Simply Heaven (41 page)

Mum closes the door behind us and leads me up the stairs.

So I go home, because it’s where my husband is, and my family stay on at the hotel because they’re still riding high on their dudgeon, and Rufus’s family have already decamped, with the exception of my sister-in-law, who’s got more sense than the lot of them put together, to spend Christmas night with the rats and the rain and the possibility of the roof falling in on their heads – would that it did. And my mum’s not talking to me, and nor, by extension, is my dad, and nor is my yaya. I feel like I’ve just survived the Battle of the Somme.

I’ve got to get it all sorted before they fly back to Brisbane, but I don’t know where to start. All I know is I’ve got the sort of car that makes you melt with joy, though my guilt and confusion take the shine off the experience somehow and I still don’t know how seriously yesterday’s shenanigans have damaged things between Rufus and me. But Tilly seems to enjoy herself anyway, riding all the way back with the top down and her red hair streaming out behind her like a Chinese flag and a big grin on her face at the thought of the move ahead of her. There was never any question about it: Rufus is getting his way and Tilly and the baby are getting their new home.

We crawl down the drive because it’s lined with horseboxes – everything from single-pony trailers attached to clapped-out Fords to the sort of pantechnicons that contain everything including three Filipinas and a bouncy castle.

I’m surprised, to be honest. I’d sort of expected everything around hunting to be more related to the latter. My impression of foxhunting is wall-to-wall Maseratis and the sort of women who would horsewhip you as soon as look at you, but the route to the house has as many hairy-looking blokes in beanie hats riding ATVs and kids in ratcatchers on ponies so short-legged they’re running to catch up with themselves as boot-faced blondes or those sort of men who fill their shirts up as much with hot air as flesh.

The house looks as grim as ever. Someone’s covered the hole in the drive with floorboards from somewhere, so at least the park isn’t strewn with the twisted metal of a multiple traffic pile-up, but the crack itself is still starkly visible, snaking across the grass. The drain – sorry, moat – has emptied itself completely now, is nothing more than a deep, mud-lined ditch. But outside the fortifications, on the grass, is a magnificent sight. I don’t have a lot of qualms about hunting
per se
. As far as I gather we only evolved the way we did because we are bloodthirsty, organised carnivores, and trying to turn us all into open-toed bean eaters would seem like a pointless exercise, even aside from the global warming from the extra methane. But, well – wow.

Huge, shiny patchwork hounds – I don’t know why, but I’d always thought of foxhounds as being something around the size of beagles, but they’re big, lolloping creatures with paws like soup plates – press mournful faces into unwary crotches, scratch and wag and do doggy stuff, occasionally letting rip with a sonorous chorus when one of the hunt servants decides to change his position. It’s a beautiful sound. Tuneful, optimistic, tragic, fierce all at once, and musical, like a chord played on handbells. I’ve never heard anything like it. It bursts across the valley and catches me somewhere around my heart.

‘Good God,’ I say to Tilly.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘People think of it in this abstract sense, like it’s some gathering like Nuremberg, but if you see it …’

I’ve slowed to a trickle, now. Around the outside faces glare at me: those beaky arrogant female faces that make people hate the country, wrapped tightly in headscarves and full of venom for my townie attire.

‘Ah well. Don’t suppose we could have got through Boxing Day without some bloody antis,’ shouts one to another as we pass.

‘Don’t be stchoopid,’ yells her companion. ‘That’s Edmund Wattestone’s daughter. Mathilda. The one whose husband’s ran orf.’

‘Would have thought she’d know better than to turn up in a car like that. Who on earth’s the trollop she’s got in tow?’

I lean over my door. I’ve got sunglasses on,
Thelma and Louise
style, and drop them down my nose to give her a beatific smile. ‘I don’t know if you realise,’ I say, ‘but one of the things about having the top down on a car is that it means that you’re, like, open to the outside world? We’ve not got a force field around us.’

She looks at me like I’ve just spoken in Martian. A cross face. Full of resentment at the thought that other people might enjoy life differently from her. Full of contempt for them and fear that they might not respect her. The sort of face I’ll always associate with the countryside, wherever it is.

‘That must be the Awstralian daughter-in-law,’ she bellows. ‘Poor Mary.’

I toss my hands in the air, force a laugh and drive on. ‘You’d’ve thought they’d have
some
sense of shame,’ I tell Tilly.

