Rivals

41

The first Saturday in October Taggie overslept. Working late, she hadn’t got to bed until four. She was just making a cup of coffee when Wandering Aengus, mewing horribly, padded in with a live fieldmouse in his mouth.

‘Beast,’ yelled Taggie, hurling a dishcloth at him. She missed, but Aengus was so startled he dropped the fieldmouse, which took refuge under the dresser.

Having shut the enraged and growling cat in the larder, Taggie managed to rescue the mouse with a dustpan and brush and put it in a cardboard box. Dressed in only the briefest nightie and gumboots, she carried the box across the lawn to set it free at the edge of the fields. Very gently she tipped it out, but the poor little thing didn’t move; perhaps it had died of shock. Next moment she nearly died too. Coming towards her out of the blue mist across the dew-drenched field on a big, sweating dark-brown horse, rode Rupert. As he raised his hat, Taggie put her finger to her lips and showed him the mouse which was still motionless.

‘Aengus caught it,’ she whispered. ‘D’you think it’ll survive?’

Rupert privately thought a quick shove with his boot would put the mouse out of its misery, but, knowing this would upset Taggie, said it might just be frozen with fear, and why didn’t they leave it for a bit. Gazing at Taggie’s nightgown and gumboots, he asked her if she was going out. Taggie went crimson and said she’d been doing a late dinner party. There was a long pause. Casting desperately round for something to say, Taggie mumbled that it was a nice day.

‘Very. I’ve been cubbing,’ said Rupert.

‘Oh, poor little things,’ said Taggie in horror. ‘Did you kill any?’

‘No,’ lied Rupert. ‘I brought you these,’ he went on, producing some huge mushrooms out of his riding-coat pocket.

‘Oh, aren’t they beautiful?’ Distracted, Taggie examined their pleated pink undersides, ‘How really kind. Thank you so much.’

Anyone would have thought he’d given her another Fabergé egg, thought Rupert. Stammering furiously, she asked him if he’d like some breakfast.

‘I hoped you’d say that. I’ll drop off my horse and come back.’

Taggie raced upstairs and was appalled to see that her nightie had a huge tear, her eyes were full of sleep, and her mascara was all smudged. Frantically she washed, put on an old pair of black sawn-off cords and a dark-brown T-shirt which seemed to be the only things Maud hadn’t pinched, and started cooking breakfast. She steeled herself to the possibility that Rupert would get caught up in some drama at the yard, or at home, and forget to return; or that Maud, smelling frying bacon, would come down and join them. But he was back in a quarter of an hour with a bottle of champagne for Buck’s Fizz, and Maud stayed upstairs, perfecting a song called ‘Jogging in a one-horse gig’.

‘She really is working at it,’ said Rupert, edging the bottle open with his thumbs.

‘It’s wonderful. She’s so much happier,’ said Taggie, thinking how black and luscious the white mushrooms had gone, and tipping most of them onto Rupert’s plate.

‘I hope Tony Baddingham and your father don’t bump into each other on the first night,’ said Rupert as the cork flew through the window into the long grass outside, ‘or either your mother or Monica really will be a merry widow!’

He picked up the Guardian which had a grim front-page story about the rocketing AIDS figures. Thank God he’d had that test.

It was such a lovely day, they had breakfast outside on the peeling white bench. Despite the warmth, the cedars, wellingtonias and yews flanking the house were already full of orange leaves from the nearby horse chestnuts, and the ground was littered with conkers. Lavender, roses, and evening primroses still bloomed on, bravely waiting for the first frost.

‘I’ve never felt such hot sun in October,’ said Rupert, taking off his jersey. ‘With a few more leaves off the trees, I’ll be able to see your house again.’

‘How was America?’ asked Taggie, dividing her bacon rind between a slavering Gertrude and Claudius.

‘Good,’ said Rupert, deciding not to mention four magnificent days hunting in Virginia. ‘I’ve found a marvellous stallion, and a brood mare for Freddie. Which reminds me, I saw Freddie’s red Jaguar parked outside Mrs Vereker’s house while “Cotswold Round-Up” was on the air last night. If he’s going to err and stray, he ought to find a more discreet car.’

