One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [130]
The wives, I noticed, looked glamorous in clever feminine variations of tweed or anything else sludge green or brown: moleskin trousers, skirts, leather boots. It was jeans and Barbours for the teenagers, but with a twist: a beaded scarf, perhaps, over an old jumper. Before I joined everyone in the yard where I knew they’d gather for a few last-minute in structions, I peeled off to the loo. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. Smiled. It occurred to me that for once in my life, I was in the right place at the right time. Here I was at a country house party, with a handsome, charming, successful, single man, who adored me. Even as I’d sipped my coffee back there in the dining room, even as I’d talked to my parents, I’d felt his eyes on me; devouring me. Savouring me, even, as he ostensibly mantalked to Mr Harrison, discussing drives, the merits of a twelve bore or a twenty: even then I’d known where his mind really was.
The loo door handle rattled behind me. I exited, and I cannoned straight into Maggie, who was furtively plastering on her Pearl & Shine in the unsatisfactory reflection of a hunting print in the gloomy corridor.
‘Oh, it was you in there. I might have known. You could have let me in.’
‘Too late – they’re off. Come on.’
I took her arm and steered her out. Through the back door we saw Hugh, helping people into the back of open Land Rovers, lorries. Some were setting off on foot, some on quad bikes, but there was a general revving up for imminent exodus.
‘Ooh, what fun, which one?’ Maggie’s eyes shone as she took in the various modes of transport.
‘Whichever you like.’
She dithered.
‘Come with us, luv.’ From the back of a truck, a huge, burly man extended an enormous outstretched hand. Maggie took it eagerly, clambering aboard to settle amongst an earthy assortment of red-cheeked farm workers, their sons, and other locals who’d fancied a day out. Most were in tatty jeans and wellies, some with over-excited terriers on bits of string.
As they made a space for her to sit down, she turned. ‘Come on, Hattie!’
‘Um, actually,’ I shored up a ravishing smile for Hal as he leaned down from the back of an open-ended shooting brake to offer me his hand, ‘I’m going with the guns.’
I flashed her a grin. Couldn’t resist a giggle, even as I caught her astonished face. As she bounced off down a track, looking outraged, holding on tight with her new friends the beaters, I settled myself down amongst the men of my choice. The ones in the Savile Row suits.
25
Two benches facing each other ran either side of the shooting brake, with six or seven guns and wives squeezed on apiece: like a tube train, I thought as we rumbled along. There the similarity ended, though. We were much closer, elbows and knees touching, and I doubt these people troubled public transport much. It was all very jolly and convivial, and on the floor between us, four or five black Labradors trembled and steamed with excitement. One rested its huge head on my knee. On we rattled, chatting companionably, this truck full of canine and human lasagne, down a bumpy track to the first drive, the one over the hill in the bottom meadow. As we bumped along, I realized it wasn’t just knees, but bottoms and thighs which, by necessity, had to touch. Press, even. I tried not to think about my left buttock against Hal’s. Panting with excitement – the dogs, not me – the Labradors were soothed by the jewelled hands of the wives, who were all terribly good-looking; friendly and inclusive too.
Imogen Harrison opposite, with honey-coloured hair, a wide smile and a hundred-acre voice, was telling me of a shoot she’d been to years ago, where Lester Piggott had been a guest, new to the game. As he aimed his shotgun at a pheasant running along the ground, his host had enquired mildly, ‘You’ll wait till it takes off, won’t you, Lester?’ to which the jockey had replied, ‘No, I’m waiting for it to stop.’ How everyone roared in our rickety-rackety lorry and ‘haw haw haw!’ how I roared along with them. Yes, terribly funny.
‘Was that the Witherston-Parkers