Beatrice returns from the Flying Boat Club via the shop carrying a loaf of bread, olives, two good bottles of wine and a fresh bottle of gin, which has been disappearing at an alarming rate thanks to Charlotte. She felt it would be bad form to buy alcohol by itself. She pours herself a small measure of vodka and puts on her music. Within moments she is lost within the aria. She turns up the volume, glad to be left alone for a little while. Charlotte will probably be gambolling around the island in her ridiculous shoes. In this weather! Who on earth wears heels here. She slips off her own flat sandals, folds her feet beneath her on the sofa like a little lamb, takes a sip of her drink, and closes her eyes.
This moment to herself sours when she recalls the incident last night.
She has to admit, the evening was a disappointment. And she’d caught Hannah cavorting with not one but two young 234men who very obviously were not her son. She’ll have to tell him, although he might well shoot the messenger.
She and Charlotte had popped into the Old Ship for a couple of early drinks, where they found Hannah slobbering over the young man from the heliport. Beatrice was shocked. Charlotte seemed delighted. Beatrice left Charlotte to her G&T with an extra slice of schadenfreude, and she set off for her evening proper. At the invitation of Fiona from the art gallery, Beatrice had partnered the Colonel for the mobile feast – a dinner party staged around various homes. Those who live here, like Fiona, cook the courses they serve, while visitors tend to cater their contributions. Apart from the Colonel’s Beef Wellington (provided by Organ Morgan the main chef) the fayre was wholesome but basic.
The final course was coffee and a cheese board served up at the farm. Beatrice had the impression that the farmer’s wife would have been happier without the intrusion of guests, while Farmer Michael himself was merely showcasing his wares.
However, the Colonel was marvellous company. She’d been quite optimistic with the way things were going.
He told a rather amusing anecdote about one of his old chums who’d recently sworn off the booze. ‘But then we had a night out at the casino and I’m afraid the poor fellow overindulged. He was worried about going home to the wife in the state he was in, because unfortunately he’d been a little sick down his suit.’
Beatrice applied her tinkly laugh. She had recently found herself in a similar state, not that she’d ever admit it.
The Colonel continued, ‘I said he should tell the old ball and chain someone else had vomited on his suit, and to add 235plausibility, I suggested he claim his assailant had donated a twenty-pound note to have it dry cleaned.’
Beatrice nibbled daintily at her cheese.
‘When he arrived home, my friend pre-empted his wife’s rage by telling this tale, adding, “Look in my wallet if you don’t believe me. There’s the twenty pounds the man gave me.”’
The Colonel chuckled and continued, ‘The wife checked, and said, “But, darling, there are two twenty-pound notes here,” and my chum replied, “Ah. That was from the other chap who shat in my trousers.”’
The evening ended early as the farm, necessarily, had an early start. After their coffees, the Colonel suggested he accompany Beatrice back to the pub. Invigorated by the blast of fresh air after the humid farmhouse kitchen, Beatrice had felt giddy and reckless. At the stile over the first field, she flung her arms around the Colonel’s neck and reached up to kiss him.
She was brushed away like a gnat. ‘Steady on, old girl!’ He laughed, to make it a joke.
She laughed back, although the rejection stung. The old girl stung more.
They didn’t speak of it again as their torches led them back to the path by Dolphin Corner. And that might have been an end to it.
But then …
Then the shame crawled out of its hidey hole. Flinging herself at someone like him! Beatrice knew they called him Colonel Blimp behind his back. And while he was a rather excellent raconteur (entertaining everyone with stories from the Christmas shoots with the royals), while he was tall (thank the Lord), looks-wise he was no great catch. Nothing to write 236home about, as her mother would have said.
The first thing they saw as they entered the pub was Hannah draped across one of the French sailors, a huge shaven-headed creature with a neck as thick as one of the barmaid’s thighs. Hannah was laughing loudly as the brute gnawed at her neck and the Colonel turned to Alison and said, ‘Oh, to be that young man! Beguiling creature, young Hannah.’
And to rub salt into the wound, as he carried their wine over to a free table, she heard him muttering to himself, ‘The full gravy, that girl.’ He was positively salivating.
Beatrice had to stop herself grabbing Hannah and dragging her off the young man. First the heliport worker and now this! How could she humiliate Kit like that!
Hannah seemed oblivious to Beatrice’s presence. She disappeared with the sailor a few minutes later. Alison said they’d only come back to the bar to grab another bottle because the poker party had run out of vodka.
Beatrice had sat rigidly alongside the Colonel, simmering.
Back at Falcon, she had a restless night, punctuated by images of her own lost youth when she herself had flirted with many unsuitable men. She dreamt of the fights with her husband, the man who had stolen so much from her – the years when she was desirable, the years when she was confident, the years she had some self-respect.
She woke in the early hours hot with humiliation.
No wonder she needs a drink.