Country Pursuits (39 page)

How fitting, she thought, that her day should start here, where it all began. It was like the calm before the storm, a chance to reflect and galvanize herself for the battle ahead. Clementine closed her eyes for a moment. Oh please, let us raise enough money to keep the Meadows, she prayed. Then she heard a familiar voice next to her ear, as clear as day.

‘You can do it, Clemmie old girl, chin up!'

Bertie! Clementine opened her eyes and looked round. There was no one there. Had she just imagined her husband's voice? But it had sounded so real . . . A firm, resolute look came into her eye. ‘We
are
going to do this!' she said aloud. Errol Flynn trotted over and shoved his huge wet nose in her hand. She looked down at her pet: dear loyal old Errol, who had been her constant companion in recent years. ‘Come on boy, let's go get 'em!' she said fervently.

A few hours later, at Byron Heights, Devon was going through a similar crisis of confidence. It was only eleven o'clock, and already a group of fans and photographers had gathered at the end of his drive,
hoping to glimpse the pop star on the day of his grand comeback. Devon had looked out of the window, gulped and drawn the heavy curtains across it. He flung himself down on the sofa and turned on the television, trying to take his mind off what lay ahead. The pretty face of the newsreader on the local news station flashed up. She announced solemnly:

Devon could stand it no longer. ‘Arggh!' he yelled and clicked the set off, throwing the remote across the room. Nigel, hearing the commotion down the corridor, rushed in looking alarmed. He found Devon lying face-down on the sofa, a cushion pulled over his head.

‘What on earth is wrong?' he cried, running over to him.

Devon slowly lifted his head up and gazed at him. ‘Nige, I don't think I can do it. I thought I was ready for it, but now it's here, I can't. I'm bricking it!'

A voice sounded from behind them. ‘Devon, you can do it. I know you can. Come on, darling.' Devon sat up and they both turned to face the door. Looking effortlessly chic in a navy-blue polka-dotted scarf and blue quilted riding-jacket,
Frances was leaning against the doorway. She looked apologetic. ‘I did knock but no one answered. I hope you don't mind me letting myself in.'

Nigel smiled in relief. If anyone could talk Devon round, it was Frances. ‘Not at all, come in,' he said. ‘I'll leave you to it.' He gave her arm a grateful squeeze as he passed, and she smiled at him reassuringly.

‘Now then, what's all this?' She sat down next to Devon on the sofa.

He gave a loud groan. ‘Frances, I can't do it, man! What if I go down like a lead balloon? What if they hate all my new stuff? I'll never recover from that.'

Frances took Devon's chin in her hand tenderly and looked straight into his eyes. ‘Devon Cornwall, you are the most talented man I have ever met. You are going to bring the house down tonight, no question.' He began to protest but she stopped him. ‘It's just last-minute jitters, darling, which are entirely understandable,' she said soothingly.

Devon started to look slightly less stricken. ‘But what if me nerves fail me?'

‘They won't,' she told him firmly. A pained look flashed across her eyes. ‘Devon, you need to do this. Not just for you, but for the village. For Harriet . . .' Her lower lip wobbled.

Devon sat up straight, guilt flooding over him. What a selfish git he was being. ‘My beautiful Frances,' he murmured, hugging her. ‘You're right, of course I'll do it. There's a lot at stake tonight, and it's not just my bleedin' career.'

Frances closed her eyes and clasped him tightly.

Around lunchtime Clementine went down to Clanfield Hall to see how everything was going. It looked slightly chaotic. At least a dozen cars were parked outside the magnificent building, ranging from a white florist's van with bright pink roses painted down the side to a dusty looking lorry from which several muscular men were unloading pieces of the stage. Several more people were shouting across to each other, staggering as they carried large flower displays and boxes of food and drink across the gravel drive. Someone had dropped a tray of eggs by the front door, the yolk spreading out in a big, gloopy yellow puddle. A workman in overalls, with a pencil stuck behind his ear, cursed as he stepped in it, lifting his dripping boot up and looking around unsuccessfully for somewhere to wipe it.

In the middle of all this, a short, excitable young black man was standing beside a black Saab shouting furiously down the mobile phone he had clamped to his ear.

