Simply Heaven (42 page)

‘How did you do that?’

‘Horse rolled on a bank in Ireland.’

‘God, poor you.’

‘Awful,’ she concedes. ‘Had to shoot the horse.’

They all fall silent in contemplation of her loss.

‘He was a good chap,’ she says. ‘Big heart.’

She turns back to Roly. ‘Any idea which way we’ll be running today?’

‘I heard someone say something about the Barringtons.’

‘Oh, God, I hope not. Those pylons make the plate in my head sing.’

I decide to cut loose. Give the Brigadier a clap on the shoulder and wander away among the crowd. Give a wide berth to what even I can see are London riders down for the day on rental horses – the brand-new clothes and the fact that they don’t seem to be able to make them stand still gives it away – and go over to stand among the foot spectators.

They’re an odd lot. They divide down the middle between hatchet-faced women of a certain age and jolly men in flat caps and cords. The women catch sight of me, and the reaction is spontaneous. If they had skirts, they would be picking them up and swishing them as they turned their backs. I mean, OK, so palazzo pants and a purple velvet Shanghai Tang jacket probably isn’t the most practical attire for wading in mud, but there’s no need to look like I just vomited in their strawberry patch. Oh, well. I start talking to the man nearest to me.

‘Good day for it,’ I say.

He pulls his cap slightly forward on his face. ‘Ar.’ He has a broad Oxfordshire accent, I hear to my relief. ‘Bin a bet of a dew, though. Scent won’t be so good.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I say, trying to look knowledgeable. Venture an opinion. ‘Still. At least the wind’s dropped.’

It works. ‘You’re right there. Didn’t hardly get a whiff of a fox over at Great Tew on Friday. Load of antis down from London wi’ a video camera and we couldn’t give ’em no sport at all. And they was hopin’ to throw theirselves in front of the foxes and get ripped apart for
Channel 4 News
. Went home wi’ faces like pitchforks.’

‘There don’t seem to be many here today.’

‘No. Well, there wouldn’t be. Too many Heythrop Blondes out on a Boxing Day.’ He jerks a tidy thumb in the direction of our companions. ‘They’d never stand a chance in a fair fight. Never mind the foxhounds: that lot’d rip ’em to shreds in seconds. So where are you from, then?’

‘Australia.’

‘Australia! Ever ridden a camel?’

‘Couple of times. Plays merry hell with the back, though.’

‘I rode one once in Dubai,’ he says. ‘Tell you what. Saved myself the cost of a vasectomy.’

There’s some movement over among the hounds. A couple of the guys in green are collecting their horses and ushering them into order. Forty tails go up in the air, eighty ears flap in the breeze and the singing rises, chorally, into descant. It’s lovely, lovely, lovely. I’m nowhere near a horse, but even I can feel the adrenalin.

‘Oop, looks like they’re off,’ he says. ‘You following?’

I shake my head. ‘Got stuff to do in the house.’

A nod. ‘Oh, right. Staying with the Wattestones, are you?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Well, wrap up warm.’

‘I’ve learned that already.’

The foot followers stream towards cars and ATVs. And the horses, picking up the vibe, turn as if at the flick of a switch from docile domestic to wild outdoors: muscles bulging in necks and rumps, wide eyes bright with excitement. I run for it as a young ’un with a green ribbon in its tail executes a balletic solo, carving great divots from the four-hundred-year old sod, his rider seeming to sit the whole thing out without moving a muscle. They gather, wheel and light out up the park drive at a smart trot.

I drag Perkins inside, leave him on the sofa in the Great Hall and go in search of Tilly. The drain smell has permeated the hall, and a nasty-looking crack, a good couple of inches wide, has appeared in the central wall, running all the way from the ceiling into the fireplace. But otherwise, Bourton is unchanged since we left it; broods on with the air of one who will resist change until blood is spent.

I cross the hall, go through the drawing room, notice a faint sludgy give in the floorboards that I’m sure wasn’t there before. I’m not going to think about it. If Rufus doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t want to go. I’ve got to make the best of a bad lot.

