by Fiona Walker
‘Old hunting parkland meets the Marches at Eardisford, so it’s a fitting mix,’ Pru reflected, at May’s sanctuary committee meeting, which was dominated by talk of the reinvented sporting estate.
‘He obviously cares passionately about his animals, just like we do,’ Cyn sighed dreamily.
The sisters spent most of the meeting reminiscing about the good old days when the Brom and Lem’s kennels had been based at Eardisford, hunting three times a week with Constance regularly field-mastering. Styling themselves on her as young women, the sisters had hunted with three packs along the Marches and partied with all their most eligible bachelors, and were now transported back to long days in breeches and woollen coats and evenings dancing and sparkling in formal dress. Dougie Everett’s glamour brought with it just as much thrill as his sporting experience, and everybody wanted to be in on it. Having sent apologies for absence, it turned out Miriam was trying to sell Dougie a horse. Frank was also absent, having put his back out charging around with Dougie. The other grandees and stalwarts agreed that Constance would have approved wholeheartedly: ‘Hunting’s what this place is about.’
Kat, who was increasingly protective of the sanctuary and sensed a big conflict of interests, was grateful Russ was working in the orchards and not hijacking the meeting to climb on his soapbox as he so often did. She was already uncomfortable enough with the topic: she didn’t like to think of Constance hunting – the joyful, compassionate old lady she had known close to the end of her life seemed such a far cry from a bloodthirsty Diana of the chase, thundering across her own land after fox, stag and hare before the ban. She knew Russ firmly believed Eardisford’s new owner had a similar goal in mind and Kat was frightened he was right.
Gathered in the Lake Farm kitchen, the committee were far too buoyant to dwell on such uncertainties, cock-a-hoop that the sanctuary coffers had been boosted by a successful point-to-point fund-raiser, now eager to discuss how to make much more money as they laid into home-baked chocolate cake and almond thins.
Kat grasped the opportunity to suggest they seek permission to open to the public at last. ‘I know it’s a lot of red tape, but we all saw how successful the Open Day was last year. Visitors would bring in a lot of revenue. Then we can start to take in other old, unwanted animals – pets left behind when owners die, abandoned livestock, lame old horses.’
‘Far too tricky to get local authority planning,’ Pru, who was chairing in Miriam’s absence, dismissed the idea with a sharp tap of pen against notepad, ‘and the liability insurance would be totally prohibitive. We’ll just have to raise more money privately. There’s the village show coming up, of course, and movie night for which we must —’
‘Balls!’ trilled Cyn, making her sister drop pen and jaw. ‘I told you! Constance loved balls! A masked summer ball would be marvellous. We’ll ask Miriam to let us use her garden with a lovely big marquee. A peacock theme would be heaven. Let the young bloods boogie!’ She gave an energetic jiggle, then winced as her neck cricked.
‘We can’t possibly afford to host a ball,’ Pru said crushingly. ‘Besides, we all know how twitchy Miriam gets about her RHS open days. I was thinking more along the lines of a pub quiz or a race night. And as I was saying before I was interrupted,’ she glared at Cyn, ‘we must now decide urgently upon a film to show at the village hall next month. People are already buying tickets.’
‘I vote for something timeless and romantic.’ Cyn sighed, shooting her sister a hurt look. ‘Gone With the Wind maybe. It has a ball in it.’ She brightened as a thought occurred to her. ‘We could all dress up.’
‘How about a masked movie night?’ someone chuckled.
‘Genius!’ Cyn clapped her hands together happily.
There were universal sounds of approval among the stalwarts: ‘Jolly good idea. Sounds great fun,’ before the vote was passed.
‘Was the ball in Gone With the Wind really a masked one? I thought it was set in the American Civil War,’ Kat queried, wishing they showed as much interest in the practical running of the sanctuary as the social jamborees. But the committee had already moved on to the need for volunteers for the village show where they had a host of displays and fund-raisers to co-ordinate.
‘Kat will lead out the parade of the veteran horses on Sri,’ Pru read from her list.
