Lots of Love (70 page)

‘Ding-dong. A bit of a rush job, I gather, but the registrar was
very
accommodating – the vicar was having none of it, alas, although he might be swayed for the funeral. He hasn’t opened the Constantine crypt in ages.’ His cynicism was blistering now, although whether he was referring to his mother’s death or his own was uncertain.

Ellen’s hand flew to her mouth.

‘It’s a huge secret, naturally – breathe a word to anyone and Ely will have us both shot,’ he warned. ‘And that would be very unfortunate – far too hasty and painless a death for me as far as he’s concerned. He has a more melodramatic dispatch in mind.’

She stared at him in disbelief.

‘Godspell and I will trot obediently up the aisle shortly before the start of the big race,’ he explained. ‘And then, if Ely has anything to do with it, I gallop obligingly into the river and break my neck “showing off” for my new wife. That would be a nice touch.’

‘Oh, God, why did you agree to ride?’

He seemed to find this hugely funny. ‘Quite frankly, it didn’t seem to matter whether I lived or died at the time.’

‘And now?’

‘Rory’s found me a bloody good horse, but he’ll have to sprout wings to get me out of this one.’

‘You can’t go through with it!’

‘Oh, I can.’ He smiled suddenly, and moved towards her. ‘Don’t you see that it’s the one part of the whole Godforsaken day I’m looking forward to? I won’t be riding for my wife, or my mother, or even poor, wretched Bevis.’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘I’ll be riding for you.’

‘But I won’t be there, Spurs.’

‘Not even going to risk an each-way bet on me, then?’ he looked over her shoulder at the lowering sun. ‘I must go.’

‘No!’ She grabbed hold of him as he jumped out of the folly. ‘You can’t tell me all this and then just walk aw—’

He shut her up with a kiss that stole away her furious protests and tears, panic and confusion, their tongues coiling together with desperate, silent complicity.

When they resurfaced he took her hand and played with the signet ring, which she was still wearing. ‘Will you meet me here at the same time tomorrow?’

She nodded.

‘It’s Ascot week,’ he said. ‘Mother’s leaving her spy network on full alert, but I think I can fool them for a couple of hours. Bring the horseshoe.’ He pulled away and picked up a pile of discarded sweaters from beside a tree stump, and started to pull them over his head.

‘Why?’

‘You still have wishes left for me to grant.’

‘Just one.’ She couldn’t bear the thought of them being separated again.

‘Two,’ he insisted, from the depths of a tatty polo-neck. ‘Your second wish didn’t count.’

‘None of them count any more because you can’t grant the one thing I wish for.’

His face popped out, hair on end, silver eyes stormy. ‘Then you can at least wish me luck.’

Crashing through the undergrowth once more, he grabbed the ancient bicycle that was propped up against the folly and pedalled away.

Ellen and Spurs met at the River Folly each evening in the build-up to Ely’s garden party and the surprise wedding. He would appear dressed in a bizarre assortment of Sharrie’s clothes, rattling down the hill at breakneck speed. Despite the awfulness of their situation, he seemed to take pleasure in his ludicrous costumes and disguises. And they made Ellen laugh. No man but Spurs could look sexy in bright pink fluffy knitwear and bobble-hats. She couldn’t wait to rip them off.

They bathed in the river under the canopy of weeping willow. They made love and talked. He stemmed her tears with his fingers and told her he would die for her.

‘I don’t want you to die,’ she would wail.

‘And I have no intention of croaking just yet.’ He held her closer. ‘But I want you to know that I might vow to be with Godspell till death us do part, but I will love you for eternity.’

‘Come away with me,’ she tried again.

‘I won’t run away this time.’

‘And I can’t stay.’

They lay in the long grass far from the path, listening to dog-walkers idling past, ponies’ soft hooffalls on the dried mud as they enjoyed evening hacks, and the occasional clutch of ramblers yomping along a well-planned hiking route. None were aware of the lovers so close by, the evening sun on their naked skin. Nor did the light aircraft and gliders soaring far overhead spot two entwined bodies as gold as their sedge-grass bed far below. Only the birds kept watch, along with Snorkel, who curled up on their clothes and kept her mad blue eyes trained for anyone or anything that might stray too close.

