Mrs. Malory and A Time To Die (4 page)

“Splendid. Yes, I’d love to come. When?”

“Alice is spending the day with her friend Jessica tomorrow. Jessica’s mother, bless her, is taking them both swimming and then back to lunch, so I thought that would be a good time to go. Could you come about ten thirty? I’m afraid we’ll have to go in the Land Rover, so I pray this place isn’t up a dreadfully narrow lane, because I’m hopeless at backing up in it!”

There was a narrow lane, leading up to the rather scruffy-looking farmhouse high up, out over the moor, but fortunately no one else seemed to be using it that particular morning. A young woman, followed by a little girl, came out as we drove into the yard.

“You for the chicken, then?” she asked. “Dave left them all ready.”

We followed her to a corner of the yard where there were two crates, each containing six rust-colored fowl, who clucked hysterically when the woman picked them up and swung them into the back of the Land Rover.

“Are they all right?” Thea asked anxiously.

“They’ll soon settle down; don’t you fret. If you can bring the crates back . . .”

The child, who had watched the whole proceedings with her finger in her mouth, took it out and pointed in the direction of the agitated birds.

“Chicken!” she said. “Chicken cross!”

Then, apparently overcome by her own temerity, she retreated behind her mother.

“We’ll bring the crates back at the weekend if that’s all right,” Thea said. She handed over some money to the young woman, and we got back into the Land Rover and drove away.

After a little while I said, “I can’t hear any noise from the chickens. Do you think they’re all right?”

“I think so. Apparently they can’t stand up while I’m driving, so they sit down and presumably await their fate with a sort of Asian stoicism. They’ll be fine when we get them home.”

And, indeed, they were. After a brief inspection of the pen they pecked happily away at the corn Thea gave them and went into the chicken house as easily as if they’d always lived there.

“Well, that was good,” I said. “I was afraid they might be temperamental.”

“Oh, these are Warrens,” Thea said, “not high-class, fancy birds—what Michael calls industrial grade—but uncomplicated and very good layers.”

“That’s all right, then. Are they going to be safe in there? I mean, what about foxes?”

“There’s a sort of electric fence.” She indicated the strands of wire going round the pen that she’d had to step over when she was seeing to them.

“Goodness,” I said, “is it dangerous?”

“No, it’s fine.” She stooped to switch something on. “It gives quite a mild shock, enough to stop a fox or anything like that, but not too bad for humans. It runs off a battery. It’s the big ones, you know, like the ones round fields, which run off the mains, that you have to be careful of. Anyway, they seem all right. I’ll let them settle down for a bit and come back and look at them later. Let’s go and have a cup of tea. I’m absolutely dying for one.”

As I drove back home I thought about the way the wheel had come full circle, and how Thea had chosen to give up a successful career in the law to stay at home and cultivate the domestic virtues. I suppose it’s a matter of temperament, and for some people it’s perfectly possible to get complete satisfaction from that sort of life, while it would drive others mad. The trouble is, it seems to me, that, given the financial pressures of modern society, not many women
have
the option of choosing. In a way I didn’t actually have a choice. My mother was an invalid for some years before she died, so I stayed at home to look after her, and after Michael too when he was young. But I was lucky; I had quite a bit of freelance work—writing books, articles, reviews and so forth—so I had the best of both worlds. And now I was finding that being a grandmother was both pleasurable and demanding.

 

The next day I decided that being able to do what I like when I like is very useful. My cousin (well, second cousin, really) Fred Prior telephoned to say he was back in England for a few days and asked if I would have lunch with him tomorrow. All Fred’s arrangements tend to be ad hoc. He’s some years older than I am, and more my parents’ friend than mine. We hadn’t seen each other for many years until he came back into my life quite recently. He’s amazing for his age, full of energy and fun, with a wicked sense of humor, and we get on famously. He and his much-younger second wife now live in the south of France but, when he comes back to Bristol for business reasons, he always rings me and we have a splendid lunch together.