Kat swallowed uncomfortably at the prospect of persuading the irascible Marwari horse to go anywhere near the village.
‘Before that, there will be pony rides followed by the mini gymkhana,’ Pru read. ‘How’s that going?’ she asked Kat.
‘All in safe hands.’ She thought guiltily back to her challenge to Dougie Everett to arrange it. She hoped he’d remembered.
Pru made an eager note when told that Eardisford’s dashing huntsman was now in charge of pony rides and races. ‘Marvellous choice!’
‘He said he might do some sort of stunt display too,’ Kat remembered. ‘Jumping off the church tower while shooting flaming arrows, I think.’
‘We’ll never get that past Health and Safety,’ said one of the stalwarts.
‘I’ll get it past,’ Pru insisted. ‘I think we should ask Mr Everett to open the show as well. There’s bound to be press interest. Shall we liaise with him, Kat, or will you?’
She hurriedly said she’d much rather they did it.
‘This will be our best village show ever,’ Cyn predicted. ‘That boy’s such an asset.’
‘We could call it the Dougie Everett and Eardisford Show,’ Kat muttered, realising she was now responsible for having turned him into even more of a local hero.
‘I think that’s a bit of a mouthful.’ Pru had written it down and was looking at it.
‘That’s what happens when you bite off more than you can chew.’
Chapter 31
The Eardisford village show traditionally took place on a stretch of paddock land between the church and the Hedges’ orchards. It was known locally as God’s Plot because a succession of cash-strapped vicars had tried and failed to persuade the diocese to sell it off for development. Despite being lovingly tended and mown by parishioners, it was a notorious mole playground and this year was no exception, the marquees, stalls and rings set up on turf so pockmarked with red mounds it seemed even the moles had been popping their heads up all week in hope of encountering the village’s new star resident.
When Dougie Everett officially opened the proceedings to a small crowd in bright sunshine, his Hollywood glamour attracted a host of local press, including a television camera from the regional BBC news programme. Dressed in leg-hugging faded red trousers and a bright blue shirt that brought out the colour of his eyes, collar turned up as always, he was utterly charming, giving nothing away about his new role while enthusing about Eardisford.
‘Smarmy show-off.’ Russ was unimpressed, wasting no time in earmarking the reporter from the Brombury Gazette to make sure he included a mention of Animal Magnetism, who were playing a special version of ‘Here Comes The Summer’ while the local jazz band took their lunch break before the maypole dancing.
With Miriam and Frank on the gate, flirting with everyone, most especially each other, and jolly Bill Hedges on the PA, visitors were welcomed to a riot of double-entendres and bonhomie, enjoying a rare day of unbroken bank-holiday sunshine. Pale flesh and new flip-flops were out in force as the village raided its summer wardrobes and towed freshly bathed family faithfuls along for the novelty dog show. Alongside the tombola, bric-à-brac, refreshment tent, bookstall and plate smashing, a long stretch of God’s Plot had been roped off for the children’s pony show, starting with paid rides.
Incredibly grumpy at being shampooed and wheeled out in the heat, manes and tails threaded with ribbons, the Lake Farm Shetlands were dragging their feet around one small circle, led by the Hedges girls in the tightest hot-pants imaginable. Meanwhile Gut, the Indian groom, and the girls from the livery yard were putting out bending poles and taking ringside entries for the races, which had attracted a host of smal
ls on Thelwellian ponies. There were more glamorous high-heeled ring stewards, rosette-holders and judges than there were at the Horse of the Year Show. Having casually mentioned in the pub that he might need some volunteers to help with the pony show, Dougie had been so overwhelmed with offers that he didn’t need to do anything, apart from take the credit.
On the PA, Bill Hedges was profuse in his praise: ‘We’re very lucky, ladies and gentlemen, to have a Hollywood actor and stuntman with us here today. The multi-talented Dougie Everett has been working tirelessly backstage as well as front, a true ambassador for the Eardisford Estate’s new team. I hope you’ll all extend a warm welcome to him.’ There was a smattering of applause around the field, and a riotous cheer from the pony ring where Dougie’s female fans were lovingly running events. ‘The novelty dog show is about to take place in the main ring, so please have your four-legged friends ready for our expert judge Miss Katherine Mason from the Constance Mytton-Gough Animal Sanctuary, one of the many good causes for which we are raising funds here today. Class One is the Dog with the Waggiest Tail.’
