A Rural Affair

22

That should have been my moment. Of course that should have been my moment. All I remember, though, was turning back from staring at Mary’s retreating back, and looking into Angie’s glittering eyes as she held my reins. My own eyes cast wildly about: I saw Simon and Emma talking to Sam, grave and deadly serious. My throat clenched with fear, my heart with it. I wished so badly I was not with the thrusters, but with the Pollys and Grants of this world. I could see them at the tail end of the field, sharing a joke and a hip flask, laughing uproariously, Grant even lighting a cigarette. Please, God, I thought, let me go to them; I could tell them. Then they could pass it on, like Chinese whispers. But Angie still had hold of my reins and was telling me in low, measured tones, as one might a child who’s run in the road and scared one enough to yell initially, that of course it wasn’t my fault, because I hadn’t been out before, but if only I’d gone to her first, she could have lent me something more suitable.

‘If only you’d asked, you could have had Clarissa’s pony. It’s hunted seven seasons, knows exactly how to behave. You are a goon, Poppy.’

I listened to this almost in a dream. It was said, certainly, in something more like her usual friendly voice as she relaxed her grip on my rein. And she was my friend; my good friend, who I could tell, surely? I opened my mouth to speak, but my mouth was so dry my teeth stuck to my upper lip. By the time I’d licked them free, Sam had ridden up beside her, mobile clamped to ear, and was talking to her, relaying what he was hearing to Angie. Angie, who, I suddenly noticed, had a mustard collar to her blue coat. Did that make her a hunt official? Like part of the secret police? My befuddled mind swam as she bestowed a dazzling smile on Sam, then, realizing the smile was inappropriate, adopted a grave expression as she listened to what he had to say, as indeed, I did too.

They’d found the hound, stone dead in a copse, apparently. A nasty gash to his head. Kicked, by the looks of things. Someone had even had the gall to hide him with some bracken.

Angie’s expression was no longer manufactured; there was genuine horror in her eyes as she gave a sharp intake of breath. Mary Granger, beside us, who was as tough as old rhino hide, put a hand over her mouth. Sam rode off, white-faced. And then it spread, in a rolling tide, around the field. The hound was called Peddler, it was Mark, the huntsman’s, favourite. He’d bred him and walked him as puppy. Yes, definitely kicked, and then hidden with a blanket of bracken – no, actually, a shallow grave had been dug, to secrete it. Never had I felt such fear. Never had my heart beat so loudly or had I felt so surrounded by a mob. The horses stood steaming, withers heaving, glad of the respite from galloping, and as they tossed their heads and their bits jangled, it seemed to me redolent of the jangle and click of the tricoteuse.

In a matter of moments, anger had replaced shock around me. How could someone? One of the children perhaps, but no, they’d all been through the Pony Club, knew how to behave. And most children were escorted. And to dig a grave … No, no, unthinkable, it must have been an adult, they stormed. But what a craven one. Word spread to the back of the field and I saw Polly and Grant and crew stop their laughter as their jaws dropped in horror. In that moment I also saw Emma Harding’s hard little grey eyes come round to seek mine. I met them, but only briefly. I turned away, trembling. Then, as I slowly raised my head, it was to see her ride across to talk to the master. To Sam.

The minutes ticked by. Angie was being sweet now, offering me her hip flask, perhaps feeling guilty for her earlier outburst, but I couldn’t tell her now, could I? Because why hadn’t I owned up immediately? Suddenly all the prisons in all the world sprang to mind, the convicts within staring out at me, gripping the bars, plaintive eyes saying: you see? That’s why we’re here. Because something happened and we didn’t own up. But accidents do happen, terrible ones – hit and runs, lashing out at the wife in an argument. Of course we didn’t mean it, but this is where we end up, this is how it happens. I nearly fell off my horse.

The whipper-in, the telephonic messenger who’d found the hound, arrived back. He ignored us and swept on, his mouth set in a grim line; he headed towards the hounds, who were at a distance to the rest of the field on the brow of the hill. We saw him canter steadily up to Mark the huntsman, all alone, still working his hounds, still drawing the covert. The last to know. As the message was conveyed, I saw Mark put his hand over his eyes, and with that gesture I knew I’d hurt someone very badly. One of the terrier men, on a quad bike, we heard, had picked up the hound, Peddler, and was taking it back to the kennels. Meanwhile we carry on. The show must go on.

