A Rural Affair

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘I’m not coming on Tuesday, Poppy, because I haven’t read the book. I can’t get beyond the first chapter. Wikipedia said it was one of the most difficult books in the English language and I can believe it. I’ve started it six times and each time I’m lost, confused and asleep in moments. Sorry. It’s obviously far too cerebral for me.’

  ‘But I haven’t read it either, Jennie,’ I said nervously. ‘Don’t leave me. What am I supposed to do? It’s at my house. Won’t I have to chair it, or something?’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry, someone else will do that. Ask Angie; she’ll love it. Or even Angus – he’ll love it even more. Make him feel important.’

  But Angus rang not long afterwards, to confide the details of some sudden and mysterious malaise.

  ‘Sorry, Poppy, old girl, but not sure I’m going to make it to this one. Got a bit of a jippy tummy. Oh – and this infernal tickly cough too. Kept me up all night.’ He gave a shining example of it down the phone, hacking beautifully.

  ‘OK, Angus, not to worry.’

  ‘Shame, because the book is um … terrific. You’ll let me know when you get back to the thrillers, though, won’t you? What about that Danish fellow, Stig something?’ Why was I suddenly responsible for the reading list?

  ‘Will do, Angus.’

  ‘And nice to see you enjoying a spot of lunch with young Luke the other day. He’s a lovely lad, isn’t he?’

  I ground my teeth and said goodbye. Responsible for the reading list, and also engaged.

  Saintly Sue was next, in a bit of a huff.

  ‘It’s just not my sort of book, Poppy.’ As if it were mine! ‘So I’m afraid I won’t be coming. I know I suggested we read something a bit more thought-provoking, but I meant something contemporary, something Booker Prize-ish. This is like wading through quicksand. And it’s all very well flinging these heavy classics at us, but some people have got full-time jobs as well. We don’t want to come home to yet more work.’

  I held the phone from my ear. Christ alive.

  ‘I also think if I did come, it would be rather … well, invidious.’

  ‘Would it?’

  I was still recovering from the unemployed-housewife jibe. Did she mean because Luke would be there?

  ‘Luke will obviously be there.’ Ah. ‘And he appears to have made his feelings plain to the entire village. I can’t compete with you, Poppy, not in that department.’ She gave a little strangled sob and then the phone clicked off.

  I stared at it, amazed. In what department? Instinctively I glanced at my chest. No, Sue was miles bigger than me. Did she think I’d read the book? Thought my brain was bigger? Had she got to page three and thought: blimey, if Poppy’s read this I can’t compete?

  Luke, however, it transpired, wouldn’t be there either. He rang to enthuse about our lunch the other day, saying how much he’d enjoyed it; and actually, it had been very pleasant, in the Rose and Crown’s cosy snug, around the fire with the children, Luke teaching Clemmie to balance a beer mat on her nose, all of us laughing as Archie just plonked one on his head and gazed around, beaming. Sadly, though, Luke said, he had a meeting on Tuesday evening.

  ‘It’s a shame, because the book is absolutely riveting.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it, Luke?’

  ‘You’ve read it?’ Some surprise in his voice.

  ‘Oh, yes. Cover to cover.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said quickly.

  ‘What did you think about the protagonist having a sex change halfway through?’

  A pause. ‘I thought it was … a good twist.’

  I smiled. ‘I haven’t read it either, Luke.’

  ‘Ha ha! Nice one, Poppy.’ Although I could tell he wasn’t that amused at being caught out. ‘I intend to read it though.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Me too.’

  ‘And I wondered, if maybe we could do something the following night instead? See a film or something?’

  ‘Can I let you know, Luke? Obviously the eternal childcare question looms.’

  ‘Sure, or I could come to you?’

  I caught my breath. Quite familiar. In my house, a cosy supper, bottle of wine, children asleep. Coffee on the sofa by the fire later. But why not? That was surely the next stage.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I assured him. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

  I put the phone down and scurried away from it, to the kitchen. Apparently needing some distance. But minutes later I was back, because Peggy was next, saying she had a prior engagement and that if I asked her the book was a complete nightmare. Then Angie, who said she was hunting the next day, so not to include her, even though she’d adored the book. Yes, she thought the sex change was entirely plausible, and actually served as a fitting motif to demonstrate how transitory life could be. It was very emblematic of the ephemeral nature of things, didn’t I think?

