A Change of Pace (5 page)

In the end they opted for leek soup and venison steaks, there being little left to choose anyway. The food, when it finally arrived, turned out to be tasteless, the bill enormous. ‘Ninety per cent ambience and ten per cent nutrition,’ Diz told them, but by that time they were all too exhausted to care.

‘I suppose I shall have to drive, you’re in no condition to do so.’ Pol brushed past Pete and briskly led the way out of the still-humming restaurant into the cold night air. ‘Would you mind awfully, ducky, I am most frightfully tired, it seems to have been one hell of a long day.’ The others departed to look for Bernie’s car, wandering down the village street, arms linked, chanting some Beatles’ song from the sixties.

Pete climbed ponderously into the back of the Aston Martin and promptly went to sleep. Pol expertly fastened her seat belt, started the engine, and neatly reversed into the car behind. Pete woke with a jerk. ‘What’s happened, darling? What have you — ?’

‘I should think that was fairly obvious, she’s driven into the front of my car, the stupid cow.’ A man’s face thrust itself through the car window, hair on end, eyes blazing. Beelzebub himself!, Bet, still in her trance, looked at the man with wondering eyes.

‘Look here, I’m extremely sorry, but there’s no earthly need to insult my wife; she’s a very competent driver, it must have been the frost on the rear window — ’

‘I don’t care a tinker’s fart what it was. If you had an ounce of sense between you, someone would have thought of cleaning it.’

‘Call the police at once, Pete. I am not going to be insulted like this.’

For heaven’s sake, belt up, ducky. What d’you imagine the police can do? Look, I’m sure we can settle things amicably and of course I accept full liability. I’ll just pop out and we can have a dekko at the damage.’

Considering his condition, Pete’s dignity was impressive. The face withdrew from the window and for an instant Bet saw its owner quite clearly under the street lamp. Medium height, shorter than Pete; but then most people were, for Pete was a giant, with broad shoulders (nice), and dark curly hair turning to grey (even nicer). The man’s expression was still diabolical, but with those slanting eyebrows it could not be anything else. The mouth was a bit on the sensual side, but surprisingly gentle for such a satanic-looking individual, and she’d always liked men with cleft chins. Actually, he looked a bit foreign; Spanish perhaps, or possibly Italian; although this impression was belied by the fact that when he opened his mouth, the tone of voice and accent were unmistakably those of an upper-crust Englishman, and a pretty arrogant upper-crust Englishman at that.

The two men disappeared from view.

A few minutes later Pete returned, smiling genially. ‘Not to worry. Only smashed the glass on the chap’s headlight, could have been much worse. I gave him a cheque for fifty pounds to cover any damage, but it won’t come near that. We don’t want the insurance boys involved unnecessarily.’

‘Are you saying you gave that frightful man fifty pounds for insulting me? Did you hear what he called me, Pete, did you hear ... ?’ But Pete was asleep again.

*

Sunday evening. An empty house, the children at a rock concert in Stourwick, Bet alone by the fire considering her weekend. Somewhat surprisingly, it had been rather fun. But then as she seemed to have spent a large part of it in an alcoholic haze, it could hardly be counted as a taste of things to come. Did the Redfords always drink like that, or only on special occasions? It would be interesting to find out.

She’d seen them off back to London an hour ago, amidst a hail of last-minute instructions from Pol for herself and Christine Barnet. She had little intention of carrying out hers, and Christine Barnet could decide for herself. After they’d gone, she’d poached herself an egg and retired to her sitting-room with Parson Woodforde’s Diaries and the remains of the Sunday newspapers. Having consumed the egg and given Tib the toast crusts, she found she couldn’t be bothered to read the papers — it was never the same reading the Sunday papers at the end of the day, the impetus had somehow gone — and she was beginning to get a bit fed up with Parson Woodforde’s incessant eating. So she just sat back in Miles’s chair (hers now) with her feet on a stool, looking into the fire and listening to the silence. She was, she thought, beginning rather to like silence. Silence as an entity was something she’d never been aware of before; until now her life hadn’t been noisy exactly, or at least she didn’t think it had, it was just that she couldn’t remember silence. Was she becoming a recluse? She sipped her coffee and saw herself a few years from now: a mysterious figure, rarely glimpsed by anyone outside her family, pottering around in shapeless tweeds and a moth eaten cardigan, muttering to herself; a witch weaving spells in her garden, drinking her tot of medicinal whisky of an evening. ‘My mother doesn’t go out much, actually. She’s rather shy ... ‘ The vision made her giggle so much that she upset her coffee and even managed to rouse Tib from his hearthrug lethargy.

