The pies, despite my reservations, didn’t disappoint at all. The beef was tender, the gravy rich, and I was even sure that the mushrooms were chanterelles. Add to that a generous helping of mashed potato and it was a lunch fit for a farming king. The cider wasn’t bad, either, but Old Joe at The Dog and Duck at Littleton Cotterell just had the edge there.
As we ate, the two ladies swapped stories about their respective times in India. Lady Hardcastle’s were certainly the more thrilling, being edited highlights of some of our less secret spying missions, but there was a mischievous glee in the older woman’s stories that came as something of a pleasant surprise. For reasons I can no longer put my finger on, I had always imagined Lady Farley-Stroud as something of joyless frump, but here in a less formal setting she was letting her hair down a bit and revealing that in her youth she’d been a bit of a girl. And sometimes rather a racy one at that.
I was only catching some of the tales, though, now that Maude, enlivened by the food and cider, was regaling me with tales of her own. Life below stairs at The Grange was a great deal more interesting than I remembered from the day I spent there and we were chuckling together as we plotted the downfall of the bullying cook, Mrs Brown, when the end of one of Lady Farley-Stroud’s stories brought us both up short.
‘…and so she just dived straight out the window. Still stark naked, of course.’
I nearly spat out my pie.
By the time we’d finished our enormous meals and a second cider each, we were full and sleepy and the walk to the car, though thankfully still rain-free, was a sluggish and slightly giggly affair.
Bert was asleep when we reached the motorcar and all but jumped out through the roof when Lady Farley-Stroud rapped sharply on the window. He hurried to let us all in and then drove us all back to Littleton Cotterrel with the sedate care demanded by his mistress.
We said our goodbyes and waved them off on their way up the hill to The Grange, and then went into the house where, still too full to move, Lady Hardcastle collapsed into an armchair in the drawing room while I put the kettle on.
Now that Lady Hardcastle was emerging from her winter-long funk and the days were beginning to get longer, life seemed altogether brighter again. In the week that followed our surprisingly entertaining market day adventure, we walked every morning and our conversations turned increasingly towards plans for the future and away from anxious analysis of the past. Birds were building nests, unidentifiable plants were poking blade-like leaves up through the soil, and spring was most definitely in the air.
‘They’re daffodils, pet,’ said Lady Hardcastle as I pointed out some of the unknown greenery. ‘They’re your country’s national flower. Surely you can tell a daffodil.’
‘Could be a tulip,’ I said, slightly sulkily. ‘Or a hyacinth. Bluebells. Crocus.’
‘Well, it isn’t. It’s a daffodil.’
We walked on.
‘I got a letter from George yesterday,’ she said.
‘Did you, my lady?’ I said. ‘Is he well?’
Colonel George Dawlish was an old friend whom we had met the previous summer when the circus he was managing had visited the village. There were “murders and mayhem” as the press had put it, but he had left in good spirits with the circus in fine shape, despite the carnage.
‘Very well indeed, it seems,’ she said. ‘I told you he was thinking about buying the circus?’
‘You did, my lady.’
‘He tells me that the sale has been completed and that he’s now the proud owner of Bradley & Stoke’s Circus.’
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ I said. ‘He’s keeping the name?’
‘He’s not sure. He says that the name was part of the sale and he thinks “Dawlish’s” is too difficult to say, so he might well hang on to it.’
‘Does this mean we get free tickets?’ I asked. I have always been inordinately fond of circuses.
‘I should bally well hope so,’ she said. ‘I’ll have stern words for the boy if we don’t.’
‘Can you ask him for his schedule? Please?’
She laughed. ‘I shall see what I can do. If he’s visiting anywhere nice, perhaps we could arrange to spend a few days nearby.’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said.
‘Speaking of visits, I wonder if Gertrude would like to come over for lunch.’
‘Would you like me to take a note up to The Grange, my lady?’ I said.
‘No, let’s think about it,’ she said. And then, after a pause, she continued, ‘Actually, yes, I really rather think I would. I never quite knew what to make of her when we first met her, but over these past few months she’s been comfortingly… what’s the female version of “avuncular”? Avunculus and… amita? Amitular? No, that can’t be right. I always was a duffer at Latin. But anyway, she’s been perfectly lovely and I should like to repay her kindness.’
‘Very well, my lady, you draft the perfect note and I shall carry it bravely up the hill.’
‘You’re a little trooper. But not today, I think – it’s Thursday.’
‘Can we not write perfect notes on a Thursday, my lady?’ I said.
‘I shall have you know that I can craft the perfect note for any occasion upon any day of the week, but Thursday is market day so she’ll not be at home. But tomorrow, definitely.’
‘Very well, my lady, I shall brush my best hat in preparation.’
‘You would wear your best hat to deliver a note, but not to take the air with your mistress?’ she said, haughtily.
‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘Why would I waste my best hat on an old trout like you? Lady Farley-Stroud, on the other hand, is a proper lady.’
‘In very many ways,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I really rather think she is.’
We reached home just as the postman was walking back down the path and exchanged cheery “good morning”s while I unlocked the door. The “country way”, we had been told many times, was to leave doors unlocked but after more than a decade of a life spent poking at the unpleasant things living under the nastier of life’s rocks, a locked door had become an unbreakable habit.
I picked up the letters from the mat and made way for Lady Hardcastle to come in and remove her hat and coat.
‘It’s quite the week for keeping in touch,’ I said handing over the letters. ‘I believe one of those is from Skins.’
‘The redoubtable Skins Maloney,’ she said, taking the letters with a smile of thanks. ‘Either bragging of the band’s continuing success or on the earhole for cash, I shouldn’t wonder.’
It seems our adventures of the previous summer had made quite an impression not only upon us, but upon the others involved. Skins was the drummer in the band who had become embroiled in the affair at The Grange and we had been following his progress after striking up a friendship one drunken, musical evening back at the house after everything had been wrapped up.
‘Ah,’ said Lady Hardcastle, reading the letter. ‘It’s all good news. Dates all over England, some in Paris… dah-de-dah… would we like to come and see them in London next month… oh, “and give my love to Flo”. Well, that’s all very nice. What do you think? A couple of days in London in April? We could call it a late birthday celebration for you – I haven’t forgotten it’s coming up. A night in a seedy club with the boys? Perhaps one of those silly shows you like?’