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HORACE’S HOPE WAS SHORT-lived. After spending an hour traipsing around the three acres of property, and taking time to appreciate Ralph’s efforts with the trees and shrubs, he conceded that since it was close to four p.m. and there was barely ten minutes of daylight left, it behoved him to go indoors and touch base with his hostess, lest she begin to think him rag-mannered in the extreme.
‘It’ll be grand,’ he told Trotsky, who was enjoying himself hugely on their excursion, and hoped to continue the sport with a foray into a likely looking foxhole. ‘They’re all too wrapped up in their own troubles to be worrying about the likes of you and me. If we avoid that hideous Marco and maintain a low profile, we might very well be left to our own devices. Perhaps I could sneak you down to the basement and we could enjoy a spot of snooker with the boys.’
Trotsky woofed three times to signify he was both disappointed at the suggestion, yet resigned to the prospect of going indoors. The duo headed back to the boot room, where Horace spent a couple of minutes towelling mud off the dog’s paws in case he got into trouble with Glenda.
Satisfied the mutt was reasonably clean, he carefully replaced the Barbour and sleeveless top where he had found them, and changed out of the wellies and back into the Italian loafers Marco had insisted on buying for him.
Then he scrubbed his hands at the basin and splashed water on his face for good measure, keen to present a respectable appearance. He smiled wryly at his own reflection. A high forehead, hazel eyes, thick lips and his mother’s nose looked back at him.
‘Unrecognisable,’ he said with a hint of sadness. ‘Methinks Horace Johnson is no more. What’s more, my bloody face is cold.’
Ordering Trotsky to stay close and not go wandering off, he pushed open the boot room door and listened for sounds emanating from the kitchen. There was a definite hum of conversation, and he swore under his breath in exasperation. For a moment, he seriously considered exiting again and making his way to the lower terrace at the back of the house. If he did that, he might be able to gain access to the basement without being spotted. Spineless Jessie.
Horace straightened his spine, assumed an expression of bland indifference, and strolled into the kitchen as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Trotsky followed at a close distance but sensing his master’s unease, did not greet the occupants of the kitchen in a friendly manner. He made himself comfortable on an old blanket somebody had thrown down on the marble during his absence, and rested his head on his front paws.
Jack and Marco were still at the island having recently finished their meal. Dorothy was smiling at them as she poured coffee and offered cake. James was standing nearby and seemed irritated. All four said hello to Horace as he entered, although James’s greeting was little more than a grunt.
‘Something eating you, Dam?’ Horace was surprised to see his sibling close to losing his usual cool.
It was Dorothy who answered the question. ‘He’s cranky because Clive has disappeared off on an unexpected errand without saying where he was going. James isn’t used to secrecy in their relationship, ergo he’s a tad fraught.’
‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ James muttered, and cracked his knuckles to emphasise the point. Dorothy winced at the sound but did not reprimand him. Instead, she brandished the cafetiere at Horace and offered him a drink.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he spoke hesitantly. ‘I’m on the way down to the basement to challenge the boys to a spot of snooker. Assuming they’re still down there.’
‘They’re not likely to be anywhere else,’ Marco piped up. ‘I’ll go with you and we can have a game of doubles if you like.’
The look of revulsion on Horace’s face escaped nobody. He backed away from the other man as if Marco was carrying the bubonic plague. Jack chortled happily at this, although Dorothy was not so complacent.
‘What’s all this, Horace?’ she enquired sharply. ‘Have you and Marco had a falling out?’
‘A falling out?’ Horace eyed her in astonishment. ‘Have you any idea what this little blighter has put me through since lunchtime yesterday, Dorothy? I haven’t felt this violated since a particularly unpleasant incident in the locker rooms at school when I was fourteen. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I don’t want the rotter anywhere near me.’
Forgetting his missing partner, James sniggered at this, and Jack’s eyes glinted with amusement. Marco rolled his eyes and calmly dunked a biscuit into his coffee as if being described as a blighter and a rotter was all in a day’s work.
Dorothy frowned at Horace, clearly not as entertained as the others. ‘Marco was merely trying to make you presentable for your trip home,’ she explained patiently. ‘What did he do that was so terrible? I know you must miss your beard, but you really couldn’t have shown up at Little Badger looking like a tramp. Think of how upset your mother would have been to see you in that state.’
Horace rubbed his hand over his chin and sighed heavily. ‘My face is cold,’ he said grumpily. ‘I suppose I’ll grow accustomed to being clean shaven in time, although I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Lots of chaps grow a beard during the winter months. It’s not the beard that’s bothering me, Dorothy. It’s the manscaping.’
Dorothy caught Jack’s eye and fought the urge to giggle at the expression of merriment she detected. Her heart spasmed as they shared a moment of pure joy, before she dragged her eyes away from him and focused on Horace once again.
‘Did it hurt?’ she enquired sympathetically. ‘Is that why you’re so cross?’
‘Of course, it didn’t hurt!’ he sounded appalled at the notion. ‘A sixteen-year-old girlie spread some sort of sugary concoction all over me and ripped it off. It was hardly enhanced interrogation techniques.’