It was while she was mopping up the spilled coffee that, without warning, a man’s face came into her mind. The picture was as clear as a black and white photograph, and the face belonged to the angry man in the car park on Friday evening. The man whose car Pol had backed into, the man who’d actually had the temerity to call her sister a stupid cow.

She knew now who the face reminded her of; not Beelzebub, but that portrait of Cosimo Medici in Florence. She couldn’t remember who had painted the portrait but she knew it was in the Uffizi. She and Miles had seen it on that holiday in Italy years ago, before the children were born. She’d kept wanting to go back and have another look at it. ‘Fancy him, darling?’ Miles had said, ‘he looks a bit supercilious to me.’

‘Of course I don’t, you ass,’ she’d said, squeezing his hand, but of course she had. And Miles, who knew everything, must have known she had, because on her next birthday he gave her a postcard of the portrait with
Sorry
I
can’t
compete
,
darling
.
Never
mind
,
Medicis
can
be
a
bit
dodgy
,
you’re
much
better
off
with
a
civil
servant
written on the back. She’d kept that card for years; it might even still be around somewhere, perhaps she’d have a look for it tomorrow.

But how very odd to find Cosimo Medici in a Suffolk car park.

Tib woke up and leaned his head against her knee and she gently stroked his ears in the way she knew he loved. Perhaps ... to be absolutely honest ... she wasn’t ready to become a recluse quite yet ...

*

‘Well, ducky, and what did you think of it all?’ Pete and Pol were driving through the wet dark towards London and civilization. Pol, who’d been half-asleep, opened her eyes and yawned. ‘Of course, there are a hundred things that still need sorting out — that wretched dog of Bet’s for a start. And I’m not sure if I can live with that colour in the kitchen; it looked marvellous in the photo, but now —’

‘I didn’t mean that. What I meant was, how d’you like it in principle? Is it going to work? I know dinner on Friday evening was a bit of a shambles, but at least it gave the kids a laugh.’

‘Rather an expensive method of amusing the children! It would have been cheaper for you to have simply fallen flat on your face.’

‘Don’t be like that, ducky, you know what I mean. And don’t worry, next time I see old Fruity I shan’t hesitate to tell him exactly what I think of his cousin’s bloody eatery — the Donkey’s Shoe, my arse!’

‘There’s no need to be coarse, you know I don’t like it. It’s odd how being with Bet always seems to have that effect on you. Heaven knows why — she and Miles were always so fearfully proper.’

Pete smiled, and nipped smartly into the outside lane to overtake a couple of lorries.

‘Poll’

‘Umm?’

‘There’s something I’ve always wondered about Bet.’ ‘Umm?’

‘Has she ever ... well, ever ... ? Apart from old Miles, that is. I mean —

‘I know perfectly well what you mean, and quite frankly it isn’t any of your business. But if the question is keeping you awake at night, I’m fairly sure the answer is No, she hasn’t.’

Pete whistled and was silent for a minute. Then, ‘That’s what I thought you’d say. All the same, quite a surprise when you come to think of it ... a women like Bet.’

*

Nell Sparsworth lay on her back in bed, watching her husband undress. She loved every square inch of him; it was impossible, she thought, to love anyone so much.

Bernie folded his clothes neatly on a chair, took off his digital watch and climbed into bed beside her. He gently nuzzled her ear. ‘Darling, darling little Nell, aren’t you the luckiest girl in the world to have me as a husband.’

Nell buried her head in his chest. ‘I am the luckiest girl in the world. I am, I am, I am ... ’

Diz lay on his back in his narrow bed, hands together as though in prayer, and tried not to listen to the noises coming from next door. He was practising his nightly meditation; his latest thing. Tonight, however, somehow he found it rather hard to concentrate. Perhaps he’d give it a miss; try again tomorrow night ...

He fell asleep.

Chapter Four

Saturday morning, with everyone in a mood. Bet, doling out breakfast, threw a stone into troubled waters. ‘You’d better all mind your Ps and Qs this weekend. Next Door are entertaining their first house guests — an American couple by the name of Hackenbit. Your Aunt Pol says Mr H. is something important on the New York Stock Exchange, so will we keep the dog under control and not hang out washing in the back yard.’

