“I’ll iron Billy’s shirts for him,” she said, coming into the bedroom and picking them off the floor. “I know how he likes them, and I’ll make you an apple pie to take back to Gloucestershire. He so loves puddings.”
“She’ll get it in her kisser if she doesn’t shut up,” muttered Janey.
Out of sheer irritation, Janey left her room like a tip, with the fire on, and didn’t bother to make the one bed they’d slept in, out of the two single beds. Billy was the only form of central heating in the house. And as, at noon and six o’clock, Janey moved towards the vodka, Billy’s mother’s jaw quilted with muscles. She was very tired with cooking and she could have done with a little help and praise from Janey. Finally, on Boxing night, Billy asked his father for a loan.
Mr. Lloyd-Foxe hummed and hawed and said it had been a bad year with the squeeze and, although he had twenty thousand to spare, he had divided it between Billy’s sisters, Arabella and Lucinda.
“I feel they need it more than you and Janey do, as you’re both working.”
Janey didn’t even bother to kiss her mother-in-law good-bye, and it was only after they’d left that Mrs. Lloyd-Foxe discovered Janey had painted the letter “L” out of the The Maltings sign on the gate.
After Christmas the bills came flooding in. Billy, who’d never paid a gas or telephone or electricity bill in his life, had no idea they’d be so high. He also read his bank statement, which was infinitely more scarlet after Janey’s Christmas shopping spree.
“Did you honestly spend ?60 on that cushion for my mother?”
“Pity I didn’t hold it over the old monster’s face,” said Janey.
The tax man and the builders were also hustling for payment. Another shock was that the ?21,000 advance on the manuscript was divided into three: ?7,000 on signature, ?7,000 on delivery, and ?7,000 on publication.
“How soon do you think you’ll deliver?” asked Billy.
The original date had been March, but Janey, who’d made only a few random notes, said there wouldn’t be a hope before the summer, which meant that autumn publication was very unlikely.
Janey had no idea, either, of the astronomical cost of running and traveling a string of horses, nor was she any good as a backup team. She kept forgetting to post entry forms, which meant Billy drove two hundred miles to a show to find he wasn’t eligible to compete. Often, fast-talking got him in, sometimes, it didn’t. Billy was one of the best riders in England, but he was not a natural jockey, like Rupert. He had to work at it and keep schooling his horses to get really good results. Nor did Janey understand Billy’s temperament: that he lacked self-confidence, and needed to be kept very calm before a big class. Rows and requests for money sapped his concentration. He needed to distance himself and, with a lovely wife in a warm bed at home, he tended to spend less time in the indoor school at night and to get up later in the morning.
In March, he came home from a three-week trip abroad. He’d missed Janey desperately and deliberately rang her at Southampton to say he’d be home in time for dinner, adding, rather plaintively, that he hadn’t eaten all day. As he settled the horses at Rupert’s, a marvelous smell of
“Drink it with orange squash.”
“I’m starving.”
“I’m sorry, darling. I forgot to get anything in, and it was too late by the time you rang. Let’s go out.”
“Too bloody expensive. I’ll have some cornflakes.”
Billy’s stomach was churning painfully. He wondered if he were getting an ulcer. He had an early start in the morning. He went upstairs; the hot cupboard was bare, and there was nothing in his drawers.
“Have I got any clean shirts or breeches?”
“Oh, Christ,” said Janey, clutching her head, “I left them in the launderette in Stroud. The washing machine’s up the spout, too.”
“What time do they open?”
“About eight-thirty.”
“I’ve got to leave at six.”
“I’m sorry, darling, truly I am. Look, give me your breeches and shirts and I’ll wash them by hand. Then we can dry them in front of the fire, and I’ll get up early and iron them.”
“It’s all right. I’ll borrow some from Rupert. I’m only away for a couple of days this time.”
“I’m desperately sorry,” said Janey, suddenly catching sight of two unposted entry forms in her out-tray and shuffling them under a pile of papers. “I’m going to mix you a nice drink.”
After two glasses of vodka and orange squash, which didn’t taste so bad after all, Billy felt fortified enough to open the brown envelopes.
“Janey, darling,” he said, five minutes later, “we shall simply have to pull our horns in. These bills are frightful.”
“Can’t you take a trip to Chateau Kitsch? Harold Evans caught a finch in the herb garden today and came in with his mouth full of chives and parsley. He’s also got a liver complaint.”
Billy looked up, alarmed. “Have you taken him to the vet then?”
Janey giggled. “No, he’s complaining there’s not enough liver.”
Billy grinned, but was not to be deflected.
“Sweetheart, we must try and cut down. We don’t need a swimming pool. We simply can’t afford the deposit, or even less, to pay for it when it’s finished.”
Janey pouted. “It’ll be so nice for you to flop into the pool when you come back from shows.”
“There’s only about three months a year warm enough to do that in Gloucestershire.”
“I’ve been trying to economize. Mrs. Bodkin’s got flu, and I took her a bunch of daffodils without leaves today, because they were twenty p cheaper.”
“But we haven’t been really living it down, have we? There are five half-opened tins of cat food gathering mold on top of the fridge and Mavis really doesn’t need half a chicken every day. She’s getting awfully fat.”
“Well, Badger often drops in for lunch. You know how Helen starves those dogs.”
“I think we ought to cut down Mrs. Bodkin to half a day a week,” said Billy, ignoring Janey’s frown. “And give up Miss Hawkins. You could do my fan mail.”
“Do your fan mail?” said Janey, outraged. “What about
“Just for a little, till we get straight.”
Janey started to get angry and hysterical. “I’ve got to finish this book. It’s got to be handed in by July. I haven’t got time for anything else. I’m writing every day. I get up at eight and I’ve only just finished this evening. Stupid not to grab inspiration when it takes you.”
She didn’t point out that most of that day had been spent drinking coffee, and later whisky, with one of the builders. After all, she rationalized, she had to get the rough-trade view for her book somehow.
“I know, darling,” said Billy soothingly. “All I’m saying is that we must not do any more to the house at the moment.”
“Go to Kev,” said Janey, emptying the last of the vodka into his glass. “Kev will provide, the great ape. I’m going to make you some scrambled eggs.” She went towards the kitchen. “I say,” she popped her head round the door a moment later, “Helen gave me a chapter of her novel to read today.”
“Any good?”
“She can’t write ‘Bum’ on a wall. She said, ‘Janey, I want you to be real honest with me,’ which meant she wanted me to lie convincingly. She told me a much funnier thing today. She’s got frightfully thick with the new vicar, and evidently when Rupert flew back from Geneva for the night last week, he found the vicar holding a Lenten meeting in the drawing room, with everyone, including Badger, meditating with their eyes shut.”
Billy laughed. “Rupe told me.”
He wandered into the kitchen, trying not to notice the mess or the way Janey threw the eggshells into a huge box, where they joined about a hundred other eggshells. That must account for the odd smell. He picked up a jar of