Taggie giggled. ‘Lizzie’s so nice, isn’t she?’ she said, breaking a sausage in half for the dogs.

‘She certainly deserves some fun. James treats her like an old wheelchair he can fall back into in old age. This breakfast is quite marvellous. Why are you giving all yours to the dogs?’

‘I don’t usually eat breakfast,’ mumbled Taggie, taking a slug of Buck’s Fizz.

Rupert ran his eyes over her. ‘You’re losing weight. I’ll have to start adding molasses and carrots to your oats.’

‘Jogging in a one-horse gig, any time of night or day,’ sang Maud from upstairs, ‘Careless of the weather, very close together, lovers fall in love that way.’

Rupert raised his eyebrows and filled up Taggie’s glass.

Please God, she prayed, make this moment go on for ever and ever. The next moment Gertrude had joined them on the bench seat on Taggie’s side, not giving herself enough room, so Taggie had to move closer to Rupert.

‘Well done, Gertrude,’ said Rupert, grinning. ‘You really are on my side.’

Taggie’s heart seemed to be beating completely out of time to Maud’s singing. Frantically, she stroked Gertrude.

‘Heard from your father?’ asked Rupert.

‘No,’ stammered Taggie. ‘Have you heard from Cameron?’

‘Not recently.’

There was another long pause. A conker plummeted on to the shaggy lawn. Laughing and watching her, Rupert waited.

‘You mustn’t worry about Daddy and Cameron being on their own together for so long,’ Taggie finally blurted out. ‘I know Daddy’s wildly attractive, but he is utterly obsessed with Mummy.’

Rupert was about to deny that he was remotely worried about Cameron. Instead he removed a long dark hair from her shoulder and put it in his shirt pocket.

‘I dreamed about you last night.’

‘You did?’ said Taggie in amazement. ‘Was it nice?’

‘Lovely, and extremely disturbing.’ He trailed the back of his fingers down her arm. Taggie quivered and stopped stroking Gertrude.

‘It’s the last night of the Horse of the Year Show tonight,’ went on Rupert. ‘Tabitha’s in the final of the mounted games. It’s a good evening. Why don’t you come with me? We could have dinner afterwards.’

Taggie nearly wept. ‘Sarah Stratton’s giving a dinner party. I’ve got to work.’

‘Pity,’ said Rupert lightly.

Gertrude stuck her nose under Taggie’s trembling hand, jerking it upwards, urging Taggie to stroke her again. Gertrude and me, thought Rupert.

‘The Baddinghams and the Verekers are going, so they’ll all talk about the franchise. I’ll probably be made to stay in the kitchen,’ babbled Taggie.

‘Well keep your ears open and put a pint of arsenic in Tony’s whisky. They certainly won’t get Buck’s Fizz like this tonight. Paul’s so mean he makes it with Babycham.’

Damn, damn, damn, thought Taggie as she followed him to the door.

‘I’m off to the Tory Party Conference next week,’ said Rupert, getting into his car. ‘I’ll ring you when I get back. That was a lovely breakfast, thank you. By the way,’ he added ultra-casually as he drove off, ‘I hope you noticed I didn’t burn my stubble this year.’

In a complete daze Taggie finished off the Buck’s Fizz. Rupert had dreamt about her, and he’d asked her out, and he hadn’t burnt his stubble. The whole thing was desperately confusing. She ran upstairs and looked out of her window. It was true. Instead of charred patches all over the valley, his cornfields were still yellowed by stubble, or reddy-brown after being ploughed up. She couldn’t possibly be the reason, but it was so nice of him to say so.

There were so many things she ought to do, picking apples, planting the indoor bulbs, getting in the geraniums. There were large bowls of picked mulberries and blackberries reproachfully gathering fluff in the fridge, waiting to be turned into jam. And she must make some tomato chutney, not to mention painting the bench and mowing the lawn.

Suddenly she heard an enraged mewing from the larder. She’d forgotten Aengus. She couldn’t even get cross that he’d eaten half the turbot mousse she’d made for the first course this evening. At least when she went out to search for the fieldmouse it had run away.

By the time she’d reached the Strattons’ house she’d sobered up. Paul was still out playing golf. Sarah was in a panic because she wanted everything to be perfect for Tony, her boss, and even more so for James.

