It was bitterly cold last night. Wild vicious easterly winds pissed down with vertical pinpricks of rain that left any skin it came into contact with looking like raw meat on a butcher’s slab.
I already felt slightly dishevelled as I sat in Charles’ Range Rover when he drew up outside Humpington Hall for Squire Percy’s dinner. Why I threw caution to the wind and wore a lacy cardigan and pashmina instead of my old warm coat, God only knows. Okay, sheer unadulterated vanity. But why wear a coat that adds five years to your age when you can wear a sexy cardie that takes five years off instead?
I should have listened to aunty Thelma when she came to baby-sit Joey. "I should wrap up warm dear if I were you," she warned,"You’ll catch your death if you go out dressed like that."
I gaily dismissed her wise advice with a wave of my hand as I sashayed round the kitchen, hand on hip in my satin frock and six inch stiletto-heeled platform sling-backs.
"I’ve got a choice of either cold and glam, or warm and dowdy, and I definitely don’t do dowdy," I laughed, before merrily going to open the front door to Charles.
I reasoned that I would only have to walk from my house to the car and then from the car to the Hall. So wrong. By a cruel, cruel twist of fate the remote central locking system on Charles’ Range Rover went haywire the minute I reached for the passenger door. Even though it only took a couple of minutes to right itself, it was long enough to make me feel as cold and stiff as a corpse and the wind and rain to whip my hair into Rastafarian dreadlocks with a crazy beehive. It took the three miles to the Hall with the car’s heating on full blast to defrost my jaw.
We travelled almost half-a-mile down a long drive lined with ancient oaks before the bleak stone facade of Humpington Hall loomed out of the inky darkness in the glare of the Range Rover’s headlights.
As the wheels scrunched over the gravel, the lights picked out the Hall’s architectural idiosyncrasies. Twin medieval circular turrets dominated an eclectic range of styles that had been added on over the centuries to the original timbered great central hall and undercroft, built in the 1300s by the founding Lyle de Stocking’s.
Charles parked a short drive away from the Hall next to a row of cars, including Delia’s infamous navy Freelander. I braced myself as I pushed open the car door against the powerful force of the wind, only for a huge gust to swing it open with such violence that I tumbled out in a most unladylike fashion to land in an undignified heap flat on my back with my legs akimbo.
Charles rushed round and gallantly picked me up off the ground. "Love your pink knickers," he yelled with an appreciative leer before opening a huge black umbrella that proved absolutely useless in the teeth of the stormy night turning inside out in an instant. He grabbed my arm and bent double, we slowly made our way to the cavernous Gothic porch with the family motto, Rise up and Conquer inscribed in the stone. I stood huddled against the nail studded door with my pashmina draped unflatteringly round my head like a beggar woman. I was frozen and stiff with cold and my teeth chattered so loudly they sounded like a cacophony of mating grasshoppers.
While Charles pulled the heavy doorbell I cursed myself for my profound vanity and stupidity for not wearing my coat. After all, it is a designer label I reminded myself, even though I got it from Age Concern for a tenner. The warm inviting interior of the hall seemed to mock me as it shone out from between the chinks of heavy wooden shutters folded across the inside of the windows to keep out the icy blast. According to the locals it flies unimpeded from the remote and frozen slopes of the Urals in Russia, across the North Sea and the flat fields of Lincolnshire, directly to Ruddlesex. Sometimes, if it’s in the right direction, I can taste the salt from the sea pounding along the shore a hundred miles to the east when I stand on one of the windy ridges overlooking the small, fertile, undulating valleys outside the village .
"Where’s that old crone, Mrs Hoare?" Charles muttered through clenched teeth as he pulled on the bell for what seemed like the hundredth time. "I cannot see the sense in employing a woman to open the door who’s as deaf as a post and as slow as a tortoise. We’ll have frozen to death before she gets her slippers into gear."
Turning to see me huddled in the corner like a drowned rat, he opened wide his cashmere coat and invited me to cuddle up inside. "Sod it," I thought as I wound my frozen arms around his back and pushed my face into the welcoming warmth of his scarf. "Just because I’ve accepted his kind offer of refuge from the storm and the sharing of his body heat, doesn’t mean he’ll be silly and assume it’s an invitation for anything else." Wrong. Soon after our bodies made contact I became acutely aware that he had a massive hard-on.
How can a man experience a stiffy in subzero temperatures? I thought with incredulity. If he knocks it against anything it’s likely to snap. Unless rigor mortis is setting in I thought as I lost all sensation in my feet.
