shot me a kindly look before bustling away to attend to a consignment of lavatory paper which had just arrived and was sitting in a towering pile by the post-office counter, ready to be stacked.
I went home, thoughtful. Stirred, but not shaken by her remark. No, I wouldn’t pay any attention. Yvonne wasn’t to know I hadn’t had a man in my life for many years; wasn’t to know that in fact, rather than it being too soon, I’d left it rather late.
Archie was sound asleep in his pushchair now, eyelashes a pair of perfect crescents, mouth open, wet thumb dropped on his chest. Once inside I lifted him out carefully and carried him upstairs to his cot, then went down and gazed out of the front window, arms folded across my chest.
A grey mist had descended like an aged duvet, the once crisp and golden leaves dank and soggy now underfoot. Of course, it was that time of year again, wasn’t it? The hunting season. Other country sports too. A time when shots were fired in the air, horns were blown, bonfires crackled. The long run-up to Christmas, when people in towns hunkered down, and those in the country revved up. Polished their spurs, filled their hip flasks, had their horses clipped for action. Hunting. An ancient tradition, which, it seemed to me, still sorted the men from the boys, at least in this village. Mounted: Chad and Hope Armitage, Angie Asher, Mary Granger, Angus and Sylvia in their younger days but represented these days by their grandson Hugo, fresh out of Harrow, and, no doubt, Sam Hetherington. Foot followers: people like me, Jennie, Yvonne, Bob, Frank – oh, and Pete, who shod all the horses around here but didn’t actually own one.
And Hope had automatically put me in that foot-soldier category, hadn’t she? Wouldn’t have given it a second thought. And she was right. I’d followed before, stood around at meets. The whole village would turn out for this one, the first of the season, unless you really didn’t agree, which was unusual in the country. Yes, everyone would be there: the great and the good aloft and on high on their stamping, snorting beasts, bits jangling, and oozing … what was it, sex? Money? Status? Then down below, people like me and Jennie and Frankie, who’d help the publican pass up the port in little plastic tumblers, looking on in awe and wonder. Later, the whole ensemble, horns blowing, hounds alert, would trot smartly off up the lane. As Sam would trot too, flanked perhaps, on either side, by Angie and Hope, sexy in their tight breeches, hairnets, lipstick, nipped-in jackets. I was pretty sure I had one of those jackets somewhere …
I gazed at the mist. An idea began to form. Consolidate and thicken, like the grey haze outside. Suddenly, on an impulse, I plucked my phone from my pocket and perched sharply on the arm of the sofa. It rang a moment, then answered.
‘Hi, Dad, it’s me.’
‘Darling. How lovely. How are you?’
‘Really well,’ I assured him. I hadn’t been, as recently as a couple of days ago, but was determined to be now. Not to go backwards. Fall in any holes. I rushed on. ‘Um, Dad, a favour.’
‘Of course, my love. Fire away.’
‘Can I borrow a horse?’
‘A horse?’
‘Yes, there’s a meet here the day after tomorrow. The opening meet, actually. I thought I might go out.’
There was a long pause. Finally, when he spoke, incredulity and delight filled his voice. ‘But you haven’t ridden for years, Poppy!’
‘I know, but I
‘Oh, sure, it’s like riding a bike, but –’
‘But what?’
‘Well, hunting is a slightly different kettle of fish, love.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, everything goes up a gear. Fences, ditches – the horse itself. More adrenalin. Much more speed.’
I thought of Sam, galloping along on some gleaming steed, spurred and confident, the Grangers behind him.
‘I can go up a gear.’
‘Of course you can!’
My dad had a terrific can-do attitude. All he’d felt honour-bound to do was voice some caution, which he’d surely done. Now, however, the brakes would come smartly off.
‘Come over tomorrow,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’ll see what I can fit you up with. Tosca, perhaps. Or even Badger? Quite a challenge. A mount for my girl! Yes, pop by tomorrow and we’ll sort you out. Day after tomorrow, you say?’