‘Giving a dinner party is far worse than going on television,’ she moaned. ‘Look, I know it sounds horrendously Valerie Jones, but do you mind pretending I’ve done the cooking tonight? Especially the main course, which is a particular favourite of a friend of mine,’ added Sarah, going pink. ‘If anyone rings, pretend you’re our daily, Mrs Maggs.’

Then, leaving Taggie with a mile-long list of instructions, she swanned off to Bath to buy a new dress.

At least everything was tidy, the table laid and the house clean. Taggie got out the French recipe that Rupert had translated for her. An hour and a half later, she was getting on well. The beef daube was sizzling in the oven, the pudding was in the fridge and just needed whipped cream and sugared violets, and she’d done the vegetables earlier. All she had to do was to make another fish mousse. Perhaps she’d just better double-check the beef.

‘Oh, my God,’ she said aghast as she licked the spoon. She tried again from the other side of the dish, and then the centre, where it was even worse. She must have been so distracted by her encounter with Rupert that she’d added a tablespoonful of salt instead of sugar. She tested the sugar in the glass bowl and went green. It was definitely salt.

The beef was quite inedible, absolutely impregnated with salt, and she’d used up all the other ingredients. It was after five and she’d never get to Cotchester in time. She gave a whimper of horror. She’d wrecked Sarah’s party and she knew Sarah could be extremely difficult if things didn’t go right.

The telephone rang. Oh God, she sobbed, I’ve got to remember to be the daily. Trembling, she picked up the receiver.

‘Hullo,’ crackled a voice from a car telephone.

‘Mrs Stratton be shopping, thank you very much. Who be you?’ mumbled Taggie.

Rupert laughed. ‘That is the worst Gloucestershire accent I’ve ever heard. How’s it going?’

Taggie burst into tears. ‘It was James’s favourite recipe and she’s supposed to have made it for him,’ she sobbed.

‘Cheer up or you’ll cry more salt into the beef,’ said Rupert calmly. ‘Get on with the fish mousse. I’ll be over in half an hour.’

He arrived twenty-five minutes later. He screeched the Aston-Martin to a halt in a cloud of dust and nearly tipped Beaver and Blue, who were sitting on the back seat, through the windscreen, then he sauntered into the kitchen with a huge casserole dish containing boeuf Bourguignon for twelve from Luigi’s, the local five-star restaurant in Cheltenham.

‘Oh, you’re lovely,’ said Taggie, flinging her arms round his neck.

‘Hands off! We’ve no time for dalliance!’ said Rupert briskly, as he emptied the Bourguignon into one of Sarah’s big bowls and chucked Taggie’s salty remnants into Luigi’s casserole dish. ‘Don’t tell Paul and Sarah what happened,’ he added. ‘Just pretend this is how the recipe turned out. They’ll all be too pissed to notice, anyway. I’d better beat it, or she’ll be back from shopping and start accusing me of bugging the room.’

Still stammering her thanks, Taggie followed him out to the car. An owl was hooting. A semi-circle of orange moon was rising out of the sycamores.

‘The moon was a mandarin segment, as Valerie Jones would say,’ said Rupert.

‘I can’t ever begin to thank you,’ bleated Taggie.

Rupert pulled her towards him, dropping a kiss on her cheekbone.

‘Oh yes, you can, angel. Just wait till I get back from Blackpool.’

The patron saint of cooking guided Taggie that evening. The food was positively ambrosial, and Sarah took all the credit, particularly for Luigi’s boeuf Bourguignon, which was so tender you could cut it with a spoon.

‘D’you remember that daube we had at the White Elephant at Painswick?’ whispered Sarah to James as they went in to dinner. ‘Well, I wrote to them for the recipe and I’ve made it for you tonight.’

Putting on his horn-rimmed spectacles to have a closer look across the table, Tony Baddingham decided he hadn’t been wrong about Lizzie Vereker. Whether it was the Marbella sun or a stone off, or just some new inner contentment, she looked sensational.

The talk during dinner was mostly of the rocketing AIDS figures. They also drank to ‘Master Dog’ which was edging up on ‘EastEnders’ in the ratings; but they waited until Taggie was safely out of the room to discuss the franchise.