  I agreed wearily. Although I wasn’t convinced going hunting the following day precluded attending the book club, and told her so.

  ‘Ah, but I like to clean my tack the night before. Plait my horse, that type of thing. It’s the opening meet, you see. Terribly smart.’

  Everyone knew Angie took hunting seriously, to the point of undergoing a personality change when thus engaged, scarily barking out orders in the field and becoming a mounted hunt-etiquette manual, so no doubt her horse would be subjected to all manner of cleansing rituals. I was pretty sure she had an army of grooms to do it all for her, though, but I didn’t quibble.

  ‘And obviously I need to look the part because the new master is divine. I told you that, didn’t I, Poppy?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘This one’s got my name on it,’ she told me firmly. ‘Plastered on his very cute, tight-jodhpured behind. Single, loaded, good-looking – hot.’

  ‘All yours, Angie.’ Was she warning me off?

  ‘And the Armitages will be out too apparently, and they’ll obviously be impeccable.’

  ‘Yes, so I heard.’

  ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘Oh … someone told me. Have a fun day, Angie.’

  ‘I will. Oh, and lovely that you and Luke had lunch the other day. That’s so sweet, Poppy!’

  I was all packaged up, wasn’t I? All sorted. People so liked to dust their hands of one, I thought rather uncharitably.

  ‘He’s just a friend,’ I said wearily.

  ‘Oh, of course.’

  We left it at that.

  Later, I bumped into Hope in the village shop. I’d never seen her in there before, assuming she shopped in Fortnum’s before coming to the country. She looked like she was going to lunch at the Ivy, although she was, in fact, buying Rice Krispies. Her dark hair was swept back in a sleek chignon and she was wearing shiny flat black boots, a swirling grey skating skirt and a crisp white shirt. It was the sort of effortless ensemble that no one ever managed to pull off in our village.

  ‘Oh – Poppy.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘About the book club.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ve cancelled it. There didn’t seem to be much enthusiasm this week, Hope, which is odd when you consider we’re reading one of the greatest novels in literary history.’ I deliberately echoed her words.

  ‘If not the greatest,’ she said quickly. ‘I go all tingly just picking it up!’

  ‘Oh, me too. But I suppose you’re going hunting the next day?’

  ‘I am, as a matter of fact. Don’t you just love Stephen Dedalus?’ she purred, touching my arm.

  ‘Is he the new master?’

  She frowned. ‘No, he’s a character in Ulysses.’

  ‘Oh.’ It occurred to me I might have run into the one person who had read it. ‘Dreamy,’ I agreed. ‘Until the sex change.’

  She stared at me long and hard. ‘Ye-es … But then, one is never encouraged to think of him as a traditional romantic hero, is one? In the mould, say, of a Mr Rochester?’

  ‘No, one is not,’ I agreed. I wrinkled my brow. ‘And it’s emblematic, don’t you feel, of the transitory nature of life? Sympt
omatic of how ephemeral things can be?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said eagerly. ‘Isn’t it just?’

  ‘Although between you and me, it hasn’t quite got the page-turning appeal of a jolly good read, like Jilly Cooper.’

  I was losing her now. My in-depth analysis into the mores of contemporary literature too much for her at half-past eleven in the village shop. She looked confused.

  ‘Jilly …?’

  ‘Never mind. Anyway, as I say, I’ve called the whole thing off.’

  ‘Such a shame. And a pity not to see everyone again. Chad and I so enjoyed ourselves last time. But I expect I’ll see you at the meet, won’t I? There are usually lots of foot followers,’ she added kindly.

  I blinked. ‘Yes. Well, maybe.’

  She bestowed a dazzling smile on me and swept out in a cloud of Diorissimo, jangling her charm bracelet.

  ‘You going, love?’ Yvonne asked me, weighing the bananas I’d handed her.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the meet.’

  ‘I don’t know. Where is it?’

  ‘Mulverton Hall at eleven. It’s old George Hetherington’s place; belongs to his son now. D’you know it?’

  I stared at her as she handed me back my fruit in a brown paper bag. ‘Well, not intimately. But I know where it is.’

