Patrick had quickly learned how to prioritize, how to compromise, and were ready to put their heads on the chopping block for the few extravagances they felt were worth it.

  They’d travelled the length and breadth of the county and beyond. Today they were on the outskirts of Oxford and had sourced tiles for the loos and bathrooms, light-fittings and, finally, curtain material. Suzanna had to admit her head was spinning. Of course, she felt a little guilty that she had the fun part while Barney was doing the donkey work, but actually making all the final decisions was quite daunting – you never knew what things would look like when they were finally pulled together.

  She shoved the bumble bees back on the shelf with a sigh.

  ‘Let’s go and have lunch.’

  Whenever they were out on the road, they tried to take in as many like-minded pubs as possible. Though they usually only grabbed soup or a sandwich, they had time to observe how things were run, to get ideas, to see where mistakes were being made. Today they found a place Suzanna had seen reviewed in one of the Sunday papers. They ordered risotto, a dish which Suzanna firmly believed gave you a measure of the chef’s capabilities. Soggy, salty, stodgy was thumbs down. Today’s was a pleasant surprise: firm, buttery and moist. Suzanna had perused the menu, making surreptitious notes and firing questions at the hapless waitress.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Patrick. ‘Relax. We’re ahead of ourselves. We’ve done everything we need to today. Let’s just enjoy ourselves for once.’

  After a glass of wine, Suzanna found herself winding down. They chatted idly, with Patrick filling her in on village gossip, who the main players were in Honeycote, who was likely to cause trouble, who was likely to make a pass, who was a lush. He was very amusing, with a wicked wit and a powerful gift for describing personalities. Suzanna found herself increasingly curious about him, and his dreams and ambitions. He seemed almost too urbane for his surroundings; not the type to stay put in a tiny village like Honeycote for the rest of his life.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘What about you? Are you going to stay with the brewery for ever? Haven’t you got the urge to travel, see a bit of the world? Or move to London?’

  Patrick made a face.

  ‘I absolutely loathe London. Always have done. I’ve never seen the point of it. It’s dirty, there’s nowhere to park, it’s full of thieves and beggars and drug addicts…’ He broke off to laugh at himself. ‘I know I sound like an old fogey, but I just don’t get it.’

  He went on to explain how London reminded him of his mother Carola, Mickey’s first wife, and the hideous early years of his life he’d spent living with her in hippy squalour, before Mickey had brought him back to Honeycote House. Once Mickey had married Lucy, Patrick’s little life had been transformed to something resembling a small boy’s heaven. Proper food, puppies, ponies, hide and seek. Then sisters: a proper family! Patrick had wanted to cling on to this paradise, always fearing he might be sent back to a world of lentils and hand-me-downs and the stench of patchouli. With the result that here he still was.

  Suzanna forked up the last of her risotto thoughtfully.

  ‘I suppose Honeycote is pretty idyllic. Why would anyone ever want to leave? And your family is fantastic – they’ve just got it so right.’

  Patrick hesitated, not sure whether to tell her the truth. That life in Honeycote wasn’t always what it seemed. That bad things happened. Why disillusion her? But then, he reasoned, it was only fair that she should know the history; have all the cards. They were all putting their arses on the line with the Honeycote Arms, and Patrick thought it should be a level playing field. So he told of the turbulent times Honeycote Ales had been through last year, his father’s affair, how he’d smashed up Patrick’s car and nearly killed himself into the bargain, how Patrick had feared that Lucy would never forgive Mickey, that everything would crumble and collapse around them, that the brewery would go bankrupt. Suzanna listened, wide-eyed with shock, amazed at the high drama, unable to believe that the people she’d met and admired could be capable of such outrageous behaviour.

  ‘It just goes to show’, said Patrick wrily, ‘that people aren’t always what they seem. Everyone’s got secrets. Some darker than others.’

  Suzanna picked up the dessert menu and studied it hard. She looked up with a smile.

  ‘Raspberry bavarois,’ she said decisively.

  She came home later that afternoon to find Barney sprawled out on the sofa with Marmite on his lap, fast asleep. The smell of freshly-cut grass wafting in from outside explained his exhaustion: he’d spent the afternoon mowing the lawns, which had run amok with the alternate rain and sunshine they’d been having. The scene reminded her of when she used to come back from catering some social event on a Saturday. Barney would usually have fallen asleep in front of the rugby, but would always wake up protesting he had only just dropped off. Once she’d painted his toenails pink as he slept, just to prove to him that he was lost to the world.

  She wondered whether to wake him now, but decided to let him sleep on. He hadn’t been out gallivanting in pub restaurants, after all. Poor Barney had all the boring paperwork to deal with. They hadn’t appreciated fully quite how many rules and regulations had to be complied with when kitting out a restaurant or a pub – the Health and Safety implications were infinite, and Barney was a great one for complying with rules rather than risk asking for trouble. At the end
of the day his licence was going to depend on everything being followed to the letter; they didn’t have time to stand arguing with some official who was going to enjoy exercising his power for the sake of it. As a result of which, it was Barney who had to breathe down everyone’s neck, making sure they were as conscientious as he was. Mowing the lawn had probably seemed like light relief.

  She thought how gorgeous he looked, his bare torso already turning brown from his afternoon in the sun, his stomach muscles still firm from the hours he’d spent at the gym. His hair was tousled, dirty blond; his jeans faded, one hole at the knee. Suzanna swallowed, wishing desperately that she had the nerve to wake him with a kiss; a kiss that could lead to more exciting things…

  Instead, she went into the kitchen to try and recreate the sublime raspberry bavarois she’d had at lunch. She thought with a sigh that this was the only way she could express her emotions these days: through food. At this rate, Barney was going to end his days fat and celibate.

  13

  The morning of the point-to-point at the end of that week dawned damp and breezy but with the promise of sunshine. Keith was in his kitchen, preparing his picnic as carefully as a surgeon preparing to operate. The Best Opera Album in the World… Ever was on the CD player. His brand new picnic basket with the green gingham lining was sitting on the kitchen table. He’d removed all the crockery and cutlery and glasses the night before and put them through the dishwasher – he wanted everything pristine.

  He opened up his fridge and removed his purchases from the day before. He’d been into Stratford – he much preferred it to Cheltenham, as it was smaller – to the specialist cheese shop, where he’d spent a delightful half hour browsing and tasting before deciding on a small selection. He’d gone on to Marks & Spencer for smoked salmon mousse, custard tarts and a selection of red grapes, pears and peaches, which he carefully washed and dried. He slid neoprene covers on to a couple of bottles of white burgundy to keep them cool, then added two bottles of elderflower cordial. Everything was complete, apart from a couple of fresh baguettes which he’d get from the post office. He closed the lid and did up the leather straps. The wicker creaked reassuringly, the clouds parted and sunshine streamed into the kitchen. Lesley Garrett yodelled triumphantly. Keith adjusted his cravat, checked his wallet for cash and found his car keys.