Fox Trot

Saturday

There are events one must endure, no matter how painful. And there are some that hold pleasant surprises, so long as one endures said pain with a stiff upper lip.

Such as a visit home, where, I suspect, one never matures beyond the age of thirteen.

Such as the drama that is my family, where the actors age considerably, yet the scripts remain ever the same.

Cordelia booked me onto the red-eye flights, first to Cincinnati then London, which gave me leeway of one day to re-acclimatise to civilisation before I hired a car and headed north. Not to my parents’ home as one might expect, but to the country house in the middle of the shires. God forbid the annual hunt should be forsaken because I’ve come to visit for a short while.

Yet one cannot but feel that perhaps it is a blessing in disguise. The public atmosphere of the week may somewhat soften Father’s tendency to linger upon my numerous shortcomings, which are already common knowledge to this rather selective coterie.

And as luck would have it, I sprained my wrist just hours before my departure (the beginning details of which one can read in the journal I left behind) which means I shan’t be able to participate in the hunt. Fodder for the fire of paternal disappointment, to be sure, but it affords me a viable excuse for an activity I do not particularly enjoy.

I arrived a day after my parents, and just in time to be dragged to afternoon tea at the Comptons’. As she told me during our last telephone conversation, Mother came down with bronchitis from which she is recovering at an insidiously slow rate. Her belaboured breathing immediately sent Aunt Millicent into a harangue about the failings of modern medicine. (A side note: she’s not really an aunt, but one of Mother’s dearest friends and confidantes, and as close as I get in this circle to a blood-relation. Why she condones these gatherings, given her somewhat radical New Age leanings, is beyond me.) Under Father’s disdainful glare, Aunt Millicent took Mother in hand to the sitting room, where she set up a vaporiser with eucalyptus and other pungent essential oils.

That left the two of us with Herbert, who quickly began a discussion about the latest goings-on in the Council. At that point, Father reminded him how I had been dismissed and was, therefore, no longer to be privy to such information. The conversation switched to Herbert’s grandchildren, which led Father to bemoan his lack of heirs.

When Aunt Millicent came out to make Mother a pot of tea, she called me into the kitchen and fussed unduly over my apparent weight-loss (?) as well as the dark circles under my eyes (not accepting jetlag as the cause). She remarked how I should take care in the hedonistic Colonies, what with the sexual promiscuity and all. I assured her I had no idea what she was talking about. I was then given a bottle of arnica pills (for the swelling and pain) and told to head off to the library where "little Portia" was in desperate need of companionship.

Even beyond the confines of immediate family, my childhood always returns to haunt me.

As I made my way upstairs, I recalled that Portia had euphemistically been branded a "discipline problem" during the year of her A-levels and was whisked away to a boarding school in Switzerland. While the label and banishment may have been a tad harsh, I do not know the exact circumstances for either, I can sympathise with any Headmaster who had to manage that brat. That had occurred during my first year in training as a Watcher, which means Portia was through with her university studies by now, if she went to Cambridge as was expected of her. I tried to imagine how the spoiled teenager had matured (if at all) and braced myself for one of her infamous temper tantrums.

When I entered the library, I couldn’t find her at first. But there in the southern corner, she stood, next the ladder, reading a first edition of The Lost World. I know because I used to regularly escape into this same library and read those same books. Looking at her, she hardly resembled the girl who habitually pelted me with croquet balls for sport. I had expected to see her ready for an anti-fur rally, hair in natural dreadlocks (since as a child she was infamous for never combing her long, blonde tresses), and a face either devoid of make-up or ready for the cast line-up of the Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

Instead, she was dressed like someone fresh from the Watcher’s training programme: tailored business suit, sensible black pumps, hair sleeked back into a bun, and barely any cosmetics or jewellery.

Portia glanced up from her reading and blinked. She called out to me, then squealed and ran into my arms, which had opened of their own accord.

I stood there, returning the warm embrace, wondering when she grew up and honestly thanking God she was not really my cousin.

After she released me so I could breathe, she took a step back. "Turn around and let me look at you. Blimey, you’re so thin! Don’t you ever smile anymore? Or did you grow up to be stern and miserable like your father? You always were a quiet and frightened child. I was certain that you’d never come here again, after being let go by the Council. What with all the busybodies here every year. Have you settled down with someone? …" And so on.

