Amber had also written a hundred letters to Rogue thanking him for the freesias and torn them all up.
It was a red-letter day for Throstledown when, on 9 August, the restrictions on animal movements were finally relaxed, which meant Marius could shift his horses and Chisolm was allowed home from her priest’s hole, to the ecstasy of Mrs Wilkinson. Chisolm’s little tail didn’t stop waggling as she rushed round the yard greeting her human, canine and equine friends, disappearing into the bushes with Horace the Shetland before rushing back to Mrs Wilkinson.
A mad scramble ensued to get the horses match-fit for the next season. Valent’s rescue of Mrs Wilkinson had attracted a huge amount of publicity for Mrs Wilkinson’s trainer, and three new owners had decided to send him a total of ten horses. One, a beautiful chestnut mare called Miller’s Daughter, arrived ahead of the others.
Miss Painswick had just sent out the invitations for an owners’ lunch and a parade of the horses in early September, when it was discovered Miller’s Daughter had a cough, a running nose and scoped dirty, indicating an illness.
Summoned, Charlie Radcliffe shook his head.
‘Sorry, Marius. You’ll be off for two months at least.’
Within a couple of days, every horse in the yard was coughing. The new owners had to be warned to keep their horses away, and because they wanted to run them, they took them to other trainers. Except for Miller’s Daughter, who had to remain at Throstledown until she was no longer infectious. Her owner, a comely blonde called Alex Winters, wasn’t nearly apologetic enough that she had grounded Marius’s yard. Judging by the speed with which she’d taken her other horses to Harvey-Holden, Marius wondered if Miller’s Daughter had been fed in deliberately.
He was on the verge of suicide. He couldn’t pay his staff and had little to feed his horses, except for the forage he’d got in early. That morning he’d had a foul letter from his bank manager, who was threatening to seize the yard. Marius couldn’t ask Valent for any more money. He was acutely aware that Amber and Rafiq were in despair at having no rides. At least Rogue was getting plenty from Rupert Campbell-Black.
Marius was just waiting for Painswick to go home so he could get stuck into a bottle of whisky, but she was hanging around shuffling papers. He pretended to be glued to
At the Races
, which was showing a race in Saratoga, in which Rupert’s grandson Eddie Alderton, on a black horse in a white bridle, was being ponied down to the start.
‘Boy’s alleged to be as good a rider as Rupert,’ said Marius, turning up the sound. ‘Go home, for God’s sake.’
Miss Painswick walked over and turned off the television.
‘I’d like to say something. But first I’d like you to pour me a large glass of whisky.’
‘I need the whole bottle myself, just bugger off.’
‘Don’t swear, it doesn’t help. I know how bad things are, I do the books.’
‘I’m fucked,’ said Marius, getting out the whisky bottle.
‘I may appear disapproving and frosty but I’ve enjoyed working for you, and I’d like to go on doing so.’
‘I said I’m fucked, so you can’t.’
Any good trainer always looks tired. Marius looked near death, black hair nearly all grey now, hollow cheeks, sunken, bloodshot eyes, teeth savaging his lower lip.
‘You poor boy,’ said Painswick, ‘I know how hard you’ve tried. Things will pick up. I’m prepared to work for nothing until you get straight.’
Marius’s hand trembled as he handed her a glass of neat whisky.
‘That’s amazingly kind.’
‘I also have a few savings. You’re welcome to those if you’d like them. I’d like to help out. With the floods I’m not sure how many of Mrs Wilkinson’s syndicate are going to be able to pay her training fees.’
Marius slumped on to the sofa, narrowly missing Mistletoe, who jumped up and tried to lick his face, which was now in his hands.
‘That is so incredibly kind, Miss P. I can’t believe it when I’ve been so persistently bloody to you. If I could not pay you until the bloody cough’s gone, and perhaps borrow a few grand?’
*
How could she have said these things, handing over her savings, wondered Painswick as she walked slowly home. Awaiting her on the doormat was a letter from her insurance company saying they couldn’t pay her for any flood damage because they’d gone into receivership.
Miss Painswick was always depressed at the beginning of September. The turning trees, reddening apples and traveller’s joy foaming like sherbet along the hedgerows reminded her of returning to Bagley Hall to work for her beloved Hengist Brett-Taylor.
