Violet admired Biddy’s shoes – black glace kid with high heels to show off Biddy’s tiny feet.
‘I thought I disairved a treat.’
At that moment Hamish walked in expecting praise. He was wearing a frilly shirt, a black-velvet coat with silver buttons, a sporran, a heavy, closely pleated kilt, neat buckled shoes, and a silver dirk in his socks.
‘Oh, Hamish, you look glorious,’ said Biddy. ‘“Thou mindst me of departed joys, departed never to return”.’ She applied a handkerchief to her burnt currant eyes. ‘You look the image of your father.’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Mother.’
‘No, it makes me happy to see you carrying on the tradition.’
‘You look lovely in your scarlet, too.’
‘I didn’t want to spoil the feast,’ said Biddy.
‘What feast?’ said Hamish, looking at his watch. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock. Are we ever going to eat?’ he demanded, marching into the kitchen, just as Daisy was carrying a swimming-pool of turkey fat to the sink. Her hair was dank with sweat, her cheeks carmine, only the dead white rings under her eyes showed how tired she was.
‘We’ll be about quarter of an hour.’
‘But everyone’s starving.’
‘Look at Dirk Bogarde,’ said Perdita, who was lounging against the Aga. ‘You should have put Man Tan on your knees.’
Hamish’s lips tightened. ‘You ought to be helping your mother.’
‘So ought you. I thought modern husbands were supposed to share the cooking.’
‘Few husbands work the hours I do. Ouch!’ screeched Hamish, as Ethel goosed him liberally.
‘You’ll never guess what Ethel’s done, Granny,’ said Perdita dreamily as they sat down to dinner. ‘She’s chewed up St Joseph.’
‘But that crib’s been in the family for generations,’ spluttered Biddy. ‘Is this true?’
‘Mary’s a single parent now,’ said Perdita. ‘Very topical, although I suppose God the Father’s floating about overseeing things so she’s not quite alone. I wonder how God impregnated her. AID or just miracles?’
‘Perdita,’ snarled Hamish, handing a large plate of breast to Biddy.
‘I wouldn’t mind God as a father,’ went on Perdita. ‘Just think of the things he could do: magic me up a trailer, flatten the top paddock into a stick-and-ball field; exterminate certain people.’ She smiled sweetly at Granny Macleod.
‘Be quiet,’ thundered Hamish, putting down the carving knife with a clatter. ‘I am going to beat that dog.’
‘Oh, no, Daddy,’ Violet turned pale. ‘She chewed it up yesterday. She’ll have no idea what she’s being beaten for. It is Christmas.’
Not a word of praise passed Biddy Macleod’s lips throughout Christmas dinner, although a great deal of food did. Now they were pulling crackers and Hamish was checking the angle of his blue paper Admiral’s hat in the big mirror over the fireplace. He had hardly eaten a thing.
Perdita pulled a cracker with Eddie and disappeared under the table to get the rolled-up hat and the motto. She emerged a minute later, elderberry dark eyes glittering, looking dangerously elated. Oh help, thought Daisy, I’ve seen that look before. Violet noticed it too and exchanged uneasy glances with Eddie who was on his fourth satsuma. Hamish poured glasses of brandy for himself and Biddy, and a very small one for Daisy.
‘We don’t want a repeat of last night. To absent friends,’ said Hamish raising his glass.
‘Indeed,’ said Biddy, ‘To my dear, dear Lochlan.’
Perdita refilled her glass with red wine.
‘To Ricky France-Lynch,’ she said and drained it.
Biddy’s mouth vanished and never came back.
‘I hope he gets ten years for merdering that poor wee bairn.’
‘He did not murder him,’ said Perdita ominously.
‘Perdita,’ murmured Daisy. Why, she wondered, was she frightened of everything, and Perdita of nothing – not bullfinches out hunting, nor Biddy Macleod.
‘Drunk driving to my mind is murder,’ went on Biddy. ‘No-one has any right to drive when they’re off their head with drink.’
