‘Don’t be wet, Poppy, how d’you think your mum and I ever went to parties? We were never organized enough for a sitter. You were always under one arm. Now go and put your frock on and I’ll sort the kids out. It’s only one night, for God’s sake, it won’t kill them, and they’ll love it. Everyone’s going, d’you want to be the only one who isn’t?’
He knew which buttons to press. He was also halfway up the stairs.
Twenty minutes later, we were in the lorry – the one with no seat belts, remember – rattling over a cattle grid at the entrance to Mulverton Hall, only this time we took the fork in the drive that led, not to the home farm and a muddy field of cows, but to the main house. A sweep of dark green lawn swam like a lake in front of us. Dad, at the wheel, skirted it carefully, then followed signs to parking in the paddock alongside, behind the park railings. I had on my old black dress, and my hastily washed hair was still wet down my back; between us on the front seat, sitting bolt upright and wide awake, were two overexcited and highly delighted children.
I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this-I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this, was my overriding thought as a surprised car park attendant in a long white coat – surprised at the lorry initially, then the children – beckoned us into the field. Dad gave him a cheery wave and wound down the window.
‘Hi, Roy.’
‘Oh, hello, Peter!’ He peered in. ‘Brought the whole family, I see!’
‘Well, it’s a night out, isn’t it?’ said Dad smoothly.
He trundled away from Roy and through the gate. At the end of a line of parked cars, he expertly swung two tons of juggernaut into position. A Mercedes drew up beside us, and a woman in a fox-fur coat and a smattering of diamonds stared up in wonder from the passenger seat. I found my nerve rapidly disappearing down the drain.
‘Dad … ’ I swallowed.
‘Come on, Clemmie, look lively, love.’ He’d hopped out of the cab already, and as Clemmie scrambled across the seat to his open arms, he crouched and hoisted her up onto his shoulders. ‘Up you go!’
She wrapped her arms excitedly around her grandpa’s neck, squealing with delight. Then he slammed the cab door, and was off. Naturally I had no choice but to follow. With Archie in my arms, I picked my way through the field, following the phalanx of flaming torches which lined the drive ahead and floodlit the expansive grounds. My heart was fluttering with panic but as we crunched across the gravel sweep, I knew I was in too deep. The honey-coloured walls rose up before us; ranks of windows blazed down. Dad pranced ahead, hopping about jauntily now from foot to foot, playing the fool, Clemmie, in her pink dressing gown bouncing and laughing on his shoulders. How many parties had I been to like that, I wondered? Had it done me any harm? Doing A Mortimer, Mum used to call it, when Dad veered off the beaten track, took his own route, which was more than occasionally. But this was a very grand party. People were silhouetted at the windows in their finery: bare shoulders, sparkling jewels, one or two turning to stare. And please don’t tell me he was going to leap up those grand portal steps guarded by stone griffins? Breeze through the open front door where waiters stood poised with trays of champagne? Babes in arms?
My father, however, was far from stupid, and within a twinkling was nipping round the back. I scuttled sheepishly after him feeling like a burglar, but Dad, knowing his way round old country houses – or at least his way to the stables and a cup of tea – didn’t falter. In a jiffy he’d found a back door which opened to his touch, and was striding right on through. He was deliberately going too fast for me to catch him, to dither, discuss, deliberate – chicken out – and as I followed breathlessly with Archie in my arms, he was already halfway down the passageway. Framed Spy cartoons from old copies of
I followed in trepidation and found myself in a large, rather tired-looking kitchen with a very high ceiling. Cream Formica cupboards with glazed doors lined one wall, the floor was lino, rather like Dad’s, the only nod to the status of this house being a huge oak table which sailed down the middle. A well-upholstered blonde woman in a white apron had her back to us at the kitchen sink under the window. She turned in surprise. I recognized her immediately. It was Janice, the receptionist, but perhaps she didn’t instantly place me out of context, and anyway she wasn’t given a chance. Dad was already commanding her full attention: charming her, flirting, even, explaining about the babysitter letting us down, jiggling Clemmie, so that by the end of it, as she listened wide-eyed to the tale, wiping wet hands on a tea towel, she was wreathed in smiles, assuring him it was no trouble at all, and that she loved looking after little-uns. She’d pop them in the old nursery, she said, and yes, plug the alarm in, when I proffered it anxiously.
‘Oh,
No, we weren’t to worry a jot, she carried on. We were to run along and have a jolly good time. It seemed she remembered Dad
