It was much later that Felix awoke, stiff from dozing in his chair, and began to wonder where Daphne was. The fire was dying in the grate, the gentle plop of a last coal falling into the embers rousing him, and it was a moment before he remembered the dreadful happenings of the afternoon, bringing him back to the present with a jolt. The much depleted whisky bottle standing on the table and the empty glass at his hand bore witness to how he had tried to blot out the events of the day; time had passed, though he didn’t know how much, and still the house was silent. Where was Daphne? Where could she have gone? Apart from his mother, she knew no one in the village. Could she have gone to the Magpie? It was unlikely that she’d enter a pub on her own, especially in a place where she had no friends or acquaintances. Perhaps she’d come home while he’d been dozing. Felix struggled to his feet, the tilting of the room reminding him how full the whisky bottle had been when he’d carried it through to his chair. He made his way unsteadily to the hall and switching on the landing light, called Daphne’s name. There was no reply. Slowly, he began to negotiate the stairs, holding fast to the banister as the hall threatened to spin out of control. When he reached their bedroom he paused in the doorway. He could hear breathing, punctuated by occasional snorts and snores, emanating from the darkness. He pushed the door wider, allowing the light from the landing to flow in. What it revealed brought him up short. Daphne was lying, fully clothed, flat on her back across the bed, her eyes shut, her mouth hanging open, breath rasping from the back of her throat. On the bedside table stood empty bottles: one gin and several tonic. His first instinct was to cross the room and shake her awake, but as her snores and snorts continued, he changed his mind. Daphne had, for some reason, drunk herself into a stupor and he doubted he could drag her from its depths.
He went back onto the landing and into his own room. He had to admit he was drunk, too, and any confrontation now would almost certainly escalate into a blazing row. Better to wait until morning when they’d both slept it off. Before he collapsed onto his bed, he went to the bathroom where he drank off two tumblers of water. Standing at the basin he looked into the mirror. Peering back at him was a haggard face, pale, with red-rimmed eyes and a darkening five o’clock shadow, though as he screwed up his eyes to focus on his watch, he was amazed to find it was almost eleven o’clock. He thought he’d got home sometime around six. Where had the intervening hours gone? He didn’t know and just now, he didn’t care. He went back into his room and stripping off his soiled clothes, he followed Daphne’s example, falling onto the bed and into a heavy, troubled sleep.
He awoke several hours later to the sound of Daphne next door, throwing up into the lavatory. Felix felt he should go to her, hold her head if nothing else, but the room still revolved disconcertingly when he tried to sit up and so he closed his eyes against its swirl and stayed where he was.
When they finally made it downstairs that morning, both of them were still struggling with hangovers. Daphne sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. Felix brewed a pot of strong coffee and poured them each a cup.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Pretty much as you look,’ she replied tartly. ‘What time did you eventually get in? I thought you’d be home long before it got dark. In the Magpie, I suppose, celebrating the murder of a fox!’
‘No,’ Felix said and drank some coffee to steady him. ‘No, there was an accident, I had to stay and help.’
‘Oh,’ Daphne said dully. ‘Somebody fell off, did they? What a shame!’
‘Billy Shepherd,’ answered Felix. ‘He’s been rushed to hospital in Bristol.’
‘Billy Shepherd?’ Daphne screwed up her eyes in concentration.
‘You met him outside church on Christmas Day.’
Daphne’s eyes widened. ‘The fair-haired man with the German wife?’
‘Yes, him.’
‘Yes, I remember. Will he be all right?’
‘I don’t know, Daphne. Doc Masters said it was bad; he could end up paralysed.’
‘But that’s awful!’ cried Daphne. She picked up her coffee cup, drained it and poured herself more.
‘So, what happened to you?’ Felix asked, not wanting to speculate further on Billy’s injuries. ‘You seem to have had a party all by yourself.’
‘And why not?’ snapped Daphne. ‘You were out hunting and short of spending the rest of the day with your mother, there was no one else to party with.’
‘But a whole bottle of gin?’ Felix was incredulous.
‘It wasn’t a whole bottle,’ Daphne replied defensively. ‘It wasn’t full when I started.’