Pocock was also depressed to have only two days’ work a week. Men with spare time on their hands, however, become bossy. Pocock consequently started nagging Miss Painswick to rid Ivy Cottage of the ivy which encased it, darkening its rooms by growing over its lattice windows and even creeping inside bathrooms and landing windows.
‘It’ll pull out the brickwork, like chewing gum pulls out your stoppings,’ he nagged yet again when he paused to pass the time of day as Miss Painswick dead-headed the roses in her front garden.
‘But it’s called Ivy Cottage.’
‘I’ve lived in Willowwood since the war, place didn’t always have that weight of ivy. Pretty cottage underneath.’
‘I’m perfectly satisfied,’ said a nettled Painswick.
‘If you ever wanted to sell it, or raise a mortgage on it, it’d be much easier with the ivy off. If you don’t like it bare you could always grow up a honeysuckle or a nice red rose.’
The smothering dark ivy, Pocock reflected, was rather like Miss Painswick’s clothes: dark tent dresses, loosely cut coats and skirts, only occasionally brightened by a bright hat or Hengist’s green and blue scarf, clothes which so concealed her body that no one had any idea what her figure was like at all.
‘I could take it off for you,’ he offered. ‘I’m free Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays now.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Painswick.
Later she accosted Etta, weighed down from shopping in Larkminster, who since the Polo was grounded was walking back from the bus stop.
‘Pocock wants to take off the ivy.’
‘He’s probably right about it not doing the house any good,’ pondered Etta.
‘It might have gone too far and he might pull the whole thing down,’ said Painswick.
Next moment, Ione, on a one-woman mission to save the planet, came by on her bike, trailing jute bags of organic goods.
‘Hear you’re taking off the ivy,’ she yelled. ‘Good of you to give Pocock some work, but ivy does provide food for the bees and shelter for the birds. Ivy flowers are particularly good for late feeders in winter when there’s not much food about. So think carefully about it,’ and she pedalled on.
‘Bossy old bag,’ said Painswick with surprising ferocity. ‘She didn’t think carefully about cutting Harold’s hours.’
They were joined by Alan, who’d been for an unlikely walk, with his shirt buttons done up wrong. He urged Miss Painswick to get the ivy off, ‘Pocock’s such an old pro,’ and insisted on carrying Etta’s shopping home.
‘But what about the birds and the bees?’ Etta asked him anxiously.
‘I don’t think Painswick knows much about them,’ said Alan.
So Painswick gave Pocock the go-ahead.
After a restless night, Painswick set out for Throstledown. Marius’s remaining horses were out in the fields, shaking manes and tails, kicking irritably to drive away the flies from their bellies. Heavy rain in the night had bowed down the willows, so, like George Eliot’s hair, their crinkly pale green tresses divided at the top to reveal yellow partings.
Half an hour later, Pocock rolled up at Ivy Cottage, shinned up his ladder and began cutting back, tugging, pulling, clipping, sweating, swearing. By working frenziedly, he managed to get half the ivy off the first day and returned on Saturday. Collecting a cup of tea and leaving Miss Painswick to scrub the kitchen floor, he was soon up his ladder, cutting and pulling, trying to swear less.
Tugging off the ivy which was threatening to invade a rather pretty bedroom window, he nearly fell off his ladder, for there, changing to go out after a vigorous morning’s housework, was a naked Miss Painswick. Pocock had to grab hold of a clump of ivy, for she had the most charming body, with full high breasts, and as she turned, a plump but firm bottom curving in at the waist. Leaning inwards, he discovered there was not a varicose vein in sight and her pubic hair was the softest mouse brown.
Scrambling down the ladder, a huge erection steepling his dungarees, Pocock frantically pretended to be draining a cold cup of tea as Etta and Priceless arrived to take Joyce shopping.
Five minutes later, hearing excited squeaks of ‘Joyce, Joyce,’ Painswick ran out to find Etta admiring the cottage and Pocock’s work.
‘Oh Joyce, the cottage looks so pretty and Harold’s just unearthed the most charming little window upstairs.’
Painswick, primly dressed in her grey boxy jacket and straight skirt, stood back to look, her lips pressed ready to disapprove.
