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Authors: Sue Margolis
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test? And suppose they only produced girls? Not that any of this was relevant, because there was no way Abby was about to get her ovaries tested purely to pander to Lady Penelope’s outrageous demands.
Abby opened her mouth to tell her precisely that, but Toby got there first. “I’ll make sure she sees a specialist, Mother.”
Abby swung round to face Toby. “You’ll do what?” she hissed.
“Jolly good,” Lady Penelope boomed, shoving a lock of wispy gray hair back into her chignon. “You know, Annie, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re not one of these fearful antihunting types.”
There was a pause that seemed to go on forever. Toby was visibly holding his breath. Lady Penelope was fighting with her hair, which refused to stay put. Abby was struggling with her emotions. She was aware that she had promised Toby that she wouldn’t reveal her true position on hunting, but she was so cross with him for not sticking up for her—particularly over the fertility-test issue—that she couldn’t help herself.
“Actually, I am,” Abby said.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Toby murmured, head in hands.
“You see, to be quite honest, Lady Penelope, I find the idea of hunting foxes—or any animal, come to that—quite barbaric. It’s one thing to exterminate vermin humanely. It’squite another to put on silly costumes and chase a fox across country until it collapses from heart failure. Foxhunting turns killing animals into a ritualized social event, which has everything to do with snobbery and class and nothing to do with concern for the countryside.”
Toby’s head remained in his hands. “I told you what she was like,” he muttered under his breath. “Now look what you’ve done. You simply couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
By now Abby was on a roll. “The law to ban hunting clearly isn’t working, and something needs to be done to enforce it. And as for those chinless, upper-class twits who run the Countryside Alliance…”
Lady Penelope looked temporarily vacant—as if she had been shot but her brain had yet to register the fact. Abby watched as she calmly put down her coffee cup and dabbed her lips with her napkin. Then, just as her ladyship seemed about to open her mouth and shower Abby with a cascade of vitriol, her face broke into something approaching a smile. “What you are saying is the kind of liberal twaddle, claptrap and balderdash put out by hunt protesters and the left-wing media. It is the kind of subversive propaganda that, left unchecked, will rip at the heart and soul of the British countryside and ultimately destroy it. Nevertheless, we live in a democracy and I would defend to the death your right to have your say.”
“You would?” Abby was stunned by her ladyship’s response—as was Toby, who had removed his head from his hands and was blinking in disbelief.
“Certainly.” Lady Penelope turned to Toby. “She’s a spirited young filly, I’ll give her that. Spouts a cartload of balderdash, of course, but I think I might be able to break her given time. Now then, it’s late and I’m rather tired. Ithink I should be getting home. Toby, I would be grateful if you’d go outside and flag down a cab.”
Ever the obedient son, Toby got up and made his way to the door.
“Goodness, Lady Penelope,” Abby said, “surely you’re not driving back to Gloucestershire tonight.”
“Of course not. I keep a pied-à-terre in town.” Her look of haughty surprise clearly said: “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Oh, yes. Toby mentioned you owned a London flat.”
Lady Penelope extended her hand toward Abby and smiled. “Good-bye, my dear,” she said. Abby reached out and took her future mother-in-law’s hand. “Toby must bring you to Kenwood one weekend so that I can verse you in the ways of the countryside. I swear I’ll have you hunting yet.” With that, Lady Penelope picked up her patent-leather handbag and lumbered away from the table.
THEY HEADED toward the
Abby opened her mouth to tell her precisely that, but Toby got there first. “I’ll make sure she sees a specialist, Mother.”
Abby swung round to face Toby. “You’ll do what?” she hissed.
“Jolly good,” Lady Penelope boomed, shoving a lock of wispy gray hair back into her chignon. “You know, Annie, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re not one of these fearful antihunting types.”
There was a pause that seemed to go on forever. Toby was visibly holding his breath. Lady Penelope was fighting with her hair, which refused to stay put. Abby was struggling with her emotions. She was aware that she had promised Toby that she wouldn’t reveal her true position on hunting, but she was so cross with him for not sticking up for her—particularly over the fertility-test issue—that she couldn’t help herself.
“Actually, I am,” Abby said.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Toby murmured, head in hands.
“You see, to be quite honest, Lady Penelope, I find the idea of hunting foxes—or any animal, come to that—quite barbaric. It’s one thing to exterminate vermin humanely. It’squite another to put on silly costumes and chase a fox across country until it collapses from heart failure. Foxhunting turns killing animals into a ritualized social event, which has everything to do with snobbery and class and nothing to do with concern for the countryside.”
Toby’s head remained in his hands. “I told you what she was like,” he muttered under his breath. “Now look what you’ve done. You simply couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
By now Abby was on a roll. “The law to ban hunting clearly isn’t working, and something needs to be done to enforce it. And as for those chinless, upper-class twits who run the Countryside Alliance…”
Lady Penelope looked temporarily vacant—as if she had been shot but her brain had yet to register the fact. Abby watched as she calmly put down her coffee cup and dabbed her lips with her napkin. Then, just as her ladyship seemed about to open her mouth and shower Abby with a cascade of vitriol, her face broke into something approaching a smile. “What you are saying is the kind of liberal twaddle, claptrap and balderdash put out by hunt protesters and the left-wing media. It is the kind of subversive propaganda that, left unchecked, will rip at the heart and soul of the British countryside and ultimately destroy it. Nevertheless, we live in a democracy and I would defend to the death your right to have your say.”
“You would?” Abby was stunned by her ladyship’s response—as was Toby, who had removed his head from his hands and was blinking in disbelief.
“Certainly.” Lady Penelope turned to Toby. “She’s a spirited young filly, I’ll give her that. Spouts a cartload of balderdash, of course, but I think I might be able to break her given time. Now then, it’s late and I’m rather tired. Ithink I should be getting home. Toby, I would be grateful if you’d go outside and flag down a cab.”
Ever the obedient son, Toby got up and made his way to the door.
“Goodness, Lady Penelope,” Abby said, “surely you’re not driving back to Gloucestershire tonight.”
“Of course not. I keep a pied-à-terre in town.” Her look of haughty surprise clearly said: “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Oh, yes. Toby mentioned you owned a London flat.”
Lady Penelope extended her hand toward Abby and smiled. “Good-bye, my dear,” she said. Abby reached out and took her future mother-in-law’s hand. “Toby must bring you to Kenwood one weekend so that I can verse you in the ways of the countryside. I swear I’ll have you hunting yet.” With that, Lady Penelope picked up her patent-leather handbag and lumbered away from the table.
THEY HEADED toward the
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