It was several weeks, now, since the Redfords had moved in, and already a clump of real, wild daffodils had appeared in the field beyond the church, dog violets and primroses straggled under the wall by the stables, and Bet had sown her first batch of broad beans. Little had been seen of the Redfords since they took possession of their part of the Rectory. Indeed, they’d only been down once, and then were out most of the time. ‘Making contact with the local mafioso, no doubt,’ Bernie, wearing his I-told-you-so expression, informed his wife. Privately Bet wondered whether her sister was perhaps already regretting the easy camaraderie of that first weekend, and had decided in future to adopt a slightly lower profile in her dealings with herself and the Sparsworths.

‘If the Hackenbits are that important we shall be
persona
non
grata
anyway, so why bother?’ Bernie was the first to rise to Bet’s bait. ‘There’s no need to show off your Latin, Bern, it doesn’t impress me and the women don’t understand anyway.’ Diz watched his brother-in-law cut decisively into the glistening fried egg on his loaded plate and wait while the yolk ran tantalisingly over the crisp bacon surrounding it before transferring a fork-load to his mouth. His own meagre breakfast — part of his meditation kick — consisted of a handful of bran and a few raisins, and was far from appetising.

‘You’re both wrong,’ Bet said, watching a shaft of sun slant through the kitchen window and light up the honey-coloured mug of early wallflowers she had placed on the dresser — she sometimes wondered why she bothered. ‘I got an 0-Level in Latin and Aunt Pol has invited us all to meet them for a drink in the George at lunchtime today.’

‘Count me out, then. I’m playing football this afternoon and the last thing I want is a drinking session with the Redfords, even if it does mean meeting influential Americans.’ Bernie wiped the egg from his moustache and turned back to his
Daily
Mail
.

‘Darling please! We shan’t be able to get there if you don’t come, and you promised to drive Mum to Stotleigh today so she could get some of those home-made cakes in that lovely baker’s — she can’t get there during the week, there’s no bus. Don’t be such a killjoy. You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.’

‘Want to bet, with Uncle Pete around?’

‘Oh shut up, Diz, can’t you keep your interfering nose out of it for once; you’re such a stirrer. Honestly, I often think you’re responsible for almost every row we have in this family ... ’

But in the end they all went. Bernie hated himself for giving in, but despite his publicly avowed disapproval of the Redford lifestyle, to his own considerable annoyance he found he could never resist joining in any scheme with which they were connected. And he had to admit they had their uses. He had even managed to raise a smile from his manager — no mean feat — with the story of the ill-fated evening at the Donkey’s Shoe; and hadn’t he heard somewhere that Gerry Hackenbit was connected with some big insurance syndicate in the States?

By the time they arrived at The George, the car park was already jammed and Bet was in one of her depressions. These, much rarer now, were usually triggered by some minor mishap she couldn’t even remember afterwards. While they lasted, all the ills of her single state would merge together in one horrendous blur, leaving her with one desire only, and that was to sit in a corner with a sack over her head and never speak to anyone again. What was more, she felt a headache coming on.

Like its car park, The George, an old market-place pub lately transformed into the brewery’s idea of an Elizabethan hostelry, was packed, and for a moment, as they tried to penetrate the gloom of the Merrie England Cocktail Lounge, they were unable to see anything. Then Diz managed to pick out Pete among the throng round the bar, looking hearty in an expensive fisherman’s jersey and cavalry twill trousers. ‘Ah, here you all are. Meet my good friend, Gerry — Pol and Laurie are over there in the corner.’ He pointed a vague finger.

They found Pol seated under a rather venomous-looking eighteenth-century fowling-piece, looking just right in perfectly-cut tweed slacks and a silk shirt, her hair the colour of spun gold. Beside her was Laurie Hackenbit, a blue-rinsed matron of uncertain age liberally sprinkled with costume jewellery, including a gold charm-bracelet which tinkled prettily every time she moved her beautifully manicured hands. The sight of them both, so animated and so charming, served only — if that were possible — to deepen Bet’s depression.

Actually, Pol was feeling rather bored. She had to admit the Hackenbits were a little on the dull side ... and she did wish American men wouldn’t wear those frightful tartan trousers. Bet, she could see at a glance, was in one of her moods, so there would be no help from that quarter.

Now tell me, Polly, would you say those wonderful old beams were once part of a ship? I just think that’s such a lovely idea.’ Pol looked at Bet. Surely she could at least make
some
effort? Then she noticed to her horror that Diz was about to go into his Groucho Marx impression. ‘Pete,’ she shouted in despair, ‘hurry up with our drinks, it’s all very well for you.’

