by James Anson
"Yes, I remember you enjoyed that literary lunch," said Mr Halliwell. "Waterstone's would like you to do a book signing in their main bookshop. You spoke highly of them once, I remember."
"I don't understand why people should want to see me," said Robert. "They have that awful picture on the dust wrapper - would have thought that was enough."
"Well," said Mr Halliwell, "people like meeting their favourite author and having a chance to tell him how much they enjoy his writing. Perfectly natural reaction. Now, they did suggest either the twenty-first or the twenty-eighth of next month. Which date would be preferable to you?" He was well aware Robert's preference would be to avoid the whole thing.
"Well, Michael has to be up in London on the twenty-eighth to hear from the Board about that job. I'd like to be up here, too. I can either celebrate with him or tell him they're idiots if he doesn't get it. Mind, they would be idiots to turn him down."
"I'll arrange it for the twenty-eighth then," said Mr Halliwell briskly, thinking how providential it was that he had met Mr Faulkner the fortnight before.
Michael looked with pleasure at the display in Waterstone's window. They were doing the lad proud. That was a much better picture of Robert. He entered and purchased his copy of Murder at the Manor before joining the queue. Mr Halliwell hurried over to him.
"Ah, Mr Faulkner, I'm glad you could get here early. We'll be closing down for lunch in thirty minutes. All going very well so far. How did the interview go?"
"Job's mine," said Michael with a wide grin. "Looking forward to telling Rob. I know he's been worrying for me. I can tell him at lunch and we can celebrate later."
Robert glanced at the still lengthy queue. Now, how did that line from Macbeth go?
What, will the line stretch out to th' crack of doom! Certainly looks like it.
After the fourth person had said to him, "I thought you'd be so much older," he began to wonder if he'd better drop the line from his biography on the book jacket about being an ex-policeman. Who were they expecting, George Dixon? Come to think of it, Michael had thought he'd be older when they met the first time. Mustn't think about Mike. Hope he's doing OK at that interview.
He turned to the next book. Yes, he did find writing books hard work. He'd once thrown a foot-thick pile of manuscript across a room when he found it wasn't working out. No, he didn't think he'd ever write a book about politics: too many books on politics being written already, usually by politicians who couldn't write for toffees. Funny, that man had looked familiar. Here comes another.
"Could you sign 'To Mike' for me, sor?" said a confiding Irish voice.
Robert looked up. "You never went and bought a copy yourself?"
"Indeed I did," was the indignant answer. "Haven't I been an admirer of yours for years?"
"Can tell you're a Birmingham man," said Robert signing 'To Mike, my favourite pain in the neck'. "Cut the accent, will you, Mike? You're scaring the customers."
Michael grinned. "Only ten minutes, then you're off for lunch."
As they were packing up Robert looked at Halliwell. "That fella in front of Mike - who was he? He looked familiar."
Mr Halliwell told him.
"Oh well," said Robert. "Bang go my chances of being in the Honours List. And you, you mad idiot. Got the job, haven't you? I can tell."
"Our lunch is waiting," said Mr Halliwell. "On the house. With, I think, added champagne."
"Definitely," said Robert. "And I'll sign as many as come with a smile on my face this afternoon."
* * * * *
"Ah, there are you, Mike," said Lord Bourton with relief as his brother-in-law entered the CLA tent at the County Show. "Well, how did Miranda go?" he inquired. "I couldn't stand to watch the class myself."
"A good first," said Michael. "She never put a hoof wrong. Could do a lot with that girl: plenty of grit."
Jack nodded. "Yes," he said reflectively. "Funny how the fillies often turn out the best. Come on, man, sit down and have a drink."
Michael seated himself with relief and accepted a glass of excellent sherry; it had been a tiring day. As usual, the Country Landowners Association were doing themselves proud.
"Colonel de Beynon Cresswell won the Friesian class," said Michael. "I've left Ashley chatting to him; brought that animal Nina all the way from Wiltshire."
"One in the eye for Fred then, isn't it?" said Jack. "Good thing, too."
"What's the collection box out there for?" asked Michael, looking over the literature provided.
