At Bindweed Cottage Claudilia fed Max, collected a change of clothes and a couple of bottles of wine. She chopped up an apple and some old carrots for Pumpkin. Her ride today had been much shorter than normal and she’d not hung around the stables talking to the horse when she got back. These tasty gifts and a few soft words before leaving him for the night would be her way of apologising. Leaving her bike at home, Claudilia and Max walked up the lane to the yard. Pumpkin was waiting by the field gate. “Silly old sod, you knew I’d come back to say sorry, didn’t you.” Claudilia told him as she took the first piece of apple from her pocket. Pumpkin was a kindly soul, and accepted her gifts and a bit of stroking before he nuzzled his head into her neck. If a horse could talk he’d be saying, “it’s okay, you’re forgiven.”
From the stable and field, looking across towards the Belcher farmhouse, Claudilia could see Merry’s stable. The pony was tied up outside her box and Helen was carefully brushing her tail. She wasn’t alone, Emma was there too. Claudilia walked through Pumpkin’s field and then into Merry’s by the adjoining gate. The girls were giggling about something and both turned to look when they heard the clang of the closing gate …best to give them a bit of a warning I’m here. They blushed, and Claudilia wondered what she had interrupted. If she’d walked in on her niece and a boy she’d have teased them a bit and dropped some poorly disguised innuendos. Somehow that seemed wrong in this context, and Claudilia asked herself why?
Helen gave her aunt a hug. “Have you come to stay again? that’s two nights in a row, you’ll be moving in soon.”
“I’m not sure if I’m staying. I came because your father asked me to dinner. Yes, I’ve got a change of pants and a blouse and yes I’ve brought a couple of bottles because your Dad’s stuff rots my teeth.”
“Emma’s staying too, but if you’re in the guest room where will we put her?” said Helen, throwing her arms up and talking in a theatrical voice. “I guess she’ll just have to share with me,” she said, continuing her poor parody of a village pantomime performance. Helen giggled, and Emma blushed. “Don’t worry Em’” said Helen. “Aunt Claudilia knows, she’s the only one I’ve told and we can trust her.”
“Stop it the pair of you,” said Claudilia. “I may know about it, but that doesn’t mean I need to know all about it.” Claudilia pulled a bottle of wine from her bag. “If you have a couple of almost clean cups in the tack room we can open this bottle before we go up to the house. I think you youngsters call it pre-loading." The girls disappeared in search of cups or glasses, whispering something Claudilia couldn’t hear. “Max.” she said. “Something’s changed, there’s a new confidence about Helen and I think it’s about time she talked to her mother.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Dinner was a quiet event, Marie had cooked a fish pie and Mr H had brought in a few early potatoes from the garden. After the pie they enjoyed home grown apples in a crumble. Claudilia mentioned going back to the cottage at around ten thirty. Helen insisted that she stayed the night, and eventually she conceded .
Saturday morning was a repeat of the previous week. Max on the bed, Alan curled up next to Claudilia, and the smell of cooking coming up from the kitchen. Claudilia slipped into the dressing gown she kept in the wardrobe and went downstairs. Helen and Emma were cooking breakfast; eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, toast, and all the trimmings. Hubert and Marie sat at the table drinking coffee. As Claudilia stood in the doorway and took in the scene she felt envious of her brother. She wondered if her life could have been like this, had she met “Mr Right” a few years ago. … Don’t be daft. I have my horse, my dog and my freedom, why would I give up all that for a husband and tribe of rug-rats. It’s much more fun winding up this lot and leaving their parents to sort out the mess.
Claudilia satisfied herself with a light breakfast of coffee and a couple of eggs on toast, …and sausages, bacon, mushrooms, cooked tomatoes, fried bread and black pudding. But I skipped the beans, (don’t want to be all farty like Mr Crumble do I). Okay, yes if you want to put it like that. I had a mega-farmhouse breakfast and could hardly walk when I’d finished. What can I say – I like my food?