We set off at a lick, and since we’d pretty much exhausted this neck of the wood, were off to the next valley apparently, having ridden almost a full circle. Sure enough, from our vantage point on the hill I could see the trailers and lorries parked in a field below. One or two women with children on lead reins were peeling off, saying a cheery goodnight, and I peeled with them, earning a relieved smile from Angie and even a ‘Well done! Not easy, your first hunt.’

Oh, she was sweet now. Felt guilty, perhaps, for briefly not being a friend. For snapping. And of course I forgave her that; we all snapped in the heat of the moment. But what about my own, much bigger moment? Would anyone forgive me that? If only I’d owned up. They would have been shocked and horrified, naturally; but would eventually have forgiven me. Not now, though. Not half an hour later, I thought, feeling sick to my stomach as I rode back down the zigzag track to the Home Farm beside Sam’s house. The two chattering women I’d ridden silently back with headed for their trailer, tossing me a breezy farewell, and I managed at least to respond.

My breath was very shallow as I rode on alone. I thought I’d got to the age when I wouldn’t find out any more about myself. Interesting, then, that I had, and it wasn’t good.

Dad, Jennie and the kids were huddled by the lorry, sheltering from the wind which had picked up, together with a jolly band of foot followers. Dan was there, I noticed, on the other side of the field, talking to a couple of local farmers, Angus too, looking rather splendid in tweeds. Quite a few people had dogs on leads, including Leila in her huge plastic collar. They’d followed for quite a while, Dad and Jennie told me as I rode up. Great fun, but exhausting; wished they’d taken the car.

‘But well done you!’ they cried, as if I was the conquering hero returning, as I finally slid off the wretched, sweaty horse and handed him thankfully to Dad.

‘You did brilliantly!’ Jennie told me, her eyes shining, one arm circling my shoulders as she gave me a hearty squeeze. ‘Did you have a good day?’

‘I’m so proud of you, love,’ said Dad, beaming and slapping my back. ‘I knew you could do it!’

‘We saw you jump, Mummy!’ Clemmie leaped into my arms. ‘You jumped a hedge and nearly came off and your face was so funny – like this.’ She made a terrified face, and I managed to raise a smile. ‘And then you jumped a ditch and said the f word, and there was a shouty man who said, “Bloody woman!” cos you went in front of him!’

‘Lots of shouty men, darling,’ I breathed. ‘Shouty ladies too.’

I embraced my son, who’d toddled up for a hug, his head buried in my thighs as he gripped my knees fiercely. Visiting rights, obviously; perhaps more lenient ones for women with children. Dad would bring them. Or Jennie. In new clothes I wouldn’t recognize.

The children both scampered away to join a few village kids they knew, who were also waiting for parents, kicking a ball around. Dan had joined in, big kid that he was himself. Just Dad and Jennie, then.

‘Killed a hound,’ I gasped.

They both turned. Dad had been throwing a thin blue rug on a steaming Thumper.

‘I did,’ I managed. ‘I killed it. Dead.’

‘How?’ Dad had gone pale.

‘Thumper kicked it. Left it in the bushes. No one saw. Didn’t own up. Need to move. France, probably.’

I’d already thought it through as I rode back. Down near Toulouse, a little place called Gaillac. I’d been there once on a school trip, years ago. Pretty. And I’d open a little shop, like that woman in Chocolat who had a secret. No one would know me. I’d be a mystery, an enigma, me and my two small children. Yes, a chocolate shop.

‘Oh, God.’ Even Jennie, totally un-horsy, knew this was bad.

‘The house will sell quite quickly,’ I gabbled on, ‘always getting things through the door from estate agents. And the children will be bilingual, huge advantage.’

‘Do shut up,’ she told me, taking my arm and sitting me down on the lorry ramp. Dad, who’d rugged up Thumper and tied him to the side of the lorry, came to join us. He sat down.

‘Sure no one saw?’ he murmured.

‘No.’

‘Right. Then stay shtum. These things happen.’

I thought this over a moment. Suddenly I was on my feet, furious. I pointed my finger at him; it waggled a bit. ‘You see? That’s where I’ve got it from! My criminal tendencies! It’s learned behaviour! That’s what you’ve taught me, what you’d do!’ I glared at him accusingly.