She grew up to be her mother in a business suit. I kept trying to interrupt, to answer her endless procession of questions, but she did not breathe once.

Buteyko, I believe the method is called.

At any rate, when she did finally calm down, we began our mutual summaries of recent life-altering events. She had indeed gone to Cambridge, and later joined the Council to find it the "most tedious, antiquated system of anally retentive male (and male-like) chauvinistic pigs." At that, I breathed a sigh of relief and agreement, and she laughed.

Luckily, her laughter is one thing that has not changed, for Portia has always had a laugh that sounds like the tinkle of Austrian crystal.

I told her of my bout as a Slayers’ Watcher and the redundancy package that helped fund my stint as a rogue demon hunter.

"I’ve never heard of a rogue demon," she replied, then, after a rather pregnant pause, giggled.

She asked what I had done since leaving my rogue hunter days behind. I told her of my post-Road Warrior days: Angel and his recent struggles, Cordelia’s visions, Fred’s enslavement, and anything else I could remember, conveniently leaving Virginia out of the picture. Before we knew it, we had missed afternoon as well as high tea, night had fallen and I was being summoned home.

As I rose to join my parents, Portia asked if she could call on me tomorrow to ask a rather serious favour. I, of course, agreed without hesitation.

That came at two in the morning along with a bout of nervous indigestion. You see, I mis-remembered, which is the best way to describe it.

There are pockets of comfort in every childhood nightmare.

Despite the croquet balls and demented schemes, Portia was always one of mine.

*******

Before I could make excuses for not wishing to attend services with Father and Mother, Portia rang. She spoke with Father, who had angrily picked up the telephone on his way inside with the morning paper. I overheard him questioning her choice in taking me along on some errand, but he gruffly agreed to whatever she was asking.

Apparently, said Father, she was in dire need of my assistance on a Council matter in the countryside and was driving round to pick me up. I was to be ready in five minutes. I needed nothing but my wits, knowledge and a pair of Wellingtons.

To which Father wondered aloud if LA hadn’t led to an atrophy of what little wits or knowledge I had, and pointed me toward the closet for his Wellingtons. Mother began to fret about my lack of breakfast, but a stern look from Father silenced her quickly.

Never known for her punctuality, Portia arrived twenty minutes late. She did not discuss our "errand", but indulged in mundane chitchat as we travelled to Derbyshire, where we had Sunday brunch in a quaint pub on the banks of the Trent. There, the old Portia peeked out from under perfectly shaped eyebrows.

"I need your expertise and craft, Wesley, dear," she said. I must have glared at her, because she added, "Or I shall cut off your bangers and stuff them into your mouth."

Never one for propriety, Portia, even as a child.

"What ever do you need my talents for, Portia?" I asked. "You’re on the Council, you’re surely adept at whatever I learned while I was there. All the more so, since you are still in their employ and I am not."

"Don’t you dare play that submissive, inferiority game with me. Close your mouth, you’ll swallow a fly," she shouted. My mouth snapped shut. "I do not believe for one second that you were let go due to ineptitude on your part, but rather because of embarrassment among the Council hierarchy for which you were chosen to shoulder the blame. Yes, I’ve read all the reports. I firmly believe, and I can get information that will corroborate any theories I have, that you were sent into Sunnydale knowing full-well that you would not be able to handle two female teenagers, let alone one, who happen to be preternaturally talented as well as hormonally unbalanced. For God’s sake, Wesley, you had absolutely no experience with teenaged girls prior to that! Excepting me, of course."

I’m sure I saw sparks flare behind her eyes and smoke plume out of her nostrils. From past experience, I knew anything I said would be shouted down, so I merely watched while Portia regained her composure.

"Wesley, my dear friend, I am not your father. I’ll not berate you for faults you do not have, nor will I build upon those which every human has by virtue of our species." She poured more tea into our cups. "Now, enough of that. I want your help and since I am exceptionally charming and well endowed, you’ll give it to me. Agreed?"

"And what do I get in return?" I asked, not knowing why, really, although I suspect my testosterone-laden subconscious took charge upon hearing the double entendres.

