The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [161]
‘Exactly.’
‘And it clearly wasn't transcribed in a solicitor's office, and it's not on official paper—’
‘But Mario and Maroulla witnessed it.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you only need two people?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Haven't made one yet. Got nothing to leave.’ He hesitated. ‘But, as far as we know… it was what Dad wanted. Which actually, is the point, isn't it?’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly. I paused. ‘But… where's the original?’
‘Well, somewhere along the line, someone may have…’ he was carefully avoiding using Felicity's name, ‘disposed of it, I suppose.’
‘Not knowing Maroulla took a copy.’
We glanced guiltily at one another. Guilty, because we couldn't believe we were thinking it. Saying it. The loo flushed next door.
‘Or,’ I said quickly, ‘Dad may have chucked it. Changed his mind.’
‘Exactly. Didn't want to cut out his wife, which is quite a major thing to do, incidentally.’
‘Well, quite.’
We regarded one another more equably.
‘And on that note of finality,’ Tim heaved himself suddenly off the bed, ‘I shall place one end of this shotgun in my mouth like so…’ He lifted it.
‘Tim!’
‘Joke,’ he grinned, swinging it round and using it as a stick. ‘Blimey, Evie, lighten up. I thought my nerves were bad.’ He hobbled to the window. ‘What's that godawful noise?’
A terrible banging was coming from the yard below where Caro had left her car. I joined him at the window as he flung it open. The trailer behind her car seemed to be bouncing about.
‘What the…?’ Tim turned and marched, quite quickly for a man with a gammy leg, and using his gun to lean on, out of the bedroom, down the passage and down the stairs. He shot back the bolts on the front door and went out. I was on his heels. Something – or someone – was banging from inside the trailer, making a terrible din.
‘Oh God – it can't be Caro's uncle, can it?’ I gasped.
‘Lionel?’
‘Yes, she went to get him.’
‘Did she? But why would he be in the trailer?’
‘I've no idea, but she said he was in the back. Oh, poor man!’
Giving me a startled glance, Tim unfastened the clasp and loosened the ramp. But before he could lower it, it came smartly down of its own accord, with a bang. An enormous, hairy orange pig stampeded down it, and raced past us.
‘BLOODY HELL!’ roared Tim, swinging about.
‘What the…?’ I spun round.
‘That's not Lionel, that's Leonard! The boar! Come to service the pigs!’
I clasped my cheeks in horror. ‘Oh Christ!’
We watched, aghast, as the pig galloped joyously down the garden. It crashed through flowerbeds and made for the river, just as Phil, Tim's farm worker, giving the pig a startled glance, came running over the bridge and up the lawn towards us.
‘There's a barney going on in the tent!’ he yelled. ‘You'd better come!’
‘Oh fuck.’ Tim started hobbling down the lawn. ‘Phil! Get that pig!’ he roared, as the pig, thwarted by the stream, veered left. Phil raced after it. ‘Christ, we haven't even got to the disco yet, and they've only had one glass of champagne. The best man can't have plugged a bridesmaid already, can he?’
‘Dad! Quick!’ Jack, looking appalled but enthralled, was waving his father on with a huge arm from the mouth of the tent. We hurried across the bridge as Jack darted back in.
‘Quick, Dad, before it's too late!’ Henry ran out, distressed.
Too late for what? As Tim and I achieved the entrance to the marquee, it was to find a frustrating bank of backs blocking our way. The majority of the guests had shrank back to the sides of the tent to create a clearing on the dance floor. Not, we realized as we muscled through broad-shouldered men and women in hats, to give the happy couple room for a first waltz, or cut the cake, or make speeches, but for another couple, Caro and Felicity, the latter pale and trembling, the former the colour of her pink hat and jacket, to take centre stage. And the only speech being given, was by Caro. Her voice rang out, shrill and accusatorial, as she directed a ferocious diatribe at her step-mother-in-law, the gist of which, if one sifted through the scorching profanities, was