On the night before the garden party, Spurs forfeited Sharrie’s bicycle and rode the horse Rory had lent him down to their meeting place.

‘This is White Lies.’ He introduced her to the huge grey thoroughbred.

Ellen put a hand on his hard white neck and willed him to look after his rider the next day.

‘Will you be here to watch the race?’ Spurs asked.

She didn’t answer, just pulled the signet ring from her finger and held it out for him to take back.

‘Keep it.’ He looked away.

‘I’m lousy at goodbyes.’

‘I have something else for you.’ He reached into his pocket.

It was the horseshoe nail she had given him the day she’d asked him to take Dilly out. ‘I still owe you this.’

Ellen stared at White Lies’ stamping feet, filled with so many wishes. ‘You know I’ll never come back once I leave.’

‘I know. But I will find you. One day I promise I will find you.’

‘Or you’ll break your sword?’ She fought not to break down as she looked at the nail, then reached into her own pocket, pulling the horseshoe from it along with a crumpled envelope.

‘Here.’ She thrust the envelope at him with shaking hands, then tried to wrench the final nail from its hole.

‘What’s this?’ He pulled out the airline ticket.

‘It’s in your name.’

He pressed it to his forehead, his eyes clenched shut. ‘You know I can’t do it.’

Ellen scrabbled at the stubborn nail, ripping her fingernails and grazing her skin as she fought to free it.

At last she had both nails in her hands and shakily held them up to Spurs. ‘These are my two remaining wishes. You have to choose between them.’ She pressed the first nail to his palm and closed his fingers around it. ‘I wish with all my heart that you would come away with me tomorrow.’

He looked away, almost crucified.

Blind with tears, she pressed the second nail into his palm. ‘If you don’t, then I wish that we had never met . . . and that our paths never, ever cross again. You decide.’

Frantic preparations for Ely Gates’s garden party had been going on all week, with smartly liveried vans trundling along Manor Lane at regular intervals, boasting catering, cleaning, marquee erecting and gardening services from their waxed and polished sides.

Pheely, who had been enjoying a thoroughly good perv at all the activity during regular walks with Hamlet, took every opportunity to pop in on Ellen and update her in the hours building up to her departure. ‘At least three hundred gold-painted chairs went into that marquee today,’ she reported excitedly, on the morning of the party. ‘Dear God, I hope Ely isn’t planning on delivering a sermon.’

Pheely evidently knew nothing about the surprise wedding ceremony. Nor had Ellen told her of her evening trysts with Spurs, although she didn’t doubt that Pheely had guessed about them. Since returning from Kent, Dilly had been riding Otto to the Springlode yard every day to see Rory and reported back to her mother that Spurs was behaving very oddly indeed, cross-dressing and disappearing at odd hours on an ancient bicycle. Pheely predicted happily that Spurs was about to go all-out, old-fashioned, Granville Gates mad, and concluded that Ellen was leaving the village in the nick of time. But on the whole she’d preferred not to dwell upon Spurs during the build-up to Ellen’s departure. She found the party far more diverting as she sought to pretend that Ellen leaving the village meant nothing to her.

‘You could have lent Ely some chairs, come to think of it.’ She wandered about Goose Cottage, checking the labels on every piece of furniture. ‘I must say you’re terribly organised. I’m sure you’ve got bags of time to pop in on the party before you go.’

Ellen, who had woken up with a lump the size of Yorkshire in her throat, was finding difficulty in making even monosyllabic answers.

‘Don’t forget that Dilly has bought a bottle of champagne for us all to share to see you off,’ Pheely reminded her. ‘It cost her practically every penny she has, so I expect you at the Lodge later this morning on pain of death.’ She stooped to collect the ball Snorkel was offering. ‘And you, my darling girl, can settle into your new pad while we toast Mummy on her big adventure.’ She waggled the ball, making the collie leap excitedly in the air. ‘Are you coming to live with me? Are you?’ she teased. ‘Yes! Oh,
yes,
you
are.’

