A Rural Affair

10



‘Forster,’ Angie was saying importantly, pencil poised over her notepad. Her skinny knees in black opaque tights were crossed and protruding from a very short grey skirt. She pulled her skirt down a bit.

‘Who?’ asked Peggy.

‘You know, E. M. Forster.’

‘Is that Foster in a posh voice?’

‘No, it’s got an r in it. Something like Howards End.’

‘Sounds promising,’ mused Peggy. ‘Who was Howard? And what was so special about his end?’

‘It’s a house, Peggy. That’s the name of the book.’

‘Oh, a house. Oh no, I don’t think so, do you? We might as well read Ideal Home. Tell me, how long have you been a farrier?’ She turned and bestowed a dazzling smile on a burly and impossibly handsome flaxen-haired young man beside her, who was blushing furiously and spilling out of a tiny button-backed armchair which struggled to contain him.

We were an improbable gathering assembled in Peggy’s sitting room that evening: Jennie, Angie, myself, Saintly Sue, Angus, Luke, Passion-fuelled Pete and Simon Devereux, a dashing and debonair porcelain expert from Christie’s, with hooded eyes and a fine line in Savile Row suits. We’d been astonished when Peggy had announced the guest list, but Peggy had remained unmoved.

‘Why? What’s so surprising?’

‘Well, Simon Devereux, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t think you were serious, Peggy. And Pete! What on earth did you say? You don’t even know him; you’ve never met him!’ Angie spluttered.

‘No, but his number’s in the book under farrier, so I simply rang him. Explained I was a friend of yours, and asked if he’d like to join our book club. What d’you think I said?’

Angie was speechless. ‘But he must have thought it so odd!’

‘Well, if he did, he didn’t say so. And he wouldn’t be coming if he did, would he? But he is. Said he’d like to read more and didn’t get the chance to do much in his line of work.’

‘Oh, he clearly thinks I fancy him and put you up to it!’ Angie stormed.

Peggy’s eyes widened. ‘He’s coming to read books, Angie, not have a sleepover. Do get a grip.’

‘And what did you say to Simon Devereux?’ Jennie said, taut-faced and pale. ‘Did you ring him as well?’

‘No.’ Peggy sighed patiently. ‘If you must know I sat next to him at dinner at the Holland-Hibberts last Saturday. Oh, he was itching to come. Couldn’t say yes quickly enough. Don’t forget, he’s desperate to get elected as our local parliamentary candidate and at the moment he doesn’t even live in the constituency. Just darts in at weekends from his pad in Chelsea. He keeps saying he wants to get more integrated in village life and he’s joined the hunt and all that, but being a member of a local book club will give him huge brownie points. He’s jolly nice, actually, and, to be fair, he grew up here. We had a really good chat. He’s adamant he won’t let the post office in the village shut if he gets in. I don’t know why you’re all so outraged. This was the plan, wasn’t it? A bit of new blood? Some of it hot?’ She lit a cigarette and blew out smoke in a thin blue line.

That had rather silenced us.

So now, here we all were, in a rather therapy-like circle in Peggy’s creamy sitting room, splashes of modern art squeezed between the beams, the drizzle outside spattering the darkened window panes, while we passed a bowl of Doritos like children playing pass the parcel. I snuck a look at Simon Devereux opposite. Urbane, handsome and sophisticated in an immaculate suit with patterned silk tie, fresh from the auction rooms of South Ken, he looked faintly amused, I thought, as he passed the crisps. I wondered how long he’d last. This was manifestly parochial for him and once he’d ticked it off his list of Things to Do we surely wouldn’t see him for dust. I wondered why Peggy had asked him. Beside him sat Angus, his craggy distinguished face wreathed in smiles, pleased as punch to be out and already on his second glass of Muscadet. Next to him was Angie in her very short skirt, and beside her Pete, who, as I say, looked self-conscious but gorgeous, and beside him Luke, who, with freshly washed blond hair, was looking disarmingly handsome himself, actually. Much better now than in church, I decided. Better when he wasn’t shutting his eyes and making ecstatic faces at his organ, which I found faintly giggle-making. But of course it could be a piano, I realized suddenly. Surely if you played one you played the other? That could be promising. I had a quick vision of us in a pretty cottage somewhere, Luke playing Chopin, glancing over his shoulder to smile and gauge my reaction as I sat sewing by the fire. Hm. Perhaps not the sewing. And was an organist in the same league as a cyclist? A bit … nerdy? Well, presumably he didn’t do it full-time. Presumably he had a day job. What was it, I wondered. I had a feeling Angie had said, but I couldn’t remember. I shook my head. So much to learn. Still, I would be careful this time. I must curb my predilection to leap and snatch; I would be circumspect and slow. Oh yes, this time I would crawl.

