A Rural Affair (15 page)

‘At least it’s on time,’ I said cheerfully, as heads began to appear up the steps from the platform and commuters dribbled
out of the exit. We were a tiny station and not many people alighted here; most got off at Milton Keynes, further down the
track. We waited.

‘Still no Toad,’ she said darkly.

‘There he is!’ I said, relieved, as the top of his head, hair swept back like an ocean wave from a high forehead and piercing
blue eyes, came into view. He looked a little sheepish, I thought.

‘What is he wearing!’ gasped Jennie as the rest of him appeared.

From the waist up he was in a perfectly normal linen jacket, shirt and tie, but something strange was going on below. Instead
of trousers, something pale pink with daisies clung to his legs and hung around his crotch. Woollen, like leggings.

‘It’s my jumper!’ cried Jennie.

It was indeed. Very stretched. And Dan seemed to be sporting it upside down with his legs through the arms, as it were. Hairy
shins, grey socks and brogues protruded. As he approached us, I realized that to his left, very much walking with him, escorting
him, perhaps, was a policeman. Dan’s habitually jaunty, devil-may-care attitude seemed to have deserted him. He looked pale;
stricken, even.

‘Oh dear God,’ Jennie breathed, as we both leaped out of the car.

‘Hello, darling,’ said Dan, with the faintest of smiles and terrified eyes.

‘Why are you wearing my jumper like that, Dan? Don’t tell me you’re a fucking transvestite as well?’

‘There’s a very simple explanation, love.’

‘Don’t call me love. Are you a transvestite? Just tell me now, please.’

‘Ah, so it is your jumper, is it, madam?’ interjected the policeman.

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘And he is your husband?’

‘Even more sadly.’

‘In that case, sir, I imagine your story holds water. Just checking,’ he assured Jennie, as he turned back to her. ‘Only,
we can’t be too careful. We had a couple of complaints from people on the train; they rang in, so we had to check it out.
Had to meet him off the train and ensure he wasn’t … well, you know. A danger.’

‘Oh, he’s a danger all right,’ she said grimly.

‘Thank you, officer,’ I said quickly. The policeman seemed to be rather enjoying this now, his mouth twitching. ‘I’m sure
we’ll be fine now. So sorry to have troubled you.’

‘No trouble at all,’ he said, giving Jennie a nod. As he turned to go he grinned and gave Dan a huge wink. ‘Good luck, mate!’

‘Right, mate,’ snapped Jennie when he was out of earshot. ‘What exactly is your story?’

‘It’s very simple, love.’

‘
Don’t
–’ she shut her eyes for a long moment – ‘call me love.’

‘I had a rather hot vindaloo at lunchtime in Leeds, and perhaps a few too many beers with Ken from marketing – you know how
he overdoes it – and then, on the way home, I experienced a spot of turbulence.’

‘Trains don’t do turbulence, Dan. You’re not on a bloody jumbo.’

‘No, I meant internally.’

His wife stared, uncomprehending.

‘I had an overconfident fart and soiled myself.’

There was an appalled silence.

‘Yes, so I went to the lavatory,’ Dan ploughed on heroically, ‘to sort myself out, and since my trousers and pants were beyond
the pale, I threw them out of the window, sensibly having brought my overnight case in with me; except when I opened it, I
realized I’d brought your case instead. Happily, though, you’d left an old jumper inside. Wasn’t that lucky? Otherwise I’d
have been in real trouble.’

‘There’s nothing lucky about you, Dan, and trouble barely covers it.’ She seethed, fists clenched, simmering with rage. ‘You
stupid,
stupid
man. Look at you, trussed up like a bloody fairy, and all because you can’t be bothered to check you’ve got the right case
in the morning. Too busy lying in bed leaving everything to the last minute. Why are you such a git, Dan? Why? You’re like
my fourth bloody child; it’s pathetic. And why d’you have to have a drink
every
lunchtime, hm? Why is that such an imperative? Why do you find it completely and utterly impossible to walk past a hostelry
without –’ Suddenly she froze. ‘Get in,’ she said through gritted teeth, lips frozen like a ventriloquist’s. ‘Mrs Mason’s
watching. Get in Poppy’s car
now
.’

Dan’s head swivelled, then, needing no further prompting, he leaped in my car, where Clemmie and Archie sat in the back, mute
for once, eyes like saucers. Mrs Mason, from Apple Tree Cottage, a wizened, tortoise-like woman, here to collect Mr Mason
from the six twenty-five and ferry him back home for his liver and bacon, was indeed staring
incredulously from her Polo window, her own eyes round like the children’s, but more the size of dinner plates. Jennie, looking
fit to be tied, gave her a tight little smile then turned on her heel and stalked, with dignity, in the opposite direction,
towards the station car park, and the other car.