I was saved by any further amorous advances by the sound of the great wooden door opening with a creak of its massive ornate hinges. The face of Mrs Hoare, lined with more contours than a map of Everest appeared in the gloom, before disappearing behind the door that opened to reveal a magnificent timber roofed hall with black oak panelled walls and a huge stone fireplace with logs as big as small trees burning in the grate.
Charles, obviously aware of the big bulge in his trousers, suddenly looked distinctly discomforted and seemed reluctant to let go of me. And, as my body temperature had dropped to what seemed like freezing point, my limbs felt locked to Charles like a frozen ice cube to a warm lip.
Unsure of how to proceed, we shuffled sideways into the house like conjoined twins, drawn like magnets to the blazing hearth, under the disapproving glare of Mrs Hoare. It was here that Percy found us as he bounded forward to greet his guests.
"Hi Charlie old boy," he said, slapping his friend heartily on the back. "Is this you’re latest squeeze then?"
He stared intently into my face before pronouncing in a very pleased, loud voice, "We have met before haven’t we, I never forget a face, you’re the doggie woman aren’t you?"
Charles looked faintly shocked. "Doggie woman?"
Percy threw back his head and laughed revealing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. I hastened to explain to Charles about my little adventure with Flossie and then turned to Percy to congratulate him for recognising me after such a brief encounter.
"I must have looked a complete fright I was so hot and bothered and my hair was all over the place," I laughed, casually turning to glance into the magnificent ornate mirror hanging above the fireplace.
My eyes widened in horror as a ravaged face stared back. Think ‘Mortica does Alice Cooper.’ My hair had gone completely haywire around my face, white except for flushed red checks and black eyeliner that had streaked into two black triangles.
"OMAGOD," I shrieked.
Percy smiled and said in jest, "Oh, so you don’t always look like this then?"
To cover up my obvious confusion and embarrassment he beckoned to Mrs Hoare and asked her to show me to the nearest bathroom so I could repair the damage. "Show her into the drawing room when she’s ready," he said and then, tenderly pushing a tendril of hair from across my forehead and looking deeply and longingly into my eyes he whispered, "I’m quite sure you are really very beautiful."
My heart, and another certain part of my anatomy, quickened and I felt like reaching out to run my fingers over his soft perfect lips.
"Chop, chop," said Charles breaking the spell as he took Percy’s arm and marched him off. "Make haste and join us as soon as you can."
It took a while to redo my makeup which had suffered serious structural damage. And although I dragged a comb through my hair it still refused to calm down and hung in damp wild curls around my face.
I followed Mrs Hoare to the drawing room. She shuffled along at a snail’s pace, in worn sheepskin slippers. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves as I entered the room elegantly furnished with antiques. The walls were decorated with faded tapestries and huge cracked oil paintings of cows and horses hung alongside portraits of long dead De Lyles.
I suddenly became acutely aware that a host of male eyes suddenly seemed to have locked onto my chest with the accuracy of short-range guided nuclear missiles. I blushed furiously as I realised that my indrawn breath had accentuated the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra and my erect nipples, which hadn’t had time to defrost, were starkly outlined beneath my damp satin frock which clung to my curves like a second skin.
Feeling flustered I frantically tried to smooth them down with my hands only to arouse them further until they were so rigid and stiff they were positively pornographic.
Percy’s father, Sir Walter, was positively drooling in his wheelchair by the fire. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open and a piece of chewed olive fell onto the tartan rug covering his knees.
"My Gad, she’s a decent bit of horseflesh," he said. "I demand that she sits next to me at dinner."
Hastily pulling my cardigan together I went over to Delia who was tittering into a glass of sherry.
‘Do you think you could flash your tits under Henry’s nose, with a bit of luck it might give him a heart attack,’ she whispered.
I looked over to Henry who was warming his buttocks by the fire as he flirted with a young bottle blond woman with a radioactive tango orange tan.
"I think she must be the new woman who’s moved into the restored coach house on the estate," I observed to Delia. "And that middle-aged bloke over there with the matching tan and leather trousers has got to be her husband."
Delia cast a critical eye over him. "He calls himself a business consultant but I’ve heard he’s an asset stripper. Made all his money in the 1980s. Can you believe it, he’s wearing child molester shoes, look, shiny loafers with a gold chain."
