“I don’t know,” I admitted, wondering why on earth I hadn’t thought to ask. “It could be a meal, I suppose, or on the other hand, it could just be a drink at a pub.”
“Or it might be the cinema,” Nigella suggested. She was wearing tight black trousers, her red pill-box, her tap-dancing shoes and a black T-shirt with a moth-hole in the shoulder. “Why don’t you wear this?” She pulled out the only classic garment I possessed, a cream linen suit. The cream suit was more suitable for a wedding than a drink at a pub, but I struggled into it anyway.
Henrietta considered me with her head on one side. She had back-combed her hair until it stood out beyond her shoulders. Two long, thin plaits hung down in front of each ear. The effect was frightening.
“You look far too colourless,” she decided, “with your pale hair and your skin and everything. Can’t you find something really bright to cheer yourself up?” She began to rummage through my things in the carved coffin-chest at the foot of my bed. Eventually she came up with a lime-green, nylon jersey. “Here, try this.”
I tried it. It looked terrible.
“I can’t wear this,” I said, “it looks awful.”
“You’re right,” Henrietta agreed. “It does look awful.”
In the meantime Nigella had vanished in the direction of her own bedroom and returned with a crepe blouse in hot pink with a pie-frill collar and a sash. I put it on and looked in the mirror. The colour was very fierce.
“You still look boring,” Henrietta said. She removed the sash from the waist and tied it round my head as if I was a Red Indian. “Now that looks much better,” she said approvingly.
“Oh,” I said doubtfully, “I really don’t know if …”
“Aren’t you going to wear any makeup?” Nigella interrupted. The Fanes had painted kohl around their eyes and vivid blusher on their cheeks. Henrietta had small, metallic stars stuck across her forehead. Standing together they looked rather like a cabaret turn. I was relieved to think I hadn’t got to go with them to the DiscoNite.
I used some mascara and some lip gloss. Henrietta brushed aside my objections and applied some of her blusher to my cheeks.
I stared at myself in the spotted mirror. My reflection looked freakish. My cheeks appeared to be burning with a fever. The hot pink blouse didn’t help. I ran downstairs. It was too late to do anything about it.
Nick drove down the Fanes’ pot-holey drive trying not to lose the exhaust pipe of his white, low-slung sports car. He looked at me curiously. “Are you alright, Elaine?” he enquired. “You look a bit hot and bothered.”
“Yes,” I said brightly, “I’m fine.” I got out a tissue and rubbed off some of the blusher when he wasn’t looking.
We drove out beyond Westbury and turned into the forecourt of a rambling, timbered hotel called the Wild Duck Inn. The car park was overflowing and there were even a couple of coaches.
“It’s busier than usual,” Nick commented, “it’s generally pretty quiet.” He opened my door. “Do you have to wear that thing round your head?” he said with a trace of anxiety in his voice. “It looks a bit odd.”
I had forgotten the sash. I snatched it off. “It was Henrietta’s idea,” I apologized.
Nick put his arm around me as we walked towards the main entrance of the hotel. “I’m glad you didn’t decide to invite the Fanes along this time,” he said. “I’m looking forward to a night on our own.”
I waited in the beamed hall whilst Nick took our jackets to the cloakroom lobby. I felt a bit nervous. I wondered if Nick brought all his girlfriends to the Wild Duck Inn. There was a notice board with posters on it by the reception desk. I wandered over to it and read a few of the announcements just for something to do. Pride of place on the noticeboard went to a bright orange handbill. It said:
! TONIGHT ! TONIGHT !
The Midvale and Westbury Pony Club
DiscoNite
At the Wild Duck Inn, Fressington,
Featuring
THUNDER AND LIGHTNING LIMITED
Live!