Kat braced herself before entering the ring. Having agreed to judge the contest because she’d been assured it was a doddle compared to the political hotbed that was the children’s mounted fancy dress, she found herself facing a far bigger quandary.
Dougie Everett was first in line for the judge to admire. Quiver’s tail might be small, but it rotated as fast as a strimmer wire when she approached. She didn’t look Dougie in the eye, eager to protect her vital organs from sudden movement, and to remain impartial.
‘What a handsome chap,’ she said, wondering why she suddenly sounded like the Queen.
‘So everyone says.’ His voice, by contrast, was honeyed with warmth. ‘The dog’s rather cute too.’
Quiver wagged his tail even faster, whole body wobbling in his determination to win his master a few rosettes as reward for all his efforts. Beside him, equally determined but rather less suited to the task, Dair Armitage’s German pointers cowered at heel, tails firmly rammed between their legs while he glowered sideways at Dougie from under his flat cap. Miriam, meanwhile, had abandoned the gate and was on Dougie’s other side, makeup freshly reapplied and tummy held in as she showed off her overweight retriever, whose plumed tail wafted around like a punkah-wallah’s fan. Further adrift, Babs Hedges held a snarling terrier, two earthmen had even more snarly terriers, and Mags escorted Ché, who only wagged his tail if he smelt sausages.
Eager to avoid any accusations of favouritism, Kat awarded the prize to a small child she didn’t recognize with a flag-waving beagle, only to discover the boy was one of show chairman Frank’s grandchildren and the whole thing looked like a fix. She was similarly blighted by the Prettiest Bitch, Most Handsome Dog and Best Veteran, all of which she tried to award to people she didn’t know, only to discover they were closely related to those she did. By the final class Dougie, who was clearly a very bad loser, was looking increasingly peeved. It was the Dog the Judge Would Most Like to Take Home, and as Kat stooped to the Patterdale puppy again, he whispered, ‘If Quiver wins, will you take me home too?’
‘Depends if you’re house-trained.’ She smiled as the little dog tipped straight over and offered her a very pink stomach to tickle.
‘We won’t steal food, but we’ll both lie on your sofas and try to get into your bed.’
She looked up and instantly regretted it. She was no match for those teasing blue eyes, determined to persuade her that she did want to take him home very much indeed. His bewitching smile hadn’t diminished while he’d been galloping around the estate and charming every local. Neither had Kat’s involuntary reaction to it. Her organs were circuit-training down there. She retaliated with the big guns, smiling him down.
Kat had been going to make Quiver the winner because he was by far the sweetest dog in the class, but she didn’t want to give Dougie anything that could be construed as encouragement, so instead she awarded the prize to Miriam’s ever-smiling retriever. As she guiltily clipped the second-place rosette on Quiver’s collar with a royal ‘Jolly well done!’ she didn’t look at Dougie, hurrying to distribute the other rosettes before belting out of the ring.
‘Well, what a superb show of top-class bitches and underdogs that was!’ Bill Hedges was on his third cider punch as he resumed his commentary on the PA system. ‘Please all give a huge round of applause to the contestants and to our lovely judge, Kat Mason, who works so tirelessly for them poor old animals. I’ve just been told that there will be a special masked movie night showing of Gone With the Wind in the village hall in aid of the sanctuary next month, with a prize for the best Scarlett and Rhett fancy dress, and a mint julep bar running all evening. There’s an early-bird ticket offer today, so hurry before they get all the worms.’
‘Who sanctioned this?’ Miriam squawked, still in the ring with the retriever. ‘It sounds perfectly dreadful. What’s wrong with the film TBC?’ She looked accusingly at Kat, who held out her arms helplessly. It was impossible to control Cyn and Pru’s enthusiasm now they’d fixed upon the idea.