Snorkel barked adoringly.

Ellen turned away her head to hide the tears.

Pheely had insisted on giving the collie a home, pointing out that Snorkel and Hamlet were madly in love and adding that she loved Snorkel’s sense of humour. It was a huge source of relief for Ellen, who had agonised over what to do about the dog when she left, although it made it no easier to face the final farewell.

If only saying farewell to Fins were possible, but the great black and white hunter was still out on manoeuvres. At least Ellen could comfort herself with the thought that his welfare was no longer in doubt – in fact he seemed more concerned about hers, delivering regular gifts in the early hours that she discovered waiting for her on the doorstep each morning. That week’s total already ran at three voles, several fledgling birds and a fat rat. Yet she longed to see him properly ensconced in a new home before she left. Life al fresco in Oddlode might be a riot in summer, but winter was another matter. She needed to know that he would be safe, and loved.

‘I’ll look out for him, darling,’ Pheely had promised. ‘You’re the one whose safety I fear for. As if it’s not enough to spend most of your life jumping from planes or riding waves, you’re now flying long-haul to uncharted waters to become a back-packing drop-out. God, I envy you.’

Pheely had also asked if she could have Ellen’s surfboards to incorporate into a sculpture that she had been commissioned to undertake for the new leisure centre in Market Addington. And she had been impossibly touched when Ellen gave her laptop to Dilly. In exchange, she now gave Ellen the parting gift of a necklace wrapped in an oversized red-spotted handkerchief. It was a chunky pendant made up of intricate Celtic silver knotwork, tarnished with age and neglect, the burnished pink stone at its centre dark-edged with dirt. ‘Watermelon tourmaline,’ she explained. ‘It’s quite rare and has amazing properties – I call it the “funny side” gemstone, because it helps one see happiness in adversity. It opens the heart chakra.’ She winked, knowing that Ellen didn’t believe in that sort of claptrap. ‘And it’s a locket – you can put something in it. I kept a little recreational party grass in it at one point, but the clasp is a bit loose and I was always finding my bra full of best home-grown sensimilla.’

‘Thanks – I’ll treasure it.’ Ellen pressed it to her cheek.

‘Rubbish – you’ll trade it for a taxi-ride in Kazakhstan.’ Pheely giggled. ‘I’d far rather you treasured the kerchief. That was Daddy’s. I thought it was rather fitting – you should bundle your possessions into it.’

Ellen forced a smile: the oversized handkerchief was pure Disney runaway cliché. ‘I’ll tie it to my backpack,’ she promised.

‘You do that.’ Pheely boffed the ball against Snorkel’s nose. ‘Mummy’s seeing the funny side already, isn’t she?’ She glanced up at the kitchen clock. ‘God, I must go back and glue Godspell’s clay facial piercings back on.’ She sighed and threw the ball. ‘My work cannot be hurried, and Ely is getting rather fractious. How was I to know all that body jewellery would drop off in the extreme heat of the kiln?’

She had insisted that she must work on the party’s sculptural centrepiece until the very last minute, and had appalled Ely by arranging for two junior members of the Wyck family to transport it to Manor Farm in Reg’s pick-up later that morning.

‘I can hardly carry it myself,’ she pointed out, smiling naughtily, ‘and they’ve promised they’ll be careful. Besides, they need a way of double-crossing Ely’s threshold, bless them. His gate policy beggars belief, and he believes the Wycks are beggars. Do you know he’s hired West End bouncers to man his manor this year?’

In the interests of appearing benevolent and a true Christian, Ely always invited the entire village to his party and could not exclude the Wycks although, according to Pheely, he tried his best to discourage them from lowering the tone.

‘Daddy used to call the Gates jamboree Royal Faux Pas-scot because they are such dreadful
nouveau
snobs.’ She was heading back out into the garden. ‘Ely
insists
that men wear ties and ladies hats. He only relaxed the rules on morning suits when a few drunken revellers from the Lodes Inn deliberately misunderstood and came in their birthday suits. And who wouldn’t, given glorious weather like this?’ She tipped her face up to the sun. ‘What perfect party weather.’