the house? We’ve only just moved in, and until we pay Pickfords I don’t think they’ll move us again.’
‘You’ll have to rent somewhere cheaper.’
Watching Ethel slotting the Bonio between her paws and eating it like an ice-cream, Daisy wished Violet could see her. ‘What about the children?’
‘Wendy and I told Eddie and Violet last night. We drove over to see them.’
‘How did they take it?’ whispered Daisy. The blood was beginning to seep through the drying-up cloth.
‘Very calmly, as I expected. Once they realized they’d still see a great deal of me, they stopped worrying.’ He peered into the machine and picked out the potato peeler. ‘Wendy’s doesn’t work, so I’ll take this one.’ He dropped it into the carrier bag. ‘And how many times have I told you not to put bone-handled knives in – oh, what does it matter?’
Fluttering on the bottom window pane, Daisy suddenly saw a peacock butterfly which had survived the winter. Trying not to bruise it with her shaking hands, she let it out of the window.
It was Hamish’s calmness that paralysed her. He might have been explaining to his leading lady that he was dropping her mid-film. Wendy would be so much better in the part.
‘But I don’t know anything about money,’ she said in terror.
‘You better learn. It’s time you grew up.’
‘And we’re dreadfully overdrawn.’
‘Whose fault is that?’ said Hamish, gathering up his suitcases in the hall. ‘You didn’t exactly pull in your horns over Christmas. I can’t afford you, Daisy. You can contact me through my lawyers.’
Daisy started to shake.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you wanted a divorce, before we went through all this hassle of moving?’
‘I doubt if you’d have listened. You were so anxious to get here so Perdita could have her pony and you could paint, you couldn’t think about anything else.’ And he was gone.
The drying-up cloth round her hand was soaked with blood now. Looking out of the window, she gave a scream as Gainsborough pounced on the peacock butterfly and gobbled it up. It was no more good at coping with the outside world than she was.
12
Fifteen years of marriage to Hamish had made Daisy feel a total failure as a wife, but they had equipped her even less for a divorce. Hamish had never let her pay a bill, renew a car licence or an insurance policy or look at a tax document. The first crushing blow on visiting her solicitors was to discover that the Hollywood co-producers had decided to ground Hamish’s movie project and his entire ?200,000 investment had gone up in smoke. A visit to the bank manager confirmed that there was not only no money, but massive debts. Hamish was OK. The co-producer of the movie, feeling guilty about Hamish’s losses, offered him work in LA for at least a year and had also taken on Wendy as a PA. This took Hamish outside the jurisdiction of the courts, so it would cost Daisy a fortune in lawyers’ fees to get a penny out of him.
Cruellest of all, now that Hamish had dumped Daisy, Biddy Macleod was quite prepared to subsidize him. For a start she was going to pay Violet’s and Eddie’s school fees and give them a fat allowance, but she refused to fork out anything for Perdita, which meant Perdita would have to leave her current boarding school – who were kindly allowing her to stay on until the end of term in late March.
As the creditors moved in, Daisy’s jewellery, the silver and pictures and the better pieces of furniture all had to be sold. The owner of Brock House, who lived abroad, said Daisy could stay until April, but he must have his rent. Investigating the possibility of a council house, Daisy was told she was at the bottom of the list.
Locals tended to ignore her, not knowing what to say. A few London friends rang for grisly details and gave her more grisly details of the women, usually themselves, that Hamish had tried to get into bed. Then they shrugged their shoulders. Daisy was always losing things; why not her husband as well?
‘Do ring us if you need us,’ they said.
But Daisy didn’t ring. However miserable she was inside, she projected an image of cheerfulness. Like her namesake already dotting the lawn outside, however much you mowed her down, she would pop up the next day.
Just before half-term Fresco’s owner, Tim Jeddings, came to re-possess her because she hadn’t been paid for either. Daisy couldn’t watch as the pony was loaded into the trailer. Merry-eyed, muddy, a little fat from no exercise, she had brought so much happiness.
Daisy’s plan had been to tell Perdita on the drive home, when no eye contact would make it easier. Then Perdita got a lift home with a schoolfriend, and instead of running into the house, headed straight for the stable, extracting a Granny Smith from her school skirt and joyfully screaming for Fresco.
It was a glorious day. The sun was lighting up the crimson buds on the beech trees; snowdrops spread like the Milky Way across the lawn.
‘Fresco, Fresco,’ Perdita’s cries rang round the valley, bouncing off stone walls and trees. By now, greedy and loving, Fresco should have been belting up the field. A minute later, Perdita had burst into the kitchen, her breath coming in great gasps, shuddering and shaking from head to foot.
‘Fresco must have jumped out of her field. We must get her a friend. Ring the police at once.’
‘Darling, I’m afraid she’s gone.’
‘What d’you mean, gone?’
‘Tim Jeddings took her back. The cheque bounced. We haven’t got enough money to pay for her.’
For a second Perdita stared at her, her face changing from alabaster to putty. ‘I don’t believe you. There must be money from selling this house.’
‘It’s only rented.’
‘You could have taken me away from school, I’d have got the money from somewhere. What about your jewels?’
Daisy held out her ringless hands. ‘They’ve all gone.’
Then Perdita screamed and screamed.
‘She’s gone to a wonderful home up North,’ babbled Daisy. ‘I didn’t want to tell you while you were at school.’
‘But I never said goodbye,’ screamed Perdita. ‘I don’t believe Tim’s sold her yet.’
Rushing into the hall, she found the telephone book. She was shaking so badly, she mis-dialled three times. ‘Mr Jeddings, Mummy’s lying. You haven’t sold Fresco on yet.’
There was a long pause. Perdita slumped against the wall.
‘You rotten bastard,’ she screeched and crashed down the receiver.
Hearing the din, Ethel came rushing in with a muddy nose and a dug-up dahlia root in her mouth, and threw herself delightedly on Perdita.
‘Go away,’ yelled Perdita, shoving Ethel violently away. ‘Why haven’t you sold her as well? Because she’s darling Violet’s dog, I suppose. Why the fuck can’t you go out to work and earn some money like everyone else’s mother, instead of producing crappy, awful paintings no-one wants?’
For half an hour she was so hysterical that Daisy was about to ring the doctor. Then she went silent, and wouldn’t talk to Daisy or the other children when they came home. Nor would she eat. After she’d taken all three children back to school on Tuesday night, Daisy went into Perdita’s room. Every cutting of Ricky France-Lynch, every photograph of Fresco, was ripped into tiny pieces all over the floor.
‘Oh God, what have I done,’ moaned Daisy, bursting into tears. She was interrupted half an hour later by the door bell. Imagining it was some creditor, she was just sidling downstairs intending to bolt the door when it opened and Basil Baddingham walked in. He looked so opulent with his patent leather hair and his even suntan and his wide, wolfish smile showing his perfect teeth, that he seemed to have come from another planet.
‘Please go away,’ said Daisy, clapping her hands over her blubbered, swollen face. ‘It’s not a good time.’