‘Shit. Keys.’ Dan leaped out of my passenger seat and sprinted after her, pink sweater bunched in his hand to stop it falling.
He waved the car keys. ‘Darling … darling, you’ll be wanting these –’

Jennie turned and thrust a bunch of keys in his face. ‘I’ve got the spare keys, Dan. I thought of that before I left the house.
Now stop running around the station like a girl and get back in that car,
now
.’

‘Righto.’ He sprinted back to me. By now I was choking into the steering wheel as he got in beside me.

‘Thanks, Poppy.’ He sighed.

‘My pleasure,’ I gurgled.

‘These things happen, don’t they?’

‘They certainly seem to. To you, at least.’

‘Not my finest hour.’

‘Nope,’ I agreed cheerfully.

He leaned his head back wearily on the rest as we pulled away, pink legs akimbo. Then he cocked his head in my direction,
his blue eyes resigned. ‘Divorce? D’you think? This time?’

‘Oh, undoubtedly, Dan,’ I assured him with a grin as we sped off home and the sodden fields flashed past. ‘This time, undoubtedly.’

‘Forster,’ Angie was saying importantly, pencil poised over her notepad. Her skinny knees in black opaque tights were crossed
and protruding from a very short grey skirt. She pulled her skirt down a bit.

‘Who?’ asked Peggy.

‘You know, E. M. Forster.’

‘Is that Foster in a posh voice?’

‘No, it’s got an r in it. Something like
Howards End
.’

‘Sounds promising,’ mused Peggy. ‘Who was Howard? And what was so special about his end?’

‘It’s a house, Peggy. That’s the name of the book.’

‘Oh, a house. Oh no, I don’t think so, do you? We might as well read
Ideal Home
. Tell me, how long have you been a farrier?’ She turned and bestowed a dazzling smile on a burly and impossibly handsome
flaxen-haired young man beside her, who was blushing furiously and spilling out of a tiny button-backed armchair which struggled
to contain him.

We were an improbable gathering assembled in Peggy’s sitting room that evening: Jennie, Angie, myself, Saintly Sue, Angus,
Luke, Passion-fuelled Pete and Simon Devereux, a dashing and debonair porcelain expert from Christie’s, with hooded eyes and
a fine line in Savile Row suits. We’d been astonished when Peggy had announced the guest list, but Peggy had remained unmoved.

‘Why? What’s so surprising?’

‘Well, Simon Devereux, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t think
you were serious, Peggy. And Pete! What on earth did you
say
? You don’t even know him; you’ve never
met
him!’ Angie spluttered.

‘No, but his number’s in the book under farrier, so I simply rang him. Explained I was a friend of yours, and asked if he’d
like to join our book club. What d’you think I said?’

Angie was speechless. ‘But he must have thought it so odd!’

‘Well, if he did, he didn’t say so. And he wouldn’t be coming if he did, would he? But he is. Said he’d like to read more
and didn’t get the chance to do much in his line of work.’

‘Oh, he
clearly
thinks I fancy him and put you up to it!’ Angie stormed.

Peggy’s eyes widened. ‘He’s coming to read books, Angie, not have a sleepover. Do get a grip.’

‘And what did you say to Simon Devereux?’ Jennie said, taut-faced and pale. ‘Did you ring him as well?’

‘No.’ Peggy sighed patiently. ‘If you must know I sat next to him at dinner at the Holland-Hibberts last Saturday. Oh, he
was itching to come. Couldn’t say yes quickly enough. Don’t forget, he’s desperate to get elected as our local parliamentary
candidate and at the moment he doesn’t even live in the constituency. Just darts in at weekends from his pad in Chelsea. He
keeps saying he wants to get more integrated in village life and he’s joined the hunt and all that, but being a member of
a local book club will give him huge brownie points. He’s jolly nice, actually, and, to be fair, he grew up here. We had a
really good chat. He’s adamant he won’t let the post office in the village shut if he gets in. I don’t know why you’re all
so outraged. This was the plan, wasn’t it? A bit of new blood? Some of it hot?’ She lit a cigarette and blew out smoke in
a thin blue line.

That had rather silenced us.

