‘No, darling, I haven't seen him. Has something happened?’
‘No, no, nothing, everything's fine.’ I massaged my temples with my fingertips. ‘It's just – if he does ring or call by, would you tell him I'm at the farm? Caro asked me to step in for her at a wedding.’
‘I will, but I'm going there myself soon. Are you OK?’
‘I'm fine.’ I hesitated. How would it sound aired in the open, I wondered. ‘It's just… Ludo sent me some flowers as a joke, and I'm worried Ant might get the wrong idea.’
‘Ludo? Oh, I doubt it, Evie. He's much too young for you. Ant will know that.’ She laughed.
Loyal, my mum. But on another level, encouraging. I tried the shop. Ant might look for me there. Clarence answered.
‘Malcolm's at Alice's wedding. Ludo invited him and sweetly asked me to the reception too. I'm just shutting up here for him before going across. D'you want me to give him a message?’
‘No, don't worry, I'm going there myself in a minute. I'm looking for Ant, actually. He hasn't popped in, has he?’ I said casually.
‘Not that I know of. But if you're going, why don't we go together?’
Good plan. Safety in numbers. I leaped back up the steps and into the house to change, and ten minutes later, was driving through Jericho to collect Clarence. Bafflingly, all the clothes I'd been planning to wear had shrunk in my wardrobe, so after struggling out of the linen trousers and yelling ‘You Bastards’ at them, I'd thrown on a kaftan, a look I knew was fashionable again, but perhaps not the way I'd interpreted it: over beige culottes and with a pink straw hat. I slid by the shop just as Clarence was locking the door.
He looked quite delicious in his morning coat and was kind enough to give my attire only the briefest of glances. In fact he was so smiley and chatty I relaxed, and as we drove along, on the wings of an impulse, I ran the roses up the flagpole again. And the sexy note. And then of course I had to explain the sexy note, which involved explaining the scantily clad siren at the window. I cringed behind the wheel as I awaited his response. The first stone. He laughed.
‘Well, I haven't met your husband, but from what Malcolm tells me he's a rational, intelligent man. He'll surely wait to hear your side of things? Before he jumps to any conclusions?’
‘Yes,’ I breathed happily, my head appearing out of my shoulders like a tortoise's. ‘Yes, he will.’
‘Anyway, it was clearly only a joke.’
I flinched. Odd how everyone thought that; how risible the notion was.
I felt soothed, though, and my bones unclenched as he chatted away sociably. Clarence was a honey, I decided, a real honey. Perhaps he'd help me meet and greet? Park cars, press the flesh, whatever it was we had to do, and hopefully Caro would arrive soon and then I could escape and find Ant, and he'd see the funny side, as everyone predicted, and we could have a glass of something, and all would be well? Manically checking my mobile every few seconds for messages, and with half an ear on what Clarence was saying about how much he'd enjoyed Oxford and how sad he was his sabbatical was coming to an end, we finally arrived at the farm, having been forced to take the scenic route on account of the traffic.
The congregation was already drifting out of the church, following the bride and groom. It was a rare and lovely sight. Under a bright blue sky and a canopy of spreading, golden chestnut trees, Alice, beautiful in ivory silk, white roses scattered in her long blonde hair, on the arm of her new husband, was leading the procession down the narrow lane, Far From the Madding Crowd-style – always Caro's vision – through the field gate at the bottom, and into the meadow, where the marquee flapped gently in the breeze against a vista of green hills and gently swaying russet trees.
We waited for everyone to pass by, a happy, smiling throng. I spotted Felicity in the crowd, in a pale blue suit and hat, talking to Malcolm. She looked lovely. Was lovely, I decided, unclenching some more, banishing impure thoughts. As the last of the guests strolled by, I swung the car into the yard. I got out and, with Clarence following more sedately, hastened around to the back of the house where I found Jack sitting on the back doorstep, talking to a very pretty young waitress.
‘Oh, hi, Evie.’
They both stood up guiltily. The waitress melted away, taking Jack's cigarette with her.
