Chloe. Freya North

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СКАЧАТЬ of such beauty,

      (and humour and kindness!)

      could ever want

      (and intelligence and manners!)

      to kiss her chapped lips.

      She feels a vitality each day on waking and wholesome fatigue on retiring each night. A general sense of well-being. She is healthier and happier than she can remember and often wonders whether she should even bother with the rest of the United Kingdom. She would be quite content with life ever after here in Wales. Hardly surprising, for she is cosseted and secure – an integral part of a household – and her resultant happiness defines that the household must therefore be Home. Or as near to one as she has hitherto come, remember.

      Conversation is on a very different plane to that to which Chloë had become accustomed over the preceding London-bound years. No one at Skirrid End knows Anna Recksick or whether there is much difference between a Gentleman’s Third and a First, and isn’t a 2:2 worn by ballerinas? Concerts on the South Bank could be fun, but at fifteen pounds per ticket, ludicrous! The tube sounds most uncivilized and Islington in dire need of greenery and more sky. In its collective voice, Skirrid End denounces the levels of noise, dirt and decay of the capital as intolerable, unthinkable and not worthy of further discussion.

      Instead, and to Chloë’s delight, talk at Skirrid is devoted to the land, the weather and animals, interspersed readily with bawdy jokes and heated discussion as to whose turn it is to be banker in Monopoly. Chloë has even started roaring with relish ‘A hapless reshuffle of very little point’ at the opportune moment.

      The days have a loose routine to them which provides a framework of security for Chloë. After mucking out, she gathers with Carl and Gin in the kitchen to discuss the day’s schedule. Lunch is self-service, as and when. Tea is an institution with bread and butter and fruitcake shared by all in the kitchen apart from the greyhound who is faddy about her food. Supper is delicious and invariably raucous, followed by life-and-death Monopoly sessions. (There is no television at Skirrid End and many of the letters from the Scrabble set have been eaten over the years by the greyhound, though this does not preclude occasional marathons of the game.) Dai, who proves to be a spendthrift with no notion of investment, usually bows out by nine and Gin, who mostly gambles everything for a hotel on Park Lane, retires soon after.

      Chloë and Carl are invariably left with a delicious hour or so together in which they make hot chocolate and light conversation and Monopoly does not matter. He tells her he is travelling and will move on in the spring. She tells him she is travelling too. Really. In a way. Ditto the spring. He whets her appetite for New Zealand and she tells him where not to go in London. He thinks he may miss London out altogether.

      ‘Anyways, I’ll be seeing Paris and Edin-burrow.’

      They learn each other’s favourite film (‘Really? Me too!’). And food. And favourite colour. And book (‘You must read it!’). They speak loosely of ‘back home’ but both feel compelled to live for the day and enjoy the present. Because of the Brett Years, Chloë has quite forgotten how to flirt and, deeming her lips unkissable anyway, she begins to find herself utterly relaxed in Carl’s easy company and chatters away freely. He adores her for it and also finds her rather alluring. He thinks she has the most beautiful hair he has ever seen and her freckles soon become the stuff of his last, late-night thoughts. But he doesn’t tell her so. Oh no. For while he is desperate to kiss her, he reads no sign of a come-on and presumes he must settle for just-good-friends. After all, not much point anyway with spring only a couple of months away to herald their separate ways.

      There have been times when, to kiss her, has been quite literally on the tip of his tongue. Once, he came across Chloë cleaning bridles in the tack room, humming softly in time with the grandfather clock; he had hummed in harmony and sincerity before a fit of giggles overtook them and Chloë stuffed the saddle-soap sponge down the back of his shirt. Then there was the time when Desmond threw her off with his spectacular, trademark ‘big one’ and she returned to the yard muddied, bruised and cross. Carl thought she looked fabulous, all wild and windswept (‘Like that chick Cathy from Wondering Heights’) and would have kissed her right through the mud had Gin not interrupted with cotton wool and ‘Is Desmond all right though?’ Most recently, Chloë made biscuits that were so melt-in-the-mouth and sweet that Carl was convinced her lips must taste likewise and was about to make a lunge for them when a very sudden and hapless reshuffle of absolutely no point took place.

      The problem, rued Carl to himself on a daily basis, was that he could rarely get Chloë on her own. And when he did, it was never for long enough for giggles and wrestling to subside and kissing to start in earnest.

      Lights are usually out by ten. Carl heads for his pad above the tack room and Chloë creeps and creaks her way up to The Rafters. Sometimes, accidentally on purpose, she catches sight of him from the dormer window. If he hasn’t seen her, she whips herself out of view to return for another peek when her heart has slowed up. If he has seen her, she waves nonchalantly and swings the curtains across with a blasé flourish. Each night, she stares at the green rafters and pouts and puckers her lips in readiness for the time when the Vaseline has worked its magic and her mouth is in a fit state for osculation.

      At this stage, neither of them has thought much beyond a mutual exchange of lips. For both, this first home run seems momentarily so beyond reach that anything it could possibly lead to remains an unattainable and somewhat unreal notion tucked to the very backs of their minds. A kiss, for the moment, would quite suffice. But when? And how, damn it!

      TEN

      Chloë’s day revolves around the horses and their needs. She is in the saddle for a couple of hours before and after lunch, interspersed with grooming, tack cleaning, rug mending and water-bucket replenishing. Mostly, she takes small, appreciative, pony-mad children out for a generally civilized hack (Desmond permitting). Sometimes, Gin sends her off for a ride to the woods, or down to the stream, or halfway up the hill.

      ‘Just to check,’ she tells Chloë, ‘on Things.’

      When she returns from such outings, Gin asks ‘How’s Things?’ to which Chloë has learnt to reply ‘Things is fine.’

      Initially, she tried a more detailed report about riverbanks and saplings but Gin’s glazed look told her quite clearly that she had missed the point.

      Today, with the loose-boxes mucked out and Chloë and Carl not quite recovered from a dung-slinging session on the muck heap (after which neither was remotely kissable), Gin has brought them a mug of tea apiece in the tack room and is telling them about the day ahead.

      ‘Do you mind popping into Abergavenny? It’s market day and a good opportunity for you, Carl, to see if there are any viable propositions in the camper-van trade, or in whatever wagon it is that you intend to traverse Europe. Chloë, I thought I might leave you to buy a few things from the tack shop for the gymkhana tomorrow. Bugger, tomorrow is Saturday, isn’t it? Must be, if today’s market day.’

      ‘You not going to join us?’ asks Carl.

      ‘No, it appears I’m going to have my headache today. I’m even going to banish Dai to the top field for the duration so I can truly have it in peace. Take the Land Rover. And for heaven’s sake, take JR too!’

      Dai is in the top field. Gin has exiled herself with her biannual headache. Carl and Chloë have been banished to Abergavenny. Just the two of them. Well, and JR but they are bribing him successfully with chocolate.

      Together, alone, СКАЧАТЬ