Mount! (62 page)

‘She want to please you,’ beseeched Bao. ‘Your dog miss you so much, see them barking.’

Rupert was relenting fractionally – perhaps bullets should be bitten – when Bao added, ‘And Mr Jan too, he work night and day with Mrs Black Taggie, making wonderful lunch with whole reindeers, no one work as hard as Mr Jan.’

It was the final straw. ‘Fucking Yansy Pansy. Turn the chopper round.’

‘We might have no fuel.’

‘Bollocks, we’ve got buckets. Tell flight control we’re heading north. If we hurry, we’ll catch Beijing Bertie and Jemmy at Nottingham.’

‘We have to give Nottingham week notice.’

‘Then we’ll park nearby.’

It was terrifying, being in a small aircraft with a Sabre-toothed Tiger. London control were ringing through. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We’re re-routing to Nottingham,’ Rupert told them.

At first everyone thought Rupert was just hovering to have a look. Then it became obvious the helicopter was heading north, and cheers turned to horrified screams.

‘Come back, Daddy, come back,’ sobbed Bianca. Back slunk the bewildered dogs.

‘Bastard, bastard,’ rose a great groundswell of rage. ‘How could he do that to Taggie?’

‘I’ve come fifty thousand miles for this party,’ grumbled Baby.

Simmy looked at his phone. ‘The helicopter’s heading north.’

Jan discovered Taggie alone sobbing in the drawing room, oblivious of a porn DVD of Cindy Bolton romping with a goat, which was still playing and which he switched off.

‘I should never have gone ahead with it,’ she said. ‘Rupert made it quite clear he didn’t want a party.’

Jan took her in his arms, Lucy’s make-up smearing his new jacket.

‘Simmy’s keeping track of the helicopter. We’ll find him.’

‘Oh God, how could he do that? All the children were so excited and all the people making an effort, coming all that way, all the presents, everyone here working so hard.’

‘Hush, hush,’ he stroked her hair. ‘We’ve got all the guests here, lunch is ready. Let’s get on with the party,’ then dropping a kiss on her trembling lips, ‘and show the bastard we can have a bloody good time without him. He’s the one who’ll be sorry.’ Getting out a handkerchief, he wiped her eyes.

Quivering with mortification, Jan’s arm around her, Taggie went out on to the lawn, as a gust of wind unleashed a shower of gold leaves. The roar of rage and speculation subsided as Jan clapped his hands.

‘Mrs Campbell-Black wants to say how sorry she is to disappoint you all.’

An enraged Declan O’Hara was poised to take over: ‘My daughter Taggie has done nothing wrong,’ he roared. But Jan cut across him.

‘I’m afraid the birthday boy’s scarpered, but lunch is ready, and Mrs Campbell-Black hopes you’ll all stay on for a great party.’

A huge cheer went up and carried on as everyone crowded round Taggie, patting her shoulder and comforting her.

‘Why’s he pushed orf?’ asked Old Eddie.

‘I’m afraid he can’t handle being sixty,’ sighed Helen.

‘Naughty Grandpa,’ said Sapphire.

‘I don’t like surprise parties either,’ confessed Georgie Maguire. ‘Guy gave one for me at midday on a Saturday; everyone rolled up to find me in trackie bottoms, with no make-up
and dirty hair. Perhaps Rupert was worried his roots needed doing.’

People were starting to giggle. Gossip rose and fell as everyone swarmed into the marquee, exclaiming over the beauty of the displays and the flowers. The irony was the thousands of galloping horses in the videos: Rupert’s horses winning Derbies, Grand Nationals, polo and showjumping championships.

‘There’s quite enough of your brother in this tent already,’ said Baby to Adrian. ‘Must say Taggie’s found herself a beaut new man.’

Bianca, in floods, was being comforted by Feral.

‘I wanted to see Daddy. I missed him in Australia, I haven’t seen him for months.’

Gala was also devastated. She’d been so thrilled with her new dress. How could Rupert have done that to poor, poor Taggie?

But at least everyone was sorry for Taggie. No one’s sorry for me, thought Gala, gulping down another vat of champagne and going off to waitress, only to be waylaid by Drew and Bas, insisting she sat between them with Gropius lying beneath her feet. How would Gav react to Rupert’s defection, she wondered. He was due home today.

There was a moment of hope when the dark-blue helicopter returned, but only Bao jumped out. Traumatized and tearful, he sought out Taggie.

‘I am so sorry, Mrs Taggie. I told him great party, but he was very, very angry. He ask me to drop him above village. I am so sorry.’

‘Poor Bao.’ Taggie hugged him. ‘I’m sorry too. Did he say where he was going?’

