Harriet

boxes.

Cory parked on the side of the road.

‘You can bring Tadpole,’ he said, locking Sevenoaks in the car. ‘I’m not risking that delinquent getting loose.’

‘We must give him a bit of window,’ said Harriet, winding it down.

Cory went off to find his horse box. Harriet took Chattie and Jonah and walked along to the village where the meet was being held. Little grey cottages lined a triangular village green. A stream choked its way through pussy willows and hazel trees. The churchyard was full of daffodils in bud.

Riders everywhere were gossiping and saddling up. There was a marvellous smell of trodden grass and hot, sweating horses. Anxious whinnyings came from the horse boxes. Hunt terriers yapped from the backs of cars.

There was Arabella looking considerably the worse for wear, Harriet was glad to notice, impatiently slapping her boots with her whip and looking round for her horse. And there was Billy Bentley, looking far more glamorous than he had last night, in a red coat, his long mousy hair curling under his black velvet cap, sitting on a huge dapple grey which was already leaping about as though the ground was red hot under its feet. Next to him, taking a swig out of his hip-flask, eyeing the girls, supervising the unboxing of a magnificent chestnut in a dark green rug, was Charles Mander.

Harriet tried to slide past them, but she had not counted on Chattie, who rushed up and said, ‘Hullo, Charles.’

He turned. ‘Hullo Chattie,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ said Chattie. ‘Why don’t you come and see us any more? He always used to come and bring us presents when Mummy lived with us,’ she added to Harriet.

‘Hullo, pretty Nanny,’ said Charles.

Harriet tried to look straight through him, but only managed to look sulky.

‘I’m five now,’ said Chattie. ‘I used to be four.’

‘I used to be four too,’ said Charles.

‘My daddy’s twenty-one,’ said Chattie.

‘I wish my children put out propaganda like that,’ said Charles, laughing.

‘I’m getting a two-wheeler soon with stabilizers,’ said Chattie.

‘I could do with some stabilizers myself,’ said Charles.

He walked over to Harriet, the dissipated gin-soaked blue eyes looking almost gentle.

‘Look, I’ve got rather a hazy recollection of what happened last night, but I’ve a feeling I bitched you up. I’m sorry. I can never resist taking the mickey out of Cory. He’s so damn supercilious.’

‘He is my boss,’ said Harriet.

‘Thank Christ he’s not mine, but I didn’t mean to take it out on you.’

Harriet stared at him, not knowing what to say.

She was rescued by a voice behind her saying, ‘Hullo Harriet.’ It was the haw haw tones of Billy Bentley. She was flattered he remembered her. ‘You disappeared very fast last night,’ he said. ‘Saw Charles chatting you up and then you bolted. Can’t say I blame you. Enough to put anyone orf.’

He brayed with laughter. He should just sit on his horse and look glamorous, thought Harriet.

‘I suppose I better get mounted,’ said Charles. ‘We’re friends now, are we?’ he added to Harriet.

‘Yes, as long as you’re not foul to Mr Erskine,’ she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s old history. Perhaps you’d have dinner with me one evening, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘I say, hands orf, Charles,’ said Billy Bentley. ‘You’re married. Leave the field free for us single blokes.’

His horse suddenly bucked and lashed out warningly at a nearby chestnut.

‘This bugger’s had too much corn,’ he said. ‘I wish we could get going.’

Charles Mander settled himself onto his horse. An earnest-looking grey-haired woman sidled up to him and pressed an anti-fox-hunting pamphlet into his hand.

‘Thank you so much,’ he said to her politely and, getting out his lighter, set fire to it and dropped it flaming at her feet. She jumped away and disappeared, shaking her fist, into the crowd.

‘Bloody hunt saboteurs,’ he said, riding off towards the pub. ‘I’m going to get my flask topped up.’

Billy Bentley hung about, looking down at Harriet, trying to control his restless horse.

‘Going to the hunt ball?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Going away?’

‘No, I’m just not going.’

‘What a shame,’ said Billy, suddenly turning pink. ‘I say, I liked talking to you last night. Wonder if you’d come out one evening?’

‘I’d love to, but it’s a bit difficult,’ said Harriet, turning pink too. ‘I’ve got this baby, my own I mean, not Jonah or Chattie.’

‘Doesn’t matter a scrap,’ said Billy. ‘Bring the little chap with you if you like. Still got our old nanny at home; got nothing to do; love to look after him.’

Harriet was touched and wanted to tell him so, but next moment the whipper-in arrived with the hounds, who looked curiously naked without collars, tails waving frantically.

‘They haven’t been fed for two days,’ said an anti-fox-hunting youth who was waving a poster saying, ‘Hounds off our wild life’.

Grooms were sweeping rugs off sweating, shuddering horses; riders were mounting and jogging off in a noisy glittering cavalcade, with a yelp of voices and a jingle of bits.

Cory rode up on Python, black coat gleaming, eyes popping, letting out snorts of hysterical excitement at all the activity around her.

‘I’ll ring you this evening,’ said Billy. ‘Morning, Cory. That’s new, very nice too.’

‘Kit found her in Ireland,’ said Cory. ‘Had a couple of days on her with the Kildare.’

‘Up to his weight, was she?’ said Billy. ‘Bloody good. Put her in for the point-to-point, will you?’

‘I thought I might.’

‘Cory darling!’ It was Elizabeth Pemberton, wearing rather too much make-up, but looking stunning in a black coat, and the tightest white breeches. She caught sight of Harriet and nodded to her dismissively.

‘You are coming with us on Friday, aren’t you?’ she said to Cory.

There was a pause, his eyes flickered towards Harriet, then away.

‘Yes I’d like to,’ he said.

‘I think we’ll be about twenty-four for dinner,’ she said.

Big bloody deal, thought Harriet.

The Master was blowing his horn up the road. Next moment Arabella rolled up on a thoroughly over-excited bay, which barged round, nearly sending Harriet and the children for six.

As the hunt rode down into the valley, the pigeons rose like smoke from the newly ploughed fields.

‘Let’s follow them,’ said Harriet.

But when they got back to the car, she gave a gasp of horror. The back seat was empty; Sevenoaks had gone; he must have wriggled out of the window. She had terrifying visions of him chasing sheep, running under the horses’ feet, or getting onto the motorway.

‘We must look for him,’ she said, getting into the car and driving off in the direction of the hunt, which had disappeared into the wood. Then followed a desperately frustrating half-hour bucketing along the narrow country lanes, having to pull into side-roads every time an oncoming car approached, nearly crashing several times because she was so busy scouring the fields for Sevenoaks.

The hunt were having an equally frustrating time; hounds were not picking up any scent. Riders stood around on the edge of the wood, fidgeting. Then suddenly an old bitch hound gave tongue, and the chorus of hounds swelled, and the whole hillside was echoing. Pa pa pa pa went the melancholy, plaintive note of the horn, and the next moment the hunt came spilling across the road. There was a clash as stirrups hit each other, a snorting of horses, and they were jumping over the wall on the opposite side of the road. From the top of the hill Harriet watched them streaming across the field. There was Cory blown like a beech leaf in his red coat, standing up in his stirrups now to see what was on the other side of a large wall. The next moment Python had cleared it by inches.