Nowadays I tend to avoid motorways, so on this occasion I decided to go to Bristol by train. As usual I arrived early for the train. Michael always used to say that if he counted up all the hours he’d spent waiting with me on railway platforms, he could have
written War and Peace
, let alone read it. There was only one other person on the platform when I arrived, a tall figure, instantly recognizable.

“Hello, Jo,” I said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She turned quickly and seemed surprised and somehow disconcerted at being addressed, but then she said, “Sheila! Do forgive me; I was miles away!”

“Are you going to Bristol too?”

“Yes, I’ve got some tiresome business to see to. How about you?”

“Oh, lunch with my cousin—Fred Prior. Do you remember him?”

“Vaguely from down here. I used to see more of his first wife, Amanda, when she got married to Vernon Russell, the producer. They used to have rather grand parties at their house in Hampstead. And there was a son, wasn’t there? He went into the profession, I seem to remember. He was a Charlie too—that’s right, Charlie Prior.”

“Actually, he gave up the stage, or acting, at least, and now he’s a very successful agent.”

“Good for him. That’s a sensible move. There are too many actors! And what about Fred? He married again too, didn’t he?”

“Yes, someone much younger, called Louise. She’s half French, and they live in Antibes now. Fred’s given up the Bristol house, but he comes over occasionally to see to things.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Jo declared. “I couldn’t live anywhere but England.”

“Oh, nor could I. Abroad’s all very well for holidays, but not for
living
, and, really, I don’t think I’d want to live anywhere but Taviscombe—not just for the people, friends and family, but it’s the only place where I really feel comfortable, if you know what I mean.”

“Absolutely. That’s why I came back here after—after we decided to set up the stables. It was a really bad time for us both. I just wanted to come home, I suppose.”

I looked at Jo curiously. I’d never heard her mention that part of her life; all I knew had come from Simon, and Esther, of course. I was flattered, somehow, that she’d actually felt easy enough with me to mention it.

“I know what you mean,” I said, feeling the urge to repay confidence with confidence. “When Mother died, and Peter, I wouldn’t have been able to bear it anywhere else—not just the support from friends, but, well, it’s something about your own
place
, somewhere you feel you belong.”

Jo gave me one of her rare smiles. “Exactly,” she said.

When the train came in, our reserved seats were in different carriages, so I didn’t see her get off at Temple Mead station. But when Fred, who had come to meet me, and I were walking past the taxi rank, she was standing there, and I pointed her out to him.

“Yes, still the same old Jo Howard,” he said. “She’s worn well. I’d recognize her anywhere. But the poor old girl doesn’t seem very happy—looks as if she’s got the troubles of the world on her shoulders!”

Indeed, she did look drawn and anxious, and I wondered what sort of tiresome business it was that had brought her to Bristol.

 

The next time I saw her, though, I was glad to see that she was her old self again. I’d gone with Thea to watch Alice have a riding lesson at the stables and Jo was taking a class of older girls over the jumps, her voice ringing out cheerfully as she encouraged them.

“Here comes Cracker,” Thea said as Liz led out the small Exmoor pony. Alice hesitated for a moment and then went resolutely towards them. She went to the mounting block and when she got onto the pony herself without any help, she turned and gave us a triumphant smile.

“She’s still on a leading rein, of course,” Thea said, “but she can rise to the trot now—there, look!”

Smiling indulgently, we watched her for a while, and then I said, “You stay here and I’ll go and pay Peggy for her lesson.”

I made my way through the stable block, past the tack room and into the office, though “office” is a rather grand name for the ramshackle wooden structure built onto one side of the tack room. Peggy wasn’t there, but Charlie was, seated at a makeshift desk, making heavy weather of some forms. He looked up as I came in.

“Hello, Sheila. How are you with all this lot?” He waved an official-looking booklet in the air. “Honestly, what with insurance, health and safety and God knows what else, I might as well be a bloody civil servant!”

“Oh don’t!” I said. “I’m hopeless. I dash at them without reading them properly and then I find I’ve filled them in all wrong and they end up with masses of crossings out. Fortunately, Michael can’t bear to see the mess I make of them, so he takes them away and sorts them for me.”

