Tim Meets Patrick!
Chapter One
The country life, Tim reckoned, was definitely over-rated. All those Lakeland poets her aunty loved so much had a lot to answer for. When Lawrie was flush with the receipts of her first Hollywood blockbuster, and purchased herself a nice country retreat - with a good wine cellar and attentive butler (Tim grinned, enjoying herself now) that would be one thing. Then she might well pop up for the weekend, as a nice break from the pressures of a successful West End directing career. But now…faced with Trennels for half term: no, that was a very different story.
“Hold your horses,” she yelled, suddenly perceiving that Nicola and Peter were a good half a field ahead of her. She quickened her pace and almost, but not quite, avoided standing in the cow pat that suddenly appeared, glistening moistly, as if from nowhere. “Humph,” thought Tim, wiping her shoe off on the grass. Well, one thing was for sure. She would never be possessed by the farming bug, and immerse herself in livestock and silage, as Nic and Lawrie’s elder sister, the supposedly level-headed Rowan had so unaccountably done. Certainly not. Should the Keiths unexpectedly find themselves inheriting a sizeable piece of Dorset, handed down from generation to generation, and requiring a scion of the family to now step forward and put their hand to the tiller - well, they can whistle, thought Tim. Maybe Aunt Edith would do it. And she began to giggle.
Nicola and Peter had paused at the brow of the hill, and were staring back at her, not exactly impatiently, but with that rather Marlow air of wondering why everybody could not be as competent as them. Unintimidated, Tim clumped cheerfully up the mud track towards them. All things considered, she reckoned she was doing rather well. A whole houseful of Marlows, undiluted, was not wearing her down. She was still possessed of all her Keith spikiness, and had no intention of becoming either keen, competent - or cowed.
“Lots of mud you have in these parts,” she observed, drawing level with them. “Never seen so much mud. Not sure, to be absolutely honest, I ever wanted to see so much mud -”
“Look,” said Nicola, ignoring this. “Rowan bought them last month.” She gestured towards the neighbouring field.
“Horses,” said Tim, without enthusiasm. “Four legs, a mane and a tail. Very nice, I’m sure.”
“Oh Tim! Look at the foal. He’s absolutely gorgeous!”
He was, rather. His coat was almost copper in colour, and it shimmered in the winter sun. Tim looked, and then intent to tease, observed, “Don’t have much to do with each other, nags and me. Except when I open a tin of food for Rover. Nothing he likes so well as horse-meat. Look at Daks now. You can see he’s licking his chops already.”
Daks, his head cocked, was indeed observing the horses with great interest. Nicola, although she knew Tim was teasing, could not prevent a horrified, “Oh Tim!”
Tim grinned - Nicola was always so easy - and catching Peter’s eye found him smiling appreciatively too. He was alright, she reckoned. A bit too naval for her taste, but still, less worthy than Ann and less shallow than Ginty, if not as easy on the eye …and, well, less intimidating than Rowan. Tim was very rarely intimidated by anybody, but she had felt Rowan’s eye on her a few times, and bitten her tongue. She did not really fancy receiving one of R. Marlow’s put-downs.
“Pity we won’t ever be able to hunt them,” said Peter. “In the good old days, it would have been hunting season now. I’d have enjoyed taking the Idiot over the Cut.”
Nicola, thought Tim, was looking at Peter rather oddly, as if there was something she wanted to say, but wouldn’t. It intrigued her, as it always did watching the undercurrents of other people’s emotions.
But she didn’t say anything: instead she jerked her head in the opposite direction and demanded, “Who’s this then? One of the yokels?”
The Marlows swung round towards the way she pointed. Nicola said, outraged, “That’s not a yokel - that’s Patrick -” and Peter yelled and waved, “Patrick! Over here!” which Tim thought quite unnecessary, given that he was clearly heading their way. She watched as he approached: a rather slight boy, about Ginty’s age she reckoned, and very upright, with his hand held at an odd angle. As he drew closer, she realised that this was because he was actually carrying a hawk - she did not know what kind - perched upon his wrist. She stared, and felt another balloon of laughter growing. Trust the Marlows to have a resident falconer, patrolling the ancestral acres. Still, she had to admit that he did look rather…impressive, in an odd way; somehow at one with the winter landscape. Unconsciously, she lifted her chin and gave him one of her haughtier looks.
His eyes met hers, very straight. They were almost the same colour as the luminous coat of the foal.
“This is Tim,” said Nicola to Patrick. “She’s come back with us from school. Lawrie’s pal, you know, only Lawrie’s being a couch potato, and watching a South Bank special about some ancient theatrical bod that even Tim’s not interested in -”
“Well, I’m sorry if my presence inconveniences you,” said Tim lightly. “I’d rather thought that you and me were friends too.”
This time Nicola refused to be provoked. “Did you now?” she said calmly. “I wonder what gave you that idea? Anyway, this is Patrick. He lives next door.” She waved vaguely in the direction of some trees several fields away: behind their foliage, Tim reckoned, there was a suggestion of turrets lurking. Presumably Patrick’s rural pad was no mere hovel, but yet another ancestral pile.
“So you’re the boy next door, eh?” Rather to her surprise, Tim was aware of a slight but discernible heightening of the atmosphere: and it seemed to her that Nicola’s cheeks were pinker. Unable to resist probing further, she added, “Very nice too. And what a bevy of Girls Next Door you have to choose from - which will it be I wonder - the virtuous Ann - the delightful Gin - ”
Nicola was definitely looking daggers now. I must ask Lawrie about this, thought Tim, and then remembered regretfully that Lawrie was always far too wrapped up in her own feelings to have any time for observing other people’s. I wonder if Miranda knows anything? No, I doubt it. Nick’s always been close about some things - Feeling distinctly more cheerful about the prospects for half-term, Tim eyed Patrick with unabashed candour.
“Faced with so much abundance, the poor Merrick boy is likely to keel over from choice. But not Lawrie anyway,” said Patrick, grinning suddenly. “I think I can promise you’re safe there.”
Wow, is he hinting what I think he’s hinting, thought Tim impressed, or is it just my dark suspicious mind? She thought of retorting that public school boys (which presumably he must be) should not judge their female counterparts by their own murky standards, and then rejected it, as definitely going Too Far. For the moment he had definitely outflanked her. She smiled at him. Despite herself, she was definitely charmed.