Wild Weekend Page 18

  ‘Of course,’ Bel agreed. ‘Red, wasn’t it? Oliver likes red.’ Made for each other, that’s what you are. You like red wine and Oliver likes red wine. It’s a perfect match. ‘Stay by the fire, get warmed up. I’ll bring the glasses in here.’

  Perhaps, Bel thought as she dashed back to the kitchen, I’d better not call her dear, or anything else like that. Young girls can be a bit funny, always worried that they’re being patronised. Now, where’s that bottle?

  Heavens! Where are they going to sleep? I’ve got the ironing all over the bed in the Rose Room. What about sheets? And towels? And the bathrooms – nobody’s cleaned one of those baths since I washed Garrick in it last week. Oliver will have to hold the fort while I get the rooms ready.

  She threw together a tray with salted nuts, cocktail napkins and three impeccably filled wine glasses, and carried it to the drawing room as fast as she could manage. Then nearly dropped it. There was the mother. Oh dear.

  ‘Isn’t this lovely?’ said Clare Marlow, standing in front of the fire and feeling the glorious warmth on the backs of her legs. ‘So, well thought out. With all these marvellous things. Antiques, obviously.’ People always called old furniture antique.

  ‘I’m Bel Hardcastle,’ Bel said again, putting down the tray and turning around to offer her hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Clare said. ‘And you’re the owner?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Beyond firm, that shake. A vice-like grip, quite honestly. A classic bone-crusher. Obviously she’d spent all her career dealing with men and absorbed those awful boardroom manners. Crunch, crunch, my dick is bigger than your dick.

  ‘Well, congratulations. You must be very successful.’

  ‘Not really.’ Bel felt herself blush, just a little. ‘Maybe it just looks like that.’

  ‘It certainly does.’ Clare reached for her glass. So did Miranda.

  Bel reached for her glass in turn, and raised it. ‘Well, good health, everybody,’ she said. Good healthy babies. At least two of them. Soon. As soon as possible. If the other mother was a boardroom type, she wouldn’t be interfering, at least.

  ‘Er – yes,’ Clare agreed, sipping graciously. Miranda gulped. This woman was pretty good at the old family atmosphere stuff. It was even working on her mother.

  Crashing and stamping resounded from the hall, followed by the patter of dog feet. Garrick appeared in the doorway, caught a beam of disapproval from Bel and lumbered around to head for the kitchen. Outside the door, luggage thumped on the floor.

  ‘Oliver!’ Bel called. ‘Won’t you come and entertain our guests? I need to – ah – check on things.’

  In another minute, Oliver reappeared, more tousled than before but now wearing shoes.

  ‘We’ve all introduced ourselves,’ she told him as she made for the door in her turn. ‘I’ve got to sort the bedrooms. And see what I can do about dinner.’

  Much was accomplished in the next twenty minutes.

  Oliver discovered that the appealing creature was called Miranda.

  Bel aired two bedrooms, made two beds, cleaned two bathrooms and battled out into her garden to pick posies of spring flowers to put in Ironstone cream jugs on the dressing tables. Then she chopped a second onion, dragged out the larger saucepan and rummaged in the deep freeze for some pheasant breasts.

  Clare learned an enormous amount about Saxwold. Inhabited since the Bronze Age at least, and close to the site of a notable ship burial whose sumptuous grave goods, including the important Saxwold Cauldron, were now in the British Museum. A busy port in Roman times, since when, of course, the sea had retreated. Captured by Oswin, king of Dacia, in his wars against the Mercians in the sixth century. Hence the dedication of the parish church. Oswin didn’t deserve to be a saint really, probably wouldn’t have been canonised nowadays, never martyred or anything like that, probably not even a Christian, but was made a saint for ‘doing Christian deeds’. Obviously they were pretty desperate for British saints in the sixth century. The village was mentioned in the Domesday Book, of course, as quite a substantial settlement although obviously in decline even then because the port was long gone. Welcomed Wat Tyler in 1459, as well as the Pilgrimage of Grace in 1536, and managed to escape the notice of the Roundheads in 1647. Enclosure of Saxwold Common achieved in 1703, with only minimal rioting. Lord Nelson slept in Saxwold Manor on his way home from sinking the Danish fleet in the North Sea in 1801.