‘As near as dammit!’ retorted Felix.
Daphne glared at him. Her curse had been late and she’d had some idea of encouraging its arrival with large quantities of gin. It seemed to have worked, too, but that wasn’t an explanation she could offer him.
‘I got bored,’ was all she said. ‘Bored! Bored! Bored!’
The row was on the horizon, the thunderclouds of recrimination building and the storm might have broken but for an insistent ringing on the doorbell.
Felix got to his feet to answer it and glancing out of the window saw a Rolls parked in the drive.
‘I think it’s Sir Michael,’ he said.
Daphne, now dressed only in a bathrobe, made a dash for the stairs, scooting up them at great speed as Felix struggled with the bolts that secured the front door. On opening it he found it was, indeed, Sir Michael standing on the doorstep.
‘Ah, morning, Bellinger,’ he said, and without waiting for an invitation, he stepped into the hall.
‘Sir Michael.’ Felix was very much aware of still being in his dressing gown, with tousled hair and an unshaven chin. ‘Come in.’
He led Sir Michel into the drawing room, pulling back the curtains to allow grey daylight to seep in.
‘Come to ask you what happened yesterday,’ Sir Michael said without preamble. ‘John Shepherd’s been on the phone. I hear young Billy’s been taken to hospital and his horse had to be shot. Bad business all round. Can you throw any light on it? Couldn’t ask John, he was just leaving for the hospital.’
The two men sat down on either side of the cold fireplace and Felix put the Master in possession of the details as he knew them.
‘And you think this man on the skewbald caused the accident? Young Shepherd was hunting a novice horse, you know.’
‘He’d hunted him before, several times at the end of last season,’ Felix said. ‘And he was settled and going well yesterday.’
‘Still, he can’t put the blame on someone else for his own fall.’ It was clear to Felix that Sir Michael intended to distance the hunt and anyone who’d been riding with it from any involvement with the accident. ‘How is the boy?’ continued Sir Michael. ‘D’you know?’
‘I haven’t heard this morning,’ answered Felix, trying to control his anger at the Master’s attitude. ‘I shall ring the doctor in a while.’
‘The doctor? Why the doctor?’ Sir Michael sounded surprised. ‘Surely the people to ask are his parents when they get back from the hospital... or his wife.’
‘I really don’t think you understand the severity of Billy Shepherd’s injuries,’ Felix said tightly. ‘To be quite honest with you, Sir Michael, I don’t think there’ll be any news yet, and if there is, I doubt it’s going to be good.’
Before Sir Michael could reply, the drawing-room door opened and Daphne appeared. In the fifteen minutes since Sir Michael had arrived she had managed to dress, put on her make-up and brush her hair into flowing waves about her face. She paused, framed in the doorway, then her hand flew to her mouth as she said, ‘Felix, darling, I didn’t realise we had a guest. I heard the doorbell, but I thought it was the paper boy.’
The hell you did! thought Felix as she stepped forward and extended her hand to Sir Michael.
‘How d’you do? I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Daphne Bellinger.’
Sir Michael was on his feet in an instant, returning her smile and introducing himself. Felix, amazed at Daphne’s unexpected appearance and her transformation, all signs of bleary-eyed hangover masked with skilful make-up, hair shining and smooth, suddenly realised that he should have performed the introductions and said lamely, ‘I don’t think you’ve met my wife, have you, Sir Michael?’
‘No, indeed,’ beamed Sir Michael, falling prey to Daphne’s wide blue eyes and shy, tentative air. ‘I hear we’re going to have to teach you to ride, my dear,’ he said, still holding her hand in his own.
‘Oh, Sir Michael, I’m not sure—’
‘Sir Michael came to find out what happened to Billy,’ Felix interrupted, and as if suddenly remembering himself, Sir Michael let go of Daphne’s hand.
‘Oh, such a dreadful thing!’ wailed Daphne. ‘I do hope the poor man will soon be better.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t worry too much, my dear,’ began Sir Michael. ‘Lots of us who hunt take a tumble from time to—’
He was interrupted by the shrill of the telephone. Daphne sank gracefully into an armchair, and without looking at Felix, said, ‘Answer that, darling, will you? I’m sure it’ll be for you.’