Charlie smiled. “To be fair,” he said, “Simon deals with most of our stuff, but he’s still away and these have to go off before he gets back. He’s a good lad; I don’t know what we’d do without him, and he’ll never take a penny for all the work he does for us.”

“Oh well,” I said. “Family.”

Charlie sighed. “It’s just as well,” he said. “I don’t know that we could afford to pay an accountant. Running a stable’s an expensive business. That’s why we’ve tried to expand the livery side. Weekenders and people like that will pay a fair amount for their riding, but then
that
means you’ve got to spruce things up a bit, make them feel they’re getting value for money, and getting it all costs. Have you seen the price of hay now?”

I had to admit I hadn’t.

“Criminal!” he said. “We’ve got a fair bit of pasture here, of course, but, even with that, the feed bills are terrible. And there’s labor, of course. Liz and Peggy are marvelous workers and Jo slaves away every hour that God sends, and even I try to do my bit, but it’s a struggle!”

“Well,” I said, putting a couple of notes down on the desk, “here’s a tiny bit towards it—the money for Alice’s lesson.”

He laughed. “Sorry, Sheila. I didn’t mean to go on like that. You caught me at the wrong time; I’m not usually so dismal!”

“Oh, don’t apologize. I know it does help sometimes to get things off your chest.”

“I don’t mind so much for myself,” Charlie said. “I’d be quite happy with a few horses and a couple of regulars, but Jo cares so much about it. Anyway, thanks for this.” He picked up the money, stood up, unlocked a small safe and put the notes into a cash box. “Every little bit helps!”

“You seem to have quite a few youngsters now,” I said. “I imagine they’ll be regulars for a while yet.”

“Some of them will,” Charlie said with a smile, “but some of them will discover boys and that will be the end of it.”

“Oh well,” I said, “you’ll have Alice for a good many years. She’s absolutely obsessed!”

“Jo says she’s coming along very nicely.” He broke off as there was a sudden noise and the sound of hooves clattering against wood. He limped out into the stable and I followed. Peggy was trying to calm down a large chestnut hunter that kept rearing up.

“Shorten the rein,” Charlie said, “and bring his head round. That’s it. Good girl. Now he’ll go into his stall. Take it gently.”

He followed them and went over to the horse, stroking it and talking to it quietly. After a while he had a few words with Peggy and went out into the yard.

“That was Tarquin,” he said to me, “just come in for livery and hasn’t settled down properly yet. He’s a bit temperamental and right now he’s got a touch of laminitis, and that always makes them jumpy.”

“Does he belong to a weekender?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, no. He belongs to one of Gordon’s council friends, Dan Webster. He’s quite experienced; used to hunt with the D&S. But he’s not a very good judge of horses; he goes for the showily good-looking ones. I think Tarquin’s going to be a bit too much for him to handle, even when we’ve sorted out the laminitis.”

“He’s a very handsome creature,” I said. “I can see how he might appeal.”

“Oh well, we’ll just have to do the best we can.”

I stood in the doorway and looked out beyond the yard at the ring with the young riders and their ponies, then farther down, across the fields where some of the horses were grazing peacefully in the afternoon sunlight, towards the woods and in the distance to the hills, which were just beginning to turn purple and gold with the heather and gorse.

“It really is a glorious spot,” I said to Charlie.

“I know,” he said quietly. “We’re very lucky. Whatever happens, we have to keep hold of it somehow.”

I went back to tea with Thea and Alice and, when Alice had finally exhausted every aspect of her ride (“And did you see me, Gran? I dismounted all by myself. I took both my feet out of the stirrups, like Liz said—you have to take them
right
out, and then you can get down. . . .”), I told Thea I thought Jo and Charlie might be having financial difficulties.

“It may just have been general grumbling,” I said. “I mean, we all like to have a bit of a moan, but I have the feeling it was more than that and they’re really worried.”

“I thought riding stables simply coined money,” Thea said. “They certainly charge enough!”

“Well, the expenses are high and it’s all labor-intensive.”

“But think of all that child labor—all those young girls who hang around, longing to be allowed to
do
something for the horses, however menial.”