  Oliver listened to himself in horror, unable to stop drivelling through this history stuff he didn’t even know he knew even though he was sounding like a complete prat. Helplessly, he heard the unstoppable gush of tedium continue at full force but couldn’t find a way to end it. A deep pit of silence, full of invisible horrors and unavoidable doom, was yawning in front of him and it seemed the only way to avoid it was to keep talking. Oliver had never considered himself anywhere near suave, and a couple of years in the country hadn’t given his conversation skills much of an outing. Now he was like one of those mythological characters cursed to spew out toads and snakes whenever he opened his mouth.

  All the time he was talking on autopilot, part of his brain was trying to identify the face of this scary woman with laser eyes who was shredding his nerves a little worse every time they made contact with his. But he knew her face was familiar. Maybe she was an actress in a soap opera, but somehow he didn’t think so.

  And at the same time, he was watching the appealing creature wilt in front of him, sinking into the cushions and curling up as if she was going to burst into flames and spontaneously combust with boredom. Oh God, oh God. How to get out of this before he completely stuffed his chances?

  I have to get him on his own, Miranda thought, watching the log fire burn down while she drifted pleasurably into a trance of warmth, comfort, relief and red wine. And preferably a thousand miles away from my mother. She’s making him feel like a worm. We’ll have that in common, anyway. My mother would be so mad if she knew I was eyeing up the waiter, or whatever he is. Can I really pull this off? Can I really grab this gorgeous boy and stop this weekend being a complete waste of time?

  ‘I wonder,’ she said, when Oliver at last paused for breath, ‘if we could have another log on the fire or something?’

  ‘Goodness. Yes. Of course. Right away.’ Oh, the relief. A way out of this mad labyrinth. Oliver came down from his cloud of panic and noticed empty glasses. ‘And let me get you another drink.’

  He poured more wine, piled the last logs in the basket on to the glowing embers and was heading for the door to fetch in some more from the woodpile when Bel reappeared, saying, ‘There, everything’s all ready. Would you like to take up the bags, Oliver, and show our guests to their rooms? I’ve put Clare in the Rose Room and Miranda at the end of the corridor.’

  It seemed advisable to get old Laser Lids settled first, so Oliver grabbed what he guessed was Clare’s bag and said, ‘Would you like to follow me?’

  ‘We’d better decide what to do about dinner,’ Clare said to her daughter.

  ‘I’m absolutely knackered,’ Miranda said firmly, adding, ‘How late is it?’ in case her mother hadn’t got the message.

  Just for once, the communication was perfect. ‘Yes, it is late, isn’t it? Don’t let us put you to too much trouble. Maybe we could just have something in our rooms?’ Clare said to the hotel owner. ‘You could send up some sandwiches. Could we see a menu?’

  A menu! Send up some sandwiches! What a nerve the woman had! How right she had been to get out of London and leave these awful rude people behind. A menu, for heaven’s sake! Bel struggled not to sink to the same level. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, smiling her sweetest to shame the demanding bitch, ‘there’s not much choice tonight. Some cold chicken, or ham, or we’ve got a rather nice local cheese …’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Clare quickly. People occasionally had local cheeses in the Agraria offices. They seemed to be greasy, stinking substances that probably worked out at a thousand calories an ounce. No, no, no. ‘Just chic
ken’s quite all right.’

  ‘And for me,’ Miranda added. Chicken: OK in small portions without the skin.

  ‘Well,’ said Bel. ‘That should be easy enough.’ And she suppressed a flounce as she made for the kitchen, where she poured her sense of offence into two of the most lavish club sandwiches she had ever devised, featuring home-made mayonnaise and generous amounts of crisp bacon. These were prettied up with salad and installed on trays with napkins, just in time for Oliver to take them up to the bedrooms.

  Bel thought of saying something about the other mother, but restrained herself. Plenty of time to be critical after they were married. Just let them get married. Please.

  When she was alone in her room, Miranda whipped out her phone and called Dido.

  ‘You’ll never guess,’ she began.

  ‘Oh no. Not you too. Who is it?’

