An invitation to the Scott-Moncton’s Christmas Eve drinks was much coveted in the village, but the Hawthornes got theirs simply because they had just moved in to the converted lodge at the entrance to the Scott-Moncton estate.
“Awfully good to meet you, Hawthorne,” said Scott-Moncton.
Hawthorne, not altogether glad to be addressed by his surname, was nevertheless grateful for the friendly tone. He was also curious to see the inside of the big house, reputedly the subject of a fabulously expensive refit. Scott-Moncton was discussing it with an admiring group of champagne clutchers.
“You can’t beat a Wilton carpet,” he suggested. “Mind you, the piece de resistance is the Brazilian Cherry flooring in the kitchen, an offcut from the Manaus Opera House.”
Hawthorne was more interested in the paintings. Could that really be a Lucien Freud? These modern nudes left little to the imagination. Rolling hills of flesh were depicted.
“Are you here over Christmas?” asked Hawthorne, feeling that it was his turn among the champagne clutchers to make some conversation.
“Thereby hangs a tale,” Scott-Moncton replied. “We always spend Christmas Day at the castle in Berkshire. Always. But Mrs Hastings, our housekeeper, has just gone down with flu and there’s no one this late to feed the cats. Hastings, her husband, is working,” he added, as if imparting an interesting snippet of sociology.
Hawthorne, registering that the serving class was also accorded surname treatment, heard himself saying, almost by feudal reflex: “I could pop in on Christmas morning, if that’s any help.”
The walk back to the lodge was in all senses a frosty one. “You know what presents on Christmas morning means to Mum,” his wife complained. “Now you won’t be there until lunch. Well you can jolly well take the Focus and I’ll drive over in the Polo. At least one of us will be there at the right time,” she added, rather unnecessarily, Hawthorne thought.
On Christmas morning, Hawthorne let himself in to the big house by its kitchen door. After the champagne-fuelled chatter of the previous evening the house seemed eerily quiet. He put out the cat food and milk in saucers on a mat. There was the famous cherry floor and, ranged on it, the best in kitchen equipment.
“Cripes,” he thought, taking in a fridge large enough to accommodate a small scout troop.
He took a step back to absorb domestic details with which he might later mollify his still furious wife. There was a loud crack as his heel shattered the saucer on which it had landed. A sliding edge scored the wood surface but he was more immediately concerned with soaking up the spreading pool of milk. He had no idea how Brazilian cherry would respond to this onslaught. The thought that there couldn’t be much milk around in the Amazon flashed through his mind, along with a vision of Scott-Moncton glowering at a dark stain on his prized floor. The kitchen had everything, it seemed, except cloths or paper towels.
Hawthorne began to panic. Dashing into the hall he trod on a cat which shot up the stairs with a yowl. Thoroughly rattled, Hawthorne raced fruitlessly around the ground floor until, at last, he found lavatory paper stacked up on a sill in a small loo. Grabbing for the top roll he managed, in his haste, only to precipitate it into lavatory bowl. Fished out, arguably it would have dried out by the time its owners returned. If not, they still might not connect it with him. One just had to hope. This act of calculation restored some of his composure.
The silence which followed his sudden burst of activity had only emphasised the house’s emptiness. He was definitely alone and it occurred to him that there would never be a better opportunity to examine its treasures. In the large drawing room, it was the work of a moment to lift the Lucien Freud nude off the wall and examine its back for evidence of authenticity. It was the work of another moment to step back and onto a cat. They seemed to be all over the house or perhaps it was the same cat. How could you tell? In the ensuing moment of shared confusion, the painting fell from Hawthorne’s grasp and bounced off an armchair before coming to rest on the Wilton. Hawthorne anxiously held the canvas up to the light. He could discern a small depression in the surface of a representation already featuring a number of dimples but, on the plus side, you could see it only from an angle.
Replacing the painting, Hawthorne this time glanced around for the cat, which had retreated under a sideboard, and stepped back to ensure the picture was straight. As he did so, he felt, underfoot, an unexpected slipperiness. There was a patch of something that must have come from a cat, which end he did not feel equal to assessing.
Hawthorne sat down on a sofa. Surveying the patch and the nude, but not the loo roll or the kitchen floor – that would either dry out invisibly or it wouldn’t and time might help with the scratch – Hawthorne decided that he would say nothing, not because it was a good option but because he couldn’t think of a better one.
Christmas Day did not improve. His wife went as planned to her mother’s early in the morning.’ He was left with the Focus which, predictably, had a flat battery, the RAC proved to be effectively unobtainable and Hawthorne spent a glum evening alone, the voice of an unsympathetic wife on the phone the only alternative to watching re runs of Morecambe and Wise.
Scott-Moncton never afterwards referred to Christmas. There was little day to day contact in any case, or opportunity for either thanks or recrimination. Even the cats seemed to keep their distance. As the leaves started to turn, it was Hawthorne who raised the subject with his wife.
