‘No, one is not,’ I agreed. I wrinkled my brow. ‘And it’s emblematic, don’t you feel, of the transitory nature of life? Symptomatic of how ephemeral things can be?’
‘Yes!’ she said eagerly. ‘Isn’t it just?’
‘Although between you and me, it hasn’t quite got the page-turning appeal of a jolly good read, like Jilly Cooper.’
I was losing her now. My in-depth analysis into the mores of contemporary literature too much for her at half-past eleven in the village shop. She looked confused.
‘Jilly …?’
‘Never mind. Anyway, as I say, I’ve called the whole thing off.’
‘Such a shame. And a pity not to see everyone again. Chad and I so enjoyed ourselves last time. But I expect I’ll see you at the meet, won’t I? There are usually lots of foot followers,’ she added kindly.
I blinked. ‘Yes. Well, maybe.’
She bestowed a dazzling smile on me and swept out in a cloud of Diorissimo, jangling her charm bracelet.
‘Mulverton Hall at eleven. It’s old George Hetherington’s place; belongs to his son now. D’you know it?’
I stared at her as she handed me back my fruit in a brown paper bag. ‘Well, not intimately. But I know where it is.’
‘’E’s come back from London apparently, to take it on again. Been tenanted for years that place, all sorts of people who didn’t really look after it after the old boy died. Well, you don’t if it’s not your own, do you? Let the garden go to rack and ruin by all accounts. Shame. Be nice to have someone breathe a bit of life into it again, eh? Nice to have some new blood around too.’ She grinned, revealing her unusual dental arrangement.
‘Thanks, Yvonne,’ I said as she handed me my change, declining to comment. I turned to go. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘You too, Poppy. And I’m glad you’re finding your feet again.’
I turned back. She’d lowered her voice conspiratorially even though there was no one else in the shop. ‘Getting out and about,’ she went on softly. ‘And don’t you pay any attention to those that think it’s a bit soon. Can’t be in widow’s weeds for ever, eh? I know after my Bill died I stayed indoors for months on end, but that’s not everyone’s way, is it?’ She shot me a kindly look before bustling away to attend to a consignment of lavatory paper which had just arrived and was sitting in a towering pile by the post-office counter, ready to be stacked.
I went home, thoughtful. Stirred, but not shaken by her remark. No, I wouldn’t pay any attention. Yvonne wasn’t to know I hadn’t had a man in my life for many years; wasn’t to know that in fact, rather than it being too soon, I’d left it rather late.
Archie was sound asleep in his pushchair now, eyelashes a pair of perfect crescents, mouth open, wet thumb dropped on his chest. Once inside I lifted him out carefully and carried him upstairs to his cot, then went down and gazed out of the front window, arms folded across my chest.
A grey mist had descended like an aged duvet, the once crisp and golden leaves dank and soggy now underfoot. Of course, it was that time of year again, wasn’t it? The hunting season. Other country sports too. A time when shots were fired in the air, horns were blown, bonfires crackled. The long run-up to Christmas, when people in towns hunkered down, and those in the country revved up. Polished their spurs, filled their hip flasks, had their horses clipped for action. Hunting. An ancient tradition, which, it seemed to me, still sorted the men from the boys, at least in this village. Mounted: Chad and Hope Armitage, Angie Asher, Mary Granger, Angus and Sylvia in their younger days but represented these days by their grandson Hugo, fresh out of Harrow, and, no doubt, Sam Hetherington. Foot followers: people like me, Jennie, Yvonne, Bob, Frank – oh, and Pete, who shod all the horses around here but didn’t actually own one.
And Hope had automatically put me in that foot-soldier category, hadn’t she? Wouldn’t have given it a second thought. And she was right. I’d followed before, stood around at meets. The whole village would turn out for this one, the first of the season, unless you really didn’t agree, which was unusual in the country. Yes, everyone would be there: the great and the good