"Us," said Jack gloomily. "An endangered species, that's what we are. I was saying to Agnes, if we don't pull our socks up and make ourselves heard, in less than a hundred years we'll all be extinct and there won't be a mile of open country between London and Birmingham. Agnes thinks I should get up in the House and have a word about it."
Michael looked at him inquiringly. "The House?"
"Of Lords, of course," said Lord Bourton. "Haven't made my maiden speech yet. Could be worth a trip up to the damned place. Pity you have only an Irish title, Mike, or you could come up and have a word yourself."
Michael, gazing in awe at his brother-in-law, was devoutly thankful he was barred from the august assembly. Can't wait to tell Rob, he thought.
"When you go up I'll be in the gallery lending my support," he said gallantly. "I see the usual crowd's here," he added, looking about.
"Yes," said Lord Bourton without enthusiasm. "And we had to buy another bottle of champagne. Fella came up and did the horseshoe puzzle. Usually takes 'em two days to work it out. Wispy little fella in jeans, Brocklehurst said. Very strong hands though. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Mike?"
"Me? No," said Michael. Thought Rob would manage it.
"Bugger," said Jack. "Look out, Mendip's coming over."
There was a mass exit from the tent, apart from those trapped into dispensing hospitality, who gazed after the flight of the craven with wounded expressions.
"Mr March!" called an imperious voice.
Robert, not wishing to lose his place in the Breton Pancake queue, slipped even closer to the burly guy in front of him and prayed Agnes would think she was mistaken.
"It's all right," hissed Ashley, "she's gone on."
"Good," said Robert, adding sotto voce, "and make up your mind," as the person in front dithered over his pancake filling.
"Perfect show fodder, this," he said as he passed a pancake to Ashley. "Neat, filling, you don't get all sticky and a Coke can be held in the other hand without difficulty."
Ashley made a sound of muffled assent as they wandered on, chewing reflectively.
For once the curse of the English country show, lashings of rain, had not struck and it was a really warm day - almost frightening. Ashley started to talk about the need for organic farming and to diversify crops, his usual line of chat these days. Robert listened with half an ear while wondering where Michael had got to, the CLA tent being almost empty except for a large, red-faced individual, quite unknown to him.
"There's mother," said Ashley. "See you." He dashed off to assist Jess, who had apparently purchased a small tree, which was fighting back.
Robert made his way to the trade stands. Yes, everything for the horse and its ailments. Sure enough, Michael was there.
"Knew I'd find you window-shopping," said Robert. "I've settled Sarah back in the van. First time I've ever won a cup. Well, I know it's hers really but ..." He gazed without rapture at the serried ranks of Stableyard Louse Powder, Stockholm Vegetable Tar, Equival, which sees off those distressing intestinal worms about which he had heard far too much, and Vitaminised Molasses. Michael was prising the lid off a tin of Clop (garlic, honey and now with added biotin and folic acid). Robert watched aghast as Michael stuck a finger in and tasted a hefty dollop.
"Yes, I think Piper will enjoy some of this," said Michael happily.
"Mike! I do wish you wouldn't do things like that. Yuck! You look pleased with yourself. I heard Miranda won in her class."
"Yes. What with Sarah and Jess's gingerbread, the ladies have had a good show. You enjoyed showing her, didn't you? Knew you would."
Robert grinned. "Would never have believed ten years ago that I'd end up here in the depths of the country with you and a prizewinning jenny. Hey, listen, I'm not going to be seeing you at the Olympia Horse Show at Christmas, riding round in fishnet tights with a rose in your teeth, am I?"
Michael, busy paying for his, or rather Piper's, Clop nearly fell apart. "No, you daft bat," he said finally. "I'm strictly behind the scenes. I leave that to the young and frivolous, and those who look better in fishnet tights. You might get a shot of me telling someone off in the collecting ring."
"When did you say you're starting the training season?" asked Robert.
"Beginning of September. Pity it's not Ireland so you could be with me."
"No," said Robert. "I can't take to the Brits the way I did your lads. Funny, really. We had a letter from Con. He'd like you to be godfather to the new baby, and Auntie Catherine has invited us back to Galway. So I thought we'd grab a fortnight before you started work."
