so he could get stuck into a bottle of whisky, but she was hanging around shuffling papers. He pretended to be glued to At the Races, which was showing a race in Saratoga, in which Rupert’s grandson Eddie Alderton, on a black horse in a white bridle, was being ponied down to the start.
‘Boy’s alleged to be as good a rider as Rupert,’ said Marius, turning up the sound. ‘Go home, for God’s sake.’
Miss Painswick walked over and turned off the television.
‘I’d like to say something. But first I’d like you to pour me a large glass of whisky.’
‘I need the whole bottle myself, just bugger off.’
‘Don’t swear, it doesn’t help. I know how bad things are, I do the books.’
‘I’m fucked,’ said Marius, getting out the whisky bottle.
‘I may appear disapproving and frosty but I’ve enjoyed working for you, and I’d like to go on doing so.’
‘I said I’m fucked, so you can’t.’
Any good trainer always looks tired. Marius looked near death, black hair nearly all grey now, hollow cheeks, sunken, bloodshot eyes, teeth savaging his lower lip.
‘You poor boy,’ said Painswick, ‘I know how hard you’ve tried. Things will pick up. I’m prepared to work for nothing until you get straight.’
Marius’s hand trembled as he handed her a glass of neat whisky.
‘That’s amazingly kind.’
‘I also have a few savings. You’re welcome to those if you’d like them. I’d like to help out. With the floods I’m not sure how many of Mrs Wilkinson’s syndicate are going to be able to pay her training fees.’
Marius slumped on to the sofa, narrowly missing Mistletoe, who jumped up and tried to lick his face, which was now in his hands.
‘That is so incredibly kind, Miss P. I can’t believe it when I’ve been so persistently bloody to you. If I could not pay you until the bloody cough’s gone, and perhaps borrow a few grand?’
*
How could she have said these things, handing over her savings, wondered Painswick as she walked slowly home. Awaiting her on the doormat was a letter from her insurance company saying they couldn’t pay her for any flood damage because they’d gone into receivership.
Miss Painswick was always depressed at the beginning of September. The turning trees, reddening apples and traveller’s joy foaming like sherbet along the hedgerows reminded her of returning to Bagley Hall to work for her beloved Hengist Brett-Taylor.
Pocock was also depressed to have only two days’ work a week. Men with spare time on their hands, however, become bossy. Pocock consequently started nagging Miss Painswick to rid Ivy Cottage of the ivy which encased it, darkening its rooms by growing over its lattice windows and even creeping inside bathrooms and landing windows.
‘It’ll pull out the brickwork, like chewing gum pulls out your stoppings,’ he nagged yet again when he paused to pass the time of day as Miss Painswick dead-headed the roses in her front garden.
‘But it’s called Ivy Cottage.’
‘I’ve lived in Willowwood since the war, place didn’t always have that weight of ivy. Pretty cottage underneath.’
‘I’m perfectly satisfied,’ said a nettled Painswick.
‘If you ever wanted to sell it, or raise a mortgage on it, it’d be much easier with the ivy off. If you don’t like it bare you could always grow up a honeysuckle or a nice red rose.’
The smothering dark ivy, Pocock reflected, was rather like Miss Painswick’s clothes: dark tent dresses, loosely cut coats and skirts, only occasionally brightened by a bright hat or Hengist’s green and blue scarf, clothes which so concealed her body that no one had any idea what her figure was like at all.
‘I could take it off for you,’ he offered. ‘I’m free Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays now.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Painswick.
Later she accosted Etta, weighed down from shopping in Larkminster, who since the Polo was grounded was walking back from the bus stop.
‘Pocock wants to take off the ivy.’
‘He’s probably right about it not doing the house any good,’ pondered Etta.
‘It might have gone too far and he might pull the whole thing down,’ said Painswick.
Next moment, Ione, on a one-woman mission to save the planet, came by on her bike, trailing jute bags of organic goods.
‘Hear you’re taking off the ivy,’ she yelled. ‘Good of you to give Pocock some work, but ivy does provide food for the bees and shelter for the birds. Ivy flowers are particularly good for late feeders in winter when there’s not much food about. So think carefully about it,’ and she pedalled on.