| |
TED SPENT THE NEXT few weekends at the Gatehouse, kipped on a mate’s sofa during the week, and hid from Grace and James so that he didn’t have to explain Anju’s absence to them or to his mother.
Alexander was conflicted, sure of his need to support Ted, but caught in the dilemma of keeping it a secret from the rest of his family. ‘You can’t go on like this. The engagement is clearly off. You’ll have to tell Mother, and find yourself somewhere to live.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was such an imposition.’
‘Don’t be dramatic. I’m not saying you’re not welcome. I’m saying it might be time to call it quits. It’s been weeks, Ted, and Anju still hasn’t spoken to you. We need to tell them at the Hall. Christmas is only a couple of weeks away. You and Anj have got tickets for the ball, for God’s sake, and while you’re hiding, Mother and Grace think you’ve stopped talking to them.’ Alexander dropped into the chair across the room from his brother. Ted kept his gaze on the TV. ‘I won’t be able to hold them off much longer. But you ought to warn Anju first. Surely she’s got to talk to you at some point?’
‘To be fair, she hasn’t got to do anything, has she? I could text, or email, but I haven’t got a clue if she’s reading the messages.’
‘Text her then, and I’ll call her to make sure she’s got it. You have to take control, Ted. That’s the only thing left to you.’
Ted sent a text, one of countless he had sent in the previous weeks, all sincere and regretful. Alexander waited an hour before making his follow-up call. Anju didn’t answer.
‘Damn! There’s nothing more frustrating than being blanked.’
‘I guess that’s her answer then.’
But twenty minutes later, Ted’s phone buzzed. ‘Yes! She’s at home, and she wants to talk. Shit, get me to the station, Al.’
‘Fuck that, I’ll drive you back.’
After a two-hundred-mile round trip, made longer by London traffic, it was after midnight when Alexander got back to the Gatehouse. He turned the ignition off and rolled his shoulders to ease the cramp at the base of his neck. It was peaceful in the car, pitch behind the windows, just the hum and click of the engine settling, a single light, slow blinking on the dashboard. The irony of it. Here he was making heroic dashes to save his brother’s relationship, and yet when it came to his own...
Ruby would probably still be up. He toyed with the idea of going to see her. Not for sex, but because he was restless and unsettled now. He needed some lightness and banter, some mood refreshment. No chance of that with Ruby if he rolled up at midnight again. He rubbed his forehead.
He hoped Ted and Anju would find a way through their problems. And he wished this whole situation hadn’t made his own thoughts keep scurrying back to Hettie. Still the void, the throb of pain. At least Ruby didn’t have the power to hurt him like that.
––––––––
JULIAN REGRETTED REPORTING the pictures on Facebook because the page had now disappeared. Gratified as he was that it might have been his actions that caused it, it still meant his spyhole had closed. He hoped it shook Hettie. He wanted to know it had. He closed his eyes to better imagine her face, licked his lips with a drink-slackened tongue. Too pissed to maintain coherent thought, his head dropped back on the sofa.
A lit cigarette fell from his loosened fingers and landed on the dirty green carpet. The charring of synthetic fibre did not filter through his dulled senses, and the black singe of smoulder crept wider. The flames caught on the armchair, licked his ankle with flares of heat. The pain in his leg roused him. He grunted awake. Then he roared and propelled himself out of the chair, confused and staggering. He stumbled away from the fire, out to the corridor, with the leg of his trousers smoking.
––––––––
THERE WAS NO QUESTION Julian was out of a job. The trainer had already been close to sacking him, aware the man was coming to work in a state of inebriation. That in itself wasn’t unheard of. The overhung effects of the night before could be tolerated if the work rate justified such tolerance. In Julian’s case, the scales had tipped too far some months ago. He had kept his place only because of the iron rod with which he controlled the lads. But burning down the staff accommodation was an offence that could not be overlooked.
No man or horse in Newmarket was sorry to see him go.
Julian slunk home with his burnt leg in bandages and his rancorous tail between his legs. His father had ejected him from the family home years ago, and his mother was long gone, but sister Lucy would be there for him. The only member of his family who knew the meaning of loyalty, the only one who still spoke to him. He would go to Lucy’s house and lay low. From the window of her boxy spare room he would have a new spyhole. Across the valley and off to the west, if you craned your neck at just the right angle, the rooftops of Hardacre Farm were visible.
That thought gave Julian the first buzz of anticipation he had enjoyed in months.
––––––––
FIONA STRODE OUT OF the lecture room, a leather document wallet under her arm, a matching tan briefcase swinging in her hand. Her heels clicked on the tiles of the empty corridor. She was in a hurry, cutting out of class to collect Fritz from the vet. His wicker cat basket, lined in soft sheepskin, sat on the passenger seat of her car. She’d bought him a new tartan collar and organic treats, to tempt him after his operation. Fiona always drove fast. Today she’d forgotten to change into her driving shoes, so the red Mini jolted and lurched out of its parking place.