This was altogether too terrible to believe. I looked round for Nick, appalled. It would ruin our evening if we were to meet up with the Fanes. I had to tell him that we must leave at once. As soon as he appeared I grabbed his arm. “Nick,” I said urgently, “Nick, we …” but already the district commissioner had spotted us and clapped a welcoming hand on each of our shoulders. “Jolly noble of you to support our little effort what? What?” he shouted. “Should make a tidy sum tonight if we all live through it, eh? Eh?” He laughed energetically at his own joke and steered us firmly into a nearby bar where the Pony Club committee appeared to be bent upon consuming the maximum amount of beer in the shortest possible time. Nick gave me a despairing look as we were separated by a raucous group of Pony Club associates. Pints flew back and forth. A martini was thrust into my hand and the district commissioner began a shouted conversation about the necessity of giving the members what they wanted, even if it perforated their eardrums in the process; all modern groups, he bellowed, were either damned louts or fairies, and Thunder and Lightning Limited were no bloody different. Whether they hunted or not, a spell in the blasted army would do them a power of good.
I listened to all this and I wondered how we could possibly make our escape. The district commissioner regarded the hunt servants as his own personal property. Not only that, but his brother-in-law was master of the Hunt and I knew that Nick couldn’t afford to offend him. After a while, the district commissioner clapped his hands which seemed to be the signal for a general exodus to the DiscoNite. Nick managed to make his way to my side.
“We’ll go in with them,” he whispered, “then we’ll leave; it’s sure to be dark, they’ll never notice.” He squeezed my hand reassuringly.
In the ballroom where the DiscoNite was being held, it was pitch black except for a myriad of coloured lights pulsating to the beat of the terrifyingly loud music produced by the band. Thunder and Lightning had been bald when we had first known them, now they had their hair dragged up to form a central spike dyed in alternate colours of orange, green, red and blue. They pranced and strutted across the stage wearing leather knee-breeches and bolero tops with flashes of lightning appliqued on to them. Their chests and their arms and legs looked hatefully white and puny and it was all simply hideous.
I could tell that Nick loathed it. We stumbled in the wake of the district commissioner who led us to some tables situated as far away from the band as he could get. Someone slapped drinks on to the table in front of us. The district commissioner sat down at the next table. “Rather like being in hell, what? What?” he bellowed. He took some cotton wool out of his pocket and stuffed it into his ears, prepared to sit it out until the bitter end. Conversation was virtually impossible.
Nick and I began to plot our departure in sign language. We would get up and pretend to dance, working our way towards the exit, then we would make a bolt for it. We started to rise, but: “Well, if it isn’t Busy Bee!” a foghorn voice proclaimed and Brenda, vast in what appeared to be a pair of lilac pyjamas, plonked herself down at our table, making it rock, and spilling our drinks. Nick, who had hitherto kept his temper under trying circumstances, set his lips in a tight line. Brenda’s face was plastered with her usual brand of orange panstick and her bleached, white hair was slicked flat on to her scalp like a bathing cap.
“What’s going on here, Busy Bee?” she bellowed. “Sitting in the dark with Lover Boy, are we?”
“Look, Brenda,” Nick said threateningly, “take yourself off somewhere else. Elaine and I were having a private conversation.”
“Private seduction, more like!” Brenda hooted. “You want to watch this ladykiller, Busy Bee; if half what I’ve heard about him’s true, he’ll …”
Any further revelations were cut short by the arrival of Henrietta in the elongated purple jersey.
“Oh God,” Forster said, aghast, “not you.”
“Why shouldn’t it be me?” Henrietta demanded indi
gnantly, “I hardly expected to see you here, and Elaine knew we were coming.”
Forster stared across the table at me in disbelief. His face in the disco lights went from red to orange to green. I looked at him helplessly, unable to deny it. Nigella appeared wearing the red pill-box with the veil, and with her came Doreen in tartan knickerbockers.
“Come and join the party,” Brenda boomed, “the drinks are on Lover Boy!”
“Oh, thank you,” Nigella said, gratefully sinking into a chair. “I’ll have a Campari and soda.”
Henrietta and Doreen seated themselves expectantly at the table. Nick shot Brenda a venomous look and went to fetch the drinks. No sooner had he regained his seat than William arrived, very red about the neck, and two steps behind him came Janie Richardson. Far from being delighted, Nick sprang to his feet looking enraged. “What the bloody hell’s going on?” he shouted at William. “What’s she doing here?”
