Follies. Rosie Thomas

And a single sip told her that it was indeed something very different.

      ‘This,’ said Oliver, ‘is burgundy. Gevrey-Chambertin, Clos St Jacques. Not quite the very greatest, but as good as one can find almost anywhere.’ He turned his glass to the light and looked at it intently, then drank. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, and Helen knew that she was forgotten.

      After a moment Oliver looked up again and recollected himself. ‘One comes here for the game,’ he told her. ‘We’re having grouse, okay?’ She nodded, not caring if they were going to eat penguin.

      In fact the food, when it came, didn’t appeal to her. The meat tasted strong and not very fresh. Helen ate what she could and gave all her attention to Oliver. In response, he set out to amuse her. She realised that when he chose, he could be excellent company. He made her laugh with stories of his own casual irresponsibility, and he swept the conversation along without making any more awkward demands on Helen’s self-protective quiet. He seemed to live in a world of parties, weekends in Town, as he called London, dining clubs – and, even less intelligibly to Helen – dogs and horses.

      ‘Do you do any work?’ she asked.

      ‘Not a jot.’ His beguiling smile drew her own in response. ‘I shall get a Third, of course. Just like my father. And his father, for that matter. My brother didn’t bother with a degree at all. What difference does it make?’ He shrugged amiably. ‘More wine?’

      Halfway through the meal Oliver drained his glass, tipped the empty bottle sideways, then signalled to the waiter to bring another.

      ‘Another?’ Helen said it out loud, in spite of herself.

      ‘Of course another.’ Oliver looked faintly surprised. ‘The days of the one-bottle lunch are, as far as I am concerned, ancient history.’

      He drank most of the burgundy, but he took care, too, to refill Helen’s glass whenever she drank a little.

      After the grouse came thick, rich syllabub in little china cups, and then brandy which made even Helen’s fingers warm as she wrapped them round the glass.

      When they had finished, one of the self-effacing waiters brought the bill. Helen tried to look away, but curiosity dragged her eyes back to Oliver’s negligently scribbled cheque. It was for an amount almost exactly equal to the money she would have to live on for the rest of the term.

      When they came out into the late afternoon sunshine, Oliver’s eyes were hooded and he was talking just a little more deliberately than usual, but there was no other sign of how much he had drunk.

      Once again he flung open the Jaguar’s passenger door with a flourish and waved her towards it.

      ‘Can you drive all right?’ she asked, knowing that it was a pointless question.

      ‘Perfectly.’ His arm came round her shoulders again and with one finger he raised her chin so that he could look down into her eyes. ‘Don’t worry so much,’ he told her. ‘Don’t be so frightened of everything.’ His hand moved to tangle itself in the mass of black curls and Helen felt the tiny, caressing movements of his thumb against her neck. He smelt of leather and wool and very faintly of dark red burgundy. For a moment they stood in silence. Helen was waiting, half apprehensive and half eager. Then Oliver laughed softly, deep in his throat. ‘You seem so timid. But you aren’t, really, are you? What door do I have to open to let the other Helen out?’

      The other Helen. She caught her breath, thrown off balance by his sudden astuteness. Ever since he had kissed her, up in her bare room at Follies House, two Helens had been sparring inside her. She had no idea which one was her real self. How could she begin to find an answer for Oliver?

      He didn’t wait for one. Instead, he took her hand firmly and guided her into the car. ‘Come on. We’ve got things to do.’ Oliver hoisted his leather coat out from behind the seats and tucked it around her. Helen buried her nose luxuriously in the sheepskin lining.

      ‘Where?’

      ‘I told you. To see a man about a dog.’

      The car shot forward. Oliver was driving even faster than before, but it seemed to Helen just as competently. He was very sure of where he was going.

      The sun was low behind the trees now, and the shadows were thickening between the hedges in the narrow lanes. For a mile or so they skirted a long wall that looked as if it might enclose a park, then suddenly Oliver swung the wheel and the car skidded in through a gateway flanked by tall stone posts. They passed a low building that might have been a gatekeeper’s lodge, its windows warmly lit behind drawn curtains. Beyond the lodge was a driveway, arched over with massive oak trees. As they sped towards it, Helen became aware of the dark, crenellated bulk of a big house sitting squarely on a little rise ahead.

      Beside her, Oliver’s face was expressionless.

      To one side of the house was an outcrop of lower buildings, and Oliver turned the car decisively towards them. A moment later they were in a cobbled yard, the roar of the Jaguar’s exhaust thrown back at them by the enclosing walls. Oliver vaulted out of the car and simultaneously one of the stable doors swung open. A shaft of yellow light struck across the cobbles.

      ‘Evening, my lord,’ said the little man who had come out to meet them. He was toothless, brown-skinned and dressed in moleskin trousers and a coat so ancient that all the colour had been drained out of it.

      ‘Hello, Jasper,’ said Oliver, grinning at him. ‘Where are they?’

      ‘End barn, my lord.’

      ‘Come and see them too, Helen. This is Jasper Thripp, by the way. Miss Brown, Jasper.’

      ‘Evening, miss,’ said the little man, and hobbled towards the door of the end barn.

      Uncomprehending, Helen followed them.

      Inside the barn were the mingled smells of bran, paraffin from a heater, and warm milk. In a large box near the heater was a beagle bitch, surrounded by a warm, wriggling mass of brown, black and white-patched puppies. Oliver stooped over them, murmuring endearments to the mother as he lifted each pup in turn. His face was soft in the harsh light cast by the bare, cobwebbed lightbulb overhead. As he turned the puppies to and fro, running a practised finger over their legs and backs, Helen saw that his hands were long and sensitive like the hands in an eighteenth-century portrait. At length he nodded and smiled at Jasper. ‘Three first-rate, and a couple more pretty good. Yes?’

      Jasper sucked at his toothless gums. ‘Yup. I’d say so. She’s done well this time, the old gel.’ They were talking as equals now.

      When the last of the pups had been gently returned to the security of its box, Oliver moved aside briskly. The softness was gone from his face, replaced by the more familiar authoritative mask.

      ‘We’ll give them a couple more weeks, then pick the ones we need for the pack.’

      ‘Right you are, my lord.’

      Master and servant again, Helen thought.

      ‘And now, let’s have a drink before I take Miss Brown off. There’s a bottle in the tack-room safe.’

      They retraced their steps to the door from which Jasper had emerged. The tack-room was stuffy and crammed with ranks of saddles and bridles, folded horse-blankets, combs and brushes and mysterious bottles and jars. Oliver was rummaging in an ancient green metal safe. Triumphantly he produced a whisky bottle and three thick tumblers. Helen shook her head at his invitation, but Oliver and Jasper both took liberal measures.

      The old man drained his at a gulp, murmuring first, ‘Here’s to ’em, then.’ Oliver tossed back his drink too, then stood up to go.

      Jasper eyed him. ‘Will you be taking Cavalier or The Pirate to the Thursday meet?’

      Oliver was zipping himself into the aviator’s coat. He took Helen’s hand and squeezed it.

      ‘Neither. Got to work this week.’ Seeing Jasper’s face, he laughed delightedly.