‘Well, no, actually. I’d have owned up at the time.’

‘Would you?’ I crumpled instantly, aghast. ‘Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that. Oh, Dad, I wish I had!’ I wailed. ‘But in the heat of the moment – so many scary people, so fierce-looking … And it’s a bit late now, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly, after the event. Just let sleeping dogs … well.’ He stopped awkwardly realizing where that was going. ‘It’s a serious occurrence, though, in the hunting world, Poppy.’

‘I know!’ I quaked.

‘Oh, piffle,’ said Jennie staunchly. ‘They’ve got hundreds of the bloody things. And let’s not get too carried away here; you didn’t kill him, Thumper did. At least he didn’t kick a child.’

‘Would have been better,’ I said gloomily.

Dad nodded in sober agreement. ‘She’s right, Jennie.’

‘Which just shows how bloody stupid the whole thing is! I mean, they’re out to kill an animal anyway, aren’t they? And it’s only a bloody dog. Christ, I wish it had been Leila. She escaped, incidentally, joined the pack, briefly.’

‘Really?’ I raised my head. Even in my despair this was diverting.

‘Oh, yes. Was galloping joyously in the middle of all those dogs in her zany collar, looking very Vivienne Westwood, until your dad managed to persuade a guy on a quad bike to nab her. And you think you’ve blotted your copy book.’

I knew she was trying to make me feel better but as I drove her car home later, Jennie having gone with Dan, who’d come in his Land Rover, my father returning with Thumper, I felt the world was on my shoulders.

‘Chatham House rules, OK, love?’ Dad had said, before he left.

‘What are they?’

‘Mum’s the word.’

‘Oh. OK.’

Mum’s the word, I thought gloomily. Until somehow it leaked out. Which it would. And then heaven knows what the word would be. Murderess? Coward? Witch? I cringed behind the wheel. Clemmie was making Archie laugh in the back, imitating me. ‘Mummy riding,’ she was saying, holding imaginary reins right up under her chin, eyes and mouth wide with terror, bouncing in her car seat. And Archie was laughing as only a two-year-old can: as if he was going to be sick. I tried to count my blessings, which seemed to me to be just two. Those two in the back. No chance now with Sam of course; I’d blown that entirely. In fact I couldn’t quite imagine what planet I’d been on to allow it to cross my mind. He was so far out of my league, with his smart friends and his manor house, he was practically in a different stratosphere. And did I want all that, anyway? Imagine having to hunt every week. Having a near-death experience on a regular basis with all those terrifying people. No. I purred down my lane. That whole way of life was not for me: it was too fast, too glamorous, too much.

As I drew up outside my cottage I saw someone ringing my doorbell: a man. Oh God, had they come for me already? I got out warily. But as he turned around I saw it was only Luke, who smiled when he saw me. I relaxed. This man, however, with a face that lit up at the sight of me, was much more my speed. Why hadn’t I spotted it before? Because he seemed reasonably keen? Because he liked me? What in hell’s name was wrong with that, Poppy?

‘Luke.’ I smiled too as I shut the car door, genuinely pleased to see him. Jeans and a navy blue jersey. Freshly washed hair. Normal. Uncomplicated. No spurs.

I lifted Archie out of his car seat and my children ran around the back of the house to get the back-door key from under the geranium pot. Clemmie could just about reach the lock to let them in.

‘Christ, have you had an accident?’

My heart lurched at the thought of Peddler.

‘N-no, why?’ Had he heard?

‘You’re literally covered in mud!’

‘Oh.’ I glanced down, relieved. ‘Oh no, just the detritus of the hunting field. Come in, Luke.’

‘Oh, you do that, do you?’ he said, looking surprised, and just a little defensive. Like people do sometimes, if you mention hunting; for reasons that go beyond the prey and are more to do with class and exclusivity. I thought of Polly and Sparks and Grant but couldn’t be bothered to argue.

‘Not any more,’ I told him. ‘How come you’re not at work?’

‘Got a day’s holiday,’ he said, lightly touching my shoulder, kissing me hello. Mr Fish, deadheading roses in his front garden, nodded across at us.

‘Has he tossed you off, then, love?’

