Harriet went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. What had Cory meant that he’d been wondering about her lately? It seemed her relationship with him was something so fragile, a candle that she had to protect with both hands because everyone was trying to blow it out.
Chapter Sixteen
She felt staggeringly untogether in the morning. She had a blinding headache. It was as much as she could do to feed William. Chattie, recognizing weakness, started playing up.
‘We’re going to the meet with Daddy,’ she said. ‘Can I wear my party dress?’
‘No, you can’t,’ said Harriet.
‘Well my red velvet dress then?’
‘Trousers are much warmer.’
‘I don’t want to wear trousers. I’m not a boy.’
‘Oh Chattie, please,’ she said in despair.
‘You’ll wear them and bloody well like it,’ said Cory, coming in tying a stock, his long legs encased in boots and tight white breeches.
Chattie tried a different approach.
‘Can I have a two-wheeler with stabilizers?’ she said.
‘Only if you do what Harriet tells you. How do you feel?’ he said to her.
‘Frightful.’
‘So do I,’ said Cory. ‘God knows what Arabella gave us to drink. Some fruity little paint stripper, I should imagine. One could almost hear the enamel dropping off one’s teeth.’
‘Why do you go on wearing a dinner jacket, Daddy,’ said Chattie, ‘if it always makes you feel sick in the morning?’
Harriet suspected he’d gone on drinking long after she’d gone to bed.
‘Can Harriet come to the meet with us?’ said Jonah.
‘Oh please yes,’ said Chattie.
‘It’s too much of a hassle with William and things,’ said Harriet.
Cory, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was filling up a hip-flask with brandy.
‘You can leave William with Mrs Bottomley,’ he said. ‘Do you good to get some fresh air. There’s a button missing from my coat. Can you sew it on?’
‘Are you taking Python?’ said Harriet.
‘Yes,’ said Cory. ‘As a second horse. I’d like to see how she makes out.’
The horses went to the meet by box. Cory drove Harriet, Jonah, Chattie and the dogs by car.
The mist had rolled back from the hills to reveal a beautiful mild day. The ivy was putting out shining pale leaves; young nettles were thrusting through the green spring grass. Catkins shook in the breeze, the bracken burned the same rusty red as the curling leaves that still clung to the oak trees. The wet roads glittered and the stone walls gave off an almost incandescent whiteness in the sunlight.
‘I’m hot,’ said Chattie. ‘I could have worn my party dress.’
‘Chattie I’ve told you a hundred times,’ said Harriet.
‘No you didn’t, you only told me twice.’
‘Don’t be rude,’ said Cory.
There was a pause.
‘It’s raining, it’s pouring,’ sang Chattie. ‘The old man’s snoring. He went to bed and bumped his head, and couldn’t get up in the morning. The doctor came and flushed the chain and out flew an aeroplane.’
Both children collapsed in giggles.
‘The doctor came and flushed,’ sang Chattie.
‘Shut up,’ said Cory.
‘Ouch. Sevenoaks is treading on me.’
‘Can we stop for some sweets? There’s an absolutely brilliant sweet shop in Gargrave,’ said Jonah.
Gradually they caught up with riders hacking to the meet. Soon there was a steady stream of cars and horse boxes.
Cory parked on the side of the road.
‘You can bring Tadpole,’ he said, locking Sevenoaks in the car. ‘I’m not risking that delinquent getting loose.’
‘We must give him a bit of window,’ said Harriet, winding it down.
Cory went off to find his horse box. Harriet took Chattie and Jonah and walked along to the village where the meet was being held. Little grey cottages lined a triangular village green. A stream choked its way through pussy willows and hazel trees. The churchyard was full of daffodils in bud.
Riders everywhere were gossiping and saddling up. There was a marvellous smell of trodden grass and hot, sweating horses. Anxious whinnyings came from the horse boxes. Hunt terriers yapped from the backs of cars.
There was Arabella looking considerably the worse for wear, Harriet was glad to notice, impatiently slapping her boots with her whip and looking round for her horse. And there was Billy Bentley, looking far more glamorous than he had last night, in a red coat, his long mousy hair curling under his black velvet cap, sitting on a huge dapple grey which was already leaping about as though the ground was red hot under its feet. Next to him, taking a swig out of his hip-flask, eyeing the girls, supervising the unboxing of a magnificent chestnut in a dark green rug, was Charles Mander.
Harriet tried to slide past them, but she had not counted on Chattie, who rushed up and said, ‘Hullo, Charles.’
He turned. ‘Hullo Chattie,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ said Chattie. ‘Why don’t you come and see us any more? He always used to come and bring us presents when Mummy lived with us,’ she added to Harriet.
‘Hullo, pretty Nanny,’ said Charles.
Harriet tried to look straight through him, but only managed to look sulky.
‘I’m five now,’ said Chattie. ‘I used to be four.’
‘I used to be four too,’ said Charles.
‘My daddy’s twenty-one,’ said Chattie.
‘I wish my children put out propaganda like that,’ said Charles, laughing.
‘I’m getting a two-wheeler soon with stabilizers,’ said Chattie.
‘I could do with some stabilizers myself,’ said Charles.
He walked over to Harriet, the dissipated gin-soaked blue eyes looking almost gentle.
‘Look, I’ve got rather a hazy recollection of what happened last night, but I’ve a feeling I bitched you up. I’m sorry. I can never resist taking the mickey out of Cory. He’s so damn supercilious.’
‘He is my boss,’ said Harriet.
‘Thank Christ he’s not mine, but I didn’t mean to take it out on you.’
Harriet stared at him, not knowing what to say.
She was rescued by a voice behind her saying, ‘Hullo Harriet.’ It was the haw haw tones of Billy Bentley. She was flattered he remembered her. ‘You disappeared very fast last night,’ he said. ‘Saw Charles chatting you up and then you bolted. Can’t say I blame you. Enough to put anyone orf.’
He brayed with laughter. He should just sit on his horse and look glamorous, thought Harriet.
‘I suppose I better get mounted,’ said Charles. ‘We’re friends now, are we?’ he added to Harriet.
‘Yes, as long as you’re not foul to Mr Erskine,’ she said.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s old history. Perhaps you’d have dinner with me one evening, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘I say, hands orf, Charles,’ said Billy Bentley. ‘You’re married. Leave the field free for us single blokes.’
His horse suddenly bucked and lashed out warningly at a nearby chestnut.
‘This bugger’s had too much corn,’ he said. ‘I wish we could get going.’
Charles Mander settled himself onto his horse. An earnest-looking grey-haired woman sidled up to him and pressed an anti-fox-hunting pamphlet into his hand.
‘Thank you so much,’ he said to her politely and, getting out his lighter, set fire to it and dropped it flaming at her feet. She jumped away and disappeared, shaking her fist, into the crowd.
‘Bloody hunt saboteurs,’ he said, riding off towards the pub. ‘I’m going to get my flask topped up.’