‘There are some quite fascinating developments,’ Tony said tantalizingly, ‘but I’m not prepared to leak them until November, when it’ll be nearer the IBA meetings and people are properly back from their holidays and reading newspapers again. And then, my God, Venturer will wish they’d never tried to take us on.’ He paused as Taggie came in with the salad.

Not that she would have taken anything in that night. In the kitchen she was frantically trying to watch the Horse of the Year Show, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rupert. At least she saw Tabitha in the mounted games — utterly adorable and so like Rupert as she jumped up and down waiting for the baton, then grabbing it and scorching up the arena. The finals were just coming up when Sarah summoned Taggie to clear away the pudding.

By this time Tony was banging on about AIDS again.

‘By the year 2000, unless we get our act together in this country, we’ll have sixteen million cases. The message from America is loud and clear, affairs are passé.’ He gazed down the table. ‘Monogamy and fidelity in marriage are in fashion again. It’s vital that everyone is made aware of the dangers of AIDS. It’s up to us at Corinium to set the ball rolling.’

James felt that Sarah had been so very very caring to go to all that trouble with the daube that, in the hall after dinner, he was foolish enough to behave in a thoroughly unmonog-amous fashion and be caught by Tony not only kissing her, but putting his hand inside her new silk dress.

On Monday morning Tony summoned James to his office. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation about AIDS on Saturday night,’ he began briskly. ‘I’ve decided it’s time for you to have your own series, which we’ll almost certainly sell to the network.’

‘That’s very good of you, Tony,’ said James.

‘I want to make a series examining all aspects of marriage,’ went on Tony.

‘Financial, dual careers, how much housework should the caring husband do,’ rattled off James excitedly. ‘Sex, rows, decorating the house.’

‘That’s right,’ said Tony. ‘We could perhaps even introduce children and the pressures they put on a marriage. But basically the whole series will be aimed at couples who are getting behind marriage again, who want to avoid AIDS by staying with the same person for the rest of their lives. We’ll call it “How to Stay Married”.’

‘With the AIDS panic, it’ll be a real franchise-grabber,’ said James excitedly.

‘Exactly,’ said Tony urbanely. ‘And I want you and a very charming lady not far from your heart to front it.’

‘I don’t even have to guess, Tony,’ said James warmly, ‘but d’you realty feel she’s experienced enough?’

‘More important,’ said Tony, who was enjoying himself, ‘she’s a natural. She’s not too obviously glamorous, but she’s got just the right kind of lovely warm bubbly personality that’ll make couples talk and trigger off a really good audience reaction.’

James bowed his head. ‘I know Sarah will appreciate the very great honour you’re bestowing on her, Tony, both to combat AIDS and to help Corinium retain the franchise.’

‘I’m not talking about Sarah, you berk,’ said Tony icily. ‘I mean your wife, Lizzie, and if you value your job, the less you see of Mrs Stratton over the next three months the better.’

Taggie spent the next week dreaming of Rupert. She knew he loved and lived with Cameron, who would be back in a week or so, but she couldn’t help herself. On Thursday she watched him on television at the Party Conference making a brilliant speech saying that the Tories must get off their fat backsides and start thinking positively about unemployment and the way it directly affected hooliganism and rioting in the inner cities. Taggie, detecting Declan’s influence, felt very proud.

On Friday night a slight distraction was provided by Caitlin coming home for a long weekend, with her black hair dyed white at the front, still utterly besotted with Archie.

‘He went into the town and brought eighty cans of beer back in a taxi and smuggled them in and sold them to the other boys on the black market in order to buy me this gorgeous jersey. I haven’t taken it off since he sent it me, so please can you wash it tonight, and my black jeans so I can wear them tomorrow? Archie’s taking me out to lunch. What’s Mummy doing for the rest of the day?’

‘Rehearsing, I think,’ said Taggie.

Exactly on cue, Maud wandered in, looking radiant. ‘Hullo, darling, how’s school?’

‘Ghastly. Anyone with layered hair is being sent home, so I’m going to get mine layered on Monday.’