Marco unexpectedly spoke up. ‘I’d love to say he’s lying, Boss,’ he announced, ‘but the bollocks hardly flinched while the therapist was doing it. He’s uncannily like Jimbo sometimes. I’m beginning to think they have that condition. You know the one where the nerves don’t reach the skin and you can’t feel pain.’
‘Well, if it didn’t hurt,’ Dorothy looked confused, ‘why are you so cross?’
‘Because it was totally unnecessary and ridiculously gay,’ Horace spat out the words. ‘I think this rotter is doing his best to turn us all into women.’
‘I’ve never known you to have homophobic tendencies,’ Dorothy frowned at him worriedly.
‘That’s because I never experienced them until I had the dubious pleasure of meeting Marco Kelly,’ Horace sounded outraged now. ‘As of now, I’m a full-blown queer basher.’
Dorothy burst out laughing, which only seemed to exacerbate the situation. Horace glowered at her until she stopped, and folded his arms across his chest in a way which suggested he was deeply hurt.
‘Why don’t you pull off the shirt and show us the finished result?’ she suggested brightly, desperate to do something to snap him out of this odd mood. ‘If the manscaping doesn’t suit you, there’ll never be any need to have it done again. You’ll be able to put the whole nasty episode behind you once and for all. Give us a look then.’
‘Yeah, go on, Nellie,’ James piped up. ‘Show us what all the fuss is about.’
Sensing he was not going to escape the kitchen without showing them the end result, and feeling foolish for having expressed himself so heatedly, Horace reached behind his neck and pulled the blue polo shirt over his head.
‘Lord a mercy,’ Dorothy muttered, as she absorbed the magnificent specimen of manhood that was Nelson Kirwan-Taylor. The skin on his deep chest was weathered from years of outdoors work, and the muscles on his abdomen and arms rippled as he moved. There was not an ounce of spare fat on any part of him that showed above the waistband of his trousers. The therapist had done her work well. She had ripped away all the excess hair that used to cover his belly and chest, leaving only a neat triangle of black fur nestled a fraction south of his collar bones.
They distinctly heard the expletive, although it did not emanate from Dorothy. All eyes swivelled towards the door where Emily and Diane had just entered. Diane’s green eyes were riveted to Horace’s body and went out of focus as she scrutinised every centimetre of his flesh. She licked her lips. Dorothy watched this reaction with as much interest as the men, and was sorry when Emily dug her friend in the ribs to bring her back to her senses.
‘I just popped in to say goodbye,’ the girl blurted out in an attempt to cover Diane’s lapse. ‘I hope to be back soon, although I’ll have to see how things go at home.’ With that, she ran over to Dorothy and gave her a quick hug and kiss before sprinting back to Diane and almost dragging her from the kitchen. Jack and Marco swivelled around on their stools and perused the expression on Horace’s face. Looking like a man on the verge of an epiphany, he slowly pulled the polo shirt back over his head.
‘How do you feel about manscaping now?’ Marco enquired slyly, and dunked another biscuit.
‘I think I could get used to it,’ Horace forgot he was at odds with the driver and eased himself onto a stool at the end of the island. He seemed flabbergasted. Dorothy set a mug in front of him and poured coffee into it. ‘Regardless of age, we’re all at the mercy of our endocrine systems,’ she said brightly. ‘Drink some coffee and don’t dwell on it. You’ll have plenty of time to think about things when you get home. A full month in fact.’
This reminder of what fate had in store for him brought Horace to his senses. He looked at his brother and asked, ‘Any news from Lance?’
‘I’m waiting to hear from the fecker,’ James replied sourly. ‘I don’t understand what the sodding delay is. All we require is one lousy bird to transport you home. Anyone would think I’d requisitioned a spaceship.’
As if on cue, the big screen flickered to life and Roy’s face greeted them. ‘S’up guys,’ he grinned. ‘Thanks for signing the purchase order for the 3D printer, Boss.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Dorothy’s eyes twinkled up at him. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing your first design for a gun. I saw on a documentary that even if the gun is plastic, the firing pin and bullet need to be metal. Is it true they’re ridiculously unstable and you risk blowing your hand off if you pull the trigger?’
His grin grew even wider as he said, ‘Totally true, Boss. We’re going to have to find a safe method of testing the new toys. I also think we’re going to have to form some sort of committee. There are way too many lads with too many ideas about firearms in these parts. If we don’t get ourselves in order, we’re liable to spend more time arguing the toss about the design than we will actually making the damn gun.’
‘We’ll discuss it when I get back to work,’ she chortled. ‘Any other news?’
‘Yep,’ this time Roy chuckled in delight. ‘Clive’s just driven through the top gate and he’s not alone. He’s brought a little surprise for the Kirwan-Taylor brothers. A very beautiful surprise, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘Who the fuck is it?’ James took a step closer to the screen and glowered up at Roy, while Horace leaped off his stool with a frantic look in his eyes. ‘Is it Mummy?’ he asked in a voice that shook.
‘That’s a negative, bro,’ Roy replied mockingly. ‘It’s the Lady Beatrix Kirwan-Taylor. Your little sis is some looker.’