In the Long Gallery, up on the second floor, I pause at the window, catch sight of one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. On the brow of the hill, a lone figure jumps up and down, takes off its cap and waves it. And suddenly a green-jacketed horseman bursts from cover and gallops towards him, hounds racing ahead. And then they come, like a waterfall: bay and chestnut, grey and black and roan and dapple, dun and skewbald, palomino, pie and fleabitten: two hundred noble thundering horses, ears pricked, hoofs flying, tails streaming out behind them, racing across the park, coming to the crack in the earth and taking off over it as though lifted by wings, under a huge sky in which cloud piles, tower on tower, like meringue. I can’t help it: my heart leaps into my throat. Horses. You barely see the riders: just soaring, stretching, hauling, fighting beasts running for the sheer joy of it.

I stay and watch in awe. I’ve never seen anything like it. You can sneer all you want, but then you see what it’s all
for
and it takes your breath away. They cross the ground in less than a minute, stream away over into the next valley and I continue to stand for a while longer, thinking about what I’ve seen, hoping foolishly that they might come back.

Tilly is up another floor, in her old bedroom. I wander through empty halls and think of what to tell her. Hear the tick-tick-tick of the deathwatch beetle, see motes of dust catch in shafts of light and dance their way floorward.
I think I understand, now, I want to say: I think I see that there’s more to it all than an obdurate adherence to how things used to be done. I think I get why Rufus can’t go away, why you came back into this hell when you had nowhere else to turn
.

But I don’t say anything in the end. Because Tilly is lying on her side on the bed, white as snow, hair plastered down with sweat, clutching with desperate hands at her stomach.

So much for worrying about the paintwork.

‘I’m so sorry,’ says Tilly though her tears. ‘I’m so sorry. Your poor lovely new car …’ And then she gets another spasm of pain and practically takes my hand off.

I’m in so way out of my depth. I don’t know anything about what I’m supposed to do, because it never occurred to me that Birthing Partner might be one of my life’s titles. I sort of know about – I don’t know – hot water, and telling people to breathe, and something about ice chips. But I haven’t even had time to go and look up exactly what it was on the internet, because the stupid, stupid English bint has left it so late by Not Making A Fuss (so much for whingeing Poms), that she was eight centimetres dilated by the time I’d manhandled her over to Chipping Norton hospital.

Jesus. At least she’s read a
book
. All I’ve ever done is wonder how actresses manage to get so red in the face pretending to give birth in the movies. And now I hear something about something-or-other dilated and seeing the baby’s head and I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or throw up.

It passes. The white light that’s been blocking out my vision gradually fades to dancing grey and I say: ‘Don’t worry about it. Stop it. It doesn’t matter.’

But a bit of me’s thinking: thank God the old man chose Berry Red for the upholstery, because I don’t suppose you can ever really get the sort of mess we’re talking about out of nappa leather.

‘It’s only a car,’ I say. ‘For God’s sake, we’ve got bigger things to worry about.’

She’s obsessing. I guess maybe you do when you’re trying not to think about the fact that you’re about to wave horoo to your twinkle.

‘But it was such a beautiful car,’ she sobs, ‘and now it’s all … it’s all …’

‘It’s still a beautiful car. Come on. It’s just, now it’s always going to have that something extra special about it …’

I’m crying inside myself. Less than twenty-four hours I had it: my lovely gleaming status symbol. I hadn’t even managed to soil the ashtrays.

‘I’m
sorry
,’ says Tilly. ‘I’m
so so sorry
. Everything I do I fuck up. I can’t even … can’t even …
ngaaaaagh
…’

I’m starting to recognise the look on her face so I can brace myself before the pain hits. I think I’ll need the name of that Camilla’s bone doctor by the time this is over.

‘That’s it, babe,’ I say ineffectually. ‘Keep breathing.’ Knead her back the best I know how, kicking myself for not having taken the childbirth massage leg of the course when I was training. Though I’m not sure how my sister-in-law would take it if I went down to the business end and started having a go at her perineum. Some intimacies are probably best left to strangers, even if you
don’t
come from a family that wears its inhibitions as a badge of honour.

‘…
ggghhaaaaghghhhh
…’ She reaches the end of the contraction, slumps, panting like a winded hippo, on the bed-table-whatever.

‘Shit,’ she says.

I dab at her forehead with the sponge, like a Victorian nurse.

‘I thought it was Braxton-Hicks,’ she says. ‘I’ve been having them for days. How was I supposed to tell the difference?’

‘I don’t suppose you were,’ I fib kindly, through gritted teeth.