‘Jack, I'm supposed to be helping. Did you manage to park the cars OK?’
‘They park themselves in the churchyard. Mum gets stressy but it always goes like clockwork. She rang and said you were coming but there's no need, honestly. No offence.’
‘No offence taken. This is Clarence, by the way.’
‘Hi, Clarence.’
They shook hands.
‘So, waitresses circulating with drinks and all that sort of thing?’ I swung round, taking a few tottering steps down the lawn in my heels and shading my eyes against the sun towards the marquee. I spotted Ludo, looking devastatingly handsome in the receiving line, because – yes, that's right, their father was dead, so he'd given Alice away – beside a distinguished-looking grey-haired woman with good bones, who must be their mother. I watched, fascinated for a moment as they smiled and shook hands with everyone.
‘Yeah, the waitresses have got trays of champagne and some orange juice for the drivers.’
‘Well done. Canapés?’
‘Not yet. Mum usually let's them have a drink first. Canapés in half an hour.’
‘Right. Well, it looks like you've got it all under control, Jack.’ I smiled back at him. ‘D'you get paid for this?’
‘Dream on. Mum's far too tight. And, actually, it's just as well she's not here, she wouldn't like that.’
He jerked his head across the hedge to the lane, where, having waited for the procession to pass, the last of the horseboxes were sneaking out and rumbling away in convoy, dripping straw and poo in their wake.
‘Anna must be about somewhere, then,’ I said, as we watched them go.
‘She was, but she and Phoebe went to a friend's house in the village.’
‘Oh, right. I don't suppose Ant's here, is he?’ I asked nonchalantly.
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Dad might know. He's inside.’
‘Is he? I thought he wasn't here?’
‘Yeah, he's around somewhere. See you.’ He loped off, weary with interrogation, towards the marquee.
Actually, Ant could be with Tim, it occurred to me. Perhaps they were ensconced in the study? Deep in chat? About me? The black sheep? A family pow-wow? My chest tightened and I went to go in, then remembered Clarence. But he'd already spotted Malcolm, who was coming up the garden to meet him, looking rather radiant in his morning coat, blond hair freshly washed. It wasn't lost on Clarence and I saw their eyes shine at each other as they shared a moment. I'd just got my foot in the back door when I saw Caro's car draw up in the yard. She leaped out almost before the car had stopped.
‘Everything OK?’ she called anxiously, bustling across.
‘Perfect. The cars are parked, and everyone got from the church to marquee without incident.’
‘No wretched horseboxes dropping poo in the lane from next door?’
‘No,’ I lied, ‘and now everyone's drinking champagne.’
‘Waitresses circulating?’ Her eyes narrowed with professional alertness down the lawn.
‘Yup, and Jack and I held off on the canapés for a bit, just while they have a drink.’
‘Excellent.’ Her face relaxed and swam with relief. ‘Honestly, Evie, it's like a military operation. By the time Phoebe gets married I'll be doing it in my sleep. But thank you, it all slightly needs overseeing. Mother of the bride happy?’
‘I came out in a bit of a rush, Caro. Haven't really had a chance to—’
‘Don't worry, I'll go down.’ From just inside the back door where Barbours hung in serried ranks above wellingtons, she snatched a pink jacket and hat, which she slung on now over her denim skirt.
‘Keep them there for emergencies,’ she grinned, deftly swapping her boots for slingbacks. ‘Is y
our mother here yet? She was going to help me with the pigs.’
‘Haven't seen her, but she did say she was going to—’
‘NO, NO, THIS WAY!’ she yelled suddenly. She ran towards the hedge, calling over it to some latecomers, who were hurrying towards the yard, the wives tripping in high heels, hanging onto their hats.
‘Traffic!’ they wailed.
‘I know, dreadful! No, not through the yard, through the gate at the end of the lane, look…’ She beetled off, running parallel with them by the hedge, arranging her face brightly and shepherding them in at the bottom.
I went inside to find Tim. Not in the sitting room, or in the study. In fact all was quiet downstairs, so I went up. The children's doors were open, revealing exploding bedrooms, unmade beds and still closed curtains. I went on down the corridor to Tim and Caro's bedroom door, which was shut.