‘Hilary Mantel’s awfully good,’ Saintly Sue was saying, after Angie’s Forster suggestion had fallen flat.

Ah yes, Sue. Probably just as well she was here, as a matter of fact, saving us as she did, by providing an odd number, from looking too much like a dating agency. But she was so intense. Prim and straight-backed in her chair, a pile of books on her lap which she’d brought along as suggestions – we hadn’t actually chosen a book yet – she was already getting shrill.

‘She won the Booker Prize last year with this one,’ she told us importantly. ‘But of course, you all know that.’

We all murmured appreciatively as Sue passed the book to Peggy beside her. But Peggy’s appreciative murmurs were still for Pete on her other side, and she took the book distractedly. ‘You must be terribly strong,’ she purred, batting her eyelids at him. ‘Must do an awful lot of hammering.’

This remark hung rather pregnantly in the air. Pete blushed and looked at the floor. Sue cleared her throat impatiently.

‘Peggy? What d’you think?’

‘Of what?’ She turned.

‘Of the book, of course.’

Peggy glanced down at the tome she appeared to be holding. ‘Oh. Oh, no. Far too long. We’ll never get through that. I should think Pete here’s the only one who can lift it!’

She passed it to him, mock staggering under its weight, and he laughed, agreeing in flat northern tones that aye, it was terribly heavy. Angie rolled her eyes despairingly at me.

‘What about something a bit lighter to kick off with?’ suggested Jennie sensibly. ‘It does look a trifle ambitious, Sue, although I’m sure it’s very good,’ she added in a placatory manner.

‘It’s first class,’ Sue said pompously. ‘You’ve read it, haven’t you, Luke?’

‘Er, started it,’ Luke said sheepishly.

‘Well, if you’ve already read it, Sue, that’s cheating,’ Angie said sharply.

Sue looked stung. ‘It’s not a competition,’ she told her acidly.

‘Exactly,’ retorted Angie. ‘Which means no one should have a head start.’

They glared at one another.

‘Anyway,’ interjected Angus apeasingly before things really degenerated, ‘something a bit lighter might be more the ticket. I agree with Jennie.’ He smoothed back his silvery locks and leaned forward eagerly, resting the leather elbows of his tweed jacket on his knees. ‘I thought Poppy here said we were going to do Robert Harris. Eh? Splendid!’

‘Did you, Poppy?’ Jennie turned in surprise.

‘Oh, well, I just …’

‘It’s not a bad idea,’ said Simon, easing smoothly into his diplomatic, prospective MP role. ‘I, for one, love Harris. How about we all read his latest?’

‘I’ve got it right here!’ boomed Angus delightedly, producing it from under his chair like a magician. ‘Went to Waterstones specially.’ He passed it around, and as it progressed the rest of us looked enormously cheered. The accessible cover and the thought of a rollicking good thriller at bedtime, not some heart-sink intellectual tome, were most satisfactory. Pete, still pink from talking so much in public, agreed it looked terrific, action-packed and just the sort of thing he was dying to have a go at but never knew which one to choose; Luke said it was the only one he hadn’t read and assured Pete that once he’d read one he’d read the lot; and Angie, Jennie and I agreed that whilst we read a lot of Aga sagas and chick lit, we never read the he-man stuff and were keen to have a go. Only Sue looked as if she’d sucked a lemon.

‘Popular fiction,’ she sniffed, as the book made its way round to her. She regarded it distastefully. ‘I thought we were going to do something a bit more thought-provoking?’

‘It’s only popular because it’s good,’ Jennie pointed out. ‘If it didn’t work, no one would buy it.’

‘The Beatles were popular,’ Angie reminded her. ‘And they were completely brilliant.’

‘Yes, but they were easy listening,’ insisted Sue. ‘Just as this is easy reading.’

We all fell silent; slightly shamed.

‘Does it have to be difficult to be good?’ I asked, miles away, actually. I’d been wondering if Luke had a ghastly mother and sister; I couldn’t cope with that again. In-laws were so important.