There’s a lot of bustle down by her ankles: the midwife and the doctor, who looks about ten and has a pustule on his neck that I just long to pop, jostling for prime position with, as far as I can see, their elbows. ‘That’s great,’ says the doctor, ‘you’re doing fine. Try not to push, if you can. You don’t want to rush it if you can help it at this point. Baby’s doing a fine job.’

The word ‘episiotomy’ dances in front of my eyes in lurid green 80-point. I realise that I have, involuntarily, crossed my knees and wound my ankles around each other.

‘It’s not like they got any worse … much worse … oh hell … until. Why can’t I just die right now?’

‘That’s the spirit,’ I say.

‘Fuck off,’ she replies.

‘You too,’ I say back. ‘Betcha want to throttle Hugo right now.’

‘Shit,’ she says, ‘with cheese wire … Oh God, what’s going on down there?
Nnnnaaaaggghh
…’

Oh, good grief.

The midwife looks up from between her thighs, says something about doing well and crowning, but I can’t really take it in for the pain. Good God: how on earth is Tilly supposed to, if I can’t?

‘I
really
want to push,’ she says.

‘Nearly there,’ says the midwife. ‘You can bear down again when the next contraction comes.’

She gives me one of those reassuring healthcare smiles. ‘Do you want to have a look?’

Ah, Jeez. I’m not that grounded in delivery-room etiquette. I mean, what do you do, here? I can’t say I particularly want to be going down for a gander. I’ve seen about as much as I’d like to on the Discovery Channel. The gynaecology of strangers is somehow a lot easier to take. I’m not sure, though, if refusing might not cause some sort of offence.

‘It’s OK,’ she encourages, ‘it’s really very beautiful.’

I glance down at Tilly, see that a look of horror is pasted on over the pain. She doesn’t want me down there any more than I want to be there.

‘Naah,’ I say, ‘you’re all right.’

Tilly’s clutch crushes down again, but I am so relieved that I bear the pain without a flinch. ‘Gaaa-FAAA!’ she yells.

‘That’s it. Yes! We have a head!’ says the doctor.

I can glimpse something round and slimy on the other side of her thigh, rubber-clad hands fiddling about its squashed little alien features. Well, blow me down. It’s actually very, very exciting, this. My God: it’ll be squawking in a few minutes.

‘You’re doing great, girl.’

‘I wish my mum was here,’ she says.

I feel guilty. I don’t know why. It’s not like Mary was exactly offering to take the day off from hunting in case. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’

She doesn’t say anything. She looks like she’s just done a couple of rounds in a cement mixer. A bead of sweat hangs on the end of her nose. I dab it off, offer her a chunk of ice to suck; she shakes her head, no.

Someone mutters something about the cord being out. Tilly jerks forward, showers me, snaps: ‘Yeah, can you talk to
me
, please? Brain up this end?’

God, it ain’t like it is in the movies. Shouldn’t she be crying weak tears of joy right now, passively gathering strength for that final push-and-sob moment of delivery?

‘Sorry,’ says the midwife. ‘It’s all fine. Everything’s lovely. The cord’s free and baby’s just turning.’

‘Is it a boy?’ she asks me suddenly.

‘Er …’ I brace myself, have a peer. It’s covered in gunk and blood. I can barely tell that it’s a baby, to be honest.

‘Ah, fuck,’ she says. ‘I’ll know myself in a—’

And then there’s one of those slithery moments that just goes on and on, and then Tilly’s crying full-belt and I am pretty choked up myself, because it’s amazing – it
is
amazing. All this gore and blood everywhere and suddenly, held in the midwife’s hands as the doc checks her over and hoovers her out, there’s a real life here. This greasy lump has hands and feet and a tiny little face that’s screwing itself up to let out the first bellow of life, and I’ve got a lump in my throat the size of a marble as I squeeze Tilly by the shoulder and say something like, ‘oh bloody hell. Bloody
hell
, girl!’

‘What? What is it?’

‘It’s a girl,’ says the midwife, lifts the bloody little bundle up and places it, all limp and snuffly and red-faced, on her deflated stomach. Tilly’s hands fly up to hold her, and her weary face is suddenly lit up like the sun’s got through the curtains.

‘It’s a girl,’ I tell her, and burst into tears myself. ‘Well done, darling. You’ve got a little girl!’

And Tilly’s pouring tears, and kissing Lucy’s fragile head and touching her cheek with the flat of her knuckle like she’s made of glass, and it’s wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. And she goes: ‘I want my mum. I want my mother
so
much.’