She thanked Marie for her hospitality and called for Max. Together they walked …more like waddled, to the village shop where she bought the ingredients for the cakes she had agreed to bake. The fete was only a week away and Claudilia needed to get cooking. The stall was in her garden shed and it would need to be cleaned. If she remembered correctly there were bits that needed a splash of paint and some of the bunting had been looking rather tired when they’d packed it away.
Her morning vanished in a whirlwind of washing clothes, tidying the cottage and scrubbing the tables for the stall. To her surprise it had wintered better than she’d expected, a clean tablecloth was all she needed to cover the scratches. But the board she wrote the prices on needed a new coat of paint, chalkboard black of course, and Claudilia rummaged around in the shed for the pot, she knew there was one in there somewhere. She found it tucked behind a box marked “odd screws, buttons and nails”. The tin was covered in dust. It sat on top of some ancient tennis rackets, last used back when an Englishman had won Wimbledon … Andy Murry doesn’t count, he’s a Scott.
Claudilia decided not to start baking, she could do it after her ride with Helen. She felt quite exhausted, so much had happened in the last seven days. With a pang of guilt she realised she’d not thought about Tony the bee man all morning. She didn’t feel responsible for his death, she’d wanted to teach him a lesson for knocking down her wall but she’d wanted to do it her way, in her time, and after reflective consideration. Now the inconsiderate bugger had beaten her to it, he’d got himself killed in a stupid accident, and by doing so he denied her the justice she felt she was owed.
Then she thought about Andrew the tractor driver and wondered how he was coping. He’d killed someone, and while there was no question of any fault on his part, Andrew would have to live with it for the rest of his life. Claudilia decided to check up on the young man. She’d ask Angus to set it up. He’d have a number or something and it made a perfect excuse to see him when he came back from his shooting trip, if she needed an excuse, which she didn’t.
Claudilia wondered about Angus Macintosh. Would he have qualified as “Mr Right” had they met when they were younger ...Yes he bloody well would, in fact he’d have been “Mr Right now if you please” and twice more before breakfast.
At two O’clock Helen and Merry trotted into the stable yard, her coat was brushed, her hooves were oiled and both her tail and mane were platted.
“You’re looking chipper” said Claudilia.
“Chipper, what sort of word is that?” asked Helen, “Isn’t it one of those machines Dad uses for cutting up trees, Are you saying I look like a lumberjack?”
“No. Chipper is chirpy, full of the joys of spring, happy to be alive.”
“I don’t know what you mean” said Helen with a smile.
Together they trotted out of the yard and turned left.
“Where are we going,” asked Helen.
“I thought we’d walk along the side of the river for a way, and then come back around Monk Hill. I want to go through Abbey Farm and see if Ruth still has her brood mare. The quiet one, I have a friend who might like to borrow her for a while, and I know Ruth’s hardly ridden her this year.”
“What friend? All of your friends who ride have their own horses, and that mare is dull, not the horse for an experienced rider at all,” answered Helen.
“Mind your own business. He, or she, can ride but is not very experienced. I think Ruth’s mare would be a good way to build her, or his, confidence.”
“Well it’s not a child,” said Helen, trying to work out who this friend may be. “She’s too big for a child. And it must be someone local, otherwise they couldn’t go out with you regularly. You like to ride after lunch, so they don’t work in the afternoons, or they can take time off whenever they want. That means they work for themselve
s, or in a family business.”
Claudilia was enjoying the game, but she had no intention of letting on the horse was for Angus. “For all you know, my friend might work nights, as a forklift truck driver in a big warehouse maybe; or it could be the daughter of one of my friends, now her own kids are at school and she wants to take up riding again.”
“No. It’s not that, you wouldn’t have mentioned it if it was. So, it must be someone self employed.”
“Or unemployed?”
“Since when did you know anyone unemployed? Now shut up, I’m concentrating.”
