An Almost Perfect Moon. Jamie Holland

‘Sorry not to be here when you arrived. Problem with the bloody boar. Let me tell you now, don’t ever have a stock of boar. More bloody effort than they’re worth. Dangerous beasts too – can easily break a leg if they run at you. Even worse if you get gored by the bastards. Still, make good sausages and no one else is doing it for miles around. Our sausages are eaten all over the world in fact. Places you probably never even knew existed.’

      He continued in this vein until they sat down to dinner, telling Harry everything about the farm, how successful it was while everyone else was struggling (‘Small scale’s a waste of time. No wonder the smaller farmers are having problems – they need to think bigger’). He barely paused for breath and yet somehow he’d still managed to finish off several glasses of Krug.

      Then Dominic ran into the room, dressed in his pyjamas.

      ‘Dominic, you should be in bed,’ growled Charles.

      ‘He just wants to say goodnight to everyone, don’t you, darling?’ chipped in Stella.

      ‘Yes,’ said Dominic, standing firmly in front of his mother, ‘and have a drink like everyone else.’

      ‘Here, pass him this, would you?’ said Charles, handing Harry a glass of water.

      Harry passed it to Dominic, felt him grip the glass and then let go. Immediately, it crashed to the floor, splinters of glass flying everywhere.

      ‘Dominic! For God’s sake,’ muttered Charles.

      ‘Sorry, I thought he’d taken it,’ said Harry helplessly as Dominic burst into tears.

      ‘Don’t worry, it’s not your fault,’ Julia told him reassuringly.

      ‘You’re over-tired darling, that’s all,’ Stella told her wailing son.

      ‘He didn’t give it to me, it was his fault,’ bawled Dominic, pointing an accusing finger at Harry.

      ‘Come on, bed,’ said Stella decisively, grabbing his hand and leading him from the room.

      ‘The sooner he’s packed off to prep school, the better,’ muttered Charles, bending down awkwardly and picking up the larger pieces of broken glass. Harry squatted too, and hunted for scattered shards, aware of Charles’ suspicious glances. Julia, too, looked embarrassed, but Stella soon returned and did her best to diffuse the situation.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ she said to Harry, ‘he was just tired. You know how children can get.’

      ‘That your Citroën outside?’ Charles eventually asked him as they began to eat.

      ‘Yes it is,’ Harry replied, elbows in and gingerly cutting his gravadlax.

      ‘Bloody good everyday cars in their time. They were very modern when they first came out. First mass-produced monocoque car. That’s why they’re called traction avant – it’s Frog for front-wheel drive.’

      Harry, who’d been obsessed by these cars since childhood and knew intricate details about paint codes and production numbers, didn’t need to be told this.

      ‘Well, mine’s one of the later models – he began, but was cut off.

      ‘A Light Fifteen, that’s what they call your type.’ Now he was being incorrect too – couldn’t this fat git tell the difference between a French and a British model?

      ‘Actually, it’s an onze légère, Daddy,’ said Julia, adding, ‘it’s a French one.’

      ‘Yes, I know that, Julia,’ snapped Charles testily, ‘but in English, they’re called Light Fifteen.’

      ‘Does it really matter what it’s called?’ Stella smiled. ‘It’s still a jolly nice old car.’

      Harry winced slightly and tried a question of his own. ‘I hear you’ve got a few cars yourself.’

      ‘Yes. Half-decent motors too. A couple of XKs, a Phantom II and an old DB5.’

      ‘I thought you had a Jaguar,’ put in Julia.

      ‘I’ve got two, Julia, those are the XKs.’ He rolled his eyes knowingly at Harry.

      ‘And which one’s the James Bond car?’ she persisted.

      ‘The Aston Martin DB5,’ Charles told her wearily. Clearly, this was men’s stuff.

      ‘Very nice,’ said Harry appreciatively, conscious Charles hadn’t offered to show them to him.

      There was slight lull between courses, and then Julia said, ‘Harry’s an artist, Daddy.’

      ‘Oh yes?’ said Charles sceptically. ‘Not that modern crap, I hope. If you ask me, it’s a bloody joke.’

      ‘Well, I’m not a modernist actually. Murals is what I do most, but I’m a big fan of neo-classicism and the rococo.’

      Charles grunted a begrudging approval.

      ‘But this place is magnificent.’ Harry tried a change of tack. ‘Do tell me more about it.’ He thought he might be very rude any moment, and hoped this would change the rapidly developing impasse. It did: Charles launched into a detailed history of the place, his family and more anecdotes about the first owner, barely pausing for breath until fetching the port and lighting himself an enormous cigar.

      ‘Well done, Harry,’ said Julia, once Charles had announced he was ready for ‘Bedfordshire’. Stella, having cleared away most of the table things with the help of Harry and Julia, had disappeared long before.

      ‘She hardly said a word all night,’ whispered Harry.

      ‘I think she’s quite shy, but it’s not helped by Daddy playing the dominant male.’

      Harry stretched and yawned, suddenly tired. His single room now appeared an even more attractive proposition; he didn’t feel up to satisfying Julia’s voracious sexual appetite into the early hours. He just wanted the night off so he could have a really good long night’s sleep. Charles had more than lived up to his expectations; he didn’t know how anyone could put up with such a cantankerous, misogynistic, bullying old bore. No wonder Julia had been so apprehensive. Still, what a house, and a fantastic place to be if only her father could be avoided. Having seen Julia to her room, he stumbled back down the weaving corridors towards his own at the abbey end. Had he not been so exhausted, he might have found the dark, aged walls quite spooky, but as it was, the moment his head hit the pillow, he fell fast asleep, his concerns about Julia temporarily put on hold.

      

      He awoke as Julia slipped into bed beside him.

      ‘Julia, what are you doing here?’ he mumbled, still full of sleep.

      ‘I suddenly felt bad leaving you all on your own down here. Anyway, Daddy’s fast asleep now – I could hear him snoring.’

      ‘Why should he care anyway?’ said Harry, sitting up in bed.

      ‘We’re Catholic. I’m lapsed obviously, but he’s against sex before marriage. Or so he says. Although I can’t believe he hadn’t slept with Stella before they married.’

      Harry always slept with the curtains at least half open as he liked waking in summer to see what the day was like outside. This night, an almost full moon shone through the lead-latticed windows, giving the whole room a luminous glow. Harry was just wondering whether he had the strength to perform when Julia peeled off her silk pyjamas and started kissing him hungrily. Her smooth body, with just a hint of goose-bumps, looked creamy pale in the moonlight, emphasizing every curve of her body. Thrusting her sex towards Harry’s face, she began to moan.

      ‘Lick me, Harry, suck my fanny!’ she exclaimed loudly.

      ‘Shh darling,’ said Harry in hushed tones, ‘I really don’t want to be shot by your father.’

      ‘Oh don’t worry about him – these walls are so thick he won’t be able to hear a thing,’