by Fiona Walker
‘I think it’s thrilling,’ she insisted. ‘Well worth a night out of the shed. Look, there’s that actor from… um… um, help?’
‘Fifty Shades of Grey,’ Gill obliged.
‘I think he’s one of the waiters, love.’ Mo was still trying to get edamame and chia falafel out from between her teeth.
‘You watched Fifty Shades of Grey, Gill?’
‘I’ll have you know I watched Nine and a Half Weeks, back in the day.’
‘Mickey Rourke still does it for me.’
‘You know the rules, ladies. No vintage fecking pin-ups.’
‘Don Johnson. Speedboats and no socks, ooh.’
‘Stop it.’
‘Michael Praed. Robiiiin-da-da-da-da. The only mullet still rocking it after three decades.’
‘Stop it.’
‘Trevor Eve. Shoestring. The Magnum PI of Bristol.’
‘That’s it, I’m not listening.’
‘Don’t all look now, but Carla Delevingne’s at eleven o’clock.’
‘No, that’s Carly – she’s waitressing.’
‘I thought it was the big fight tonight? King of the Turner Gypsies.’
‘Ash won on a technicality.’
‘What was that?’
‘Jed’s inside doing three months for hare coursing. They’ve rescheduled for May Bank Holiday so they can double up with the Horse Fayre.’
‘Who is that coming in now? Tell me it’s Prue Leith and Paul Hollywood?’
‘Auriol Bullock and… d’you know, that might actually be Paul Hollywood. Bridge?’
‘It’s Bring Your Bake Off Judge to Work day at school. That’s Kes’s dad, Mack. The beard’s a new thing, along with being really nice to Pax and infiltrating the village. Now Kes is on the school register, we can’t keep him away. He’s even joined the PTA and her divorce solicitor’s the chair. He so wants her back. He’s got stiff competition, mind you. Of which—’
‘Ladies! Petra, you look too divine. Really, the angels are deafening. I’m off to the bar. Anyone want a drink?’
‘We’re good, Bay.’
‘Good-oh. Chat later.’
‘Back on the market any day now, my informants tell me. Monique’s put the deposit down on a barn conversion to rent in Earls Compton.’
‘It’s so sad when marriages end.’
‘Sometimes it’s just the beginning though, isn’t it?’
‘Bay’s one hell of a catch.’
‘Put your hands down, Petra.’
‘Ha ha. I killed off Father Willy, remember?’
‘How’s your blond Irish royalist rebel?’
‘He is going to be dead on a battlefield this week if he doesn’t show up here tonight.’
‘Rest in peace, Luca O’Brien.’
‘No! He’s the only vegan in the village. He has to be here.’
‘He’s out riding. Carly told me. They’ve been practising all week.’
‘He’s what?’
*
Lester asked the taxi driver to stop halfway up the drive. He needed a moment to regroup. He hadn’t anticipated that coming home would feel so overwhelming.
‘Don’t think you should walk from here, man. It’s well dark out there, innit?’
‘I think you’ll find it’s unusually light tonight. It’s a supermoon.’
‘Is that like a moon in a mask and cloak fighting the forces of evil, eh-huh, eh-huh, eh-huh?’ The taxi driver had a laugh like Basil Brush.
‘You can drive on, it’s fine.’
Lester hadn’t told anybody of his intention to discharge himself from hospital a week early. It wasn’t that he wanted to stage a surprise. It was because he didn’t want a fuss.
He couldn’t hope to navigate the stairs in his cottage yet, but he and Ronnie had decided he was to have the run of the old housekeeper’s rooms beside the back lobby, which were within short reach of kitchen, lavatory and – most importantly – a flat walk to the stable yards. There was already a day bed down there, from memory, and he could live without bedding and other flimflammeries for one night if it meant being home on the Wolf Moon.
‘Man, what was that!’ His driver slalomed into the arrivals yard. ‘I saw something moving. Headless ghosts on horseback or something. You hear that?’ He was rigid with fear. ‘Music.’
Lester heard it. He could hardly believe his ears, but he could definitely hear it.
‘Man, what is that shit?’
‘That,’ he handed several ten-pound notes across, ‘Is Holst’s Opus 32, fourth movement – Jupiter, to be precise. Keep the change.’
Waving the driver impatiently away with a crutch rather than accept his offers of help, Lester made his way laboriously beneath the arch. The Percys’ old gramophone player was sitting on a table in the middle of the yard.
‘Jupiter, Bringer of Jollity’ was already launching into the section Lester couldn’t help but stand to attention for: ‘I Vow to Thee My Country’.
What a homecoming. What a homecoming!
He cocked his head and strained. Hoofbeats. Good girl. His amazing girl. His world-beater.
He limped across to greet Cruisoe who rumbled with furious delight. The white fury was now next door, he noted with disapproval. There was an overweight Shetland next to that, pulling faces at him through a sheep hurdle placed across his open door. The old point-to-pointer and his cob were missing from their boxes. The latter would never complete the task before the last violin sounded.
He strained his ears again. Had they even reached the windmill?
The French horns and strings were duetting again, the timpani dancing attendance: da da da da da da… da da da da da da-da-da.
Leaning hard on his crutches, he made his way through the second yard to the open track, thrilling at the sight and sound of the herd shifting through the straw, snorting in alarm, then recognising his call to quietness.
The hooves were coming back. Impressively fast. Not quick enough, mind. He limped his way back, the cobbles making him unsteady. By goodness it hurt. The task ahead felt gargantuan, but he would meet it. He’d be in the saddle again by hound exercise.
Back at the gramophone, the final run of Holst’s glorious little violin arpeggios was upon them. Barely a minute of music left, and still half a dozen fields to cross.
He looked up at the big white moon. It had witnessed him once before, and it had forgiven him then. Sometimes in life, one had to relive a moment to get things right.
He swiftly lifted the needle and set it back to the beginning of the track, then picked up his bag, hooked it over his crutch and set off for the house.
About the Author
Fiona Walker is the bestselling author of nineteen novels. She lives in Warwickshire with her partner and two children plus an assortment of horses and dogs. Visit Fiona’s website at www.fionawalker.com.
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