‘I’ve bought some apples,’ said Maud, waving a large paper bag at Taggie. ‘They’re so cheap in the market.’

And they cost nothing in the orchard, thudding on to the grass every two minutes, Taggie wanted to scream. She wanted to murder her mother sometimes.

‘That’s a nice jersey,’ said Maud, looking at Caitlin. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘It was a present,’ said Caitlin noncommittally. ‘You will wash it carefully, won’t you, Tag? How’s The Merry Widow?’ she asked her mother.

‘Oh, exhausting, but fun,’ said Maud, pouring herself a large whisky. ‘I — er — thought I might go to the cinema with some of the cast tomorrow night,’ she added casually. ‘Taggie’s cooking. Will you be all right on your own, Caitlin?’

‘Brilliant,’ beamed Caitlin. ‘Stay out as long as you like. I’ve got masses of work. Have dinner and make a night of it. I’ve got to read Antony and Cleopatra and write an essay on Streetcar Named Desire. I think it’s extraordinary that they shut us up in single-sex schools and then give us these amazingly erotic set books.’

By the time Taggie had cleared up supper and washed and ironed Caitlin’s jersey and jeans and put them in the hot cupboard it was two o’clock in the morning. Admittedly her progress had been slowed up by constantly looking out of the window to watch for Rupert’s helicopter landing on the lawn, or his car coming up the drive. But there was nothing. Perhaps he’d gone to Ireland to see Cameron after all.

It seemed she’d hardly fallen asleep when she was roused by an hysterical Caitlin. ‘That bugger Mummy used all the water, so I can’t wash my hair or have a bath, and even worse she’s gone off in my new jersey and jeans. And now I can’t wear it for Archie, and he’ll never believe I haven’t lost it, like Desdemona’s handkerchief. I hate, hate, hate her, bloody old cow, and she’s bound to split my jeans.’

‘I’ll run you into Cotchester and buy you something else,’ said Taggie. ‘I got paid in cash yesterday.’

‘It’s no good,’ screamed Caitlin. ‘I wanted Archie to see me in his jersey. I’ll kill her, I’ll absolutely kill her.’

Nothing Taggie could say would calm her down.

‘I’ll ring up Rupert and see if you can have a bath there,’ said Taggie in the end.

Throat dry, heart thumping, hands drenched in sweat and trembling, Taggie misdialled the number three times in her nervousness. When Rupert didn’t answer immediately, she nearly put the telephone down.

‘Hullo.’ He sounded irritable and very sleepy.

‘It’s Taggie.’

‘My darling.’ His voice softened.

‘I’m desperately sorry,’ she began. Then, stammering worse than ever, she explained what had happened, but didn’t mention Archie’s name. ‘Could I possibly rush Caitlin over to wash her hair and have a bath?’

‘Of course,’ said Rupert, ‘as long as we can all have it together.’

Rupert hadn’t shaved when they arrived. He was wandering around in bare feet, having obviously just put on the white shirt and the black dinner-jacket trousers he’d been wearing last night. He looked bugeyed.

‘I won’t stop,’ mumbled Taggie, desperate not to impose on him. ‘I’ll pick Caitlin up in an hour, OK?’

Rupert pulled her into the house. ‘Don’t be boring. As I’m such a notorious reprobate, you ought to stay and chaperone Caitlin.’

Caitlin promptly started raging on about Maud. ‘Bloody old cow, nicking all the water, and my seducing kit. What does she want with it? I bet she’s up to someone, the old tart. It’s high time my father came home.’

‘Caitlin,’ remonstrated Taggie, going pink. ‘Rupert hasn’t got all day. I thought you wanted to be ready by twelve. Go and have a bath.’

Grinning, Rupert took Caitlin upstairs and showed her where everything was. Taggie glanced at some photographs of Tabitha at Wembley which were lying on the kitchen table.

‘Aren’t these gorgeous?’ she said, as Rupert came back. ‘I saw a bit of it on television at Sarah Stratton’s, but I missed the final. Did her team win?’

‘No, but they came third, and she did well. Horse and Hound described her as a “chip off the old Campbell-Black”; which was nice.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Taggie. ‘Am I in your way?’ she asked as Rupert paused on his way to the fridge.