‘Perhaps Nottingham, but he have no coat.’

‘Come and sit with us,’ called out Etta. ‘Valent can practise his Mandarin on you.’

Meanwhile, Rupert’s son-in-law Wolfie and his sons, Marcus and Xavier, were having a council of war.

‘Shall we fan out and look for him?’ said Xav grimly.

‘You’ve had too much champagne to drive,’ said Wolfie. ‘I’ll go.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Marcus.

‘I haven’t had that much,’ protested Xav. ‘I’m coming too.’

A rip-roaring party ensued, with guests well oiled from the long wait, as they helped themselves to Beef Wellington, venison and lamb, carved on a side table, roast potatoes, red cabbage, sweetcorn and asparagus, with a vast beetroot tart to each table.

Indignation meetings everywhere over Rupert’s appalling behaviour soon gave way to wonder at the food.

‘Who are your caterers?’ asked everyone.

‘Jan is,’ said Geraldine. ‘He’s given everything a wonderful South African flavour.’

‘And Taggie too,’ reproved Dora, who was photographing the beetroot tart, ‘they did it together. Hope the red’s all right,’ she whispered to Etta. ‘Taggie gave me and Paris some bottles to try, but by the time we’d tested them all we were so plastered, we couldn’t remember which one we liked best. Oh God, Dame Hermione and Damsire have sat down to lunch.’

‘Ought to have your own programme, Jan,’ called out Dame Hermione, taking a second huge helping of beetroot tart. ‘You’re just as good-looking as Paul Hollywood.’

Jan, worried that Taggie hadn’t eaten anything, insisted she sat with her parents and a large plate of food.

‘Please see she finishes it,’ he said, adding, ‘I’m just going to check things in the kitchen.’

Guests, having enjoyed second – even third – helpings were soon tucking into the puddings: cheesecake, sticky toffee pudding and a magnificent fruit salad steeped in sloe gin.

‘What’s this?’ asked Dame Hermione, plunging her spoon into a lush cream concoction.

‘Harrow Mess,’ said Damsire, consulting the menu. ‘Presumably because Rupert went to Harrow.’

‘And made a mess of things as usual,’ said his brother Adrian scathingly.

Adrian’s father, Old Eddie, was talking to Helen, who he had forgotten had once been his daughter-in-law.

‘I find a whole Viagra lasts too long, so I break each one into four.’

What had actually happened to Rupert was that flying northward, realizing he’d cut himself off from the yard and the stud, he had called Bas Baddingham to suggest lunch, only to be told Mr Baddingham had gone to a surprise birthday party. When he rang Ricky France-Lynch and then Drew Benedict, he was told the same story – bloody hell, all getting pissed at his expense. So he asked Bao to drop him off in a field on the north side of Penscombe.

‘I’ll be perfectly all right. You go to the party. I’ll make my own way back, and I don’t need an overcoat,’ he’d told a distraught Bao.

It was actually so arctic after Melbourne and Santa Anita, Rupert bought a half bottle of whisky at the local off-licence and wandered down to Penscombe churchyard, where on Billy’s grave he found a big bunch of white freesias, shuddering in the icy wind.

Darling Daddy, Best Father in the World. Missing you always. All love, Amber.

Rupert took a swig from his bottle; he ought to give the rest to Billy, who’d loved whisky – often rather too much.

The flowers looked new – Amber must have come over for the party. He wondered if that bitch Janey had crashed it; she had led Billy such a merry dance. Then suddenly he thought how horrified Billy, who’d endured all Janey’s appalling
behaviour, would have been at him boycotting the party. Billy was like darling sweet Taggie. With a shiver, Rupert realized what he’d done to her. How could he have humiliated her so?
And
cheated on her.

Taking another swig of whisky, hearing the distant roar of a party, he wandered into the church to find Constance Sprightly, who was always bullying Taggie and whose cat was always being treed by Forester, ramming bronze chrysanthemums into a large vase.

‘Hello, Mr Campbell-Black, I thought you’d be up at the house. There’s a big do going on.’

A bald man was strumming away on the organ: ‘Dear Lord and Father of mankind, Forgive our foolish ways’.

Take a lot for God to forgive me, reflected Rupert, putting a tenner in the collection box. The next moment Constance gave a squawk of horror as an iron fist hoisted Rupert across the nave into a huge arrangement of yellow lilies, so that falling, he cracked his head on the corner of a pew.

‘You ungrateful bastard,’ said a voice. ‘How dare you treat Taggie like that?’

Had he passed out? All Rupert vaguely remembered was being grabbed by his jersey and shirt and dragged to his feet.

‘You’re coming back to the house and bloody well apologizing.’

