from the races – who didn’t? Warwick, was it? Or Windsor? No, no, Mr Hetherington wouldn’t mind a bit, she assured me as I interrupted their racing chat. I would turn the conversation back to more mundane matters. On they gossiped, and then, just as they were reminiscing about that epic race, the five-thirty from Haydock one summer’s evening last year, when Ransom Boy, a rank outsider at 100 to one, had won by a head, just at that moment Mr Hetherington himself swept into the kitchen.
Far from looking as if he couldn’t be more thrilled, as Janice had intimated, he couldn’t have looked more thunderous. But it wasn’t just that: it wasn’t the heavily knitted brow as he stood there glowering, dressed in what I can only assume was some sort of hunting livery – frightfully dashing and involving a bottle-green tailcoat with his bow tie – no, it wasn’t that. It was the churning of my own stomach that disquieted me. The pulverizing of my ribcage by what felt like needles. It was the terrible dawning sensation, as he stood before us in all his glory, that this wasn’t just an unsuitable crush. This was something a lot more serious.
30
There was a brief and startled silence.
‘Hello, Sam,’ I managed, cranking up a smile, as he stared. Took in this eccentric little party: this gatecrasher with her older man, her wet hair, children in pyjamas. I faltered on. ‘Um, my f-father invited me, and –’
‘And the babysitter let her down,’ schmoozed Dad, stepping forward, hand extended, beaming. ‘Can you believe it? Right at the last moment. Cystitis, apparently. A thousand apologies for bursting in like this with the entire family, but we were so looking forward to it. Peter Mortimer, Poppy’s dad.’
‘Sam Hetherington,’ said Sam, still looking dazed, and still, for some reason, even as he shook Dad’s hand, looking at me.
‘Janice here assures us the children will be no trouble. They’re terribly good, you know, never cry,’ went on Dad. ‘But I do apologize nonetheless, quite an invasion.’
Sam’s eyes came back to my father. ‘Sorry, you mean –?’
‘Pop them upstairs? If that’s all right? Quite an imposition, I know, but we couldn’t think of any way round it.’
Sam collected himself. ‘Oh, I see. Absolutely. No, not at all. Couldn’t matter less. Right, well, Janice, what d’you suggest?’ He turned swiftly on his heel to face her, raking a hand through his hair. ‘Could the children go in the blue spare room, d’you think?’
‘I thought the old nursery. It’s closer to the back stairs and I’ll hear them better. All right, love?’ Dad had set Clemmie down from his shoulders and Janice went to take her hand.
‘My grandchildren,’ said my father proudly, a hand on each of their shoulders as if they were the guests of honour. I cringed. Don’t overdo it, Dad. But Sam rose to the occasion.
‘A pleasure to have you both here,’ he told Clemmie with a smile.
My daughter, a Mortimer through and through, extended her hand as she’d seen her grandfather do and said solemnly, ‘Clementine Shilling.’
Sam took her hand, delighted, and we all laughed. I could have kissed her. ‘Good evening, Clementine. I hope you enjoy your stay.’
‘You can call me Clemmie.’
After that it was easy, because, as Dad says, it always is if you oil the wheels with a sprinkle of humour and a dash of charm, or lashings of it in his case. He and Sam spoke of point-to-points and hunter trials, as Sam got some more ice – what he’d come in for, he explained, the caterers having stupidly not brought enough – which perhaps explained his thunderous face earlier, but perhaps not. It had certainly cleared, though. And as he discovered he’d once bought a horse from Dad – years ago, as most people had, a good one, thank the Lord – it cleared even more.
‘So, Poppy, how lovely,’ he turned to me, all smiles now. But I wondered whether an expensive education had cultivated the sort of manners that can be terribly useful on occasion. ‘And see you in due course, I hope. It’s heaving out there, incidentally, hope you don’t mind a crush, although I’m reliably informed it’s atmosphere.’ He gave me another brilliant beam. ‘Anyway, must dash, people are standing around with warm drinks.’ And dash he did, with his industrial-sized bag of ice. Looking divine, I thought, as I watched his broad dark-green back disappear.
I followed Janice down the passage and up the uncarpeted back stairs with the children. Our feet clattered on the bare wood. Clemmie was wide awake and chatting animatedly, thoroughly enjoying her role as house guest. Her brother was also warming to the task, singing, literally, for his supper, bellowing ‘Baa-baa Black Sheep’ at the top of his voice, swaying to the rhythm
