Chloe by Freya North Page B

Concerts on the South Bank could be fun, but at fifteen pounds per ticket, ludicrous! The tube sounds most uncivilized and Islington in dire need of greenery and more sky. In its collective voice, Skirrid End denounces the levels of noise, dirt and decay of the capital as intolerable, unthinkable and not worthy of further discussion.
    Instead, and to Chloë’s delight, talk at Skirrid is devoted to the land, the weather and animals, interspersed readily with bawdy jokes and heated discussion as to whose turn it is to be banker in Monopoly. Chloë has even started roaring with relish ‘A hapless reshuffle of very little point’ at the opportune moment.
    The days have a loose routine to them which provides a framework of security for Chloë. After mucking out, she gathers with Carl and Gin in the kitchen to discuss the day’s schedule. Lunch is self-service, as and when. Tea is an institution with bread and butter and fruitcake shared by all in the kitchen apart from the greyhound who is faddy about her food. Supper is delicious and invariably raucous, followed by life-and-death Monopoly sessions. (There is no television at Skirrid End and many of the letters from the Scrabble set have been eaten over the years by the greyhound, though this does not preclude occasional marathons of the game.) Dai, who proves to be a spendthrift with no notion of investment, usually bows out by nine and Gin, who mostly gambles everything for a hotel on Park Lane, retires soon after.
    Chloë and Carl are invariably left with a delicious hour or so together in which they make hot chocolate and light conversation and Monopoly does not matter. He tells her he is travelling and will move on in the spring. She tells him she is travelling too. Really. In a way. Ditto the spring. He whets her appetite for New Zealand and she tells him where not to go in London. He thinks he may miss London out altogether.
    â€˜Anyways, I’ll be seeing Paris and Edin-burrow.’
    They learn each other’s favourite film (‘Really? Me too!’). And food. And favourite colour. And book (‘You must read it!’). They speak loosely of ‘back home’ but both feel compelled to live for the day and enjoy the present. Because of the Brett Years, Chloë has quite forgotten how to flirt and, deeming her lips unkissable anyway, she begins to find herself utterly relaxed in Carl’s easy company and chatters away freely. He adores her for it and also finds her rather alluring. He thinks she has the most beautiful hair he has ever seen and her freckles soon become the stuff of his last, late-night thoughts. But he doesn’t tell her so. Oh no. For while he is desperate to kiss her, he reads no sign of a come-on and presumes he must settle for just-good-friends. After all, not much point anyway with spring only a couple of months away to herald their separate ways.
    There have been times when, to kiss her, has been quite literally on the tip of his tongue. Once, he came across Chloë cleaning bridles in the tack room, humming softly in time with the grandfather clock; he had hummed in harmony and sincerity before a fit of giggles overtook them and Chloë stuffed the saddle-soap sponge down the back of his shirt. Then there was the time when Desmond threw her off with his spectacular, trademark ‘big one’ and she returned to the yard muddied, bruised and cross. Carl thought she looked fabulous, all wild and windswept (‘Like that chick Cathy from
Wondering Heights
’) and would have kissed her right through the mud had Gin not interrupted with cotton wool and ‘Is
Desmond
all right though?’ Most recently, Chloë made biscuits that were so melt-in-the-mouth and sweet that Carl was convinced her lips must taste likewise and was about to make a lunge for them when a very sudden and hapless reshuffle of absolutely no point took place.
    The problem, rued Carl to himself on a daily basis, was that