We continued to dissect the couple critically for the next few minutes, dragging out their fashion sense and social status like bloodied entrails, poking around for signs of disease. We finally decided they were ‘new money,’ probably swingers with his ‘n’ hers towelling bathrobes and a villa in Spain.
"That dress is Versace," said Delia. It costs £335, 45p and it’s made of polyester."
I was just about to offer another juicy observation when I suddenly became aware of someone standing at my shoulder. It was Gladys Poole. Gladys has worked at the Hall as a housekeeper for as long as I can remember. I bet the tied cottage she lives in on the estate with Cess must be worth a bomb, but he's there for life working on the land just as his father and generations of Poole’s have done since the year dot.
"Sherry?" asked Gladys.
"Thank you, that would be nice," I said, "or maybe not, maybe I should stick to soft drinks. Thelma doesn’t like it if I go home whiffing of alcohol."
"So it’s a soft drink then?" said Gladys shuffling off.
She brought me a sweet sherry. I looked at Delia and shrugged. "I hate sweet sherry," I said wrinkling my nose up with disgust.
"Word’s going round there’s a family crisis," whispered Delia. Lady Horsham mentioned it to Percy before you came in after Gladys had spilt gin all over Sir Walter. She’s all at sixes and sevens."
I glanced around the rest of the large spacious room to see Lord and Lady Horsham deep in conversation with Camilla and Neville Shotley, two big cheeses in the hunting fraternity. Camilla shuddered as she caught my glance from across the room. Camilla and Neville treat me with complete disdain just in case they’re tainted by association with my side of the family. It's not my fault we're distantly related on Dad's side. I think it was Camilla’s great grandfather Arthur who was a cousin of my great grandfather Joel. I suppose I'm lucky, their side of the family inherited most of the land, the money and the buck teeth. Our side inherited a few acres, a flair for business, brains and good looks. Much better deal in my book.
I gave her a little wave. Her face momentarily tightened before relaxing into a saccharine smile.
"Well, well, it’s the bitch queen from hell and her outrider," I remarked to Delia. She can’t stomach the pair of them either but puts up with them as they're big hunting chums of Henry.
As my eyes scanned the rest of the room I came to the conclusion that the chance of any decent talent appearing was negligible until Percy appeared at the door of the drawing room and invited us all to follow him into the dining room. Sitting at the table was the most unutterably and indescribably beautiful man I’ve ever clapped eyes on.
"I think Michelangelo's David has metamorphosed into flesh and appeared as a guest." I said turning to Delia.
"What was that?" said Charles who had just joined us after chatting to Sir Walter.
"Er, I was just saying how Michelangelo's David was the most memorable highlight of my holiday in Italy, a masterpiece of classical sculpture whose exquisite lines are only rivalled by Donatello’s David in the Bargello."
Charles looked impressed as he sat down next to me at the table. "Didn’t know you were an art expert," he said.
"I just dabble," I improvised wildly, changing the subject by commenting that the cutlery was rather attractive. I saw Camilla’s eyes narrow in disapproval at the observation which I’m sure she considered to be very vulgar.
"Cow," I thought.
I was joined on my right by Sir Walter who was wheeled to the table by Gladys, while Percy sat at the head flanked by the gorgeous guest who was joined by Delia. She looked across at me and smiled before briefly sucking her index finger in a very suggestive manner. Torturer.
I was told by Charles not to expect haute cuisine as all the meals at the Hall are cooked by Gladys and Mrs Hoare who’s repertoire hasn’t been updated since the 1950s. The only attraction of a dinner invitation is the wine cellar, it's impressive and extensive, lined with fine wine and port from some of the best vintages of the last century.
As the starter was served Percy introduced the gorgeous guest as Seamus O’ Neill, a distant relation and old student friend from their days at agricultural college in Cirencester. Seamus it appears hails from County Kerry in Southern Ireland where he lives in the converted stables at the vast family pile, surrounded by thousands of acres of land and tenanted property that has been in the family for generations. Must remember to check out cheap flights on Ryanair.
"Seamus' family is one of the oldest in Ireland," said Percy proudly, "pure Irish blood. One hundred per cent proof. I’m a little less pure," he laughed with a naughty wink, "But traces of it run in my blood from my mother’s side of the family."
"How quaint," said Camilla patronisingly as she turned to speak to Seamus across Henry and Delia, " how did your family manage to stay so Irish, is it because Kerry is so wild and inhospitable? I believe it’s a vast peat bog with clouds of savage midges and continuous rain."
