Christmas
2012 was a truly special one. Having
turned three last August, Lily was old enough to appreciate the unique magic of the occasion, and her
excitement was infectious.
The icing on
the cake was my sister and her Husband
joining the festivities with Francesca,
their three month old daughter, whom Lily has idolized ever since she saw a
photo of her as a new born baby.
For three months, she insisted on carrying the snap shot everywhere with her, and showed it off to the butcher, the green grocer, the postman and the AGA repair man, with the proud words "That's my little Cousin."
Francesca was stoically produced at every single nursery Show and Tell Session for 16 weeks. After the third week, I asked if she'd like to take a favourite book or much loved toy for a change. The suggestion was meant with an expression of such scandalized outrage that I didn't try again.
We went to
Wincanton Races on Boxing day. I lost all my money and Jasper won over £200.
He’s inherited his Mother’s admirable knack for choosing winners. Socially, it was an unprecedentedly busy run
up to New Year, and we spent little time at home. By the time New Years Eve arrived, we were
all feeling rather done in, including
Lily who astonished us both by putting herself
to bed at 6pm.
Having
relaxed in a hot scented bath, I put on my beautiful dove grey silk nightie (my Christmas present from Jasper),
and dished up two mugs of turkey soup which we ate in the snug
watching Downton Abbey, lulled by the cosy sound of crackling logs and
soporific heat from the wood burner.
We were fast
asleep when the phone rang.
“Hello! Is
that Mrs Miller?” barked a man’s voice.
“Yes.” I
yawned, groping for the light switch.
“Your ruddy
cows have escaped. They’re in our rose
garden!”
I rubbed my
eyes and looked at the clock. It was 11.59pm.
“Who is this?”
I asked, suspecting a practical joke.
“It’s
Colonel Farqhuar from The Manor. You’d
better get here sharpish or I’ll blow them all
to smithereens!”
I went
cold. The Colonel was a lovely
gentleman, but encroaching senility had triggered a worrying preoccupation
with guns and fire. He was no longer
safe on the shooting field. Only the week before, Lady Farqhuar had been
summoned to take him home after he started taking pot shots at a hapless
beater.
“ I’m so
sorry, we’ll be there in 5 minutes. Please don’t shoot them.” I gabbled, as I
pulled on a pair of damp wellies onto my bare legs.
His reply
was drowned out by the opening bars of Old Langs Eyne. A volley of deafening bangs went off in the background. In a state of panic and confusion, I couldn’t
tell whether they were fireworks or a shot gun. I pictured the head lines in
The Western Gazette. “Twenty Heifers shot dead as Senile War Hero runs amok with
gun in New Year Massacre.”
I shook
Jasper awake and made an SOS call to his Mother next door. She hurried over in
her dressing gown to wait until our return.
“There’s no
time to waste. Let’s go.” Jasper said grimly.
We jumped in
the Land Rover and shot off down the lane to
The Manor.
As we
screeched to a halt at the end of the drive, the Colonel appeared from behind a
gate post, swigging enthusiastically from a hip flask.
“We’ve got
guests. You can’t drive in. The swines are causing havoc behind on our bowling green.”
“Where are
the heifers?” asked Jasper.
“I meant the wretched heifers you ruddy
buffoon!” screamed the Colonel.
I hitched up
my night dress and set off towards the house. As I panted across the lawn, clutching
a length of blue poly pipe, I was
acutely aware of a sea of faces peering out of the drawing room windows at me. I skidded wildly on the slippery grass and a
cheer arose.
The heifers
were waiting by a gate onto the lane.
Within five minutes they were back in their paddock and we were trudging
wearily back to The Manor.
Lady
Farqhuar intercepted us as we skulked past and insisted on our coming in to
toast the New Year. Our horrified
protests fell on deaf ears. “Don’t
worry, it’ll just be lots of oldies.” Jasper whispered soothingly as I buttoned
up my old mucking out cardigan.
We were ushered into the house and thrust into
a drawing room with at least 30 guests.
They turned
to stare as we walked in. I almost turned on my heel and bolted.
I felt as
though we had blundered into a Armani campaign.
They were all impossibly glamorous and none of them were a day over 25.
“We thought
we’d let Tarquin throw a Party at home this year.” Tinkled Lady Farqhuar
gesturing towards a devastatingly
handsome young man who promptly offered
us champagne.
“How
lovely.” I croaked, taking a mortified swig.
“Is that a
nightie you’re wearing?” asked a stunning blonde girl in a Little Black Dress.
She looked
genuinely fascinated.
“They’re a
different breed Farmers!” barked the Colonel, offering us a cigar.
“Farmers in
pyjamas!” piped up a Kate Moss look alike, and everyone laughed.
A HAPPY NEW
YEAR TO YOU ALL!