It was all very awkward. Janie Richardson sat down opposite me and stared round the table in an unfriendly manner. She was wearing a tight, silver dress and her hair was like a black bush. I thought it had looked a lot better under the silk hat.
Behind my back William was trying to explain himself to Nick. “She rang up after you’d left,” he hissed. “I told her you were fixed up, but you know what she’s like. She guessed you’d be here, and she asked me to bring her; I didn’t want to come, but I couldn’t very well refuse, could I?”
“I’m sorry about all this,” Janie Richardson said, not looking it, “but the thing is that Nick was supposed to have been with me tonight.”
“Is that so?” Henrietta exclaimed, pulling up her chair in an interested manner. “I thought he was rather keen on Elaine, he’s been chasing her for ages.”
“Of course, he could easily be attracted to two people,” Nigella pointed out in a reasonable tone. “After all, he doesn’t actually have to choose; it isn’t like getting engaged or anything.”
“That’s not very fair though, that isn’t,” Doreen put in, “asking one girl out then taking another. I’d chuck him, Elaine, if I was you.”
I wondered how much more of this I could stand. Things were getting pretty heated behind me, and William might well have ended up with a thump on his nose but for the district commissioner who suddenly spotted him and rose from his seat, overjoyed at having both whippers-in attend his DiscoNite. He clapped William affectionately on his back.
“Hunt jolly well represented tonight, what? What?” he whooped. “Got to support the young entry, eh? Eh?”
This distraction gave Brenda the opportunity she had been waiting for. “Now look here, Casanova,” she said to Nick in a belligerent voice, “What the devil are you up to, asking Busy Bee out, when you’re supposed to be with her?” She pointed to Janie, who jumped up from her seat and threw herself at Nick, unexpectedly bursting into loud sobs. Everyone at the table who had previously been riveted by the turn of events, now looked embarrassed.
“Mind your own bloody business, Brenda,” Nick said furiously, and taking Janie Richardson by the elbow, he steered her away, through the dancers and out of the exit, without even a backward glance.
“Well,” Brenda said in disgust, “I bet that’s the last we’ll see of him tonight.”
William did his best to apologize. “I’m very sorry Elaine,” he said, looking scarlet and very ill-at-ease. “It was my fault for bringing her, but she made me, she’s ever so persistent.”
I could believe it, but now I felt horribly unwanted, abandoned and miserable. How could I, in my plain, cream skirt and the unflattering, hot pink blouse, hope to compete with the exotic Janie Richardson with her coal black locks and her silver dress? I knew I couldn’t, and the thought of it made me feel ill. “I want to go home,” I said.
“You can come home with us,” Nigella said comfortingly. “Brenda’s driving; but we can’t go yet, Henrietta’s going to sing.”
As she spoke, the deafening music suddenly died away and Solly Chell, the drummer with Thunder and Lightning Limited came to the edge of the stage and squinted into the interrupted dancers. “You there, ‘Enry?” he bawled. “You ready?”
Henrietta jumped up, startled, and scampered off towards the stage. Everyone got up to follow, determined to have a better view. I followed them, not really wanting to, but not wanting to be left like a wallflower with the district commissioner either.
Johnny Jones, the lead singer, handed the microphone to Henrietta. If I had been feeling less wretched, I might have been excited and even nervous for her. Henrietta sang all the time around the stables, composing little songs of her own to suit the occasion. We were so used to it that we no longer noticed, but we had never before heard her sing with the band – only informally, in the cab of the horse-box, driving home after hunting.
The band crashed into an introduction. The lights pulsed. The accompaniment was ear-piercing and strident, but Henrietta’s clear voice soared above it. Even the youngest members of the Pony Club stopped yelling and listened. Everybody was entranced by the girl who stood in front of the band and sang like a lark. In her eccentric clothes, and totally unafraid, she could have been a pop star, yet somehow she managed to be nothing like one.
Intent on Henrietta’s performance in spite of myself, I felt an arm steal round my waist. “I’m sorry it took so long,” Nick whispered into my ear, “but I had to tell her once and for all that it was no good. She was a bit upset. I had to get her a taxi.”