Seamus casually leaned back and draped his arm over the back of his chair before answering in a beautiful, lyrical Irish lilt. "Ah, no, it’s because we fought off the fuckin’ English bastards that tried to steal our country from us. The O’Neill’s are a proud family, we never arse licked no one."
As he spoke he drew a battered packet of Woodbines from his pocket and withdrew a very large hand-rolled cigarette .
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he said to Camilla’s shocked face, "or does it offend your delicate English sensibilities?" It’s maybe okay to murder a few Irish leprechauns but you must observe your table manners?" He lit his cigarette.
Camilla looked stony faced.
‘I’m from County Kerry," a quiet voice suddenly piped up. We all turned to look at the bottle blond who went on to fill the embarrassed silence with an account of her childhood in Cork which she left reluctantly to take up a place at Trinity College Dublin to read social anthropology.
Delia and I looked at each other a tad shamefaced. Slightly out in our calculations. Soon Seamus and the bottle blond, who introduced herself as Mary, were entertaining us with stories about their wild and beautiful county. It wasn’t long before the wine and conversation flowed as freely as the fragrant smoke from Seamus' cigarette drifting over the table.
‘Damn fine tobacco, that," remarked Sir Walter sniffing the air, "smells very sweet. It reminds me of when I was doing my National Service in the Middle East during Suez. We bartered with the locals. Came home with sacks full of frankincense. Used to burn it after dinner. Cracking stuff, you could fart like billy-o and no one would notice."
Everyone laughed except Camilla. Neville managed a weak smile.
‘I hope I haven't offended your delicate ears," said Sir Walter turning to me and laying a hand on my arm.
"Oh no," I replied smiling. "I’m as tough as old boots."
"Good," he said, "I don’t believe in upsetting attractive dinner guests."
He turned to Percy, "Fine woman don’t you think? Glorious, breasts like a brace of plump woodcocks. Decent handful."
Percy blushed. "Reminds me of your mother," reminisced Sir Percy staring into his wine. "Fine woman, a bit gamey, but that’s how I liked it. Earthy."
Percy’s face registered complete shock. "He can be a bit ga ga sometimes," he said hastily and then he beckoned to Mrs Hoare and asked her to take his father to the bathroom.
"What the hell’s going on Mrs Hoare?" Sir Walter roared, pronouncing her name as Mrs Whore as she obediently wheeled him off. Percy explained apologetically that his father resorted to addressing her like that when he was in a strop. Sir Walter returned very perplexed as the pudding was being served and the incident was forgotten, although the description of Percy’s mother struck me as very odd. I distinctly remember the late Lady Venetia De Lyle Stocking from when I was a child. She was a remote, thin, highly strung woman who used to pray very devoutly in church holding onto a string of rosary beads, much to the consternation of the rector who was very ‘low church.’ "Neurotic," my mother used to call her. She died when Percy was fifteen among wild rumours that she committed suicide, although the official story was that she died of pneumonia after a lifetime suffering with a weak chest.
After we had eaten dessert and a huge selection of cheeses made with milk from the farm, we retired to the drawing room to wait for coffee to be served. Seamus by this time was on his third cigarette and the atmosphere was decidedly relaxed.
Sir Walter was insistent that I sat next to him so he could quiz me about my life.
"So, are you and Charles courting or are you on the market?" he asked as he swirled a large brandy around in a glass.
"Charles and I are just friends," I told him.
"Damn fool him then," Sir Walter said.
Camilla, who was standing close by with Lord and lady Horsham interrupted our conversation to inform Sir Walter that I was divorced and that my ex-husband was Giles Pearce who lives in Stainsby. "A good and decent man who really deserved better," she said, turning to Lord and Lady Horsham. "We stay in touch for the sake of their child, he appreciates it."
What rot, I thought, Giles and I, while we might have fought like cat and dog agreed on one thing, that Camilla is a dreadful social climber, a snob and a stirrer.
"And which one of your friends is babysitting for Joseph tonight?" she asked bitchily as though the poor child were posted around like a parcel.
"Oh, he’s with our aunty Thelma," I replied sweetly. "You know our aunty Thelma, don’t you?" I said to Lady Horsham. "She’s the sister of my mother Vera who does meals on wheels with you on a Friday."
Camilla’s face looked like thunder.
"I know Thelma, she sometimes plays the organ in church," said Lady Horsham. Percy who had been politely half listening to our conversation suddenly brightened.