‘No, I just like standing behind you. I know you’ll spring to her defence, but your mother is an absolute disgrace. Swanning off with all Caitlin’s clothes at her age. Maud’s trouble is that she wants to have her cake and eat it, and make trifle out of it as well.’

Taggie giggled, but she said, ‘I know, but it’s such a relief that she’s happy and working again. She might even start doing it professionally, and she’s so beautiful,’ Taggie sighed. ‘It’s hardly surprising all the cast’s in love with her.’

Rupert privately deduced that Maud must be in love with one of the cast to have lost enough weight to get into Caitlin’s jeans, but merely said, ‘I’ve got a hangover. Let’s have a drink.’

‘I mustn’t,’ said Taggie, ‘or I’ll make another cock-up of cooking tonight.’

‘Don’t say you’re working again?’ said Rupert, appalled. Taggie nodded dolefully.

‘Jesus,’ said Rupert. ‘I’d better make a date with you for next October.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ stammered Taggie, hanging her head, ‘It’s n-not that I wouldn’t love to.’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Rupert. ‘My children are coming over this afternoon. Why don’t you come out with us for the day tomorrow, and help me entertain them?’

‘I’ll make a picnic,’ said Taggie, suddenly excited.

‘No, you won’t. For once you’re not going to cook a thing.’

With both Maud and Caitlin plundering her wardrobe, Taggie was at her wit’s end as to what to wear. Feeling desperately guilty, with the Electricity Board, the television hire firm, the village shop, and God knows who else baying to be paid, she blued, or rather greyed, Friday lunchtime’s cash wages on a pale-grey cashmere polo-neck which brought out the silver-grey in her eyes and clung to her in all the right places. There was no more money, so she’d have to wear her old black cords.

Next morning Maud whizzed off very early to yet another rehearsal. Caitlin, who nobly said she’d dogs it and read Antony and Cleopatra, hustled Taggie out of the house.

‘You look delectable. Randy Rupe won’t be able to keep his hands off you. Don’t hurry back. I’m quite OK on my own — ’ she smirked wickedly — ‘or, almost on my own. The Hon Arch will be dropping by plus tard. Or Marble Arch, as I call him, now he’s lost his suntan.’

Tabitha, amid the swirling pack of dogs, answered the door looking belligerent. She was wearing a pink sweater embroidered with blue flowers and a blue puff-ball skirt.

‘Hullo,’ said Taggie in delight. ‘I recognize you; you were on television last Saturday. You were wonderful, and what a beautiful clever pony. He was much the fastest. What’s his name?’

‘Biscuit,’ said Tabitha coldly.

‘Can I see him?’

‘He’s at my other house.’

‘Oh, what a shame. I’ve brought him some carrots.’ Taggie rummaged round in a carrier bag, ‘and I’ve made you some fudge.’

‘Thank you,’ said Tab, looking slightly mollified. ‘Can I have a bit now?’

‘I don’t see why not. I like your puff-ball skirt. I wanted to get one, but my knees are far too knobbly.’

‘Mummy says hers are, too,’ said Tab. ‘Perhaps they’re not suitable for grown-ups.’

Stroking the dogs, Taggie sat down on one of the stone seats inside the porch.

‘What’s your name again?’ said Tabitha.

‘Taggie. It’s really Agatha, isn’t that awful? Tabitha’s so much nicer. My parents call me Tag, sometimes, which sounds just like Tab, doesn’t it? I expect when Marcus shouts Tab we’ll both go charging into the kitchen to see what he wants and bump into each other in the doorway.’

Tabitha stared at her consideringly, and suddenly she smiled.

‘And you’re nine and a quarter?’ said Taggie.

‘Yes,’ sighed Tab, pushing her blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘Can’t you see my wrinkles?’

Taggie giggled. ‘Still, it’s awfully young to be in the Mounted Games. Were you the youngest?’

‘Yes,’ said Tab. ‘If you come back to Warwickshire with us tonight you can see Biscuit. We’ve got a foal here. Would you like to come and see it?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Taggie.

The front door opened; it was Marcus. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Daddy wants to know where you’ve got to.’

‘She’s talking to me, stupid,’ said Tab. ‘She’s brought you some fudge.’