Felix strode into the hall and snatched up the receiver.
‘Felix Bellinger.’
‘Felix? It’s Henry Masters.’
Felix caught his breath. ‘Any news?’ he managed to ask.
‘Yes, I’m afraid there is. Billy died at five o’clock this morning.’
‘What?’ Felix’s voice was a croak.
‘Charlotte was with him.’
‘But the hospital? The doctors there...’
‘Could do nothing for him. It was as I feared, he’d a broken skull. Felix, if he hadn’t died, he’d have been totally paralysed from the neck down. I hate to say this and I certainly wouldn’t say it to Charlotte or any of the family, but for Billy it was best. The Billy we all knew and loved wouldn’t have wanted to spend the rest of his life unable to move, entirely dependent on someone else for the slightest thing.’
Felix couldn’t speak, he simply nodded into the telephone. Knowing he was still there, Henry Masters went on, ‘I told John I’d let you know. There’ll be an inquest, of course, but I’m sure it’ll bring in accidental death or death by misadventure.’
‘Thank you for letting me know,’ Felix managed. ‘Tell them I’ll deal with Rustler, get him picked up by the meat wagon.’
‘That would be kind,’ said Henry. ‘I’ll tell them.’
Felix stood in the hall, the weight of the news bearing down upon him. Billy was dead. His wife was a widow and his children would have to grow up without a father. He wanted to shout out loud against the unfairness of it all. Yesterday, Billy had been laughing and joking, declaring it a perfect day; it had turned out to be anything but. Felix drew several deep breaths before he’d collected himself enough to return to the drawing room. As he came through the door, Daphne was laughing at some remark Sir Michael had made. They both looked up as he came in.
‘Who was it, darling?’ she asked, as if she really wanted to know.
‘Billy Shepherd’s dead,’ said Felix tonelessly. ‘There’ll be an inquest.’
*
Charlotte was still dry-eyed when Margaret and John arrived at the hospital in the morning. She had continued to sit with Billy for a while, and when they had come to take him away, she had waited until he was laid out on a bed in a small room in the basement, and then gone back to sit with him again. But now it wasn’t Billy who lay there, so still and pale, his eyes closed as if asleep. Not her Billy whose eyes were bright blue, wide with laughter and the joy of life, with his halo of blond curls springing up round his head, with his generous, mobile mouth. Not her Billy, lying so still and silent. Later, a nurse came in and told her that Billy’s parents had arrived and were waiting outside.
‘They’ve spoken to the doctor,’ she said. ‘They know he’s passed away.’
Charlotte nodded and letting go of Billy’s hand, leaned over and kissed his face for the last time before walking out of the room, rigid with self-control.
Her parents-in-law, drawn-faced, went in and took her place at the bedside while Charlotte went upstairs and waited. They were about to leave when Jane appeared. She hurried across to them, her face pale with anxiety.
‘I only just got your message,’ she cried. ‘Tell me it’s not true!’ But one look at the trio standing by the main entrance told her it was, and her face crumpled.
‘What happened?’ she whispered. And quietly her father explained.
‘You should have called me sooner,’ she said bitterly, and Charlotte knew it was true. She should have thought of Jane, working in this very hospital, but she hadn’t. Her entire being had been focused on Billy.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘So you should be.’
‘Now, Jane,’ said her father gently. ‘We’re all upset. Charlotte’s been up all night.’
Jane said no more, but with an angry scowl went down to make her own farewells to her brother.
Caroline was looking after the children, and Charlotte had phoned, to tell her the news and to ask her not to tell Johnny what had happened. ‘I’ll tell him when I get home,’ she said. ‘I need to tell him myself.’ Caroline understood and though she had taken them back to Blackdown House, where everything she needed for the care of Edie was at hand, she’d simply told Johnny that Mummy would be home again soon and suggested that he set up his farm animals. Once Edie was fed and comfortable, Caroline joined him at the kitchen table, helping him to build fences for his fields and paddocks with forks and spoons from the cutlery drawer. They were just building a farmhouse with some of his bricks when Charlotte got home. John and Margaret had brought her back from Bristol and dropped her off at the end of the lane.
