second (rather regretfully), was that I would never look so good in riding clothes: too big, too curvy, too bouncy .
Imagine Helen of Troy in tight cream breeches and a velvet hat.
She spared me a fleeting glance from curiously light brown eyes and called, ‘Sorry about that!’ very casually, considering there was probably a horse’s-bottom-shaped dent in the front of the VW. Then, with some inelegant flapping of the reins, she urged her mount off down the road at a clattering trot.
‘Idiotic creatures, horses,’ said a voice in my ear, and I jumped again. ‘Saw me dressed in white and ran off—though it’s a holy colour, I always wear it to go to church and I’m off to do the flowers later. But she was a Christopher before she married, and none of them ride well. I suppose she thought Jack was here—though you never know, because she’s never been what you might call fussy where men are concerned.’
I might have tried to explore this interesting statement further had I not had other things on my mind, for I would have known my great-aunt Hebe instantly anywhere: tall, bony, aquiline of nose like a slightly fuzzy Edith Sitwell, with her shock of fine hair, now white rather than red-gold, partially secured into a high knot with a chiffon scrunchie.
If I hadn’t recognised her I would probably have been running after the horse, due to the polar-bear-crossed-with-Miss-Havisham style of her apparel. A floating, ivory-coloured, crystal-and sequin-dotted chiffon dress, layered for warmth with a yellowing fake-fur coat and fluffy scarves, and worn over white wellington boots of the sort only usually seen in hospitals and clinics, made for a striking ensemble.
There was a lump in my throat. ‘Hello, Aunt Hebe,’ I said, slightly unsteadily.
She regarded me severely, then leaned in through the still-open window and kissed me, though the silver pentacle and golden cross that hung around her neck on separate chains swung forward and bashed me on the nose first. Evidently Aunt Hebe still liked to hedge her bets, a family tradition.
‘You’re late! We expected you over an hour ago, so I thought I would walk down and see if there was any sign of you. I’d better get in.’ She opened the passenger doorand, clambering up with some difficulty, arranged her skirts. The familiar scent of crushed rose petals came in with her, and I felt eight again…
‘Off you go,’ she said briskly, and I realised I’d been staring at her, waiting for some sign that my return held real meaning for her. Maybe I hadn’t quite expected bunting, banners and a fatted calf, but a little more than a peck on the cheek and a ticking off—but then, there had never been much in the way of maternal softness about Aunt Hebe.
Obediently I moved off again up the dark driveway—and then nearly went off the road as something beat a sudden tattoo on the roof. It was definitely one surprise too many in a very eventful day.
‘Nuts,’ said Aunt Hebe, unfazed.
‘Right…’ I said uncertainly, my heart still racing away at twice the normal speed. ‘There certainly are!’
She gave me a sharp, sideways look and I managed to get a grip on myself. ‘I didn’t know I was expected any particular time, Aunt Hebe. In fact, I nearly stopped to get something for lunch in the village. I’ve been thinking about Pimblett’s hot pies all the way down here—didn’t Mum sometimes buy me one on the way home from school?’
‘I dare say, but lunch is being prepared for you up at the manor,’ she said reprovingly, ‘and I believe it is hotpot pies. Everyone is waiting to meet you first, though.’
‘ Everyone? ’ I echoed, then added, perhaps too eagerly, ‘Is Jack here already?’
She gave me another sidelong glance. ‘Jack sent his apologies, but business matters prevent him from welcoming you home until the weekend. He’s probably putting it off, for he’ll find it difficult, seeing someone else in his place—but there, what’s done is done, and the
Imagine Helen of Troy in tight cream breeches and a velvet hat.
She spared me a fleeting glance from curiously light brown eyes and called, ‘Sorry about that!’ very casually, considering there was probably a horse’s-bottom-shaped dent in the front of the VW. Then, with some inelegant flapping of the reins, she urged her mount off down the road at a clattering trot.
‘Idiotic creatures, horses,’ said a voice in my ear, and I jumped again. ‘Saw me dressed in white and ran off—though it’s a holy colour, I always wear it to go to church and I’m off to do the flowers later. But she was a Christopher before she married, and none of them ride well. I suppose she thought Jack was here—though you never know, because she’s never been what you might call fussy where men are concerned.’
I might have tried to explore this interesting statement further had I not had other things on my mind, for I would have known my great-aunt Hebe instantly anywhere: tall, bony, aquiline of nose like a slightly fuzzy Edith Sitwell, with her shock of fine hair, now white rather than red-gold, partially secured into a high knot with a chiffon scrunchie.
If I hadn’t recognised her I would probably have been running after the horse, due to the polar-bear-crossed-with-Miss-Havisham style of her apparel. A floating, ivory-coloured, crystal-and sequin-dotted chiffon dress, layered for warmth with a yellowing fake-fur coat and fluffy scarves, and worn over white wellington boots of the sort only usually seen in hospitals and clinics, made for a striking ensemble.
There was a lump in my throat. ‘Hello, Aunt Hebe,’ I said, slightly unsteadily.
She regarded me severely, then leaned in through the still-open window and kissed me, though the silver pentacle and golden cross that hung around her neck on separate chains swung forward and bashed me on the nose first. Evidently Aunt Hebe still liked to hedge her bets, a family tradition.
‘You’re late! We expected you over an hour ago, so I thought I would walk down and see if there was any sign of you. I’d better get in.’ She opened the passenger doorand, clambering up with some difficulty, arranged her skirts. The familiar scent of crushed rose petals came in with her, and I felt eight again…
‘Off you go,’ she said briskly, and I realised I’d been staring at her, waiting for some sign that my return held real meaning for her. Maybe I hadn’t quite expected bunting, banners and a fatted calf, but a little more than a peck on the cheek and a ticking off—but then, there had never been much in the way of maternal softness about Aunt Hebe.
Obediently I moved off again up the dark driveway—and then nearly went off the road as something beat a sudden tattoo on the roof. It was definitely one surprise too many in a very eventful day.
‘Nuts,’ said Aunt Hebe, unfazed.
‘Right…’ I said uncertainly, my heart still racing away at twice the normal speed. ‘There certainly are!’
She gave me a sharp, sideways look and I managed to get a grip on myself. ‘I didn’t know I was expected any particular time, Aunt Hebe. In fact, I nearly stopped to get something for lunch in the village. I’ve been thinking about Pimblett’s hot pies all the way down here—didn’t Mum sometimes buy me one on the way home from school?’
‘I dare say, but lunch is being prepared for you up at the manor,’ she said reprovingly, ‘and I believe it is hotpot pies. Everyone is waiting to meet you first, though.’
‘ Everyone? ’ I echoed, then added, perhaps too eagerly, ‘Is Jack here already?’
She gave me another sidelong glance. ‘Jack sent his apologies, but business matters prevent him from welcoming you home until the weekend. He’s probably putting it off, for he’ll find it difficult, seeing someone else in his place—but there, what’s done is done, and the
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