"The pleasure of my company. What? Not enough to satiate you? Well, I never!" Portia giggled. "Just the joy and gratification of stopping this year’s hunt."

"And how do you propose to do that? Without getting caught?"

It was then Portia smiled. I could do nothing but stare. It was with that very smile that she once coerced me into hiding a wounded badger in my bedroom.

"With demons, of course, you silly billy."

"Demons?" I spluttered, spitting tea on the remainder of my brunch. "You know a demon willing to help you?"

"I was hoping you did."

I should have seen that one coming.

Then she pouted. Again, I simply stared. That very pout once sent me in search of a spotted skunk, which had escaped from a local zoo, that Portia had been convinced had been hit by a car. That very pout earned me a week locked inside my room, after a thorough thrashing and three baths in tomato juice to get rid of the putrid smell.

As I stared, I realised I’d gladly do it all over again.

"Will you excuse me for a moment, Portia? I have a phone call to make." Childishly revelling in her dismay and confusion, I took my leave.

I returned fifteen minutes later, a fresh pot of Earl Grey at the table and a list of conditions framed neatly in my mind.

I sat down and calmly poured the tea. While I added milk, I glanced at her and began. "I will assist you in this latest of your typically insane schemes, Portia Compton, provided certain conditions are strictly met." I waited while she tried to contain her relief and excitement. "First and foremost, no one will be seriously hurt. That includes Alain Smythe (Portia’s childhood rival with practical jokes), John Burton and Margaret Windsor. Secondly, absolutely no traces of magic will be detectable. Caution and care must be your watchwords. Next, knowledge of any demon enlisted to help must remain between us. Fourth, I publicly maintain complete ignorance." She pouted and harrumphed but I knew she yielded my points thus far. "Lastly, you shall pay dearly for this."

"Pay? How?"

"A week entirely at my disposal."

"Me?"

"The clock is ticking, Portia."

She snorted very indelicately (another thing that hasn’t changed with maturity) and crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine."

"Good. I assume you’ve prepared your part in this?"

Her face lit up. "Yes. I found what I needed in the archives. Medieval alchemist, totally crackers, no one’s looked at the manuscript for at least fifty years, according to the records. I purchased the materials over the ‘Net. They arrived the day before I left."

Surprise at her carelessness overtook decorum and I screamed, "Are you bleedin’ daft, woman? You had them sent to the Council?" Luckily, there were very few patrons in the pub.

"No, silly," she responded with a giggle. "My flat in Wolvercote. Honestly, tsk. Now about this payment."

"Later," I informed her. "We need to pick someone up in Staffordshire. He’s waiting for us."

She grabbed her car keys and bounded out of her chair. "A friend? And we need to muddy the Wellies if we’re to keep up appearances."

"I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Portia Compton."

We drove to Alton and at a crossroads picked up the cousin of a friend of Lorne’s whom Lorne had contacted while I was negotiating with the Croquet Queen. The dryad listened attentively to Portia’s plan to disrupt the foxhunt, and with an overly maniacal cackle, agreed to assist her.

In return, he wanted shitake mushrooms, butter, soy sauce, fresh parsley and spring onions for his daily supper. He’d brought his own pan and eating utensils. He also provided a list of things he needed to pull this off.

********

Today was absolutely dreadful. We were inundated with rain, which meant hours of listening to Father complain about the possibility of a postponement. Eventually, at Mother’s gentle insistence, he joined some friends at the village pub. Cronies might be more descriptive, although I imagine Gunn would have more colourful synonyms.

Late in the afternoon, Aunt Millicent telephoned and asked that I bring Mother over and insisted that I come entertain Portia. It seems "poor little Portia tripped down the stairs and twisted her ankle. She’s utterly despondent at having to miss the hunt and is moping upstairs in her room. She says you’ll know what to do to cheer her up."

I heard the sarcasm (laughter?) in Aunt Millicent’s voice and wondered how much she knew. Actually, I suspect she helped Portia find the materials required for whatever she has planned. And it wouldn’t surprise me at all if it had been her idea in the first place.

The dryad assured me he would have no problems, rain or shine, and departed to converse with something or other. I might have misunderstood, he may have said coerce, but the discrepancy in our heights and his tendency to mumble are to my disadvantage. But as we have finished his preparations for Thursday, what he does in his free time is not my concern.

