One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [128]
‘Isn’t this killing?’ she breathed. ‘I keep thinking I’m in Gosford Park!’
‘Was there much sex in that ?’ I enquired mildly.
‘What?’ She frowned, confused. ‘No, I don’t think so. Or if there was it was all hushed up and repressed – why?’
‘Just wondered.’
‘I meant the tweed knickerbockers and the kidneys for breakfast bit.’
‘Ah.’ I nodded as if the dawn had come up. ‘That bit.’
‘Look at your brother!’ She hissed, clutching my arm. ‘Doesn’t he look divine?’
Kit had materialized, clearly straight from the shower, looking a bit damp round the edges. He tucked his checked shirt in and yawned.
‘Divine.’ I agreed. ‘What time did you go to bed, Maggie?’
She was still drooling and I saw Kit flash her a grin back.
‘Hm? Oh,’ she coloured as she came back to me, ‘not long after you went up, I expect. Although I did sit and chew the fat for a bit.’
‘Oh? Who with?’
‘You know, those die-hard friends of theirs. The Harrisons, a few bankers. Some barrister chappie.’
‘Kit?’
‘Um, yes, he was there.’
‘Right.’
Why was I cross? Why? He wasn’t off limits, was he? And wouldn’t we, as a family, all very much like him to be on limits? And Maggie was my best friend.
‘Morning, darlings. I say, isn’t it a perfect day? And what a feast!’ My mother, resplendent in a lovat-green deerstalker and a matching, swirling cape swept through the double doors making quite an entrance, as my mother can. Even heads buried deep in Telegraphs glanced up.
‘Hi, Mum, you look lovely.’ I kissed her and she gave us a twirl. ‘Thank you, my love, and so do you. And Maggie – look at you! Dressed to kill?’ She popped an imaginary gun.
‘Hope so,’ grinned Maggie, giving her a hug. I’d forgotten she was firm friends with my mother now.
‘Anyone I know?’ Mum breathed in her ear.
‘Er, well. A bit.’ Maggie had the grace to blush.
‘Ooh, how thrilling! Well, I won’t pry, but I’m delighted for you. You show that dreadful Hugo chappie what he’s missing.’
‘Henry,’ corrected Maggie, but I noticed her face didn’t tauten at his name: no look of pain haunted her eyes.
Dad approached, in tweeds, which surprised me.
‘I thought your shooting days were over?’ I said as he kissed me. ‘Thought you saw it as more of a spectator sport these days?’
My father, who’d shot a lot in his youth, and was indeed a very good shot, had quietly hung up his gun a few years back. He’d been invited to a very smart shoot in Norfolk, which he’d later described as mass slaughter, not unlike the Somme. The sky had been black with birds, he’d said, in fact you couldn’t see the sky: and it was big, in Norfolk. Hundreds were killed, and then buried in pits. Hugh didn’t run anything like that sort of shoot: the numbers here were low, the birds generally high, so sporting, and it was the day out that mattered. The walking in the great outdoors, lunch with friends, the conviviality, not who’d shot what and how many. And everything was either eaten – most people went home with a couple of brace – or given to the local butcher to sell. But Dad had lost the stomach for it, none the less.
‘I’m going to stand with Seffy,’ he said, nodding at my son across the table, already devouring a pagoda of bacon, eggs, beans and sausage, beside Luca, doing the same.
‘Oh, Dad, how kind. I hadn’t thought…’
Hadn’t given a thought to the safety of my son. Seffy usually shot under Hugh’s auspices, but of course Hugh would be busy. My father, naturally, had been alive to this.
‘Well, in point of fact he doesn’t need anyone – he’s perfectly capable on his own – but it makes me feel better.’
‘Me too,