  ‘’E’s come back from London apparently, to take it on again. Been tenanted for years that place, all sorts of people who didn’t really look after it after the old boy died. Well, you don’t if it’s not your own, do you? Let the garden go to rack and ruin by all accounts. Shame. Be nice to have someone breathe a bit of life into it again, eh? Nice to have some new blood around too.’ She grinned, revealing her unusual dental arrangement.

  ‘Thanks, Yvonne,’ I said as she handed me my change, declining to comment. I turned to go. ‘Nice to see you.’

  ‘You too, Poppy. And I’m glad you’re finding your feet again.’

  I turned back. She’d lowered her voice conspiratorially even though there was no one else in the shop. ‘Getting out and about,’ she went on softly. ‘And don’t you pay any attention to those that think it’s a bit soon. Can’t be in widow’s weeds for ever, eh? I know after my Bill died I stayed indoors for months on end, but that’s not everyone’s way, is it?’ She shot me a kindly look before bustling away to attend to a consignment of lavatory paper which had just arrived and was sitting in a towering pile by the post-office counter, ready to be stacked.

  I went home, thoughtful. Stirred, but not shaken by her remark. No, I wouldn’t pay any attention. Yvonne wasn’t to know I hadn’t had a man in my life for many years; wasn’t to know that in fact, rather than it being too soon, I’d left it rather late.

  Archie was sound asleep in his pushchair now, eyelashes a pair of perfect crescents, mouth open, wet thumb dropped on his chest. Once inside I lifted him out carefully and carried him upstairs to his cot, then went down and gazed out of the front window, arms folded across my chest.

  A grey mist had descended like an aged duvet, the once crisp and golden leaves dank and soggy now underfoot. Of course, it was that time of year again, wasn’t it? The hunting season. Other country sports too. A time when shots were fired in the air, horns were blown, bonfires crackled. The long run-up to Christmas, when people in towns hunkered down, and those in the country revved up. Polished their spurs, filled their hip flasks, had their horses clipped for action. Hunting. An ancient tradition, which, it seemed to me, still sorted the men from the boys, at least in this village. Mounted: Chad and Hope Armitage, Angie Asher, Mary Granger, Angus and Sylvia in their younger days but represented these days by their grandson Hugo, fresh out of Harrow, and, no doubt, Sam Hetherington. Foot followers: people like me, Jennie, Yvonne, Bob, Frank – oh, and Pete, who shod all the horses around here but didn’t actually own one.

  And Hope had automatically put me in that foot-soldier category, hadn’t she? Wouldn’t have given it a second thought. And she was right. I’d followed before, stood around at meets. The whole village would turn out for this one, the first of the season, unless you really didn’t agree, which was unusual in the country. Yes, everyone would be there: the great and the good aloft and on high on their stamping, snorting beasts, bits jangling, and oozing … what was it, sex? Money? Status? Then down below, people like me and Jennie and Frankie, who’d help the publican pass up the port in little plastic tumblers, looking on in awe and wonder. Later, the whole ensemble, horns blowing, hounds alert, would trot smartly off up the lane. As Sam would trot too, flanked perhaps, on either side, by Angie and Hope, sexy in their tight breeches, hairnets, lipstick, nipped-in jackets. I was pretty sure I had one of those jackets somewhere …

  I gazed at the mist. An idea began to form. Consolidate and thicken, like the grey haze outside. Suddenly, on an impulse, I plucked my phone from my pocket and perched sharply on the arm of the sofa. It rang a moment, then answered.

  ‘Hi, Dad, it’s me.’

  ‘Darling. How lovely. How are you?’

  ‘Really well,’ I assured him. I hadn’t been, as recently as a couple of days ago, but was determined to be now. Not to go backwards. Fall in any holes. I rushed on. ‘Um, Dad, a favour.’

  ‘Of course, my love. Fire away.’

  ‘Can I borrow a horse?’

  ‘A horse?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a meet here the day after tomorrow. The opening meet, actually. I thought I might go out.’

  There was a long pause. Finally, when he spoke, incredulity and delight filled his voice. ‘But you haven’t ridden for years, Poppy!’

  ‘I know, but I can ride, can’t I? One doesn’t forget?’