At that precise moment Bet saw him again; the cross man from the car park. She was right, he did look like Cosimo de Medici. He was leaning against the bar at the far end of the room, and formed part of a small, interesting group. There was a large, horsey lady with a carrying, county voice, who was smoking a small cheroot and had a tweed hat smashed down on her untidy blonde-streaked hair; there was a dark girl wearing jeans and a T-shirt with ‘Save our Local Heritage’ emblazoned across the front; and there was a beefy young man who was possibly a vet, certainly a member of the local Young Farmers and a Young Conservative. On balance it seemed a rather unlikely set of people for the cross man to be drinking with, but of course it was no business of Bet’s. He still looked cross, but this time, bored as well. He must have sensed she was looking at him, as he turned round suddenly and their eyes met. It was then she discovered that not only did he look like the portrait of Cosimo de Medici, but he had the same effect on her too. The cross man, as though aware of her reaction, raised his glass and winked.

‘I say, I’ve just seen the chap you backed into the other night.’ Pete loomed. ‘Still looks pretty fed up to me. He’s with that group over there — woman with the voice and the hat.’ Everyone looked; the Hackenbits were rather pleased at this apparent fall from grace on the part of their hostess, her social poise until now had seem impregnable. The cross man, meeting their combined gaze from his end of the bar, bowed slightly, in the manner of an actor acknowledging applause, and returned to his drink.

‘Oh my, Polly, that must have been just so embarrassing

‘A storm in a teacup, actually, I can’t think why Pete had to bring it up.’ And Pol proceeded to give her (slightly bowdlerised) version of the incident in the Donkey’s Shoe car park, finishing up with her usual diatribe on current manners. Laurie, energetically shaking her bangles, agreed. The conversation droned on.

At long last Nell rose to her feet — no one else looked as if they were going to. ‘We really must be going, my husband’s playing football this afternoon.’ But by now Bernie didn’t want to leave; he’d managed to hold his own pretty well with Gerry and Pete, he thought, even contributed one or two quite valid points to the conversation. Gerry had gone so far as to say that if he and Nell ever visited New York ...

The crowd had thinned considerably as they made their way towards the Gothic arch that formed the entrance to the Merrie England Cocktail Lounge, but the cross man and his friends were still at the bar. ‘I say, aren’t you the new people at the Rectory?’ The lady in the tweed hat waved her cheroot and addressed them in a voice that could, at a pinch, have been heard in the car park. ‘I should have called, but we’ve been in Bermuda — I’m Cynthia Westover.’

The Rectory party, taken off balance, halted uncertainly, then after a few false starts managed to produce a sort of combined mumble of assent; they were indeed the new people at the Rectory. Ms Westover took a gulp of her pink gin. ‘I gather you have a dog. Make sure it doesn’t disturb the pheasants, won’t you.’ And with another wave of her cheroot, she turned back to the beefy, young man. ‘You know, Rodders, I’m pretty sure there’s woodcock in Tranter’s this year ... ’They were dismissed.

They emerged, seething, into the car park. Bernie, scowling, slammed the car door, and fastened his seat-belt with a vicious snap. ‘Well, I think I’ve proved my point! Who says there’s no class system in this country any more? Talk about the feudal pyramid — we were just so much dirt under that old cow’s feet.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly, darling, she’s just that sort of woman, she didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘I quite agree she didn’t mean to be rude; people like her don’t know the meaning of the word. She’s so used to being top of the heap in her crappy little world, it never occurs to her even to consider anybody else’s feelings.’

‘What interests me,’ said Diz from the back, ‘is how the man who Aunt Pol bumped into fits in. D’you think he’s our Cynthia’s fancy man?’ Precisely the same thought had occurred to his mother, but for some reason she preferred to think otherwise, and throughout the journey home remained uncharacteristically silent, content to let the arguments for and against the classless society rage round her unchecked.

Back at the Rectory, Bernie fired his parting shot before ridding himself of his pent-up aggression on the football field. ‘There’s one thing we can be sure of, the names of Sparsworth and Brandon will not be appearing on the Westover guest list. I doubt if the Redfords will either, in spite of old Monty Cornwall. After all, Pete does get his money from trade.’

However, for once Bernie was wrong, because only a few days later Bet and the cross man met again.