I felt weak with relief. I should have known he would come back. Now that he was standing beside me, I wondered how I could possibly have doubted it. We smiled into each other’s eyes and joined in the appreciative hullaballoo for the girl in the elongated purple jersey as she jumped down from the stage.
14
Welcome to the Two-Day Event
“Welcome, welcome, everyone!” The portly figure of Felix Hissey stood on a small, raised platform which had been erected between the scoreboards. The familiar, ruddy-cheeked face which beamed from millions of pickle jars and sauce bottles on kitchen tables and supermarket shelves, now beamed down at us in person. “Welcome, welcome!” cried Felix Hissey again.
“Oh, do get on with it,” Henrietta muttered impatiently. She had only half-plaited The Comet’s mane, and was dying to get back to finish it.
“Welcome,” Felix Hissey said, clasping his chubby hands together in delight, “to this very special two-day event, and a most special welcome to the Hissey Training Scholarship Candidates!”
We were back on the combined training competition ground, this time for the two-day event. In the box, The Comet waited; his fading dapples had been shampooed, his tail dipped in blue bag, his hooves had been scrubbed, even the whiskers had been trimmed from his nose. He had submitted himself to all these attentions with his customary disregard and now, with his mane half-plaited, he waited for whatever might come next.
“And welcome,” the King of Pickle continued throwing out his arms towards us in a gesture of universal joy and friendship, “to all the other competitors today, who have so sportingly agreed to make up the numbers; welcome! Welcome to you all!” He beamed round expansively once more, and clambered down from the platform to a scattering of applause.
“Is that it?” Nigella wondered. “Can we go?” But the chief of the selection committee was now on the platform.
The chief wore cavalry twill trousers with knife-edge creases, a Tattersalls check shirt and a BHS tie. He stared at us crossly, as if we had no right to be there at all, which was something of a shock, coming after Felix Hissey.
“The dressage will begin in exactly half an hour,” he rapped, throwing up his chin in a defensive manner as if to stall any attempt at argument. “We expect every person to be riding in within sight of the starting steward at least fifteen minutes prior to their allotted time!”
“He makes it sound like a court-martial,” Henrietta muttered.
“There will be an interval for lunch at one o’clock and t
he Showjumping will begin at two o’clock sharp!” The chief narrowed his eyes at us, as if we might regard this as unreasonable and begin to throw things. “Competitors will jump in reverse result order!” he barked.
“He might not be as bad as he seems,” Nigella whispered. “He’s probably very fond of dogs and small children, most of these BHS types are.”
I couldn’t imagine it.
“Accommodation for the horses belonging to the scholarship candidates has been arranged at the manor stables,” continued the chief. “There is also dormitory accommodation for the candidates themselves if required!” He threw up his chin again and glared around as if challenging anyone to dare to apply for it. “There will be a veterinary inspection at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, the cross-country phase will begin at ten o’clock prompt, and there will be a short presentation ceremony at four-thirty!” Having delivered the last of the information at lightning speed, he walked sideways off the platform as if he suspected that there might be snipers in the audience.
“Are you nervous?” Nigella asked, as we made our way back to the horsebox. “You don’t appear to be.” She looked at me curiously. “You don’t appear to be worried at all.”
In some strange way I wasn’t. It was as if all the happenings of the past few weeks had exhausted my capacity for worrying. The part of me that should have been worrying about the dressage, the show jumping, the cross-country course, and the possible consequences of what I was doing, had run dry. There wasn’t any worry left. “I’m not worried,” I said, “not any more.”
As it was half term, Doreen was with us and she led The Comet down the ramp of the horse-box. Henrietta opened her plaiting box and began to sew up the rest of his mane. We had plenty of time, The Comet didn’t need very much preparatory schooling. I put on my navy jacket and my hat, Doreen pulled off the tail bandage and brushed out The Comet’s tail. Nigella tacked up.
“It’s remarkable that the saddle we bought for Legend fits so well,” she commented, as she ducked under The Comet’s belly to catch the girth. “It might have been made for him.”
A Hoof in the Door (Eventing Trilogy Book 2) Page 10