The two horses walked at a steady pace along the riverside path. The sun was warm on their backs, the surface of the Wimple shimmered with reflections. Dragon flies, like little fairies, rested on plants at the river’s edge, and a flash of iridescent blue announced the passing presence of a kingfisher.
They passed the boathouse and Claudilia pointed out where DS Hudson had set up his control area for searching the river bank. It seemed like a very long time ago, but a lot had happened in the last week; Tony had died, Claudilia had been questioned by the police, and Maggie Macintosh was still a monumental pain in the arse.
The couple rode on without talking. After a while they turned left, away from the river and onto the path which led upto Abbey Farm. The farm’s location was beautiful, the house was surrounded by grass fields and areas of mature woodland. But it’s overall area was too small to be viable in twenty-first century farming, so Ruth and Ken had diversified.
They’d converted the barns into cottages, and now ran a modest holiday rental business. Ruth offered bed and breakfast in the main house and arranged themed retreats throughout the year. Her favourites were the yoga and meditation courses. These were very popular with a particular type of client, the UFLs (Up From Londons), were her ideal guest. Their dedication to the ancient form of exercise and higher than average income meant they could bend over backwards whilst paying through the nose. Their daughter, Phoebe, ran alpaca walking tours each day in the school holidays. The honey they collected from a hand full of hives was served in London’s boutique hotels.
As Claudilia and Helen approached the farm they could see Rosie grazing in a paddock next to the house. She looked up when the two horses passed her field, then ambled across for a closer inspection when they stopped outside the house. Helen stayed on Merry and held her Aunt’s reigns, she didn’t need to as Pumpkin was far too well behaved to wander off. It was good practice all the same.
Claudilia rang the bell and soon disappeared inside the house. She must have got straight to the point of her visit because she was out again in no time, smiling and promising she’d be back in a few days with her horsebox. Ruth hadn’t taken much persuading to lend her horse to Claudilia. She’d not ridden Rosie in far too long, and a horse needs to be exercised if it’s to be happy. Claudilia had assured her that her friend would take good care of Rosie, and that he was a responsible person. Ruth hoped that whoever this friend was would like Rosie enough to make her an offer. She seldom had time to ride these days, it would be best to let the horse go somewhere she’d get regular exercise.
“Now you must tell me who she’s for,” demanded Helen. The girl was almost excited enough to burst.
“I will tell you, but you have to promise to do one thing for me first.”
“Okay I’ll do it, now tell me who the horse is for.”
“Don’t you want to know what you have to do?”
“No, I’ll do anything. Now who’s the damned horse for.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you. But just so you know what you’ve agreed to. You have to tell your mum about you and Emma, and you have to do it this weekend. Okay? Rosie is for Angus Macintosh. He needs to lose weight, and wants to get a better knowledge of the area. He says he can sit on a horse just about, so she’ll be perfect for him.”
“Oh shit no,” said Helen, realising she’d been backed into a corner.
“Is that “Oh shit no”, because the horse is for Angus or “Oh shit no”, you have to talk to your Mum?”
“Both. You’ve tricked me Aunt Claudilia …she only calls me that when she’s angry, I will tell mum, but I wanted to do it when I’m good and ready. Now I have to do it before tomorrow night,” said Helen. “What am I going to say?”
“You could start by saying you’ve found someone who makes you happy, someone you like a lot and who understands you. You can say that you’ve been spending a lot of time together and that it’s gone past being just friends. You’re not kids, you’re both young adults and you know what you’re doing,” said Claudilia.
The horses stopped and Helen opened a gate. She had to get off for this one, and as she swung back into the saddle she did it with such grace that it looked as if gravity didn’t affect her. “You know she’ll try to give me the talk about getting pregnant, and she’ll want to know if I’m on the pill,” said Helen.
“You can tell her there’s no chance you’re going to get pregnant, not with this partner anyway. I guess she’ll ask if you’ve slept together and you can say yes. In fact you can tell her that you’ve slept together several times, including last night, then you both got up and cooked breakfast for the rest of the family. Nobody batted an eyelid about it then, and there is no reason for her to go all daft about it now. Your boyfriend’s a girlfriend, so what? You’ve been sleeping with her in the family home for several weeks and nobody seemed to mind, so why should they start now.”
