Catherine Alliott - A Rural Affair

He trundled away from Roy and through the gate. At the end of a line of parked cars, he expertly swung two tons of juggernaut into position. A Mercedes drew up beside us, and a woman in a fox-fur coat and a smattering of diamonds stared up in wonder from the passenger seat. I found my nerve rapidly disappearing down the drain.

‘Dad … ’ I swallowed.

‘Come on, Clemmie, look lively, love.’ He’d hopped out of the cab already, and as Clemmie scrambled across the seat to his open arms, he crouched and hoisted her up onto his shoulders. ‘Up you go!’

She wrapped her arms excitedly around her grandpa’s neck, squealing with delight. Then he slammed the cab door, and was off. Naturally I had no choice but to follow. With Archie in my arms, I picked my way through the field, following the phalanx of flaming torches which lined the drive ahead and floodlit the expansive grounds. My heart was fluttering with panic but as we crunched across the gravel sweep, I knew I was in too deep. The honey-coloured walls rose up before us; ranks of windows blazed down. Dad pranced ahead, hopping about jauntily now from foot to foot, playing the fool, Clemmie, in her pink dressing gown bouncing and laughing on his shoulders. How many parties had I been to like that, I wondered? Had it done me any harm? Doing A Mortimer, Mum used to call it, when Dad veered off the beaten track, took his own route, which was more than occasionally. But this was a very grand party. People were silhouetted at the windows in their finery: bare shoulders, sparkling jewels, one or two turning to stare. And please don’t tell me he was going to leap up those grand portal steps guarded by stone griffins? Breeze through the open front door where waiters stood poised with trays of champagne? Babes in arms?

My father, however, was far from stupid, and within a twinkling was nipping round the back. I scuttled sheepishly after him feeling like a burglar, but Dad, knowing his way round old country houses – or at least his way to the stables and a cup of tea – didn’t falter. In a jiffy he’d found a back door which opened to his touch, and was striding right on through. He was deliberately going too fast for me to catch him, to dither, discuss, deliberate – chicken out – and as I followed breathlessly with Archie in my arms, he was already halfway down the passageway. Framed Spy cartoons from old copies of Punch lined the walls, and just before a green baize door Dad made a left turn into a well-lit room. Whistling, no less.

I followed in trepidation and found myself in a large, rather tired-looking kitchen with a very high ceiling. Cream Formica cupboards with glazed doors lined one wall, the floor was lino, rather like Dad’s, the only nod to the status of this house being a huge oak table which sailed down the middle. A well-upholstered blonde woman in a white apron had her back to us at the kitchen sink under the window. She turned in surprise. I recognized her immediately. It was Janice, the receptionist, but perhaps she didn’t instantly place me out of context, and anyway she wasn’t given a chance. Dad was already commanding her full attention: charming her, flirting, even, explaining about the babysitter letting us down, jiggling Clemmie, so that by the end of it, as she listened wide-eyed to the tale, wiping wet hands on a tea towel, she was wreathed in smiles, assuring him it was no trouble at all, and that she loved looking after little-uns. She’d pop them in the old nursery, she said, and yes, plug the alarm in, when I proffered it anxiously.

‘Oh, hello , love, thought I recognized you.’ She beamed.

No, we weren’t to worry a jot, she carried on. We were to run along and have a jolly good time. It seemed she remembered Dad from the races – who didn’t? Warwick, was it? Or Windsor? No, no, Mr Hetherington wouldn’t mind a bit, she assured me as I interrupted their racing chat. I would turn the conversation back to more mundane matters. On they gossiped, and then, just as they were reminiscing about that epic race, the five-thirty from Haydock one summer’s evening last year, when Ransom Boy, a rank outsider at 100 to one, had won by a head, just at that moment Mr Hetherington himself swept into the kitchen.

Far from looking as if he couldn’t be more thrilled, as Janice had intimated, he couldn’t have looked more thunderous. But it wasn’t just that: it wasn’t the heavily knitted brow as he stood there glowering, dressed in what I can only assume was some sort of hunting livery – frightfully dashing and involving a bottle-green tailcoat with his bow tie – no, it wasn’t that. It was the churning of my own stomach that disquieted me. The pulverizing of my ribcage by what felt like needles. It was the terrible dawning sensation, as he stood before us in all his glory, that this wasn’t just an unsuitable crush. This was something a lot more serious.

30

There was a brief and startled silence.

‘Hello, Sam,’ I managed, cranking up a smile, as he stared. Took in this eccentric little party: this gatecrasher with her older man, her wet hair, children in pyjamas. I faltered on. ‘Um, my f-father invited me, and –’

‘And the babysitter let her down,’ schmoozed Dad, stepping forward, hand extended, beaming. ‘Can you believe it? Right at the last moment. Cystitis, apparently. A thousand apologies for bursting in like this with the entire family, but we were so looking forward to it. Peter Mortimer, Poppy’s dad.’

‘Sam Hetherington,’ said Sam, still looking dazed, and still, for some reason, even as he shook Dad’s hand, looking at me.

‘Janice here assures us the children will be no trouble. They’re terribly good, you know, never cry,’ went on Dad. ‘But I do apologize nonetheless, quite an invasion.’

Sam’s eyes came back to my father. ‘Sorry, you mean –?’

‘Pop them upstairs? If that’s all right? Quite an imposition, I know, but we couldn’t think of any way round it.’

Sam collected himself. ‘Oh, I see. Absolutely. No, not at all. Couldn’t matter less. Right, well, Janice, what d’you suggest?’ He turned swiftly on his heel to face her, raking a hand through his hair. ‘Could the children go in the blue spare room, d’you think?’

‘I thought the old nursery. It’s closer to the back stairs and I’ll hear them better. All right, love?’ Dad had set Clemmie down from his shoulders and Janice went to take her hand.

‘My grandchildren,’ said my father proudly, a hand on each of their shoulders as if they were the guests of honour. I cringed. Don’t overdo it, Dad. But Sam rose to the occasion.

‘A pleasure to have you both here,’ he told Clemmie with a smile.

My daughter, a Mortimer through and through, extended her hand as she’d seen her grandfather do and said solemnly, ‘Clementine Shilling.’

Sam took her hand, delighted, and we all laughed. I could have kissed her. ‘Good evening, Clementine. I hope you enjoy your stay.’

‘You can call me Clemmie.’

After that it was easy, because, as Dad says, it always is if you oil the wheels with a sprinkle of humour and a dash of charm, or lashings of it in his case. He and Sam spoke of point-to-points and hunter trials, as Sam got some more ice – what he’d come in for, he explained, the caterers having stupidly not brought enough – which perhaps explained his thunderous face earlier, but perhaps not. It had certainly cleared, though. And as he discovered he’d once bought a horse from Dad – years ago, as most people had, a good one, thank the Lord – it cleared even more.

‘So, Poppy, how lovely,’ he turned to me, all smiles now. But I wondered whether an expensive education had cultivated the sort of manners that can be terribly useful on occasion. ‘And see you in due course, I hope. It’s heaving out there, incidentally, hope you don’t mind a crush, although I’m reliably informed it’s atmosphere.’ He gave me another brilliant beam. ‘Anyway, must dash, people are standing around with warm drinks.’ And dash he did, with his industrial-sized bag of ice. Looking divine, I thought, as I watched his broad dark-green back disappear.