  ‘The waiter. He’s gorgeous. Do you think I can?’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘She won’t know. Not tonight, anyway. We’re having an “early night”. We’re tired. Supper on room service.’

  Dido’s giggle, a contralto skylark, echoed in her ear. ‘Sounds good to me. Go for it. Get him to go out with you somewhere.’

  ‘I’ve got to, haven’t I? It’s now or never. Right, gotta run. Need a shower.’

  In another ten minutes, Oliver was knocking at her door. ‘Room service,’ he said, jokingly.

  The door was opened, and there she was, all amazingly wet and in a bathrobe, rubbing her hair with a towel. ‘Oh, it’s you again,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ he confirmed. It seemed like a safe thing to say. ‘Where would you like your supper?’

  ‘Just put it on the table over there,’ said Miranda, watching him as he walked across the room. Absolutely gorgeous. Now or never.

  ‘So, what are the pubs like round here?’ she said.

  ‘Well, there’s only one in the village,’ he answered, inhaling the scent of woman plus bath gel. An aroma so wonderful that his brain fogged up like a shower-room door. ‘The Pigeon & Pipkin. It’s your basic country pub really.’

  ‘I think we stopped there on the way – to ask directions. I suppose it’s a pub in the sense that they sell alcohol.’

  ‘Yes. Otherwise nobody would go there.’ Her hair was all smooth, even when it was wet. How extraordinary. How lovely. How beautiful, the way it grew just like that …

  ‘Isn’t there anywhere a bit more funky? Or whatever you do for funky round here?’

  Was she leading up to something? Nah. Was that bathrobe wrapped as well as it could have been? Well … ‘There’s The Yattenham Arms on the road to Yattenham St Mary. That’s the whole nine yards – log fires, oak beams, inglenooks or whatever.’

  ‘You go there?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Not the sharpest tool in the box, this one. Standing there like a pudding, missing all the tricks. Definitely more balls than brains. Miranda toyed with a piece of lettuce then crunched it with meaning. ‘Is it easy to find, this Yatterwhatever Arms place …’

  ‘Yattenham Arms. No, you can’t miss it; just turn right at the end of the lane, go through the village, stay on that road till you get the sign for Yattenham St Mary and it’ll be bang in front of you in about five minutes.’ OK, this looks good, Oliver thought. Can I run with this? ‘I could show you tomorrow, if you like.’

  ‘Why not show me tonight? You’ll be free before they close.’

  ‘Um – yes. Yes I will. Yes, that’s a good idea.’

  ‘What time and where?’

  Would his mother be charmed if she knew he was making a move on her friend’s daughter? Probably not. Unless this was, in fact, some plot of his mother’s to get him hitched. He wouldn’t put it past her. But since he had no plans to get hitched, it would be best if his mother knew nothing. Either way, proceed with caution. Where the hell could they meet without his mother knowing? ‘Why don’t we say ten? I’ll wait for you out by the car.’

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there.’

  Bloody hell. I’ve been pulled. Oliver found himself walking along the landing, in fact, trying not to skip along the landing, or even, metaphorically, to run along the landing with his jersey over his head being hugged by his teammates and waving in triumph to the roaring crowd.

  ‘This is it,’ said Video Guy in the hired van full of foxes. He was no longer sleeping but making himself useful reading the map. ‘This is the B237 and that was the place called Something St Mary and if we take the next turning off it we should go through Great Somewhere and that’s where we’re staying.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ mumbled Ashok. The two men had changed seats. Ashok had been unable to read the map. ‘You have such bizarre names for places in England,’ he had said, and, clearly mystified, he had opened out the map and turned it around and around, intermittently blocking Carole’s view of the road, and getting them thoroughly lost somewhere north of Cambridge, where they shouldn’t have been at all. The first episode of disharmony had taken place at that point.

  ‘Yes,’ said Carole. Her arms ached from the steering wheel and her feet ached from the pedals and her back ached from the length of time she had been driving. ‘So how far are we from the drop zone?’

  On the map, she had marked the location selected for the release of the foxes into the wild with a large red cross in a circle. Video Guy could hardly miss it. ‘It’s only about half a mile from Great Somewhere,’ he said. ‘We can just drive on a bit later. Or maybe in the morning.’