“You know she’s going to freak don’t you? I mean, she’ll go one hundred percent ape-shit.”
“No she won’t, and I’ve never understood that term by the way, but she’ll be surprised and you must give her time to process the information. We both know your mum, and she’ll have imagined you in a few years from now settled down with some man, maybe married with a career, and in time she’ll be nagging for grandchildren. Well that could still happen, but for now it looks like the man’s going to be a woman, and who knows, Emma could be the one.” Said Claudilia.
“Do you think she’ll throw me out, or will she just ban Emma from the house,” asked Helen.
“She’s going to need some time to come to terms with it, and so is your Dad. But she loves you and she wants you to be happy. Living a lie with a man won’t make you happy, and it wouldn’t make her happy either. It’s far better to tell the truth now and get on with your life. If she bans Emma from the house, which she won’t by the way, you’re always welcome at Bindweed Cottage. I have a spare room, and so long as you keep the noise down and don’t scare Mr Crumble, I see no reason why you can’t stay there from time to time.”
“What about Dad,” said Helen with a frown.
“He’s not staying at the cottage, he can sleep at the farm like he always does.”
“No, you stubbon old mare,” Helen laughed. “How do I tell Dad?”
It was good to see her niece laugh. “A bit less of the “old” if you don’t mind. I suggest you tell them both at the same time, catch them in the kitchen. Put a film on for Maggie and Alan then bribe them with biscuits and a drink to stay out of the kitchen. You’ll be fine.”
“Okay, I’ll do it this evening. But if I turn up on your doorstep with all my stuff in a bin bag you’ll know it hasn’t gone well.”
“Everything will be okay,” said Claudilia as they turned into the stable yard. “But enough of this. We’ve got cakes to make. The fete’s one week from today and we need to freeze about two hundred cupcakes for the Scouts, Guides, Brownies and Cubs.”
Helen swung down off Merry and asked: “Why do “we” have to make all these cakes? It’s your job. When did I get roped in?”
“Oh come on Helen, everyone knows lesbians are great cooks, look at what’s her name, the one on Bake Off.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Josie Robinson was up and busy in the kitchen early on Saturday morning. She’d worked from seven in the morning till five in the evening for the last seven days and was about to start a full week of late sh
ifts. She didn’t mind starting at two in the afternoon and finishing at eleven at night. The problem wasn’t the work, but organising the children and her husband. Peter could just about get himself ready in the mornings: he was after all forty two. Most days he packed Rose off to school and delivered Archie to the child minder without incident or forgetting anything of vital importance. It was the evenings when Peter was at his most useless. Their daughter always needed help with her homework or it wouldn’t get done, and by tea time Archie would be tired and fractious, even more so if he’d missed his afternoon nap. Peter just couldn’t multitask.
To help Josie was cooking lasagne, which she’d freeze in individual portions. At the same time, she was doing an internet shop for bits she thought they’d run out of before the following weekend. Peter just had to make sure there was fresh eggs and bread. Josie was often too tired to cook when she got home from work, so long as there was Weetabix in the cupboard and milk in the fridge she’d be fine.
By mid afternoon she’d had enough. The shopping was finished and booked for delivery the next day, the beds were all changed and most of the ironing was done. She’d hinted that Peter could finish it one evening while she worked, but somehow she doubted he’d find time. Josie thought she’d earned a treat, and wanted to go out for dinner. They hadn’t found a reliable childminder since the last one went to university, so it would have to be an early pub meal with the kids, then home in time for bed. That suited Josie fine, she’d rather not have a late night before she changed her shifts. At five o’clock they packed Peter’s Saab with the absolute necessaries for a spontaneous trip with two small children; nappies and wipes, changes of clothes and shoes, plasters and various creams as well as an industrial sized first aid kit.
The Village Fate Page 18