‘No, it has to be difficult to be exclusive,’ said Peggy with a small smile. There was another silence.

‘So.’ Angus stood up, rubbing his hands. ‘That’s all settled, then. Splendid. I’ll pop into town and get another eight books and post them all through your letter boxes tomorrow. Now, Peggy, what about opening that other bottle of wine? It’s like the Gobi Desert in here!’

Everyone got to their feet. Angie and I passed around smoked-salmon nibbles and the wine flowed, the noise level growing as people chatted, relieved the rather formal part of the evening was over. Indeed, before long, a veritable drinks party had ensued and even Sue looked slightly mollified, especially since Simon was chatting politely to her; but then Sue’s family – aside from the Jardines – were the grandees of the village, Sue’s father being a local judge, and Simon did need an awful lot of pukka support to ensure selection.

‘But will you live in the village?’ Sue was asking him earnestly.

‘My family lives in Wessington.’

‘Yes, I know, but will you buy here yourself?’

‘Oh, I’d love to, and fully intend to do that, just as soon as I can,’ he assured her.

‘And just as soon as he’s elected, he’ll treat it as a holiday cottage,’ Luke told me quietly. ‘Where do you live, Poppy?’

‘Just across the road.’ I pointed through the bay window. The drizzle had abated and the dark night had gathered softly outside the glass. I was feeling rather warm and happy now. The wine was flowing through my veins and I was amongst friends; some old, some new, hopefully, I thought, looking into Luke’s greeny-blue eyes, liking the way they matched his jumper. But I wasn’t too far from home: not too unsafe.

‘Pretty,’ he said, presumably referring to my cottage, but very definitely looking at me. ‘Will you stay there, d’you think?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, surprised. ‘At least, I think so. It’s the children’s home and we love it.’ It hadn’t crossed my mind to move. It had always been the only thing about my marriage I’d loved. My dear little house, having my friends close by, Jennie next door. It was my compensation for Phil. But Phil wasn’t here any more and now it occurred to me that I didn’t have to cushion myself against him. It also occurred to me that with the money I was about to inherit, I could easily sell and buy somewhere bigger, even prettier. Would I want that?

‘I just wondered if you’d want a new start,’ Luke said carefully. Kindly, though. Not artfully or nosily, I decided.

‘I might,’ I agreed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But a new start doesn’t necessarily involve moving house, does it?’

‘No,’ he concurred. ‘It doesn’t. It can mean all sorts of things.’

‘And it’s not as if I need to move. Not as if, geographically, I’m surrounded by too many fond memories and need to get away,’ I said, thinking as I spoke. ‘I’m sure many widows have that problem.’

He regarded me carefully. ‘I like that about you, Poppy.’

‘What?’

‘The way you tell it like it is. No flannel.’

I thought about this. ‘I think that’s new,’ I told him. ‘I think I’ve spent the last six or seven years not telling it how it is. Particularly to myself. Living a bit of a lie to accommodate others.’

‘You mean, to accommodate your husband?’

‘Yes, Phil, but ultimately the children. Mostly the children. Who wants to rock a boat that’s holding what we love most?’

‘So … d’you think you’d have ever left him? If he hadn’t – you know …’

‘Died?’ I sighed. ‘Who knows? I’d certainly fantasized about it. Fifty ways to leave your lover and all that. But I’d never actually considered doing it.’ I shrugged. ‘The two are very different things.’ I smiled. ‘And I’ve always been a bit of a wimp. What about you, Luke? What are your family commitments?’

‘Oh, I’ve just got a mum and a sister.’

My smile froze.

‘Not that I live with them, or anything. I’ve got a flat in town.’

‘Good, good,’ I said, horribly unsettled. ‘And are you … close to them? Ring them twice a week? Sometimes more? Bring them with you to choose soft furnishings, sofas?’

He frowned. ‘God, no. My sister, Nicky, is far too busy. She works for Vogue, and Mum wouldn’t know a soft furnishing if it hit her. She lives in a hotel in Monaco, mostly.’

‘Excellent!’ I breathed. I liked the sound of the Chambers women.

‘My dad encouraged Mum to live in style before he died. He had this theory that – blimey, what’s that?’