Back in the marquee, Louise and Marketa were getting off with the Carlisle twins, polo’s golden boys. No better behaved in their forties, they were particularly taken with Gropius.

‘We had a bull terrier called Decorum, so we could make jokes about exercising him.’

The party had progressed to cheese and a great deal more wine and liqueurs. Marcus, Wolfie, Xav and Jan had returned to the marquee.

Taggie, too upset to eat, had fled to the kitchen to supervise coffee, and on her return moved timidly along the tables, checking people were OK. At the end of the marquee, a little platform awaited any speeches. Mounting it, Taggie’s brother Patrick took the microphone.

‘God, he’s gorgeous,’ sighed Louise.

‘As your hostess’s brother,’ Patrick had the same soft Irish accent as Declan, ‘I’d just like to say a few words. Today is a bit like
Hamlet
without the Prince, but my brother-in-law doesn’t have a very good track-record at parties. At his own wedding he was so anxious to be alone with my sister, Taggie, he only stayed at the reception for twenty minutes, sloping off into the sunset long before dinner, dancing, cake-cutting or any of the speeches.’

‘We were there,’ roared the Carlisle twins, ‘the party-pooper.’

‘To be alone with my sister,’ repeated Patrick, ‘who can’t spell, by the way, so when it said “no presents” on the invitation, she actually meant “no presence” i.e. birthday boy wouldn’t be putting in an appearance.’ Which was greeted by howls of laughter.

‘He’s an absolute shit, my brother-in-law. CB stands for Complete Bastard but you can see from the marvellous display round the walls of this marquee, created by Tristan de Montigny, the great director, that Rupert has achieved a lot in his life.

‘The food has been utterly amazing, and is almost entirely the work of my sister and Jan Van Deventer, who’s supposed to be looking after Rupert’s father, Eddie, but now seems more to be caring for Taggie.’ Which was greeted by bellows of approval.

‘No, Patrick,’ begged Taggie.

‘Everyone has worked ridiculously hard but it’s most of all a shame for Taggie who’s been slaving for months to celebrate Rupert’s birthday.’

Whereupon everyone stood up and cheered her.

‘I don’t know where Rupert’s got to,’ went on Patrick. ‘The chopper dropped him off near the village. The hunt’s gone to look for him – I hope hounds tear him to pieces.’

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said a voice and there was a gasp as Rupert walked in, pausing in the gangway below the platform.

His slate-blue v-neck jersey and pale-blue shirt were splattered with blood, and drenched with water from Constance Sprightly’s spilt flowers. His left eye was closing up, his suntan faded to a
yellowing pallor. He was greeted by a hostile and deathly silence.

Taggie, about to race up the aisle to him, was grabbed by Declan, tugging her into a chair beside him. Next moment the silence was broken by barking and yelping as the dogs, led by Forester and Banquo in their blue and green bows, swarmed up the gangway throwing themselves on Rupert in ecstasy. This was followed by whickering and great snorts of delight as Safety Car trundled up, pushing the dogs to one side, nuzzling and nudging his master.

‘At least someone’s forgiven me,’ drawled Rupert.

Then, in the silence that followed, Old Eddie could be heard saying: ‘Who’s that fellow with Safety Car?’ which was followed by roars and roars of laughter, particularly from Rupert.

And like the sun creeping through the trees above the Penscombe and Cotchester Road and flooding the valley with light, his magnetism kicked in and everyone rose to applaud him.

‘Rupert, Rupert,’ said a voice. It was Dame Hermione, which nearly sent Rupert into reverse.

‘What the fuck’s she doing here?’

‘Naughty, naughty,’ chortled Hermione.

‘Good par-eee, isn’t it exciting?’ cried Clover as Rupert raised his hand.

‘All I can do,’ he said, ‘is apologize unreservedly to you all, but most of all to my darling wife. It was utterly unpardonable. My only excuse is I’d had a long flight, celebrating Dave winning the Melbourne Cup and Fleance coming second, pushing up Love Rat’s winnings – and when I saw you all, I just bottled out. It’s the wettest, most awful thing I’ve ever done. I’m so sorry, darling.’ And watched with ambiguous emotions by Jan and Gala, he opened his arms and Taggie flew into them.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ they both gabbled, ‘entirely my fault.’

Still hugging Taggie, Rupert went on, ‘I want to apologize to all my children: Marcus, Xav, Bianca, Perdita and Tab, and to all my friends and guests who’ve come miles, and all my staff who’ve worked so hard to put on this amazing party.’ Then,
pausing to check his iPhone, he laughed, ‘And the best birthday present, which should also please Bao, is that Beijing Bertie and Jemmy have just hacked up at Nottingham.’