Chloe. Freya North

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      ELEVEN

      ‘Peregrine, my true love, where are you?’ Jasper cupped his ear at the foot of the stairs and waited.

      ‘Up here!’ came a faint reply.

      ‘Up where exactly?’ yelled Jasper as patiently as he could.

      ‘Up up up!’ sang Peregrine, ‘right at the top.’

      ‘Oh God,’ said Jasper to himself, climbing the stairs with a heavy hand on the banister and a lighter one supporting his gammy hip, ‘not the damn frocks again.’

      To his relief, he found Peregrine safe in his corduroys handling a Coalport tea service with reverence. He brandished a dainty milk jug in welcome.

      ‘Look what I found! Isn’t it divine! Wouldn’t First Flush Darjeeling taste incomparable in these darling cups?’

      ‘First Flush Darjeeling,’ said Jasper as sternly as he could, ‘is indeed incomparable. It’s almost thirty pounds a pound!’

      Peregrine pouted most becomingly. ‘If we can’t have a little luxury – us, at our age and stage in life – then what! I may as well give up the ghost right now as face Typhoo bags in my dwindling days.’

      ‘Don’t be such a drama queen,’ Jasper said. ‘You know I would rather drink no tea at all than drink anything other than FFD! Look here, look what we have!’ He waved an envelope in a gracious arc high above his head.

      ‘Postmark?’ squealed Peregrine, clasping both hands tight around the sugar bowl.

      ‘Guess!’

      ‘Gwent?’

      ‘Abso-blooming-lutely!’

      Sitting with perfect posture and an empty cup and saucer each, Jasper and Peregrine enjoyed Chloë’s letter. It seemed appropriate that as she had written from The Rafters, so they should be ensconced in Jocelyn’s attic aboard an old but deceptively supportive two-seater sofa covered with a dust-sheet. Envisaging Chloë huddled beneath her New Zealand rug, they pulled an old tartan blanket tightly about their knees and placed the china cups daintily on their laps.

      ‘Hullo you both,’ Jasper trilled in falsetto. Peregrine took the letter from him and, placing pince-nez exactly where they should be, started to read.

      ‘Hope you’re happy and healthy, bla bla, weather cold but clear, der der der, horse, bla bla. La la, up in The Rafters, cosy, private etcetera. Early nights ditto mornings. Bla bla. Work hard but have lots of fun. Don’t miss London, der der. No regrets, etcetera. Miss you both – us both – madly. Good! Etcetera. Gin Trap a hoot. Good Gracious Me!’ Peregrine fell silent while his eyes rampaged along the remaining paragraphs which ran to two pages.

      ‘What?’ Jasper nudged him, alarmed that his eyes were so wide and that his jaw had dropped. It was either something utterly horrendous or gloriously disgraceful. ‘What what what?’ he piped, craning for a glimpse at the page and cursing his appalling eyesight.

      Peregrine folded the letter, put it back in the envelope before taking it out again and unfolding it slowly.

      ‘Little Hussy!’ he proclaimed with unbridled pride.

      ‘Chloë?’

      ‘The little tramp!’ Peregrine continued, delighted.

      ‘What has she done?’ begged Jasper.

      ‘What a filly!’

      ‘Pear-rare-grin!’ bellowed Jasper. ‘Word for word! Go!’

      Peregrine cleared his voice. ‘He’s called Carl, apparently. A big, strapping bushman from New Zealand! Blond, bronzed and brawny. Oh, that we were thirty years younger!’

      ‘Speak for yourself, old crock,’ said Jasper. ‘Twenty would be fine for me! Is that how she describes him? A hunky thing from the bush down under?’

      Peregrine reread the letter swiftly. ‘No, actually, she says, I’ve met a really nice bloke from New Zealand. His name is Carl and I know you’d love him, bla bla.’

      ‘Stop it with the bla blas,’ Jasper demanded.

      ‘OK,’ conceded Peregrine, ‘this is what she says: His name is Carl and I know you’d, bla bla. Sorry! He lives above the tack room – I know the thought of a strapping young man amongst all that leather will probably drive you two wild, but calm down so I can tell you all! Writes a good letter, our Chloë.’

      ‘I never went in for leather much, but carry on, dear.’

      ‘We’re the only youngsters here. Mind you, by your standards, Gin and Dai are spring chooks!’

      ‘Sprung whats?’ asked Jasper.

      ‘Ah, she explains, as the Kiwis say for “chicken”! You know, just as soon as I set eyes on Carl, I felt strange murmurings for him which quickly transpired to be Lust, loud and clear! You see, he’s big and blond and sensitive and sexy and perfect. And he kisses divinely. She must know not to start a sentence with “and”, surely Jocelyn would have drilled her?’

      ‘Let’s make an allowance – the girl’s obviously quite beside herself with excitement.’

      ‘Dormant lust, I’d say!’

      ‘Whatever! СКАЧАТЬ