Catherine Alliott: A Rural Affair

‘How about this with these?’ she’d say as she ran through my back door wearing yet another heinous combination, this time bursting out of a black dress of such sequined monstrosity, together with high red shoes, it fairly took my breath away.

‘No to both,’ I said firmly. ‘And certainly not together. The only thing black goes with is black, Jennie. Take the shoes back to Angie and the dress to Peggy. She’d get away with that because she’s eccentric and it would hang off her.’

‘Whereas I’d just look like a tart?’

I shrugged, slightly pleased to have the upper hand occasionally with my bossy friend. But then I took pity and, piling the children in the car, took her shopping.

She ended up looking terrific in a grey slinky number I’d found in Coast: to the floor, high at the front, but low at the back. As did Angie in her black velvet, which she shook from a Selfridges bag and slipped into in the middle of my kitchen; and Peggy in the sequins which she’d generously offered Jennie, but which, with black pumps and on her rangy frame, looked stunning.

‘If only you were coming,’ they all said and Jennie looked a bit guilty, feeling perhaps she should have refused the tickets and insisted I go.

‘Oh, I really don’t want to,’ I said, meaning it. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you go to alone, is it?’

‘No, no,’ they chorused, as it occurred to us that Angie, and ostensibly Peggy, were doing just that.

‘It’s not really your sort of thing, is it?’ consoled Angie.

‘Absolutely not,’ I agreed, stung. Why wasn’t it? Why? ‘Anyway, I’m going to Dad’s,’ I said quickly, to save them. ‘Haven’t seen him for ages. I’m going to cook him supper.’

‘Oh, good .’ They all said, relieved, feeling much better. They bustled away content.

Dad, however, wasn’t much help when I decided to follow through. ‘Steak and chips,’ I told him cheerfully, ‘in front of Viva Las Vegas . I’ll bring the steak.’

‘Oh, sorry, Poppy, I’m going to the hunt ball.’

‘Are you?’ I was astonished.

‘Yes, Mark sent me a ticket, wasn’t that kind? Just a single, but they’re a hundred quid a pop, so terribly generous. Especially after all that business with the hound. Aren’t you going, love? Half the county’s going to be there.’

‘Well, I was going to – he sent me some too – but I gave mine to Jennie.’

‘Ah, right. Not really your sort of thing, is it? Anyway, must go love, I’ve got to feed the horses before I shimmy into my glad rags.’

And he was gone. Leaving me irritated. And then I found myself growing more irritated as I put the children to bed. Not my sort of thing? Why not? Christ, I could party with the best of them! Just because Phil and I didn’t much – he was teetotal and liked an early night – didn’t mean I couldn’t. Bloody hell, you should have seen me in the old Clapham days, creeping back up the stairs at three in the morning, barefoot, high heels in hand. When I was young. But I was still young, surely? I swept Archie’s curtain shut with a vengeance. Through the crack I could see the bedroom lights across the road at the Old Rectory, where Sylvia and Angus would be getting ready: Angus stooping to adjust his bow tie in the mirror, Sylvia popping diamonds in her ears at her dressing table. Marvellous. How lovely for them. I seized the groaning nappy bucket and marched downstairs. Cinders by the fire, then. I shook the nappies viciously in the bin. With her solitary boiled egg, in her dressing gown and her ancient Ugg boots. Splendid.

I told myself I’d be the smug one in the morning, though, when everyone else was nursing hangovers. Oh yes. In the pub. Laughing and reminiscing over bloody Marys. Hm. They’d all be there tonight, of course. Sam – no, don’t think about Sam. I’d successfully blocked him for days; resisted imagining him in his black tie, even whilst helping Jennie buy a new white shirt for Dan. I wasn’t going to give in now. Instead I helped myself to a large gin and tonic and told myself there was a good film on at nine and that I might even stay up till it finished. Live a little.

It was a surprise, therefore, when my doorbell rang much earlier, at eight, and I opened it to find my father on my front step, an overcoat over his dinner jacket. He seemed mildly taken aback to see me in my dressing gown. Looked me up and down, eyebrows raised.

‘Didn’t you get my message?’

‘What message?’

‘I left one on your mobile. About tonight. Mark rang to say Mary Granger was throwing up and would I like to bring anyone. Didn’t you get it?’

‘No!’ I could have kissed him. And hit him. So like Dad not to try again. Not to persevere. Just turn up and assume.

‘Well, I can’t come now,’ I said testily. ‘I’ve got the children.’

‘Can’t you get a babysitter?’

‘Of course not, it’s far too late.’

‘What about Jennie’s daughter, next door?’

‘She’s out with her boyfriend. And the little ones are at a sleepover.’

‘Oh.’ He looked vaguely stumped. Then: ‘Bring them with us?’

Ordinarily a suggestion like this from my father would be greeted with scathing derision from me. But genes will out, and in many respects I am my father’s daughter. Can, at the drop of a hat, revert to type. I stared at him.

‘OK.’

In my heart, I was far from sure I was going to run with this; but in the spirit of living dangerously was nonetheless interested to see how he’d execute it: keen to give him his head.

‘Right. You get changed, brush your hair and whatnot, and I’ll carry them into the lorry.’

‘The lorry?’

‘Well, the car hasn’t worked for weeks, Poppy.’

So my father drove his horse lorry. Blithely parked it in Tesco’s car park, no doubt, as if it were a Vauxhall Cresta.

‘So … we’re piling the children into a dark lorry, and what, leaving it in a muddy field? Where they’ll wake up cold and frightened?’

‘No, no, we’ll take them in the house, find a bed for them.’

‘Arrive at a black-tie ball with two sleepy children? Forget it, Dad. Have fun.’ I went to shut the door, but he was already in.

‘Don’t be wet, Poppy, how d’you think your mum and I ever went to parties? We were never organized enough for a sitter. You were always under one arm. Now go and put your frock on and I’ll sort the kids out. It’s only one night, for God’s sake, it won’t kill them, and they’ll love it. Everyone’s going, d’you want to be the only one who isn’t?’

He knew which buttons to press. He was also halfway up the stairs.

Twenty minutes later, we were in the lorry – the one with no seat belts, remember – rattling over a cattle grid at the entrance to Mulverton Hall, only this time we took the fork in the drive that led, not to the home farm and a muddy field of cows, but to the main house. A sweep of dark green lawn swam like a lake in front of us. Dad, at the wheel, skirted it carefully, then followed signs to parking in the paddock alongside, behind the park railings. I had on my old black dress, and my hastily washed hair was still wet down my back; between us on the front seat, sitting bolt upright and wide awake, were two overexcited and highly delighted children.

I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this-I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this, was my overriding thought as a surprised car park attendant in a long white coat – surprised at the lorry initially, then the children – beckoned us into the field. Dad gave him a cheery wave and wound down the window.

‘Hi, Roy.’

‘Oh, hello, Peter!’ He peered in. ‘Brought the whole family, I see!’

‘Well, it’s a night out, isn’t it?’ said Dad smoothly.