‘Tim?’
‘Come in.’ My brother's voice, subdued.
I poked my head round. He was lying on the bed in old jeans and a checked shirt. His gun was by his side. I stared, appalled.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Cleaning my gun. Why?’
‘Oh!’ I clutched my heart dramatically. Shut the door behind me. ‘I thought…’
‘What, I was topping myself?’ He sat up with a struggle. ‘Not quite there yet. But I can't even clean my gun without sitting – or lying down – now.’
‘Oh, Tim.’ I came and sat on the bed beside him: on the Jane Churchill bedcover they'd had for ever. I hadn't been in this room for a long time, but it struck me it had hardly changed since Mum and Dad's day. The faded chintz curtains still hung at the windows, the pale blue carpet underfoot.
‘Is it very painful?’
‘Very,’ he said grimacing. ‘But I'll get there. Hundreds of people walk around with artificial hips, don't they?’
‘They do, but they don't farm.’ I regarded him. He returned my look.
‘I don't farm either, Evie. Oh, I've got a few cows, and we grow a bit of wheat and dutifully get it harvested, but d'you know how much I got for it this year?’
‘How much?’ I asked, not wanting to know.
‘Twenty-three grand. That's my annual income. I have to pay Phil, obviously, because I can't do all the combining myself, and Steve, who comes to help in August, and d'you know what their wages come to?’
I didn't answer.
‘Fifteen grand. Which leaves me eight grand to run the place and to feed a family of five for a year. Ha!’ He threw back his head and gave a cracked laugh to the ceiling. I swallowed. Resumed my contemplation of the bedcover. ‘D'you know how many acres I'd need to make a profit worth talking about?’
‘How many?’
‘Fifteen hundred. D'you know how many I've got?’
‘Three hundred,’ I muttered.
He nodded. ‘Three hundred's not a farm, Evie. It's a fucking paddock. It used to be. You used to be able to make a living on a smallholding; seventy acres – less, even – but not now. Now you've got to own fucking Badminton.’
‘Which is why Caro does all this,’ I soothed, waving my hand out of the window.
He sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘And she makes a good profit?’
‘She makes a profit. I don't know about good. But she's run ragged. And I feel—’
‘I know,’ I interrupted quickly. Before he said it. Impotent.
He gave me a twisted smile. ‘It's not great, Evie, seeing your wife run herself into the ground, having your house overrun with people every weekend…’
‘Well, not actually in the house.’
‘Excuse me?’ He cocked an ear theatrically. Voices drifted up from downstairs.
‘They come in?’ I boggled.
‘To use the loo.’
‘But the Portaloos—’
‘Oh, they're not supposed to come in, we don't actually allow them, but the Portaloos get busy – or blocked – so they come up here. Don't forget, nearly everyone we entertain in our splendid house and grounds is pissed. They don't give a toss that it's your house.’
We heard the sound of a loo being flushed down the passage in the children's bathroom. Clearly the downstairs one was occupied. Then more footsteps tripped towards us and a loo seat banged down close by, next door, in fact, in Tim and Caro's ensuite, which could also be accessed via the corridor. I let my jaw drop incredulously. He raised his eyebrows back, told-you-so style.
‘One Saturday I was watching the cricket in the sitting room, and a guy came strolling through the French windows, plonked himself down beside me on the sofa and asked me what the score was.’
‘Bloody cheek.’
‘I gave him a beer, actually. He was rather nice.’
I smiled. ‘But things will improve,’ I assured him. ‘Your new hip will click in soon—’
‘Like the bionic man.’
‘Exactly, and then you can do more on your own. You won't need Phil.’
‘And get to keep all of the twenty-three thousand pounds? Gee whiz.’
‘Well, maybe – maybe wheat prices will improve? They said on Farming Today wheat prices were going up—’
‘By two pence a ton.’
‘And maybe the Europeans will have a terrible year and everyone will be gagging for English grain.’