‘He’d been celebrating,’ snapped Perdita. ‘He’d just won one of the biggest tournaments in the world.’
‘All polo players are the same to my mind,’ replied Biddy. ‘Spoilt, jet set, indulging airvery gratification.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Perdita furiously. ‘I bet if Grandpa Macleod had run off with some tart, taking Hamish with him when he was two, and you’d been to some Hogmanay piss-up, you’d have jumped into your Austin Seven and tried to get him back, and not given a stuff about drunk driving.’
Mouthing furiously, Biddy was too outraged to speak.
‘Go to your room,’ thundered Hamish, then turning to Daisy: ‘Will you control your child.’
‘She doesn’t have to,’ said Perdita, picking up her cigarettes. ‘I’m going. I’m not having anyone slagging off Ricky, that’s all. You shouldn’t judge people you don’t know.’
Pushing back her chair, she picked up the new black shoe which Biddy had kicked off because it was murdering her corns from under the table and threw it among the cracker remnants. The toe had been completely chewed off by Ethel. Biddy burst into tears and Ethel was shut howling in the utility room.
Daisy went out to the stable where she found Perdita mutinously cuddling Fresco.
‘Darling, how could you?’
‘How could I not? The bloody bitch, poor Ricky.’
‘She is Daddy’s mother.’
‘She’s your husband’s mother. Do you know what she said to Violet in the sitting room? “Isn’t it a funny thing, none of my grandchildren have fair hair like I did,” and Violet said: “But Perdita does”. And Bloody Macleod said smugly: “I mean my real grandchildren.”’
‘How horrible,’ said Daisy, totally unnerved by talk veering towards Perdita’s origins. ‘She’s never liked me, and secretly I think she’s jealous because you’re so much prettier than all her other grandchildren.’
Perdita waited until much later in the evening when Daisy and the children were watching
‘Mummy says Granny’s jealous because I’m so much better looking than you or Eddie.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Violet, who was red-eyed from Ethel’s banishment. ‘Mummy wouldn’t say a thing like that, would you, Mummy?’
‘Well,’ stammered Daisy. ‘Oh God, you’re a bitch sometimes, Perdita.’
On Boxing Day Hamish, reeking of Paco Rabanne, went off to the office. Another frost ruled out hunting. Instead Perdita, practising her swing on a tea chest on the lawn, hit a ball straight through the stained-glass window halfway up the stairs. Daisy forgot she’d put a chicken in the Aga for lunch, so it emerged as a charred wren and they had cold turkey and salad instead.
Swelling with turkey leftovers and righteous indignation, Biddy darned Hamish’s socks. If her beloved son was in financial straits, it was entirely due to Daisy’s mismanagement and extravagance.
The sky outside was turning yellow, the forecast said snow.
‘Wouldn’t it be lovely,’ said Violet, ‘if we got snowed up and you couldn’t go home, Granny?’
Daisy turned pale. Like an addict needing a fix, she thought she’d go mad if she didn’t paint. While Biddy had her sleep after lunch, she surreptitiously got out the sketch book Violet had given her for Christmas and drew Ethel and Gainsborough on their backs in front of the fire. Nor could she resist a quick sketch of Biddy Macleod, mouth open and snoring, chin doubled, two tweed spare tyres, legs apart showing three inches of doughy, white thigh between lisle stockings and wool knickers.
‘Christ, that’s good,’ said Perdita, creeping up. ‘Best thing you’ve done in years. You shouldn’t have flattered her so much.’
‘Hush,’ Daisy giggled, and, as Biddy was stirring, hid the drawing in the desk and went off to put the kettle on.
Away from the fire, she started shivering. She hoped she wasn’t getting ‘flu. She was just bringing in the tea things when she heard Perdita saying, ‘Do look at this really good drawing Mum’s done of you.’
‘It’s not you,’ squeaked Daisy, nearly dropping the tray. ‘It’s supposed to be an old girl who lives in the