Michael stared at him. "You want to go?"
"I do. I've received a very nice advance from Mr Halliwell. Book is doing well and there are murmurings about film rights. So I thought a week in Dublin in luxury at the Shelbourne for me, soaking up atmosphere and doing the libraries. You can be down in Galway, galloping about getting all wet and muddy, then I'll join you."
Michael grinned. "We've got to you at last," he said in triumph.
"Yeah, must be the Celtic mists rotting my brain."
Michael paused. "Just a moment," he said suspiciously. "Why are you in the Shelbourne soaking up atmosphere and paying a lot of money to do it?"
"Oh, just for my next book," said Robert lightly. "It came to me a fortnight ago when I was scrubbing out some pots in the greenhouse. Going to do a book on the Anglo-Irish in decline. Thought I'd call it That Thy Tears Might Cease. Has a nice ring to it."
"Used already," said Michael. "Oh God, you're not really, are you?"
"Of course I am. It has great possibilities: pathos, humour, tragedy, the inevitability of change, sex ..."
"Not in Ireland," said Michael. "Not allowed."
"Rubbish. Now, as well as the research - and I see this as a two-year job at least - and with the book being a success and money coming in - I'm not worried about bills at the moment. Then I need to meet some people. I thought you would come in handy there, having the right connections. I've made out this list for starters." He fished a crumpled piece of paper out of his back jeans pocket.
Michael looked at it. "This could be difficult," he remarked. "Great-Uncle William has been in a home for the bewildered for years. And the first three are dead. Where did you get these names from?" he inquired.
" Burke's in Gretton Library is a little out of date, is it? I thought it might be."
"Considerably," said Michael. "At least five others to my knowledge have given up, sold out and gone to live in the Home Counties. And in any case, no way am I helping you do a hatchet job on my countrymen."
"I'll put your name on the book with mine," said Robert coaxingly. "With a mention of how helpful you were."
"No," said Michael. "I have no wish to be blackballed in every club in Dublin."
"You only belong to one," said Robert. "And that's full of old military rips like yourself. Come on, stop menacing. You know me, fair but honest."
"But you don't really like us," said Michael. "I see you go rigid with disapproval every time we visit Aunt Catherine."
"Listen," said Robert, "I adore you; just takes time for me to adjust to your fellows there. And stop standing there muttering, there's no queue at the Pancake stand now and I fancy another one. What's the matter? You've gone all pink."
"Just realised what you said. And stop trying to soft-soap me. If I don't think you're being fair or accurate, I pull out, agreed?"
"Of course," said Robert. "Let's do a proper job on this one, and if you see my prejudices are showing, hit me over the head. What do you say? I'm really going to need your help on this one."
"All right," said Michael. "My treat. What do you fancy?"
Part Four – A Touch of Romance
Chapter Sixteen
Mr Halliwell, standing outside the Savoy Hotel, gazed after the Mercedes now accelerating rapidly out of sight.
"I did tell you it would be a mistake to put Mr March on that table," he remarked to his host.
"I imagined Mr March would have forgiven Arthur's lighthearted criticism of his book in the TLS by now," he replied.
"Mr March," said Mr Halliwell, "may forgive, but he does not forget - ever." He glanced round as they were joined by another guest with a glass of gin and tonic in each hand.
"March' gone then," he remarked vaguely. "Pity. I would have liked a chat with him. Not surprised he left - did seem a little out of sorts ..."
"Yes," said Mr Halliwell. "I'm afraid problems with his current book are to blame; that and his trip to Ireland, especially when he came down with bronchitis."
"Faulkner said they had a grand time," said Colonel Merryweather ( Horse and Hound), absently sipping a gin and tonic. "Splendid weather for going out, he said."
"Mr Faulkner's idea of a grand time," said Mr Halliwell, "involves a large horse, several miles of very rough country, preferably with high walls to jump over, and a well-stocked bar at the end of the day. Mr March's does not.”
"And Harold, if you don't need that spare gin and tonic, I do."