‘And maybe a whole heap of money will just drop out of the sky, just as if – ooh, I don't know, as if Dad didn't die intestate after all, and in fact the chunk he left to Felicity should have gone to me, to run the farm. Keep the place going.’
He gave me a steady look. I gazed back.
‘Right,’ I said eventually, averting my eyes. ‘I wondered when we'd get to that.’
‘You know?’
‘I went to see Maroulla this morning.’
‘Ah.’
Another silence prevailed.
‘Ah well,’ he said lightly, ‘it's all been spent now, I imagine. So it's academic.’
‘You think?’
‘I don't know, Evie,’ he said wearily.
‘But I mean… is it legal?’
‘This bit of photocopied paper?’ He shifted on his side and brought it out of the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Who knows? It doesn't exactly start, “This is the last will and testament of Victor Milligan.”’
‘Exactly.’
‘And it clearly wasn't transcribed in a solicitor's office, and it's not on official paper—’
‘But Mario and Maroulla witnessed it.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you only need two people?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Haven't made one yet. Got nothing to leave.’ He hesitated. ‘But, as far as we know… it was what Dad wanted. Which actually, is the point, isn't it?’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly. I paused. ‘But… where's the original?’
‘Well, somewhere along the line, someone may have…’ he was carefully avoiding using Felicity's name, ‘disposed of it, I suppose.’
‘Not knowing Maroulla took a copy.’
We glanced guiltily at one another. Guilty, because we couldn't believe we were thinking it. Saying it. The loo flushed next door.
‘Or,’ I said quickly, ‘Dad may have chucked it. Changed his mind.’
‘Exactly. Didn't want to cut out his wife, which is quite a major thing to do, incidentally.’
‘Well, quite.’
We regarded one another more equably.
‘And on that note of finality,’ Tim heaved himself suddenly off the bed, ‘I shall place one end of this shotgun in my mouth like so…’ He lifted it.
‘Tim!’
‘Joke,’ he grinned, swinging it round and using it as a stick. ‘Blimey, Evie, lighten up. I thought my nerves were bad.’ He hobbled to the window. ‘What's that godawful noise?’
A terrible banging was coming from the yard below where Caro had left her car. I joined him at the window as he flung it open. The trailer behind her car seemed to be bouncing about.
‘What the…?’ Tim turned and marc
hed, quite quickly for a man with a gammy leg, and using his gun to lean on, out of the bedroom, down the passage and down the stairs. He shot back the bolts on the front door and went out. I was on his heels. Something – or someone – was banging from inside the trailer, making a terrible din.
‘Oh God – it can't be Caro's uncle, can it?’ I gasped.
‘Lionel?’
‘Yes, she went to get him.’
‘Did she? But why would he be in the trailer?’
‘I've no idea, but she said he was in the back. Oh, poor man!’
Giving me a startled glance, Tim unfastened the clasp and loosened the ramp. But before he could lower it, it came smartly down of its own accord, with a bang. An enormous, hairy orange pig stampeded down it, and raced past us.
‘BLOODY HELL!’ roared Tim, swinging about.
‘What the…?’ I spun round.
‘That's not Lionel, that's Leonard! The boar! Come to service the pigs!’
I clasped my cheeks in horror. ‘Oh Christ!’
We watched, aghast, as the pig galloped joyously down the garden. It crashed through flowerbeds and made for the river, just as Phil, Tim's farm worker, giving the pig a startled glance, came running over the bridge and up the lawn towards us.
‘There's a barney going on in the tent!’ he yelled. ‘You'd better come!’
‘Oh fuck.’ Tim started hobbling down the lawn. ‘Phil! Get that pig!’ he roared, as the pig, thwarted by the stream, veered left. Phil raced after it. ‘Christ, we haven't even got to the disco yet, and they've only had one glass of champagne. The best man can't have plugged a bridesmaid already, can he?’
‘Dad! Quick!’ Jack, looking appalled but enthralled, was waving his father on with a huge arm from the mouth of the tent. We hurried across the bridge as Jack darted back in.
The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton Page 37