‘It does look nice, very nice indeed. Thank you, Harold. You were quite right.’
‘Not finished yet,’ Pocock smiled, showing several missing teeth.
As he finished stripping her house, he now dreamed of undressing her as well.
Pocock wouldn’t take any payment, so Painswick presented him with a lovely dark blue scarf she’d been knitting him to say thank you and invited him round for a drink the following afternoon.
Having invested in a couple of bottles of really good red, she spent a happy afternoon making canapés: asparagus rolls, smoked salmon sandwiches, cheese straws, mushroom vol-auvents, sweet potato wedges and little chicken kebabs, all laid out on a table spread with a pretty pale blue cloth.
On impulse, Miss Painswick removed all the photographs of Hengist Brett-Taylor and replaced them with vases of flowers from the garden. Then she settled down to read the
Lady
and
Country Life
. She loved working at Throstledown but it was nice to get away.
Harold arrived in a lightweight dog-tooth check jacket, a bright blue tie and off-white trousers. Miss Painswick thought how dashing he looked, with his ruddy face and shock of white hair, and going into the kitchen for a bottle of red, gave herself another squirt of Anaïs Anaïs.
Pocock was very touched by the banquet on the drawing-room table, and although he would have much preferred beer, he was even more touched by the seriousness of the red.
‘The cottage looks wonderful, so much bigger and lighter inside,’ said Miss Painswick. ‘You were quite right, I should have done it years ago, thank you so much. I hope you’ll help me choose some roses for growing up the sides.’
Pocock, almost too nervous to eat, nibbled at a mushroom vol-au-vent.
‘Have a stuffed date,’ said Miss Painswick.
Though they had never had any trouble chattering before, they found themselves embarrassingly robbed of speech and were relieved when Chisolm leapt over the back garden fence. Pausing to dead-head a few roses, she trotted bleating up the lawn, in through the French windows and greeted them both fondly,
nicking a cheese straw before settling in a flowered chintz armchair.
‘Do you think she’s had a domestic with Wilkie?’ asked Painswick. But as she rose to fill Pocock’s glass, Chisolm bossily nudged her hand, spilling dark red wine all over his pale new trousers.
Painswick was distraught.
‘I’m so sorry,
naughty, naughty
Chisolm, bad girl. Oh, your smart trousers, I’m so sorry.’
Salt was the answer, but she was so flustered she couldn’t find the salt cellar and instead seized a dishcloth. Filling a bowl with hot soapy water, she started sponging down Pocock’s trousers, furiously rubbing at his crotch.
‘So, so sorry.’ She paused, to wonder if salt would be better.
‘No, no,’ croaked Pocock, emboldened by wine, asphyxiated by Anaïs Anaïs and feeling pretty breasts pressed against his arm. ‘This is much better. Oh Joyce.’
As she rubbed, Miss Painswick realized something inside his trousers was moving upwards and her pursed mouth fell open in surprise.
‘You’re so pretty,’ muttered Pocock, putting out a rough garden-grooved hand, stroking her hair until it fell out of its prim bun. Then, cupping her head, he drew it close, glancing at her in wonder, ‘Oh Joyce,’ and he kissed her amazed mouth.
‘Oh Harold,’ sighed Painswick, ‘this is a surprise,’ particularly as his hand left her hair and began to unbutton her navy-blue dress so he could slide it inside her bra, where he found breasts just as thrilling as the ones he’d seen through the window.
‘You’re so lovely,’ he gasped, as Painswick’s scented softness and plumpness collapsed on top of him.
Unchecked, unnoticed, Chisolm worked her way through asparagus rolls, stuffed dates, mushroom vol-au-vents, cheese straws, sweet potato wedges and the brown bread and butter beneath the smoked salmon, and then managed
Country Life,
the
Lady
and a few pages of
Thoroughbred Owner and Breeder
for pudding.
Etta was delighted when a glowing Painswick confided that she and Harold were now an item. Did he propose on
Gardeners’ Question Time?
she wondered. She was, however, ashamed how low she felt to think that Pocock, not she, would in future be enjoying cosy suppers of macaroni cheese and
Midsomer Murders
. Joyce had been such a staunch, comforting friend.