  ‘We’re going there first,’ she insisted. ‘Poor little loves, they’ll be miserable after all this time in the van. I don’t want them to have to wait one more minute before we set them free.’

  ‘Do we have to do it in the rain? Does it ever stop raining in England?’ asked Ashok.

  ‘No,’ said Carole and Video Guy together. ‘Except for global warming,’ Video Guy added. Carole nodded, agreeing that it was their duty to let every American know exactly how disastrous their country’s energy policies were for the rest of the world. They would both have been content to release Ashok into the wild as well.

  In another hour the first part of their mission was accomplished. Sweeney, and thirty-seven more formerly urban foxes, had been turned out of their cages and let loose at the edge of a ploughed field, where most had streaked for cover on shaking legs, and hidden themselves in the hedges.

  Carole, wearing leather gloves, had had to pull the most terrified animals out of their cages. Sweeney was the last. He sank down to the earth as if he could disappear into it. ‘Don’t you worry, Tickletums,’ she said to him. ‘All over now. No more cages. No more city. You’re free.’

  ‘You’re free. Better get used to it,’ Ashok agreed, looking at the cowering animal with mild fascination. ‘Is he all right? Are they meant to do that?’

  ‘He’ll be fine when we’ve left him,’ said Carole, a lump in her throat. ‘He’s just scared, that’s all.’ Sweeney had become her favourite. Even though there had been traces of human flesh in his stomach contents.

  Out in the darkness they could just make out another fox, hopelessly disoriented, slowly running around in small circles. Sweeney was trembling on his belly, tongue lolling and eyes wide.

  ‘Time to say goodbye,’ said Ashok, waving a languid hand.

  ‘Bye bye, Gorgeous,’ called Carole softly into the darkness. Her eyes prickled with tears.

  ‘If we don’t get moving the pub’ll be shut,’ called Video Guy from the van, where he had retreated for a cigarette.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Ashok. ‘I can’t believe we’re going to be staying in a real English pub.’

  In another hour, Sweeney dared to move. He slunk to the edge of the field and crept along beside the hedge. The territory, as far as he discovered, was harsh. Cold, wet, no cover, no hint of food. And a disgusting smell. A smell that made you want to puke. A smell that called a shapeless red rage out of the depths of his being. It was the smell of bad
ger, but Sweeney knew nothing of badgers. All he knew was that he had to get away from the stink.

  Best not, Oliver thought, let on too much to my mother. Don’t want her getting on my case about girlfriends again. Just talk about other things.

  Best not, Bel thought, ask too many questions just now. Don’t want him getting all stroppy because he thinks I’m interfering. Just make light conversation.

  ‘Terrible rain …’ they began together, as soon as Bel had poured her soup. So they laughed, only a little jittery, and Oliver allowed his mother to finish on the subject of the weather.

  ‘Supposed to brighten up tomorrow …’ they said again in unison, and laughed again, and this time Bel allowed Oliver to finish on the subject of the forecast for Friday and rest of the weekend.

  ‘She’s a bit …’ he began again, at the same time as Bel ventured, ‘I’m quite glad that …’ By then they were on to the bread and cheese, and bold enough to explore the subject of their older guest’s courtesy-free presentation.

  ‘She is a bit … grand, isn’t she?’ said Oliver.

  ‘I’m quite glad that they’re having an early night,’ was as far as Bel was prepared to go, but then, to show understanding, she added, ‘I suppose they do get like that, women who’ve had to make their own way in a man’s world.’

  ‘I’m sure I know her face from somewhere,’ said Oliver.

  ‘She’s got one of those faces,’ his mother agreed. ‘Is it because she looks like somebody in one of those soap operas? I never know who’s supposed to be famous nowadays.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Oliver, thinking it best to get out of this sensitive area as fast as possible. ‘I’d better be getting back. Shall I lock up the chickies for you?’

  ‘Darling, that would be marvellous.’

  No worries there. So far, thought Oliver, striding off in the direction of the henhouse, so good.

  No problem here, thought Bel. So far, so good.

  The Yattenham Arms was more than a pub. It was a work of art, lovingly assembled over centuries, handed on from one artist to the next, always evolving as an expression of rural conviviality.