‘I think she was talking in an undertone,’ she says. ‘They spend so much time shouting at the dogs over the top of the Channel Four racing that their vocal chords forget that they’re adjustable.’

‘Sorry about the car. I didn’t mean to attract attention.’

‘It’s a lovely car. Just needs half a ton of dog hair and some mud on the seats.’

‘Of course. Silly me.’

We park up in the courtyard and I make to go back out, expecting her to follow me, but Tilly, after taking three goes to lever herself out from my roadholding suspension, leans instead against the side and waves a hand. ‘I think I’ll give it a miss. I’m just going to go inside and get on with the packing. If that’s OK. I might have a quick lie-down.’

I come back towards her. ‘Of course it’s OK! Are you? Can I give you a hand?’

A shake of the head. ‘No. No, don’t be silly. Bit of leftover indigestion and a backache, but nothing much to worry about. Go and have a look. I’ll see you upstairs.’

‘OK. I won’t be long.’

‘Take all the time you want,’ she says.

I find myself in the middle of a big crowd of horses, the atmosphere an electric mix of anticipation, tension, excitement, good humour. I thought these people didn’t
get
excited about things. I’d expected the same sort of stolid, emotionless, lowered-eyelid attitude I’ve come across at parties, but it’s as though someone’s attached electrodes to them. It’s as though they have suddenly come alive. They wear an interesting mixture of British racing green, of long black jackets with starched white stocks, of tweed and of britches, and the occasional pink coat. I don’t know how the coding works – though you can betcha that there’s some unreadable class element involved – but I’ll tell you this: put an English person on horseback and you’ll see a creature transformed. My neighbours, with their stuffiness, their lack of enthusiasm, their suspicion and superiority, have vanished overnight, have been replaced by creatures of grace and elegance. They have turned into centaurs.

I spot the family party, over by the park fence. Mary’s riding side-saddle, looks chic and calm in her long skirt with her hair caught up in a net beneath a shortened topper. She wears very little makeup – all the women do, I notice – just mascara and a little slick of neutral lipstick, and it suits her. Edmund is distinguished in green; long and lean and wiry. But they all look good. Roly, on a cob the size of a small tractor, moves with the animal as though they were glued together. He’s riding one-handed, the other being taken up with a glass of port. Even the stumpy little vicar looks almost attractive on his grey gelding.

There’s an old army type sitting glumly next to me on a mountainous bay. He has a large white moustache and slurps his stirrup cup through it gloomily, looking about him with watery eyes. I try a small smile, get a look of pure pathos in return. Well, I suppose that’s an improvement. Three little kids on skewbalds conduct a squabble over a Gameboy. Glad to see the country doesn’t deprive them of
everything
.

‘’Scuse me, coming through,’ calls a voice, and I jump aside as a woman in a tweed coat manoeuvres her horse through the crowd towards the army type. I swipe a sherry from a passing tray – carried by Mrs Roberts, I notice – and settle in to listen. The good thing about the English upper class conversational tone is you can never be accused of snooping.

‘Colonel!’

The colonel turns slowly and manages a mournful smile. Touches the brim of his hat with the handle of his whip.

‘Glad to see you out! Weren’t expecting to! I hear you buried your wife on Tuesday.’

‘Yerrss,’ says the colonel. Thinks for a moment. Adds: ‘Had to. Dead, you know …’

‘Hi, Mrs W,’ says a familiar voice behind me.

I turn, heart rising. If he kisses me now, in front of all these people, it will be all right.

‘Ms Katsouris, if you don’t mind.’

Rufus leans down from the back of the Brigadier and plants a kiss on my lips. ‘Thanks for coming, darling,’ he murmurs. ‘I do love you. I’m sorry Christmas was such a washout.’

‘Me too,’ I say.

He sits back up. ‘So what do you think?’

‘It’s … incredible.’

‘Just wait till you see them running. Makes your hair stand on end.’

‘I can’t wait.’

‘Did you bring Tilly with you?’

‘Yes. She’s upstairs packing.’

‘Oh, good. So she’s going, then?’

‘She’s beside herself. That was a good thing you did, Rufus.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘You could have let me know about it, though, you dope.’

Brig performs a nifty little two-step and Rufus is forced to pay attention to him for a moment. I don’t know enough about horses to know whether he’s set it off on purpose to give himself thinking time. ‘Sorry. I wanted it to be a surprise.’