‘What do you mean, you forgot to pack my CDJ 1,000s!' He had a high-pitched, slightly manic voice. ‘What am I supposed to do, rig up to the old guy's gramophone?' The man paused as a babble of protest could be heard down the line. ‘G-Man, I don't care if they've fucked up your weave at the hairdressers, get your sorry boy ass down the M4 now!' He lowered his voice slightly. ‘And don't forget my wheatgrass juice, it's in the fridge, yeah?'

Clementine stared at the stranger in bemusement. He had braided hair, worn incongruously in
bunches on either side of his head. Big diamond studs glittered in both ears, while immaculate white trainers with some kind of tick down the side dazzled on his feet. The man was wearing a full-length brown fur coat, which fell aside as he jiggled round impatiently, revealing a huge oversized T-shirt with the words ‘Dirty Dawg' emblazoned across it. Irritably he snapped the tiny diamanté phone shut and, looking round, noticed Clementine for the first time. His whole face lit up in a beaming smile, revealing even more diamonds in his dental work.

‘Hey, girl!' he called out in a friendly manner. ‘Can you tell me where I can find the lord of this manor?' He proceeded to moonwalk across the drive towards a very disconcerted Clementine. ‘I'm Dawg!' he said, turning round and pointing with both hands to his T-shirt. ‘Just like it says on the tin!' He gave a booming laugh and extended his hand in greeting. The name rang a bell.

‘Dawg? Mr Dawg, are you performing tonight? I think my granddaughter Calypso has been in charge of the arrangements,' she said formally.

‘You're Calypso's gran? Damn, good looks run in the family!' Dawg slapped his thigh and chuckled again. ‘Yeah, I'm the Dawg,
DJ
Dawg, if you'd be so kind.' He eyed Clementine's tweed trouser suit critically. ‘Man, that country look is so yesterday! Why don't I get my assistant G to bring up one of our ‘Dawg's Bitch' tracksuits for ya? It would look
well
fly. My old ma loves hers, wears it out for bingo with a pair of heels.'

‘No, thank you,' a slightly thrown Clementine told him.

He shrugged good-naturedly. ‘If you change your mind, let me know. “Dawg On Dawg” is one of Selfridges' bestselling lines at the moment.' Suddenly loud barking rang out from nowhere, making Clementine almost jump out of her skin.

‘Chillax, it's just my ring tone,' he told her, amused, as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He slapped his thigh again. ‘P Diddy! My main man! What's going down?'

‘Laters, home girl,' he said to Clementine, and wandered off to take the call.

What's later? How does he know I like staying at home, she wondered, feeling rather perplexed. Reeling slightly from this encounter, Clementine walked in through the enormous oak front doors, which had been propped open. As she stepped over the threshold she was assailed by the smell of fresh pine, and her confidence was restored. A huge, beautifully dressed Christmas tree stood in the centre of the sweeping entrance hall, a man in overalls perched precariously on a step ladder as he reached to put a decadent silver star on the top. The whole place looked positively festive.

‘Isn't it wonderful? It was Ambrose's idea,' said Frances, appearing behind her, her arms full of bottle-green sprigs of mistletoe. ‘We thought this would get everyone in the mood at the drinks reception.' She had just returned from Byron Heights, having left Devon in an encouragingly buoyant mood.

‘It's really very kind of you,' said Clementine gratefully. ‘Good old Ambrose!' She looked concerned. ‘How is he holding up?' She studied Frances. ‘How are
you
holding up?'

Frances smiled bravely. ‘To be honest, tonight has been the only thing that's kept me going. One tends to sit and dwell less when one is so busy.' She leaned in confidingly. ‘I have had serious doubts about Ambrose, but he's seemed a bit brighter in the last week.' She laughed ruefully. ‘You know my husband, he can't bear not to be involved!'

‘I can't put into words how grateful we are for all this. You've been so brave,' Clementine said emotionally. The two women smiled and clasped each other's hands.

At this moment there was a loud crash from the back of the house, followed by an angry babble of distant voices.

‘Ah, I was going to pop in and see how Pierre was doing,' said Clementine.

‘I wouldn't, if I were you,' Frances warned her. ‘The last I heard, the suppliers had delivered partridge instead of prawns, and one of the sous chefs dropped a saucepan on his foot and had to be carted off to A and E. I believe Pierre is in one of his more
fraught
moods.'