“Why don’t we go away this Christmas? It’d be good to be alone.”
“Awfully good to meet you, Hawthorne,” said Scott-Moncton.
Hawthorne, not altogether glad to be addressed by his surname, was nevertheless grateful for the friendly tone. He was also curious to see the inside of the big house, reputedly the subject of a fabulously expensive refit. Scott-Moncton was discussing it with an admiring group of champagne clutchers.
“You can’t beat a Wilton carpet,” he suggested. “Mind you, the piece de resistance is the Brazilian Cherry flooring in the kitchen, an offcut from the Manaus Opera House.”
Hawthorne was more interested in the paintings. Could that really be a Lucien Freud? These modern nudes left little to the imagination. Rolling hills of flesh were depicted.
“Are you here over Christmas?” asked Hawthorne, feeling that it was his turn among the champagne clutchers to make some conversation.
“Thereby hangs a tale,” Scott-Moncton replied. “We always spend Christmas Day at the castle in Berkshire. Always. But Mrs Hastings, our housekeeper, has just gone down with flu and there’s no one this late to feed the cats. Hastings, her husband, is working,” he added, as if imparting an interesting snippet of sociology.
Hawthorne, registering that the serving class was also accorded surname treatment, heard himself saying, almost by feudal reflex: “I could pop in on Christmas morning, if that’s any help.”
The walk back to the lodge was in all senses a frosty one. “You know what presents on Christmas morning means to Mum,” his wife complained. “Now you won’t be there until lunch. Well you can jolly well take the Focus and I’ll drive over in the Polo. At least one of us will be there at the right time,” she added, rather unnecessarily, Hawthorne thought.
On Christmas morning, Hawthorne let himself in to the big house by its kitchen door. After the champagne-fuelled chatter of the previous evening the house seemed eerily quiet. He put out the cat food and milk in saucers on a mat. There was the famous cherry floor and, ranged on it, the best in kitchen equipment.
“Cripes,” he thought, taking in a fridge large enough to accommodate a small scout troop.
He took a step back to absorb domestic details with which he might later mollify his still furious wife. There was a loud crack as his heel shattered the saucer on which it had landed. A sliding edge scored the wood surface but he was more immediately concerned with soaking up the spreading pool of milk. He had no idea how Brazilian cherry would respond to this onslaught. The thought that there couldn’t be much milk around in the Amazon flashed through his mind, along with a vision of Scott-Moncton glowering at a dark stain on his prized floor. The kitchen had everything, it seemed, except cloths or paper towels.
Hawthorne began to panic. Dashing into the hall he trod on a cat which shot up the stairs with a yowl. Thoroughly rattled, Hawthorne raced fruitlessly around the ground floor until, at last, he found lavatory paper stacked up on a sill in a small loo. Grabbing for the top roll he managed, in his haste, only to precipitate it into lavatory bowl. Fished out, arguably it would have dried out by the time its owners returned. If not, they still might not connect it with him. One just had to hope. This act of calculation restored some of his composure.
The silence which followed his sudden burst of activity had only emphasised the house’s emptiness. He was definitely alone and it occurred to him that there would never be a better opportunity to examine its treasures. In the large drawing room, it was the work of a moment to lift the Lucien Freud nude off the wall and examine its back for evidence of authenticity. It was the work of another moment to step back and onto a cat. They seemed to be all over the house or perhaps it was the same cat. How could you tell? In the ensuing moment of shared confusion, the painting fell from Hawthorne’s grasp and bounced off an armchair before coming to rest on the Wilton. Hawthorne anxiously held the canvas up to the light. He could discern a small depression in the surface of a representation already featuring a number of dimples but, on the plus side, you could see it only from an angle.
Replacing the painting, Hawthorne this time glanced around for the cat, which had retreated under a sideboard, and stepped back to ensure the picture was straight. As he did so, he felt, underfoot, an unexpected slipperiness. There was a patch of something that must have come from a cat, which end he did not feel equal to assessing.
Hawthorne sat down on a sofa. Surveying the patch and the nude, but not the loo roll or the kitchen floor – that would either dry out invisibly or it wouldn’t and time might help with the scratch – Hawthorne decided that he would say nothing, not because it was a good option but because he couldn’t think of a better one.
Christmas Day did not improve. His wife went as planned to her mother’s early in the morning.’ He was left with the Focus which, predictably, had a flat battery, the RAC proved to be effectively unobtainable and Hawthorne spent a glum evening alone, the voice of an unsympathetic wife on the phone the only alternative to watching re runs of Morecambe and Wise.
Scott-Moncton never afterwards referred to Christmas. There was little day to day contact in any case, or opportunity for either thanks or recrimination. Even the cats seemed to keep their distance. As the leaves started to turn, it was Hawthorne who raised the subject with his wife.
“Why don’t we go away this Christmas? It’d be good to be alone.”