Behaving Badly by Isabel Wolff

brand new golf club which, as luck, or Fate, would have it, is located very near Alfriston.’ Alfriston? Mum would go mad . ‘ So I’d be grateful if you could break this tragic news to your mother as gently as possible, Miranda.’
    I e-mailed him back. ‘I’ll try!’
    At half past one I put Herman on the lead, my head stillreeling from the news about my father, then we left for Little Gateley. The journey was easier this time as I knew the way, and I arrived just after two, my stomach in knots. The gates were festooned with bunches of balloons, like aerial bouquets, and there was a poster saying Summer Fete! There was no sign of Jimmy’s Jaguar—I guessed that he wanted to avoid seeing me. As I parked under a tree I could see frantic activity in the garden, where a number of trestle tables were being set up. Herman and I strolled across the lawn in the sunshine towards the book stalls, home-made-cake stalls and bric-a-brac stalls. There were stalls selling local crafts and toys, a striped marquee marked ‘Refreshments’, and nearby a brass band was tuning up. There was face-painting, skittles and a tombola, and someone was setting up a slow bicycle race. Strung between the trees were necklaces of bunting—it all looked very festive and gay. Suddenly I saw Caroline coming out of the house followed by Trigger and the two Westies.
    ‘Hi, Miranda, great to see you,’ she smiled. ‘What a sweet dachshund,’ she added admiringly. ‘No, Trigger! Don’t do that to him you rude boy!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going to have the brute firmly on the lead today.’
    ‘Any improvement yet?’ I asked her, as Trigger leaped about by the flowerbeds, snapping at bees.
    ‘Well, we’re working on it. But I don’t want to tempt fate. Tempt fete!’ she giggled. ‘I hope people will be tempted. James is going to be late,’ she added. ‘He’s driving down from Billington after his weekly surgery—he’s a politician.’
    ‘Is he?’ I said.
    ‘He should be here in about twenty minutes—I do hope he turns up on time. Anyway, that’s where the dog show will be,’ she indicated a makeshift arena near the tennis court. ‘That part will start just after three. Go and get some tea,’ she suggested amiably, ‘while I man the gates. At least theweather’s held,’ she said as she looked at the sky. ‘It’s bliss, isn’t it?’ she added happily, as she walked away.
    ‘Mm,’ I said. ‘It is.’
    By now people were arriving, many trailing children and dogs. The brass band was playing ‘Daisy, Daisy…’ and I was just looking at the paperbacks on the book stall when I suddenly heard Jimmy’s voice.
    ‘Welcome to the Little Gateley Fete, everyone!’ I turned, and saw him standing on a hay bale, in chinos and a blue polo shirt, clutching a megaphone. ‘My wife Caroline and I hope that you’ll all have a really wonderful time. It’s all in a very good cause—the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals. So do please spend as much as you can!’ The crowd looked dutifully appreciative and attentive. What a benign figure he cut, I thought. I’d seen him with a megaphone before, of course. He’d looked rather different then as he shouted ‘Shame!’ at a startled-looking girl on a black pony, the planes of his face twisted with rage. And now, here he was, circulating in friendly fashion, meeting and greeting, patting children and pressing the flesh. He took part in the slow bicycle race and sportingly submitted to having wet sponges thrown at him in the Aunt Sally.
    ‘Come on, folks!’ he shouted. ‘How often do you get the chance to do this to a politician?!’ He was in his element—the good-egg country squire, entertaining the locals. And he never once looked over at me. I knew what he was doing, of course. He was letting me know that whatever had happened between us in the past, my presence didn’t affect him. I decided not to seek him out yet—I would wait. As the band played the opening chords