Sadly this fascinating insight into Luke’s exotic family – where did the organ fit in? – was cut short by a rap on the window. We all swung about to behold Sylvia, Angus’s wife, glaring in furiously. Her spectacles were glinting ominously, her steel-grey perm rigid. Angus went pale and instinctively hid his wine glass behind his back. She disappeared and then the doorbell rang, long and shrill. We all stood about like naughty children as Peggy, who’d gone to get it, could be heard placating her at the door.

‘Yes, I’m sorry, Sylvia, we are running a bit late.’

‘But you’re not even reading! Or even sitting in a circle! Just standing around gossiping like you’re at a cocktail party. I rang the doorbell, twice!’

‘Ah yes, first meeting, though, you see. Just swapping ideas. Batting them about, to and fro. And we thought a relaxed environment would be more conducive.’

‘Hello, darling, how lovely. Did bridge finish early?’ This, from Angus, in a strained voice as he hastened to greet her at the door.

‘No, it did not finish early. Our rubber finished dead on eight as usual. It’s you that’s late, Angus. I thought you were going to put the baked potatoes in for me!’

Other admonishments were lost in the stiff autumn breeze. As the front door closed behind them, Sylvia’s angry voice could still be heard as she frogmarched Angus down the road, past the pond and across the street towards home. We caught her drift, but not the finer nuances.

Peggy came back and immediately crossed to draw the curtains with a flourish. ‘Foolish of me not to have done that before,’ she remarked. Then she turned to face us, hands on hips. ‘Now. Who’s for a sticky?’

‘A what?’ Jennie frowned.

‘A sticky. You know, Calvados, Drambuie, that sort of thing. What about you, Pete?’

‘Er, well, I’m not convinced I’ve ever had anything like that before,’ Pete said, palpitating nervously. ‘This Muscadet’s nice, though,’ he said, pronouncing the t.

‘Ah, but then you’ve never joined a book club before, have you?’ Peggy murmured, slipping down onto the sofa. She patted the space beside her. ‘Come. Sit.’ He obeyed, as if in a trance. ‘So many firsts in one evening. Oh, sorry, Angie, were you sitting here?’ She moved to accommodate her irate friend, who’d clearly been usurped, having nipped to the loo to refresh her lipstick. Peggy perched on the sofa arm instead. Lit a cigarette.

‘Pete here was telling me earlier that he’s got a furnace in the back of his Land Rover.’

‘Well, of course he has; he’s a mobile farrier,’ Angie said testily.

‘Frightfully mobile, I should think.’ Peggy looked him up and down appreciatively.

‘Was Sylvia livid, Peggy?’ Angie asked nervously. Angie sat on the parish council with Sylvia; she was also very much on the same dinner-party circuit.

‘A bit, but she’ll live.’ Peggy flicked ash in the fireplace. ‘Must get terribly hot in there,’ she murmured to Pete. ‘In your Land Rover. Very cosy.’

‘Well, I’m not actually in it much, except for driving. And the furnace isn’t on then, of course.’ Pete was looking pretty hot and flustered himself.

‘No, no, of course not. And what else d’you make, Pete? Apart from shoes? With your furnace? I say, aren’t your thighs enormous? It’s a wonder you can squeeze them into that armchair. You were saying?’

‘Um, w-was I?’ Pete blotted his perspiring forehead with his cuff.

‘Yes, about what else it is you make. Aside from horses’ shoes.’

‘Oh … well, I do the odd bit of iron railings and the like. But it’s not on a regular basis. More one-off commissions, that type of thing.’

‘Iron railings, do you really?’ Peggy’s eyes widened. ‘D’you know, I was just thinking the other day I was bored with the white picket fence outside my house and could do with some darling little railings there instead.’ Her smoky-grey eyes gazed innocently into his. ‘You couldn’t pop round next week and give me a quote, could you? Gone down the wrong way, Angie?’ She turned to pat her friend on the back. Angie, who appeared to be having a coughing fit, shot her a blistering look and stormed off to get a glass of water. Once she’d gone, Peggy laid a hand on my arm.

‘I say,’ she murmured, nodding towards the other side of the room, ‘Jennie’s having a nice time, isn’t she?’

I turned to see Jennie, at the far end of the room by the French windows, talking to Simon. He was standing with one hand resting on a beam above her head, leaning in towards her as they chatted. Jennie’s cheeks were flushed, and as she threw her head back and laughed at something he said, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen her look like that for a long time. Hadn’t seen her look so pretty. It also occurred to me that I’d been incredibly dim.