Free Monsoon Summer by Julia Gregson

at having to put up with “the girls.”
    As the days wore on, the sight of his bony tweed bottom on the corner of my desk made me want to scream or stick a pin in it, but I tried not to show it, both for Daisy’s sake and my mother’s.
    It was my mother, I was sure of it, who was encouraging these visits, her mind leaping ahead to weddings in Saint Peter’s Church, which was part of the farm, to food for the reception, the naming of our children, to manicures, hats, canapés. And why not? Or so she would reason. In the deliberately classless world of Wickam Farm, anything could happen.
    But another fly in the custard was Ci Ci, who, noticing Tudor’s visits to the barn, began to unsheathe her claws. Poor Flora, poor me: reluctant gladiators, for a prize neither wanted. Or maybe Flora did; she’d become so wary of her mother it was almost impossible to tell.
    The storm finally broke on a night when Ci Ci was in bed with a hot water bottle and a tray, because she had a bad cold. Anto was working in his room, Daisy in Cheltenham giving a speech.
    On that freezing wet day, Tudor had laid aside his socialistprinciples to swagger off in plus fours to shoot at the Blenheim estate, which was close to us. He’d come back garlanded with dead birds that he wore on a string around his neck. At dinner, when my mother brought in the partridge, nestled in bacon and with a sage and onion sauce on the side, he regarded them with the complacent pride of a man who has just slapped a bison on the cave floor.
    â€œI took them ’em down just behind the Shakenoak Wood,” he said, in his usual careless drawl. “Lord Clyde was there too, but his dog had a bad day, so they both retired. Here, have some of this. I found it in the cellar—it’s Pomerol ’thirty-five—very good.” He looked at me. “Part of your education.”
    The wine was a surprise. Usually if we drank it at all, it was Daisy’s carrot, damson wine, or elderflower, combustible and variable brews that might have a thin layer of green mold on the surface and occasionally went off like bomb blasts in the larder.
    Tudor got out the dwindling set of Waterford glasses, poured a full one for himself, one for me, a thimbleful for Flora, who was profuse in her thanks.
    I had no idea what the significance of Pomerol ’35 was, but the taste was good and I liked the warm burr it gave to my bones.
    â€œWhen you drink a good wine,” Tudor instructed me, “you should hold your glass like this.” He put one hand daintily around the stem of the glass. “Never by the bulb, then hold it in your mouth for a moment.” His eyes were moistly intently on mine. “Now roll it around.” His thin lips rotated. “And swallow.” His Adam’s apple bobbed.
    â€œDon’t you love learning new things?” a suitably entranced Flora was saying when Daisy appeared in a wet mackintosh.
    â€œWhat are we celebrating?”
    â€œBirds,” Tudor said shortly. “Partridge. Got ’em today.”
    â€œGolly, I’m famished.” She unbuttoned her mac. “This smells wonderful.” She lifted the silver salver on the sideboard. There was a small amount of partridge left, a few tablespoonfuls of bread sauce, bacon, three shriveled carrots.
    â€œHas Anto been fed?” She stopped helping herself. “He’s still in the barn. I saw the lights on.”
    â€œI thought he went with you,” I said.
    â€œNo, too busy. The poor boy must be ravenous. I’ll take him some food.”
    â€œI’ll go, Daisy,” I said. “You stay and eat.”
    We put a few morsels of meat and some potatoes on a plate, and what remained of the vegetables. I put a steel cover over the plate to keep it warm. When Daisy left the room to hang up her coat, I saw there was about half an inch of Pomerol left.
    â€œMay I take some for Anto?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t