Fritz appeared woozy, his tilted stride even more crooked than usual, but he purred when Fiona tickled his chin. She set his basket on the reception desk. ‘Ruby, isn’t it?’
Ruby smiled, opened her mouth to reply, but Fiona went on. ‘Alexander’s latest shag. You poor cow. Rapid rebound that one, even for Alexander.’
––––––––
BERT AND HETTIE RODE back onto the yard with a clatter of horseshoes on concrete. The terriers barked from the bungalow and horses’ heads appeared over stable doors. Lockie neighed to Snoop, his ribs quivering under Hettie’s legs.
Bert dismounted with a bounce, took a sidestep to regain his balance, and patted his horse. ‘Can’t deny you’ve worked wonders with that one. He went straight past that carrier bag this one thought was a booby trap.’
Hettie grinned and rubbed her gloved hand along Lockie’s neck. ‘Wasn’t he a star? Do you fancy helping me put him over a jump while he’s being so good?’
‘Aye. Seein’ as if I say no you’ll do it anyway when I’ve gone.’
Bert dragged two poles across the arena and lifted their ends onto low plastic blocks.
‘He’ll trip over that without seeing it!’
Hettie circled Lockie, starting with a slow trot at the end of the arena, passing by the blue and white poles, testing his reaction. His stride was long and relaxed, his powerful back legs stepping easily under his body. She turned him to face the jump. Lockie raised his head, Hettie felt his sides tense, and she grabbed a handful of mane. It was as well she had. Lockie leapt high, clearing three feet of air above the poles and snatching at his bit as they landed.
‘Lad’s got potential.’
‘Hasn’t he just.’ She came round again, rubbing her knuckles against his shoulder, holding him straight with her legs. He gave another big jump, but this time controlled, a curve of his back beneath her, the stretch of his neck taking the reins forwards. He landed in a canter.
‘One more.’
Lockie mouthed his bit. He was learning the game now. He shortened his stride as Hettie turned to the jump, sprung off his back legs, lifting her over.
‘Wow. Good boy.’
Lockie flicked his heels, as if expressing his joy at this new fun.
Hettie looked at Bert. ‘I’m sorely tempted to put the jump up, but I think we’ll call it a day. Leave the jump there.’
––––––––
HETTIE WASN’T GOING to the Draymere Hunt Ball. No one had tried to persuade her to either, which niggled a little. Fiona was taking Gregor, and Grace had told Hettie that tickets had sold in record time when word got out there’d be a celebrity attending.
Hettie planned to spend her evening re-tiling the bathroom. She had ripped the old tiles off (very satisfying) and watched a how-to video on YouTube. Her shiny new tiles were stacked in the corner.
The bungalow was shaping up after she’d spent days off painting, hanging pictures and shoving furniture about. Hettie had propped a branch of silver birch in the corner of the room and decorated it with baubles and tinsel that Kitten kept dragging off. Imogen had taken her on as a charity case, a useful destination for chuck-outs from the homes she redesigned, the recycled items all better quality than Hettie could have bought. Like the Liberty curtains she was going to hang in her sitting room. Their bright, geometric pattern might not have been Hettie’s choice, but they were thick and lined and would shut out the black winter night that menaced the bay window.
She changed into her oldest jeans and a faded T-shirt, carried the radio into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. Pig and Kitten liked to help with DIY, and the trail of paint prints on the kitchen floor was a sorry result of that.
The job was fiddly, absorbing. Hettie hummed along to the radio, until ‘Lady in Red’ came on. She dusted her hands on her jeans and turned the radio off. The bungalow fell into silence. Alexander would be at the ball with someone else this year. Three rows of tiles stuck on the wall, clean, bright and sanitary. Time for a break, something to eat and then late stables.
She suppressed a shudder as she passed the black bay window. The sooner she got those curtains hung the better. It wasn’t as if the bungalow was overlooked. There was only a field out there, but tonight the blank windows felt almost threatening. She turned off the light in the sitting room and ate in the kitchen, annoyed with herself for pandering to the prickle on the back of her neck.
Calling Doris and Pig, Hettie stepped out into the moonlit night, a shiver of frost covered the ground. The dogs shot off into Hardacre paddock in a frenzy of yapping, scampering into the blackness. A deer, or a fox, she told herself.
She turned on the lights in every stable. The warmth and soft breath of the horses was reassuring. There were beds to tidy and hay nets to fill.
Lockie was alert. His chest pressed against the door, ears pricked in the direction the dogs had run. Hettie rested her cheek against his soft muzzle. The dogs had stopped barking, but she thought she might stay with Lockie until they reappeared.
When Doris and Pig trotted back into sight they were bright with excitement. Hettie turned the stable lights off and walked swiftly back to the bungalow. She turned the key in the lock of the kitchen door.