"Do you mean Thelma who used to teach at the village school?" he asked wistfully. "I will never forget Thelma. She understood me. You see, I," he started to stammer, "I was rather bullied at school, and, well Thelma, she used to encourage me. I was devastated when I went up to Eton." He stammered to a stop and we all fell silent. Camilla gave him an odd stare as she took a cup of coffee from a tray being held by Gladys Poole.
"You were bullied because you were a namby pamby girl’s blouse," said Sir Walter roughly, that’s why I sent you off to school. Your mother mollycoddled you."
The silence was shattered by a loud crash as Gladys dropped the tray laden with cups full of coffee onto the floor. Her hands flew up to hide her face and then she bent to down, scrabbling around trying to pick up the pieces.
"Clumsy woman," muttered Camilla as she brushed coffee off her dress.
Gladys apologised as she started to clear up the mess. As I bent down to help her Sir Walter motioned us to leave it. "Send for that good-for-nothing stable lad, he can clean it up," he said as Glady's tottered off.
I almost dropped my own cup of coffee when Neville sidled up to me and to my complete surprise apologised for Camilla’s cowish behaviour. His voice slurred slighty as he said, "I think I know what went wrong between you and Giles. After all, you were so young and beautiful, absolutely luscious. Giles as an older, more mature man should have realised that you were too hot to handle."
I felt him stroke his hand down my spine as he leant towards me and whispered, "Ignore Camilla, the tight-arsed bitch......."
"Neville!" he stood to attention immediately as though a poker had been shoved up his backside as Camilla came bearing down on us like a battleship in full steam.
I scarpered quick and joined Delia who it seemed had found a soulmate in Seamus. It seems that he had given up managing one of the family’s farms to set himself up as a potter with his own studio.
He lay sprawled in a leather armchair by the fire. His chest, which could easily qualify as 'Torso of the Week' in Heat magazine was visible through a crumpled frilly cheesecloth shirt. A real pant wetter. He wore a green faded velvet jacket with beautiful soft denim jeans ripped at the knee and soft suede moccasin mules with tassels. I felt myself dribbling into my coffee.
Charles wandered over and placed his arm possessively around my waist and began to chat to Seamus about Irish history which he obviously knew very little about. Seamus listened politely until his attention was caught by the entrance of the stable lad who appeared with a dustpan and brush and a cloth over his arm.
He casually asked Percy who he was.
"None of your business," said Percy who wandered over to join us. Seamus looked piqued, shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. It wasn’t long before the lad came over and asked Percy if he was satisfied that the carpet had been sufficiently cleaned. Seamus smiled invitingly at the lad and asked him his name, how old he was and if he lived locally.
‘My name is Thomas sir and I’m nineteen and I live here at the Hall."
Seamus smiled at him and stretched like a cat before slipping off his moccasins to reveal his feet with toenails painted a bright pink.
" Why would a man paint his toenails pink?" I asked Charles on the way home in the car.
"Because he bats for the other side, my dear girl," replied Charles.
I refuse to believe it. It would be too, too cruel. He's just asking for the love of a beautiful woman. Preferably me. And soon.
‘I don’t know about you but my head feels very strange," I said to Charles as we drew up outside my house. "The wine must have been very strong."
Charles undid his seat belt and fixed me with a peculiar stare as if I was a simpleton. "More to do with Seamus's wacky backy," he murmured as put his hand around my face and drew it towards him.
‘You are so beddable, it’s not true," he said hoarsely as his tongue made it’s way down the back of my throat playing tonsil tennis with all the finesse of a Dinarod dislodging a blockage.
I hastily pulled back. "Aunty Thelma might see," I said all flustered.
"Don’t torment me," he said roughly. He put his hands on my thighs and then slid them up under my dress and into my stocking tops. I struggled to push him off.
"Don’t, don’t," he moaned, bending his head and burying it in my lap. I felt his whole body tremble and for a moment I felt a reciprocal response as his urgency seemed to consume us both. I must be bloody sexstarved I thought as the light from the moon shone into the car illuminating his shiny bald head freckled like an egg. It dampened my desire to the status of a chaste and virginal nun. I opened the door and let in a draft of air, fresh after the storm. He groaned.
"Another time maybe, " I said as I made my escape, wobbly legging it up the drive like a new born calf in my slingbacks.
"Nice night?" asked aunty Thelma who had spent the evening catching up on episodes of Coronation Street on the video.
‘Interesting," I said as I flopped down on the sofa and kicked off my shoes with relief.
"Very interesting."
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