Хилари Боннер: A Kind Of Wild Justice

If she could just get Jeremy away from his cohorts, on to the dance floor and into her arms, her original plans for the evening might be resurrected. She was no longer so sure about ending up in his parents’ bed, but perhaps a little romance could yet be injected into the evening.

However, at the village hall Rob and Jeremy again headed straight for the bar.

Angela sighed with frustration. ‘Shouldn’t you be careful? You are driving,’ she said quietly to Jeremy. For a moment her boyfriend, who was usually a very sensible young man, looked uncertain.

But Rob had overheard her remark. ‘Christ, henpecking him already,’ her brother jeered. ‘Stop being such a spoilsport, Ange.’

Jeremy squeezed her arm. ‘I’ll be all right, honest,’ he said. ‘Just one more pint. And it’s only the back lanes home, isn’t it?’

Encouraged, she whispered, ‘Can we have a dance, then?’

‘Any minute,’ said Jeremy.

But ‘any minute’ stretched on and on. The one pint became another and then another. Her two favourite young men were starting to look quite unsavoury. Stuck in the corner of the bar with them, she could only glance with envy at the couples gyrating on the floor. The village hall was packed and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. The music was so loud she could hardly hear a word anybody was saying, which didn’t actually matter much as there was nobody she wanted to have a conversation with. Certainly Rob and Jeremy were well past that, she reckoned. After a bit she even began to think that the band, allegedly the best in the area, sounded pretty lousy and started to wonder why she had been so excited about the village dance in the first place. Suddenly everything seemed second-rate, particularly her two companions.

She glanced at her watch. It was almost 11.30 and so far her romantic night out had been a complete disaster.

She made one last attempt to rectify matters, although she knew it was too late. ‘Come on, Jeremy, come and dance,’ she coaxed, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket.

Again Rob interfered. ‘Don’t let her nag you, mate, she takes after her mother,’ he said.

This time Angela felt the anger rise inside her. Her cheeks flushed. She was not used to being treated like this. She was accustomed to getting her own way, indeed to being spoiled rotten, by her father, her brother and, usually, her boyfriend.

Again Jeremy laughed loudly. Too loudly. It was probably rather a nervous laugh, but Angela was too angry by then to notice.

‘Fuck you both,’ she shouted at them, using the kind of language she hardly ever used. ‘I’m going home. And Jeremy, I hope you crash your bloody silly car and get breathalysed...’

‘Oh, go away,’ murmured Rob conversationally.

‘I’m going, don’t worry, and I hate you,’ she said, pushing aggressively past them and bumping into Jeremy so that beer spilled from his glass over his trousers and shoes.

Rob smiled and took a swig of his pint. ‘Always did have a temper on her,’ he announced, slurring his words and swaying slightly as he spoke.

Jeremy giggled. This time he definitely sounded nervous. ‘I’d better go after her,’ he said, reaching to put his now almost empty glass on the bar.

‘I’d let her cool off, if I were you, mate,’ advised Rob.

‘I suppose you’re right, Rob, but it’s a good two miles back to your place.’ Jeremy was watching Angela’s retreating back as, shoulders set in anger, she fought her way through the throng on her way to the door.

‘Walk’ll do her good,’ said Rob resolutely. ‘C’mon, Jer, it’s your round.’

It was almost two in the morning before Lillian and Bill Phillips heard the unmistakable sound of Jeremy Thomas’s customised Escort roaring into their farmyard, followed by the slamming of a car door and some loud laughter.

They even heard their son’s voice: ‘Some night, mate, aye, some bloody good night,’ followed by more laughter.

‘They’re back,’ whispered Lillian Phillips unnecessarily. She knew it was silly, both their children were grown-up now and Rob was a married man, an expectant father even, but she could never sleep properly until they were home. And she was well aware that neither could her husband, though he denied it.

Bill Phillips grunted. ‘Boy’s drunk,’ he stated.

‘First time he’s let his hair down since he was wed, bless him,’ said his wife, her voice indulgent.

Bill Phillips grunted again. ‘How come you’re never that understanding when I’ve had a few?’

‘Because you’re my husband, of course,’ replied his wife, offering no further explanation.

‘And don’t I know it,’ he muttered, softening his words by reaching for her hand.

She sighed in the darkness. ‘We’re so lucky, aren’t we? Two wonderful children, this place. And now we’re going to be grandparents. Do you know, I just can’t make up my mind whether I want it to be a little boy or a little girl. What about you, Bill? I suppose you want a boy, do you, make sure of the farm. Aye? Bill? Bill?’

This time the only reply was gentle snoring.

Carefully Lillian Phillips withdrew her hand from his and snuggled contentedly into the deep warmth of the bed. Within seconds she had fallen into an untroubled sleep.

In the morning, Bill Phillips was first up as usual. He didn’t do the milking any more, hadn’t for years, the Phillipses employed a dairyman for that, but old habits died hard. He liked to be up soon after five and settled by the Aga with his first cup of tea, listening to the farming programme on the radio.

Rob was usually up not long after him and would come down to his parents’ part of the house for his first morning cuppa knowing that the tea would already be brewed. Bill didn’t expect him very early that morning, though, not after the kind of night he’d apparently just enjoyed.

The farmer smiled to himself. Secretly he was as tolerant of his son’s rare excess as was his wife. Rob was a good, hard-working boy. They could not have wished for a better son and, although Bill had always said that he wanted both his children to have choices and that no son of his would ever be forced into farming the way he had been, he was, of course, delighted when it became clear that all his only son wanted in life was to run Five Tors Farm one day. Rob would be the fourth generation of Phillipses’ to do so.

Sometimes, particularly if the day were bright and sunny, Bill would go for an early inspection tour of his land. But the morning had dawned dull and drizzly, the previous day’s sunshine already proven to have been just a brief respite in a terrible stretch of weather, and it was also Sunday. He poured a second cup of tea, settled himself more comfortably in his armchair and decided to stay where he was, enjoying the warmth and the radio for at least another hour or so.

Lillian was also an early riser and was up soon after six as usual. Normally, she took Angela a cup of tea in bed to soften the blow of having to get up. Angela liked her bed. The early-rising habit of her farming ancestors seemed somehow to be missing from her genes. On weekday mornings Lillian would wake her daughter at 6.30 in order for her to see to her horses before getting off to school. On Sundays Angela was still expected to be up at 7.30 for her stable chores. But remembering the late night and how much her daughter had been looking forward to the dance and to wearing her new dress, and being escorted there, for the first time, by her very own boyfriend, Lillian Phillips decided to let her have a rare lie-in. And an even rarer rest from her morning routine.

Lillian pulled on her boots and set off to bring in the horses herself. During the summer they were put out to grass only at night. They got too fat otherwise and the daytime flies bothered them.