‘We knew you’d love it as much as us,’ Pru said staunchly, when Miriam rounded on her. ‘Constance would definitely approve.’
‘She’d be horrified. She refused to watch anything Vivien Leigh was ever in. Said the daughter of a British cavalry officer in India should be less flighty.’
But the sisters would not be deflected. Not only was Cyn sporting an ancient ball dress to promote the fund-raising movie masquerade, but they also intended to hijack the veteran horse procession to add to the publicity. ‘Pru’s brought her old side-saddle and we thought we’d pop Kat up on that with a mask and a frock,’ she told Miriam eagerly. ‘She’ll look ravishing. Dougie’s jolly handsome, isn’t he?’
‘Looks just as sinful and swashbuckling as his father.’ Miriam’s mascara-heavy eyelashes narrowed together, not fooled by the charm – she’d had her fingers burned with Vaughan. But she couldn’t help admiring Dougie’s beauty as he sauntered past now to put his little Patterdale in the back of a muddy Land Rover and fetch out a longbow.
Gathering up her skirts, Cyn hopped after him, eager to find out whether he’d got the estate’s go-ahead for the cricket match. ‘I always do the roster of ladies volunteering to help with lunches and teas, you see, and today is such a good opportunity to find out who’s available. Bill’s been mowing the field in his own time and tending the wickets. Nobody plays on it now, so he says it’s a bit green-top but should be perfect for fast bowling by late summer.’
‘Just how I like it.’ He was pulling more archery equipment from his boot. He turned back to her and smiled easily. ‘Faster the better, don’t you agree?’
Such was the impact of Dougie Everett’s smile – those white teeth, the dirty blond mane tickling the long dark lashes that laced together around bluer-than-the-Indian-Ocean eyes – that Cyn quite lost her thread, which happened rather a lot these days. She looked down, screwing up her forehead in concentration. What was it? Something to do with fast balls and Scarlett O’Hara?
‘I hope you’re coming to the masked movie night!’ She remembered at last. ‘There’s a fancy-dress prize. Perhaps you can judge it for us. I’m going to make Kat take part. She’s such a pretty girl, but really has no idea, and she works so hard with so little thanks. It would be lovely for her to get something back.’ She gave him a conspiratorial wink, not realizing she was trying to rig a competition to favour the woman who had just overlooked Dougie’s adorable puppy in the dog show.
He smiled wider than ever, making Cyn feel positively faint. ‘Of course I’ll do it.’
‘Oh, how wonderful!’ She gathered her skirts and skipped away.
Bill was coughing importantly into the PA again. ‘Starting in the main ring now we have an archery display by the world-famous Hollywood actor and stuntman Dougie Everett.’
‘If your uncle says “the Hollywood actor and stuntman” one more time I’ll strangle him with his microphone
flex,’ muttered Kat, who had joined Russ at the ringside. She wished he wasn’t wearing his badger outfit again. It smelt seriously bad.
‘I don’t think “Hollywood twat and equerry” means a lot to folk round here.’ Russ put a big badger arm around her shoulders, almost gassing her.
They watched as Dougie sauntered into the ring with a bow under his arm and that devastating smile on his lips. Over the speakers, the music was a thundering, fast-moving bass beat that got the crowd clapping.
Archery, unless mounted, was a pretty static pursuit. Having been banned from using incendiaries of any sort by the committee on health-and-safety grounds, Dougie didn’t even have his show-stopping flaming arrows to fall back on, but he was a born performer. Joking and interacting with the crowd all the while, he fired off arrows into the row of targets set up with ever-smaller balloons, each exploding with clouds of glitter and streamers. The kids loved it. He shot a huge dragon made from green and red balloons, which his army of volunteers had spent hours lovingly blowing up. He went on to shoot a watermelon, an egg, water bombs and a row of plates blagged from the white-elephant stall. Dougie then did a comedy version of shooting one arrow through another, the first arrow being as fat as a cigar, but no less highly skilled for the slapstick entertainment that left the crowd in stitches, roaring their approval.
