Jilly Cooper - Score!

‘You can see how pure are the tears women weep for heroes.

But we shall meet again in a better world.’

He was still a hero in Hermione’s eyes. She was showing him that no-one could sing the part better, and that she had forgiven him. Her top notes sounded as pure and lovely as they had in Paris, eighteen years ago. Hermione, who had given him more pleasure than any other woman. Why was he squandering his energy on silly young girls? Smiling, he walked down the ride and held out his arms.

‘My little darling,’ he called out.

Despite noisy encouragement from the spectators, Granny and Griselda lost 6–3, 6–4 to Wolfie and Simone. Leaving the others down at the court with plenty of drink, Wolfie loped back to the house to organize supper. In the larder he found a big plate of chicken à l’estragon , a ham, an asparagus and avocado salad, a chocolate roulade, a large blue bowl of raspberries, and was just thanking God for Mrs Brimscombe when she hobbled, white-faced and gibbering, into the kitchen. She refused a stiff drink and it was several minutes before she made any sense. She had seen a pale mauve light, she said. ‘It came bobbing out of Hangman’s Wood, across the big lawn, past the chapel and disappeared into the graveyard.’

‘Must have been someone with a torch.’

‘There was no footsteps, it went straight through the big yew hedge and a wall. Bobbing and pale mauve it was, Wolfie.’ Mrs Brimscombe put gnarled hands, shaking like windswept twigs, to her face. ‘Lights like that have been seen in Paradise before, come to guide the dead soul to his grave,’ she whispered.

Despite the stifling heat, Wolfie felt icy fingers on his heart.

‘It means there’s been a death, Wolfie.’

Refusing a lift home, she stumbled into the dark.

Wolfie was terrified. His father never allowed servants to sleep in the house although, to Helen’s distress, Clive and Bussage drifted in at all hours. For once, he was relieved to hear old bag Bussage tapping away on the keyboard in her office, and singing, probably on the radio, coming from Helen’s little study down the passage.

He must pull himself together and open some bottles. Grabbing a corkscrew from a kitchen drawer, he idly flipped on the answering-machine, and received the full horror of Tab’s message, that she’d been raped and Gertrude murdered.

‘This time I am going to kill my father!’ he yelled.

Oh, God, where was Tab? He must find her before Rannaldini caught up with her. The bastard ! Wolfie dialled 1471 to discover where she’d rung from, then found out from directory inquiries that it was the call-box on the edge of Hangman’s Wood. No-one answered when he rang. It was so dark now, between flashes of lightning. He decided it would be quicker to drive, and found himself trying to open the BMW’s door with the corkscrew. But when he screeched to a halt beside the call-box, Tab had gone. There was blood all over the floor and the telephone. A terrible fear gripped him. Had that pale mauve light been guiding Tab?

Thunderclouds had blotted out the russet glare of Rutminster, the tiny sliver of new moon had gone gratefully to bed behind the wood. Down at the court, the conscientious, frugal Bernard suggested everyone look for balls, whereupon most people sloped off claiming the need to make urgent telephone calls. Lucy, who had returned after her storm of tears in time to watch the last game and give back Wolfie’s signet ring, set off with James clinging to her heels for a last run round the south side of Hangman’s Wood.

She soon regretted it. The wood exuded such evil. At any moment she expected dark branches to grab her, or the Hanging Blacksmith to thunder by. She was glad when the path curved and she could see the comfortingly twinkling lights of Paradise village. She was just wondering wistfully how Tristan had coped, knowing he was no longer a Montigny at such a tribal gathering as Aunt Hortense’s party, when James bounded forward, wagging his long tail, giving excited little squeaks.

Peering through the darkness, Lucy could see nothing. Perhaps James had caught a white glimpse of Sharon across the valley, but settling back on his haunches, still wagging, he gazed in the direction of the west gate. Perhaps he had seen a ghost. Turning in terror, Lucy raced back to the tennis court, to find Ogborne guzzling the last of the strawberries.

‘All sorts of exciting crashing,’ bellowed Griselda, emerging from the wood.

‘Probably cows,’ said Bernard, appearing from a more northerly direction.

‘And lots of shooting,’ added Griselda defiantly. ‘OK, Bernard, it probably was Teddy Brimscombe after pigeon. And a helicopter landing and taking off.’

‘I always feel this wood’s watching me,’ shivered Lucy.

‘We’re still about twenty balls short,’ sighed Bernard.

‘Here are two more.’ Coming out of the wood, Granny dropped a shocking pink and a lime green one on the pile.

As the chapel clock struck a quarter to eleven, Ogborne filled up everyone’s glass.

‘What are we going to do about Rannaldini’s balls?’ he intoned.

‘Chop ’em off,’ said Granny.

It wasn’t very funny but even Bernard was braying with laughter, when Lucy’s mobile rang. It was Rozzy. Terrified, as the howls of mirth escalated, that Rozzy might think people were laughing at her, Lucy spanked the air with her hand to shut them up.

‘How did the party go, Rozzy? Really well, judging by the din in the background.’

Rozzy, however, sounded suicidal. After all her hard work to make Glyn’s birthday special, Sylvia the housekeeper had given him a single of ‘S’Wonderful’, and he’d been playing it and dancing with her all evening.

‘Oh, poor you, how was the food?’

‘They seemed to like it, although Glyn fed his smoked-salmon parcel to the cat, and everyone’s plastered.’

Over drunken shouts of ‘Happy birthday, dear Glyn’, Lucy could hear the strains of ‘S’wonderful, s’marvellous’.

‘He’s a pig, Rozzy. How was your dress?’

Glancing round, Lucy saw Granny and Griselda playing imaginary violins and Ogborne holding his fat sides, and wandered away from them.

Rozzy admitted the dress had been a success.

‘You’ll see it at the wrap party. Are you having fun?’

‘Yes,’ lied Lucy.

‘I miss you all so much.’

‘And we you, Rozzy. Where are you ringing from?’

‘Upstairs. I’ve got a migraine.’

‘Not surprising, if they’re making such a noise.’

Lucy could now hear roars of ‘Why Was He Born So Beautiful?’ ‘When are you coming back?’

‘First thing tomorrow. ’Bye, Lucy darling.’

‘She’s always been a masochist,’ sighed Griselda, when Lucy had recounted Rozzy’s tale of woe.

‘In the old days, they were known as Glyn and Bear It,’ said Granny. ‘Mind you, I’m one to talk.’

Lucy’s mobile rang and she blushed, feeling disloyal when it turned out to be Rozzy again.

‘I forgot to say why I rang in the first place. Can you remind Griselda to get Hermione’s cloak out of Wardrobe, or leave me a key so I can mend that tear? I doubt…’ Rozzy paused to listen to the laughter at Lucy’s end ‘… you lot’ll surface before the afternoon.’

‘Griselda and Granny reached the finals,’ began Lucy, but Rozzy had rung off. ‘She wants you to get out Hermione’s cloak.’

‘What a little treasure she is— Whoops, sorry, dearie,’ added Griselda, as she cannoned off one of Rannaldini’s bronze nudes. ‘I’d better fetch it before I get really whistled.’

‘Rozzy doesn’t sound in carnival mood,’ said Granny.

‘She’d never have gone home this weekend if Tristan hadn’t shoved off to Paris,’ observed Griselda. ‘Oh, sorry, Bernie, I forgot you had the chauds for her.’