So now, here we all were, in a rather therapy-like circle in Peggy’s creamy sitting room, splashes of modern art squeezed
between the beams, the drizzle outside spattering the darkened window panes, while we passed a bowl of Doritos like children
playing pass the parcel. I snuck a look at Simon Devereux opposite. Urbane, handsome and sophisticated in an immaculate suit
with patterned silk tie, fresh from the auction rooms of South Ken, he looked faintly amused, I thought, as he passed the
crisps. I wondered how long he’d last. This was manifestly parochial for him and once he’d ticked it off his list of Things
to Do we surely wouldn’t see him for dust. I wondered why Peggy had asked him. Beside him sat Angus, his craggy distinguished
face wreathed in smiles, pleased as punch to be out and already on his second glass of Muscadet. Next to him was Angie in
her very short skirt, and beside her Pete, who, as I say, looked self-conscious but gorgeous, and beside him Luke, who, with
freshly washed blond hair, was looking disarmingly handsome himself, actually. Much better now than in church, I decided.
Better when he wasn’t shutting his eyes and making ecstatic faces at his organ, which I found faintly giggle-making. But of
course it could be a piano, I realized suddenly. Surely if you played one you played the other? That could be promising. I
had a quick vision of us in a pretty cottage somewhere, Luke playing Chopin, glancing over his shoulder to smile and gauge
my reaction as I sat sewing by the fire. Hm. Perhaps not the sewing. And was an organist in the same league as a cyclist?
A bit … nerdy? Well, presumably he didn’t do it full-time. Presumably he had a day job. What was it, I wondered. I had a feeling
Angie had said, but I couldn’t remember. I shook my head. So much to learn. Still, I would be careful this time.
I must curb my predilection to leap and snatch; I would be circumspect and slow. Oh yes, this time I would crawl.

‘Hilary Mantel’s awfully good,’ Saintly Sue was saying, after Angie’s Forster suggestion had fallen flat.

Ah yes, Sue. Probably just as well she was here, as a matter of fact, saving us as she did, by providing an odd number, from
looking too much like a dating agency. But she was
so
intense. Prim and straight-backed in her chair, a pile of books on her lap which she’d brought along as suggestions – we
hadn’t actually chosen a book yet – she was already getting shrill.

‘She won the Booker Prize last year with this one,’ she told us importantly. ‘But of course, you all know that.’

We all murmured appreciatively as Sue passed the book to Peggy beside her. But Peggy’s appreciative murmurs were still for
Pete on her other side, and she took the book distractedly. ‘You must be terribly strong,’ she purred, batting her eyelids
at him. ‘Must do an awful lot of hammering.’

This remark hung rather pregnantly in the air. Pete blushed and looked at the floor. Sue cleared her throat impatiently.

‘Peggy? What d’you think?’

‘Of what?’ She turned.

‘Of the book, of course.’

Peggy glanced down at the tome she appeared to be holding. ‘Oh. Oh, no. Far too long. We’ll never get through that. I should
think Pete here’s the only one who can lift it!’

She passed it to him, mock staggering under its weight, and he laughed, agreeing in flat northern tones that aye, it was terribly
heavy. Angie rolled her eyes despairingly at me.

‘What about something a bit lighter to kick off with?’ suggested Jennie sensibly. ‘It does look a trifle ambitious, Sue, although
I’m sure it’s very good,’ she added in a placatory manner.

‘It’s first class,’ Sue said pompously. ‘You’ve read it, haven’t you, Luke?’

‘Er, started it,’ Luke said sheepishly.

‘Well, if you’ve already read it, Sue, that’s cheating,’ Angie said sharply.

Sue looked stung. ‘It’s not a competition,’ she told her acidly.

‘Exactly,’ retorted Angie. ‘Which means no one should have a head start.’

They glared at one another.

‘Anyway,’ interjected Angus apeasingly before things really degenerated, ‘something a bit lighter might be more the ticket.
I agree with Jennie.’ He smoothed back his silvery locks and leaned forward eagerly, resting the leather elbows of his tweed
jacket on his knees. ‘I thought Poppy here said we were going to do Robert Harris. Eh? Splendid!’

‘Did you, Poppy?’ Jennie turned in surprise.

‘Oh, well, I just …’

‘It’s not a bad idea,’ said Simon, easing smoothly into his diplomatic, prospective MP role. ‘I, for one, love Harris. How
about we all read his latest?’

‘I’ve got it right here!’ boomed Angus delightedly, producing it from under his chair like a magician. ‘Went to Waterstones
specially.’ He passed it around, and as it progressed the rest of us looked enormously cheered. The accessible cover and the
thought of a rollicking good thriller at bedtime, not some heart-sink intellectual tome, were most satisfactory. Pete, still
pink from talking so much in public, agreed it looked terrific, action-packed and just the sort of thing he was dying to have
a go at but never knew which one to choose; Luke said it was the only one he hadn’t read and assured Pete that once he’d
read one he’d read the lot; and Angie, Jennie and I agreed that whilst we read a lot of Aga sagas and chick lit, we never
read the he-man stuff and were keen to have a go. Only Sue looked as if she’d sucked a lemon.