Vintage by Rosemary Friedman Page B

because they worshipped in the wrong church or lived in the wrong street. When’s the last time Clare’s been inside a church I don’t know. What about the children?’
    ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got that far.’
    ‘They’ll be on you before you know it. Even today. I was never much good at it. Mothering. My line’s more horses, Clare’ll tell you. It’s always been horses, something to do with my great-grandfather. Did I tell you Declan was coming for supper? There’s a stew in the pantry. Declan’s my fella. Lectures at the university. Jurisprudence. You’ll get on fine. Beef in Guinness. Eileen made it. She comes in to do breakfasts. I’ve only the two staying. They’re from Neimegen. I’ve told Declan about you. He’s dying to meet you.’
    After lunch Clare had gone up to the bedroom they had been allotted. It looked out on to the lawn, rough with daisies, and the jumping paddock. From the window, breathing the sweet air through the rain, which was now coming down in stair rods, she watched her mother now, more at ease with strangers than with her own flesh and blood, talking to Jamie.
    ‘There’s no such thing as a genius in riding,’ Viola was saying as her assistant patiently put the Dutch riders through their paces. ‘Prodigies in mathematics, inmusic, in chess, yes. Riding must be learned the hard way. The correct way. I don’t take on anyone who’s not learned to ride properly. Who can’t trot and gallop without stirrups and reins. No diver in his right mind would jump from the top board without first knowing how to swim. It’s the same with riding. We use the cavalry school method. Two thousand years of experience. There are no short cuts. Tell me, what kind of a doctor are you?’
    ‘An orthopaedic surgeon.’
    ‘We could use you here for the horses if you’re ever out of a job. Clare’s very fond of you. You’ve only to look at her. She’s not had a happy childhood. Her father wanted a boy. The two of them were always fighting. He’s a difficult man. Very autocratic. He tried to break her spirit. He didn’t succeed. She’s bold and hardy, like the Irish horses. Are you getting wet, Jamie?’
    Later, over supper, when Jamie started to sneeze, Viola plied him with whiskey and countered Clare’s accusation that she had kept her beloved standing in the rain with the remark that Irish rain, unlike the stuff they went in for in England, never did anyone any harm.
    Not only had the kitchen been transformed, but Viola herself. Clare presumed it was in honour of Declan Bailey rather than herself and Jamie. Her mother, taking no time at all over the exercise, had changed from her jodhpurs into a flattering red trouser-suit, piled her hair on top of her head, and put long ruby earrings, a present from Charles-Louis, in her ears. Although her face still bore no sign of make-up, her skin glowed and there was a softness to her which Clare had not seen before.
    The beef in Guinness was accompanied by a Minervois, to which the Baronne would not have given house-room, which Declan had bought from the off-licence. The talk,into the small hours of the morning, ranged from the tenuous peace agreement in the north, to the respective merits of Anglo-Arab and Anglo-Normand mounts, to Irish literature at the turn of the century.
    The evening ended with a recital of ‘…Away, come away: Empty your heart of its mortal dream…’ by Declan after which Clare and Jamie tactfully excused themselves and went upstairs.
    ‘Your mother’s great,’ Jamie said as they got undressed.
    ‘She likes you.’
    ‘Did she say so?’
    ‘I would have heard all about it by now if she didn’t…’
    Flinging his trousers on the floor, Jamie put his arms round her, lifted her, as if she were weightless, off her feet and covered her neck with love bites.
    ‘Jamie, what are you doing?’
    ‘It’s all this talk about stallions.’

Nine
    From the window of her boutique, Beatrice Biancarelli looked out on to the