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Thumper.

‘Oh, no, Mr Fish, I just got a bit muddy,’ I called. Then to Luke, in an undertone: ‘Can’t move in this place. And frankly, I’ve had a bit of a day of it. Could do with a very large drink. Will you join me?’

‘I’d love to, but I’ve got to teach in five minutes.’ He glanced at his watch.

‘Teach?’

He looked sheepish. ‘Oh, yeah I got talked into it. I give a few piano lessons in the village. Sylvia and Angus’s granddaughter, for one.’ He scratched his head bashfully, and for some reason this endeared him to me tenfold. How sweet. He didn’t need the money. He was in the City, in insurance, a flourishing business, yet out of the kindness of his heart … And I liked the idea of him sitting patiently by a piano listening to scales, a small child’s faltering rendition of ‘Für Elise’. Encouraging, enthusing. Not charging around in a pink coat on an enormous horse, glaring at people.

‘I just called by to see if supper was still on. You know you said you’d ring me? I didn’t want to pressurize you into having it here, though, so my sister said she’d babysit. We could go out if you like?’

He’d coloured up by the end of this. Softened? I’d melted. He’d lined up a sitter for me. How many men would do that? And, having suggested my place, in retrospect he’d felt uneasy about compromising me in the snugness of my own home – sofas, soft lighting, double bed upstairs, albeit horribly close to the children. I looked into his anxious face, those frank blue eyes. Suddenly I stepped forward, reached up and curled my hand around the back of his neck, gently bringing his lips down to mine.

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ I murmured when we’d kissed. ‘Yes, please, to your sister. But let’s make it your place.’

His eyes didn’t so much light up as blaze like a fruit machine that’s landed a row of pears. Melons, perhaps. Because desire was there, certainly.

‘Oh, Poppy,’ he breathed as he gazed down at me.

Oh, Poppy. You see? That was all it took.

Feeling in control for the very first time that day, I said goodbye and went up my path.

‘See you then,’ he called.

‘Yes, see you,’ I assured him over my shoulder as he went off to teach, a definite spring in his step.

As I went inside it occurred to me that I’d kissed him in full view of the village. Mr Fish was certainly standing at his gate, mouth agape, secateurs limp in his hand, as I turned to shut the front door. It was as good as putting an announcement in the local paper. But, actually, that was fine. Because Luke was a very nice man. In fact he was lovely. And with him by my side, I reckoned I could face anything. Face the music, face the terrifying women of the hunt – men too: all those who’d gladly have my guts for tail bandages.

Italy might be better, though, I thought, as I went slowly upstairs to run a bath. I poured the bubbles in, and as they foamed the idea took shape. Yes, Luke and I doing up a crumbling house in Tuscany, at the top of a hill dotted with cypress trees. Luke and I – a paint brush apiece, me in dungarees and two plaits – pausing to kiss occasionally, or playfully blob paint on each other’s noses. The children running barefoot around an olive grove. Goats. Baby ones. And let’s face it, being an enigma was all very well, but it might get pretty lonely. I wouldn’t have much idea how to run a chocolate shop, either. I peeled off my filthy clothes and put a weary toe in the bath.

Later that evening, when I was putting the children to bed, the telephone rang. The answering machine was on so I carried on with their story even though my heart was beating fast. I’d rather unwisely chosen an Aesop fable about a boy who kills a calf, doesn’t own up, and gets chased out of town; so when I came downstairs I didn’t just have a racing heart, but was manically humming a well-known tune from a popular Julie Andrews musical, one that was getting a lot of airing. As I passed the machine on the dresser, with the red light flashing, I pressed play.

‘Oh, Poppy, it’s Sam here.’

The empty bottle of SMA milk slipped clean out of my hand and bounced on the terracotta tiles. My hand froze, still in claw-like attitude.

‘Um, the thing is, something’s come to light that I’d like to talk to you about. In private, if you don’t mind.’ He sounded uncomfortable. ‘In fact it might even be an idea if you came into my office. Say first thing tomorrow? At nine o’clock?’ There was a pause. ‘If I don’t hear, I’ll assume that’s fine.’ He finished more grimly.

I tottered into the sitting room holding on to the furniture. Made for the sofa and flopped, prone and face down. Then I covered my head with a cushion and moaned low.