Another noise made them jump as a loud barking sounded out at the front.

‘What
is
that awful racket?' asked Frances, craning her neck round the door. Her face was a picture as she caught sight of Dawg, answering his phone, holding it with one hand, the other stuck down the front of his baggy jeans rearranging his particulars.

‘Ah, I don't believe you've met the DJ yet, have you?' said Clementine delicately.

AFTER A THOROUGH
inspection of the car park and newly erected cloakrooms and toilets, Clementine was satisfied everything was ready. Driving back through the village, she saw Babs Sax wandering across the green, carrying a long, canary-yellow dress on a hanger. Babs waved the car down and Clementine stopped begrudgingly. A straightforward, no-nonsense woman, she really couldn't see the point of silly, affected people like Babs.

‘Just picked my dress up from the dry cleaners,' Babs announced shrilly. She stuck her bony face through the window and Clementine got a disconcerting waft of gin-fuelled breath. ‘Got the bloody thing covered in green gloss at Lucien's – that's Lucien
Freud
's – painting party last year. I was beside myself they wouldn't be able to get it out, but they did! Otherwise I don't know
what
I would have done.' She held the dress up to the window. ‘Marvellous, isn't it? I got it from a frightfully expensive boutique off Portobello Road.'

It was hideous, thought Clementine. On closer inspection, the clingy fabric would have looked more at home in an ice-skater's closet. It was also
covered with yellow feathers, and someone appeared to have attacked the jagged hemline with a pair of gardening shears. Billowy chiffon sleeves hung off each side like a pair of limp windsocks. The whole effect was absurd and strangely terrifying.

Clementine decided to exercise her tact. ‘It's very original,' she told Babs, and looked at the clock on the dashboard pointedly. ‘I must be off, Brenda's due round at Fairoaks to babysit Milo soon.' The artist stepped back from the car with a flourish.

‘Of course,' she cried. ‘See you later!' She swayed dangerously, like a tall poppy blowing in a gale-force wind. For a worrying second, Clementine thought she was going to fall over. But Babs managed to right herself and wove off back towards Hard-on House. As Clementine drove off she made a mental note to make sure Babs was served the non-alcoholic champagne at the drinks reception.

The invitation stated guests were to arrive from seven o'clock. Dinner was at 7.45 p.m., the all-important auction starting at nine thirty. At eleven o'clock, Devon Cornwall was opening the live entertainment on stage – hopefully still with an appearance from Mick Jagger. For those who were still standing at midnight, DJ Dawg would be spinning and mixing his choice of dance-floor fillers. Carriages were at two o'clock and Ambrose hoped to be tucked up in bed with a tot of single malt scotch by 2.10 a.m. ‘Maybe a
trifle
ambitious, darling,' Frances tactfully informed him.

By six o'clock, all the committee members were
down at the Hall doing last-minute preparations. Her granddaughters did scrub up well, thought Clementine admiringly, as she watched them rush about clutching clipboards, to-do lists and table plans. She had been slightly worried Calypso would shame the family by arriving dressed as a Soho streetwalker, but her youngest granddaughter was the epitome of elegance in a long, gold, strapless dress, her normally messy bed-hair swept up in a sophisticated topknot. Camilla was making the most of her fabulous legs in a short black dress. Long-sleeved, it had a low scooped back that showed off her honey-coloured skin, courtesy of the fake tan she'd had done at the Sunshine beauty salon in Bedlington the day before. It made her hair look blonder than ever, and her eyes smouldered under artfully applied smoky make-up. No wonder Jed Bantry, helping to bring the last few crates of wine in, couldn't take his eyes off her.

In his rented dinner jacket and with his black hair swept back, exposing his imperious cheekbones, Jed looked every inch the young aristocrat. Clementine smiled wryly as she thought of the look that would surely appear on some people's faces tonight when Jed opened his mouth and exposed his country roots. She was rather relieved he had finally made his move on Camilla. Clementine's beady eyes had missed nothing over the years, and she probably realized the extent of Jed's feelings towards her middle granddaughter before he did. For all her breeding and connections, Clementine was not a snob and was more concerned with manners, decency and honesty than which school someone had been to or what their father did for a
living. She had encountered far too many boorish, unscrupulous Hooray Henrys in her lifetime.