  ‘Oh, sure, it’s like riding a bike, but –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, hunting is a slightly different kettle of fish, love.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, everything goes up a gear. Fences, ditches – the horse itself. More adrenalin. Much more speed.’

  I thought of Sam, galloping along on some gleaming steed, spurred and confident, the Grangers behind him.

  ‘I can go up a gear.’

  ‘Of course you can!’

  My dad had a terrific can-do attitude. All he’d felt honour-bound to do was voice some caution, which he’d surely done. Now, however, the brakes would come smartly off.

  ‘Come over tomorrow,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’ll see what I can fit you up with. Tosca, perhaps. Or even Badger? Quite a challenge. A mount for my girl! Yes, pop by tomorrow and we’ll sort you out. Day after tomorrow, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you can take it back in my lorry. Leave your car here.’

  ‘Except … where would I put it?’ I glanced wildly around my very small sitting room.

  ‘Hasn’t your friend Angie got stables? You can pop it in with hers for the night, can’t you?’

  ‘She has got stables …’ I stood up from the sofa and caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror above the mantle: quite flushed for me. Some unfamiliar bright eyes looked back too. I licked my lips. ‘Except, I quite wanted to keep it a secret. Just – you know. Turn up. Surprise everyone.’

  My father barely missed a beat. If there was one thing he liked more than a challenge, it was a surprise. ‘Oh yes, much better! That’ll show them. Anyone who’d written you off as a wilting widow.’

  ‘Well, quite,’ I said quickly. He’d got the gist. I walked to the window, arm still clenched round my stomach. ‘But … where would I put it, Dad? Would it be all right in the field with the sheep at the back, if I cleared it with the farmer?’

  ‘Farmers can be awfully antsy about that sort of thing. Haven’t you got some sort of outbuilding at the bottom of your garden?’

  ‘It’s called a garden shed, Dad. With a lawnmower and spades inside it.’

  ‘Well, you can move the lawnmower, love. Don’t get bogged down by the minutiae.’

  I sensed my father warming to this. He’d been known to employ some pretty eccentric d
wellings for animals in the past and we’d once had a miniature Shetland pony that wandered into the kitchen when it rained, to lie down by the stove. And of course the fish in the bath. I could sense him powering on regardless.

  ‘Saw the door in half,’ he said firmly. ‘I can’t visualize that shed offhand but I’m sure it’s big enough. Anyway, don’t you worry – we’ll sort something out. I’m just so thrilled you’re up for it Poppy! Atta-girl! Good for you.’

  It occurred to me as I put the phone down, that for all his relaxed attitude, Dad might have been more worried about me than he’d let on. He was clearly thrilled to bits. I should have taken more time previously, to reassure him. Oh well, he was certainly reassured now.

  As I bounded up the stairs to Archie, who I could hear crying – clearly not as sleepy as I’d thought – I realized I was humming. ‘Raindrops on Roses’, Mum’s favourite. And cheesy though it was, The Sound of Music always came to me in moments of elation. Elation, I thought in some surprise, as I lifted my son from his cot. I twirled him round the room in my arms and he gurgled in astonished delight. I planted a resounding kiss on his flushed cheek. No, I would not be written off. Not yet, anyway. I would not sit quietly in partial shade. I would have a stab at the sunlight. I would trot up the road alongside Sam Hetherington, cheeks pink, lipstick gleaming, I would not be sweet Poppy Shilling who was slowly finding her feet; I’d be up and running. Galloping, even. I sailed out of the room with Archie in my arms. Even if I broke my bloody neck in the process.

  20

  I found my father in front of an old Elvis DVD, slumped on the exploding beige sofa, the one where you had to know where to sit to avoid the springs. A couple of bantam hens seemed to be watching too, from the top of the piano, where they roosted occasionally amongst elderly copies of the Racing Times. The two dogs lay across his lap. Dad was playing an acoustic air guitar, winsomely plucking at imaginary strings, crooning softly. As I came in the room he turned and I saw his florid cheeks were damp with tears.

  ‘It’s the bit where she tells him she can’t marry him because she’s dying of that dreadful disease and he sings “This is My Heaven”. The hula-hula girls are about to come on.’