If ever there was a moment when you just wanted to ruffle a guy’s hair, this would have to be it. I can’t reach, though, and there’s a hard hat between me and the barnet.

‘Yeah, you see, the idea of surprises isn’t necessarily that
everyone
has to be surprised. Just Tilly would probably have done it.’

I hear him say ‘pshaw’. So
that’s
what pshaw sounds like. ‘What do you think the chances would have been of her not getting to hear about it if they’d been going off on one at the breakfast table?’

‘Fair point. So when do you move off?’

‘Fairly soon, I expect. Are you going to follow for a bit?’

‘How, exactly?’

‘Well, you got a car now, haven’t you?’

‘What, and scratch my shiny new paintwork? Anyway, I’m going to help your sister get moved. Think of the shopping lists.’

‘Bloody hell. I really
have
married a townie.’

‘I’ll do it once my dad’s left the country.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re scared of your father?’

‘You don’t know my family very well, do you?’

‘I was aware of that, yes,’ says Rufus meaningfully. He’s not going to let the cheque incident lie. I change the subject as quickly as I can.

‘You look very dashing today, Mr W. You scrub up well. If you didn’t have a horse underneath you I’d be throwing you over a haybale.’

Rufus shows the hooded eyes of a Victorian philanderer. ‘Why, thank you, my dear. I’ll keep it on for later, shall I?’

‘And how long will that be?’

‘Only as long as it takes, m’dear.’

‘Promises. You’re all promises.’

‘Ah,’ says Roly, coming up behind me, ‘sexual banter. Jolly entertaining Christmas, Melody, I must say. Haven’t enjoyed myself so much since my stepfather shot himself in the foot.’

‘Thanks, mate.’ I give the cob a good slap on the neck. ‘Glad to be of service.’

‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘Don’t suppose you could do me a favour and take Perkins off my hands, could you? Sort of forgot to lock him in the Land Rover and he’ll be trying to go off with the pack if I don’t get him under control.’

‘Sure,’ I say.

‘Here,’ he digs in his pocket, produces a wodge of binder-twine. ‘Put this through his collar. He’s a good old dog, but he does get a bit excited.’

I bend over Perkins, whose eyes goggle with the thrill of it all. He wags his whole back end as I slip the string through, shakes his tongue at me. I tell him he’s a good boy, like you do.

‘By the way,’ says Roly, ‘have you met Camilla Warrington-Campbell?’

Roly’s accompanied by a hefty red-faced woman who seems to be handling her horse without use of reins. A bit of a swamp donkey, if you ask me. She eyes me with all the grace of Fifi eyeing a shin of beef. And when I shake her hand, it feels like it’s actually going to come off. ‘Not coming out yourself, then?’ she asks.

‘Don’t know one end of a horse from the other,’ I say gaily. Her mount presses a warm velvet nose into my palm, snuffles about in it. ‘This is the end that bites, right?’

The lights go out. ‘Think we’re in for a good run today?’ she asks Rufus.

‘Shouldn’t be too bad,’ he replies. ‘There’s a dog fox up in the woods that’s been causing bother at the home farm. They’ve lost thirty chickens to him already this season, so he should have some go in him. How are you? I thought I’d heard you’d broken your arm?’

Camilla pulls a dismissive face. ‘Lot of fuss. Only a break, for God’s sake. Tried telling me I had to keep the plaster on for six weeks. Ended up cutting it off myself. Only ruin your muscles as well as spoil the season.’

‘Good Lord,’ I say. ‘Are you mad?’

‘Can’t let a few bumps get in the way, especially when it might be the last time.’

‘What? Because you’ll be dead?’

‘No. Bloody Labour.’

‘Ah,’ I say wisely.

‘What’s happened to the park?’ she asks.

‘Wish I knew,’ says Rufus. ‘We’ve got the surveyors coming in.’

‘Spoils the look, I must say. Still, never really been the same since the elms went, anyway.’

‘I’m wondering,’ he says, ‘if the two aren’t related, actually. If there’s some sort of geological fault, I suppose the roots might have been the only thing holding it together.’

‘Mmm,’ says Camilla. Pulls a face like Fifi eating a cowpat, does a twist in the saddle. A loud clunk emanates from somewhere on her body. ‘Bloody pins,’ she says. ‘Wish they’d just take ’em out, but they say they’re what’s holding the back together.’