* * * * *
Robert, driving at a speed and in a manner he would have deplored in his days in the Met., reflected that a day which had begun badly had more than lived up to its early promise. It had started with a row with Michael, whose boisterous cheerfulness as he climbed into his breeches and boots for a day out with the Hunt had grated sorely on one forced to journey to London to waste his day with a pack of bloody poseurs.
Michael, unsympathetically, had remarked that, "Ah ... you'll be sure to find someone to talk to. Harold will be there."
"Oh yes," Robert had replied, "I'll really enjoy swopping yarns with the hunting correspondent of Horse and Hound. Have you any idea what it costs to keep those damned horses?"
"No," said Michael, "but as you had the bank statement this morning, I'm sure you're going to tell me. Overdrawn again, am I?" he asked with supreme indifference.
After that the conversation had deteriorated. Robert had left in a rage leaving Michael quite unperturbed carefully pinning his stock. Then he had scraped the Merc trying to park it in an insufficient space; knowing that the cost of the repair would keep five healthy horses in food for six months didn't help. The dinner had been mediocre, and he had found himself sitting by Arthur Crabtree.
The rest, thought Robert, is silence, and if I get home and find Mike has broken his neck it will be the only bright spot in the day.
However, once out of London his spirits improved. There was a touch of autumnal sunlight on the fields; he even hooted benignly for Mrs Paget's eldest girl and her intended to move their entwined selves from the middle of the lane. It was going to be a pleasant evening. If Michael had enjoyed a good run it usually put him in a warmly affectionate mood, and just what he needed, Robert decided, was some good old-fashioned ...
He paused as a tractor edged past him in the lane, returned the driver's cheery wave and started up the farm lane ... Funny, he didn't remember all those horses in their paddock. No doubt Michael would have an explanation.
He parked the car and was greeted as he crossed the yard with Sam barking in his usual manic fashion.
Hell of a lot of noise from the kitchen ...
The passageway was filled with muddy discarded boots, jackets and saddles. From the kitchen came the sound of voices raised in loud and unmelodious song, with loud banging on the table at the choruses. He entered the kitchen - for one brief moment Robert hoped it was all a bad dream as Michael reeled r
ound, cap on the back of his head, his muddy face wreathed in a wide grin, a half-empty magnum of champagne clutched to his chest.
"Rob! You're back early - have a drink," said Michael happily. He waved the bottle unsteadily. "We are having a party," he continued.
Robert gave him a 'look' and surveyed the scene. The kitchen was crammed with large muddy huntsmen consuming huge ham sandwiches which they were washing down with vintage champagne. Perched on the sideboard was a young person of the female gender who had been apparently beating time with her heels on the stripped pine. She quailed slightly at his look and got down.
"No, thank you," said Robert coldly. "I'm going to lie down; I've had a very trying day."
He was also uneasily aware he was getting a migraine. There was a murmur of sympathy, he found his pills, and picking up his cat who was trying to eat a slice of ham almost bigger than himself, retired with dignity to his room. As he left the party started up again.
Just you wait, Mike, he thought. He spent the next couple of hours, pillow over head, migraine raging, as people left with the maximum of noise, yelling, "We must do it again, Mike", "Bye, Mike", etc.
Oh God, thought Robert, I'm really going to kill you in the morning, Mike.
Next morning, after inspecting the depleted stock in the fridge, freezer and wine bin, this idea returned with even more force. He marched into the kitchen all ready for a good fight. Michael was just finishing his breakfast; to Robert's annoyance he appeared completely unscathed by his debauchery.
"Morning," said Michael. "Had a good time in London, did you?"
"No," said Robert, "I did not. I fell out with Mr Halliwell, my publisher, and the bastard who arranged that damned luncheon, then I come home and find my kitchen packed with your unspeakable friends. What the hell were they doing here?"
"We had a terrific run," Michael began. "Right up past Hogtrough Wood, then down by Graysons Pasture, then ..." He caught Robert's basilisk glare and hurried on: "We had a spot of trouble at the bank there. Bunty was thrown. By the time we had caught her horse, checked she was all right, and got Reg out of a bush, we were well behind. As we were near here, I thought why not stop for something to eat. And, well ..." He shrugged.