‘Wouldn’t you like us to come in with you?’ Margaret had protested, but Charlotte had held firm.
‘No, thank you. I need to be with the children in our own home.’
‘Well, if you’re sure...’ Margaret had sounded a little put-out.
‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte was adamant, ‘I have to do this by myself.’
Margaret seemed about to pursue the subject, but John put a hand on her arm and said, ‘Leave her, Meg, Charlotte has to do this her own way.’ Charlotte gave him a look of gratitude and he went on, ‘She knows we’re here to help her in any way we can.’
So Charlotte got out of the car and without looking back, walked up the lane to her home and her children.
‘Mummy!’ cried Johnny in delight as she came in through the back door. ‘Look, me and Auntie Caro have made a farm with my an’mals.’
Charlotte forced a smile and said, ‘So you have, Johnny. Well done.’
‘I’m going to show it to Daddy when he comes home. He’ll like it, too, won’t he, Mummy?’
Caroline looked across at Charlotte, not knowing how to respond. Charlotte bent down and hugged Johnny fiercely to her. ‘Of course he will, it’s a lovely farm.’ Her eyes were bright with unshed tears as she said, ‘Caro, will you take Edie out for a breath of fresh air?’
‘Of course.’ It was a relief to Caroline to scoop up Edie and put her in the pram.
‘Can I go, too?’ demanded Johnny. ‘Are you going to the playground, Auntie Caro? Can I come?’
‘No, darling,’ Charlotte replied. ‘You and I are going to finish building your farm.’
When Caroline had left, Charlotte settled herself at the table and watched Johnny for several moments, not knowing how to tell him.
‘This is the pigsty,’ he told her, as he pushed three forks together and put one of the pink pigs into its sty. ‘She going to have piglets soon. Daddy says they need lots of space when they’re about to farrow.’
Charlotte’s heart contracted with love for him, so much Billy’s son, already a farmer at heart. She reached out a hand and said, ‘Johnny, come here, darling. Come and sit on my knee for a minute.’
The seriousness of her voice must have got through to him, for he put down the pig and looked at her for a moment before taking her hand and clambering onto her lap.
‘Darling, you know Daddy went out hunting yesterday—’ she began.
‘He was riding Rustler,’ Johnny interrupted. ‘He’s the bestest horse in the world, isn’t he?’
‘He was a lovely horse,’ Charlotte agreed, blinking back her tears, ‘but yesterday there was an accident. Poor Rustler fell over and Daddy fell off.’
Johnny glanced up at her. ‘Poor Rustler,’ he said and then added, ‘Poor Daddy. Where is he?’ He looked round as if expecting to see his father walk in the door. ‘Did he hurt himself?’
‘Yes, Johnny, I’m afraid he did. He bumped his head very badly. He went to the hospital, but the doctors couldn’t make him better.’
‘Why not?’ asked Johnny, still unaware of the enormity of what she was trying to tell him.
‘He was too badly hurt. Darling, poor Daddy couldn’t get better.’ Charlotte pulled her son tightly against her, burying her face in the fair curls that were Billy’s. ‘Poor Daddy has died, Johnny. He won’t be coming home any more.’
‘But I want to show him my farm!’ Johnny cried.
‘I know you do, darling, but you can’t. Daddy’s not coming home again.’ She took a deep breath and overcoming the lump in her throat that threatened to choke her, went on, ‘Johnny, darling, I’m afraid Daddy’s dead.’
‘Like Mitzi was dead?’ Johnny asked with a frown, remembering the still form of his grandmother’s cat who had died a few weeks earlier.
‘Yes,’ Charlotte said. ‘Like Mitzi.’
Johnny looked up into her face and tears came to his eyes. ‘But I don’t want Daddy to be dead,’ he wailed.
Their tears mingled as she held their son, hers and Billy’s, close against her. ‘No, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘Nor do I.’