be very happy with Clemmie and Archie; yes, thank God I had children. That, of course, was pivotal in the desperation game: wanting – needing those. That biological urge. But now that I had them, we could be on our own for ever. I’d never have to panic-buy again.
‘I say, Poppy!’ As I turned to shut my front door, I saw Angus hurrying towards me, Spectator under his arm, fresh from the village shop. I went down the path to meet him, the autumn sun warm on my face, late hollyhocks brushing my arm. Angus raised his hat as he approached.
‘Hello, old girl, wasn’t that fun last night? And I gather I missed the best bit. Gather the party really got going!’
I smiled, shifting Archie in my arms so his head lay on my shoulder. ‘Well, it was eased along by almost the entire contents of Peggy’s drinks cupboard so it’s hardly surprising.’
I had a vague memory of her bringing out something green and vile, peering myopically at the label and saying, ‘I think I brought this back from Paxos in 1997.’ That had been my exit moment.
‘Yes, well, I was just going to say that next week Sylvia is visiting her sister in Cirencester, so happily I can join in the – you know,’ he winked broadly and rubbed his hands together, ‘fun and games!’
‘Oh, I’m not sure every book-club meeting will be like that, Angus. I mean, we didn’t have a book to discuss, did we? Next week, when we’ve all done our homework, I’m sure it’ll be much more cerebral.’
‘Euh.’ His rheumy old eyes looked downcast. Then brightened. ‘Oh yes, once we’ve done all that malarkey, but there’ll still be lots of time for fun too.’ He lowered his voice. ‘When I was in the army we played this terrific game at an all-ranks dance where you had to guess the bare backside. Blindfold, you know? Really broke the ice.’
‘I’m not convinced much ice needs breaking,’ I said uneasily, remembering Simon and Jennie chatting very quietly in a corner, heads bent so close together they almost touched.
‘Nevertheless I think I’ll bring one along.’
‘What?’
‘A blindfold. Scarf, or something. Got some marvellous Glenmorangie too that my brother-in-law gave me last Christmas; pretty sure Simon will like that. I’ll bring that too. Toodle-pip!’ And off he scurried, thrilled to bits, an entire screenplay playing out in his head, his Border terrier on a tartan lead trotting along beside him.
Later that morning, as I left the house to collect Clemmie from school, old Frank Warner, who’d been sitting outside the Rose and Crown across the road having a pint with Odd Bob, put his glass down on the bench and shuffled towards me.
‘Hello, Poppy.’
‘Hello, Frank.’
‘Um, Poppy, I gather there’s a bit of a book-club thingy occurring at Peggy’s place these days. Wondered if I could join?’ Frank was late sixties, an ex-squadron leader, widowed, vast moustache, excessive dandruff. He spent a lot of time outside the Rose and Crown sinking pint after pint with Odd Bob, who never said much but nodded sagely as Frank held forth about Harrier Jets. Bob, slower in every respect, had now joined us, it having taken him that much longer to circumnavigate the pond.
‘Bob would like to join too,’ Frank assured me firmly, as Bob nodded mutely. Bob was the closest thing we had to a village idiot. He was a tenant farmer who lived in the filthiest farmhouse imaginable on the road out of the village. If, perchance, as a favour to Angie, one ever popped the parish magazine through his door, such a cacophony of dog barking and howling would start you’d hear it all the way home, and then the geese would start honking and the whole village would turn and look accusingly at you when you returned.
‘Um, right. Well, I’m not quite sure, to be honest.’ I scratched my leg nervously. ‘Can I get back to you? Only – I’m not really organizing it. I’ll have to ask the others.’
Frank smoothed his luxuriant moustache in an alarmingly Terry Thomas manner. ‘If you would, my dear. And put in a good word for us, hm?’
‘Of course.’
He gave me a huge wink. ‘Ding dong,’ he murmured.
I hastened off up the hill with my buggy.
I told Jennie about it when I got back. She was weeding her front garden and leaned on her fork to listen.
‘Oh God, that’s nothing,’ she told me. ‘When I was in the shop just now, Dickie Frowbisher sidled up