‘And she means – HAMLET! – well. Lord knows, we’d all need some entertainment after fifty years’ working for the Bellings, and the Constantines before them.’
‘That’s the River Folly man, right?’
‘His descendants, yes – HAMLET! – the lords of Oddlode Manor. Or so Hell’s Bells – that’s Isabel – would have you believe, but she was the first Constantine to bag a title. She’s only Lady Belling now because – HAMLET! – St John got the ultimate gong when Her Maj tapped the chips on both his round shoulders with her sword. Sir St John! You can’t imagine the trouble the locals have getting their tongues around that. Most call him the Surgeon.’
It was no wonder Pheely was so breathless, the rate at which that hypnotising voice divulged information.
‘St John Belling the politician?’ Ellen had recognised the name.
‘The very same, HAMLET YOU GREAT OAF!’ Having veered all over the bridlepath while walking backwards, Pheely decided to walk the right way round again.
‘He’s the one everyone says should have been PM, isn’t he?’
‘The nearly-man, yes. And so he would have been, were it not for that Godforsaken son of his,’ Pheely muttered, with surprising bitterness. Then she laughed. ‘Actually, I have very few things to thank Jasper Belling for, but perhaps that is one of them. The Surgeon would have taken this country back to the dark ages. When Jasper fucked up this village, he did the nation a favour. Such a noble gesture!’
Ellen was vaguely familiar with the story of St John Belling, long-tipped to succeed Thatcher and much admired by her mother. The owner of Oddlode Manor, one-time local Tory MP and a favourite cabinet minister of the Iron Lady with the soft spot for blue-eyed men, had fallen from grace when his son turned out to be a drug-smuggler or something like that. And that son was clearly Jasper Belling. But the rest of Pheely’s chatter was already flying over her head.
‘I might even force myself to go along tonight after all,’ she was saying, pulling long grasses from the banks to wave around like a fairy wand. ‘Glad Tidings was very miffed when I told her I wanted to withdraw my promise – she insisted that I couldn’t do it without Lady B’s permission. Can you imagine? That’s when she told me all about you, no doubt trying to take my mind off the subject, which it did. I am such a butterfly.’
With her butterfly mind dancing from topic to topic, Pheely had a tendency to talk about people and things as though Ellen should know the subjects intimately. She was about to ask what was happening tonight but at that moment both dogs thundered up the path behind them, a golden flip-flop in each of their mouths.
‘Oh, clever, clever darlings! What clever dogs! I do like your collie.’ She collected the flip-flops, gracefully offered by Snorkel and wrestled from a reluctant Hamlet. ‘Why do you want to get rid of her?’
‘She’s my ex-boyfriend’s dog. He’s moved to Australia. And I’m going abroad myself after the cottage here is sold.’
‘Oh.’ Curiously Pheely didn’t ask any questions about this. For a woman who proclaimed herself ‘nosy’ and ‘bitchy’, she went rather shy. Now panting hard from trying to keep up with Ellen’s brisk walking pace, she batted away midges, big green eyes downcast. ‘Are your parents well?’
‘Yes, fine.’ Ellen stooped to throw a stick for Snorkel. Beside Hamlet’s great stature, she looked minuscule, like a toy dog. ‘Dad’s heart is always a worry, but he seems to have found a life that suits him. And Mum’s really taken to Spain. I didn’t think she would, but she loves it there.’
‘Giving them all hell about proposed green-belt developments and bypasses, no doubt.’ Pheely winked.
‘I think she’s more worried about Dad’s heart bypass these days,’ Ellen said, more abruptly than she intended. She always got snappy when talking about her mother, and was irritated with
‘That’s the River Folly man, right?’
‘His descendants, yes – HAMLET! – the lords of Oddlode Manor. Or so Hell’s Bells – that’s Isabel – would have you believe, but she was the first Constantine to bag a title. She’s only Lady Belling now because – HAMLET! – St John got the ultimate gong when Her Maj tapped the chips on both his round shoulders with her sword. Sir St John! You can’t imagine the trouble the locals have getting their tongues around that. Most call him the Surgeon.’
It was no wonder Pheely was so breathless, the rate at which that hypnotising voice divulged information.
‘St John Belling the politician?’ Ellen had recognised the name.
‘The very same, HAMLET YOU GREAT OAF!’ Having veered all over the bridlepath while walking backwards, Pheely decided to walk the right way round again.
‘He’s the one everyone says should have been PM, isn’t he?’
‘The nearly-man, yes. And so he would have been, were it not for that Godforsaken son of his,’ Pheely muttered, with surprising bitterness. Then she laughed. ‘Actually, I have very few things to thank Jasper Belling for, but perhaps that is one of them. The Surgeon would have taken this country back to the dark ages. When Jasper fucked up this village, he did the nation a favour. Such a noble gesture!’
Ellen was vaguely familiar with the story of St John Belling, long-tipped to succeed Thatcher and much admired by her mother. The owner of Oddlode Manor, one-time local Tory MP and a favourite cabinet minister of the Iron Lady with the soft spot for blue-eyed men, had fallen from grace when his son turned out to be a drug-smuggler or something like that. And that son was clearly Jasper Belling. But the rest of Pheely’s chatter was already flying over her head.
‘I might even force myself to go along tonight after all,’ she was saying, pulling long grasses from the banks to wave around like a fairy wand. ‘Glad Tidings was very miffed when I told her I wanted to withdraw my promise – she insisted that I couldn’t do it without Lady B’s permission. Can you imagine? That’s when she told me all about you, no doubt trying to take my mind off the subject, which it did. I am such a butterfly.’
With her butterfly mind dancing from topic to topic, Pheely had a tendency to talk about people and things as though Ellen should know the subjects intimately. She was about to ask what was happening tonight but at that moment both dogs thundered up the path behind them, a golden flip-flop in each of their mouths.
‘Oh, clever, clever darlings! What clever dogs! I do like your collie.’ She collected the flip-flops, gracefully offered by Snorkel and wrestled from a reluctant Hamlet. ‘Why do you want to get rid of her?’
‘She’s my ex-boyfriend’s dog. He’s moved to Australia. And I’m going abroad myself after the cottage here is sold.’
‘Oh.’ Curiously Pheely didn’t ask any questions about this. For a woman who proclaimed herself ‘nosy’ and ‘bitchy’, she went rather shy. Now panting hard from trying to keep up with Ellen’s brisk walking pace, she batted away midges, big green eyes downcast. ‘Are your parents well?’
‘Yes, fine.’ Ellen stooped to throw a stick for Snorkel. Beside Hamlet’s great stature, she looked minuscule, like a toy dog. ‘Dad’s heart is always a worry, but he seems to have found a life that suits him. And Mum’s really taken to Spain. I didn’t think she would, but she loves it there.’
‘Giving them all hell about proposed green-belt developments and bypasses, no doubt.’ Pheely winked.
‘I think she’s more worried about Dad’s heart bypass these days,’ Ellen said, more abruptly than she intended. She always got snappy when talking about her mother, and was irritated with
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