‘Tag,’ bellowed Rupert from the kitchen, ‘where are you?’

‘Here,’ said Tab and Tag in unison. Then they both looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Taking Taggie’s hand, Tabitha dragged her into the kitchen. ‘Can she come back to Warwickshire with us this evening and see Biscuit?’ said Tabitha.

Rupert, who was drinking black coffee and reading the racing pages of the Sunday Times, looked surprised.

‘Of course she can. I thought you’d kidnapped her.’

‘She’s brought us fudge, and carrots for Biscuit, and a big bottle of cough mixture,’ said Tabitha, unpacking the carrier bag.

‘It’s sloe gin,’ said Taggie, blushing. ‘I made it yesterday. You mustn’t drink it for three months.’

‘Thank you, angel,’ said Rupert, kissing her on the cheek. ‘I hope I don’t have to wait that long for you,’ he murmured in an undertone.

‘Come on, Taggie,’ said Tabitha impatiently. ‘I thought you wanted to see the foal. This fudge is smashing.’

They had lunch in Cheltenham in an up-market hamburger bar. The children, who insisted on sitting on either side of Taggie, had huge milkshakes. Rupert, who complained he had alcohol shakes, ordered a carafe of red.

‘That jersey suits you,’ he said approvingly to Taggie. ‘How d’you manage to keep it out of Maud’s clutches?’

Taggie blushed. ‘I slept with it under my pillow.’

‘We’re doing a “Messiah” at the end of term,’ announced Tabitha, sucking air noisily from the bottom of her milkshake. ‘There are going to be two trumpets and a drum, and real fathers in the chorus. I’m in the altos. They’re much naughtier because they’re mostly boys, silly twits.’

‘D’you like singing?’ asked Taggie.

‘No. Mrs Brown takes us. She’s just got married. She takes us for history too. She was reading a book called Improving your Home in class this week.’

‘She was reading a book about drains in our class,’ said Marcus.

‘And that’s what I pay your school fees for,’ grumbled Rupert. ‘I wish they’d organize a sponsored walk to Save the Parents.’

Having ordered, he looked across at Taggie, who was talking to Marcus about conkers.

‘We used to roast them slowly in the oven to harden them up.’

‘We soak them in vinegar,’ said Marcus.

‘My sister Caitlin used to put them in the hot cupboard and they always fell down behind the boiler and went mouldy. We’ve got masses at The Priory if you want any more, but I expect you’ve got hundreds already.’

Christ, she’s sweet, thought Rupert, noticing the way the grey cashmere moulded the full breasts.

‘Mary had a little lamb and surprised the midwife,’ said Tabitha to her father.

‘Really,’ said Rupert absent-mindedly.

‘Mary had a little lamb and surprised the midwife. It’s a joke.’

‘Ha, ha,’ said Rupert, filling up Taggie’s glass.

‘Why d’you always say ha ha and not mean it? Can I have a packet of Frazzles?’

‘No,’ said Rupert. ‘Here’s your lunch.’

‘Can I have punk hair like Cameron?’ said Tabitha, picking bits of mushroom out of her salad and putting them round the edge of her plate.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t like short hair.’

‘You’ve got very nice hair,’ said Marcus to Taggie, blushing scarlet as he bit into his hamburger.

‘Yes,’ agreed Rupert. ‘She has.’

Tabitha gazed dreamily into space. ‘Mrs Bodkin must have slept with Mr Bodkin an awful lot of times.’

‘What on earth makes you think that?’ asked Rupert in amazement.

‘She told me she’d had four miscarriages,’ said Tab.

Taggie didn’t dare look at Rupert. She thought she had never been happier in her life. Suddenly the most ordinary things — a hamburger smothered in tomato ketchup, the mural of the village street round the wall, with its milk cart and postman — were illuminated because she was with Rupert and these adorable children.

‘Everything all right, Meester Campbell-Black?’ asked the Manager.

‘Perfect,’ said Rupert. ‘Could we have another carafe of red?’

‘I would like to congratulate you,’ went on the Manager, looking round rapturously at Marcus, Tab and Taggie. ‘I never knew you haff three such beautiful children.’