I’m on holiday.

I did find Portia with a splinted leg and a bottle of prescription strength Panadeine. As she explained to the local GP, she tripped over Norbert the Cat. However, she claims the fall was unintentional.

I snorted in disgust. Norbert never existed, although Herbert is convinced he’s an outdoor pet and obviously still buys food for him.

Norbert is Portia’s imaginary personal scapegoat.

"I have mixed the powders the dryad requested," Portia said finally. "However, I am worried that if the rain continues, Mummy won’t let me go out and I shall miss all the fun."

"I’ll handle your mother," I assured her.

"Of course, dear," Portia said. "She always loved you best."

"And you’re still an insolent child."

"You have to be nice to me," she pleaded and leaned over with a smirk that told me the medication was working, possibly with a bit of alcoholic assistance. "Norbert twisted my ankle."

Quite a bit of assistance.

That was the only thing of interest that happened today. Except, Quentin Travers called to say he’s detained with Council business and cannot make the hunt this year.

What a bloody shame.

******

It rained again. So, early this morning I set off for a day in London to buy souvenirs for everyone in LA.

Alone, since Portia’s suggestions went beyond meretricious. Especially what she suggested for Angel.

It was dismal and overcast the entire drive south, but at least the motorways were clear most of the way. A typical hang-up just off the M1 gave me time to not only think of what to purchase, but how to best manoeuvre through to Covent Garden for Cordelia’s gift. From there on, shopping was a walk to Regent’s Park. Literally, and everyone was catered for within two hours.

A quick phone call and my afternoon was set.

Have I said how much I do not miss the English weather? I cannot fathom how Giles can stand it after so many years in California. He says he can’t either. We spent an inordinate amount of time, like two old ladies, gossiping about those on both sides of the Atlantic.

And not an apocalypse in sight.

Sometime during the day, I mentioned Portia – whose name was greeted with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smirk – and her nefarious plot. In return, I received quite an earful about her antics inside the Council. They have their hands full, to say the least. But I already knew that. I’d like to say I hope they survive her tenure there, but alas, in doing so I fear I might betray my true feelings.

Eventually, I bid Giles farewell and he wished me a safe journey back to California. Then he smiled and said he hopes all the foxes caught prove to be rabid.

On the return trip north, I made a list of whom they should bite should that be the case.

I really do despise the rain.

******

I had to take Portia to the doctor to check her ankle and change her prescription. Her mother says she had an adverse reaction and fainted on Monday night.

Portia assured me that it wasn’t the codeine in the painkiller that caused her spell, but inhaling the powders the dryad requested. She "forgot" to tell me yesterday because she felt I’d postpone my day of freedom if she had. She knows me very well, even after all this time apart.

As we left the surgery, the GP, whose name I can’t recall, lent Portia a pair of crutches so that she need not miss the set off tomorrow. While she flirted and gushed her profuse thanks, and I tried not to vomit over her saccharine display, I realised I had not made the arrangements for her end of the bargain. I made a mental note to deal with that after high tea, as LA is eight hours behind GMT.

We went to the pub for lunch and discussed "the invalids’ involvement", as Father puts it. He has forbidden Mother’s attendance if the humidity is too high, lest she exacerbate her ailment, so she has accepted Aunt Millicent’s invitation to forego the event entirely.

It brings a smile to my face to think Mother may have planned her bronchitis.

Portia and I found our spot along the wall outside the starting point. She then bought enough champagne to intoxicate the French Foreign Legion.

"For our pain and intense disappointment," she explained. Then she added with a wink, "Poor Norbert, I think his tail is sore."

This evening I called Cordelia and enlisted her help with Portia’s payment. Absolutely "nothing exciting" has happened in my absence, I was informed.

Feigning a headache, I retired early. Knowing Portia, tomorrow will require all my strength.

******

At six am, I was awoken by a scratching on the window pane. Throwing aside all visions of ravens and Peter Pan, I opened the curtains. The dryad was there, picking his toenails, to announce that everything was set. He bade me farewell, asked me to give Portia a hug for luck and to tell his cousin that he’d try to be in touch before the autumnal equinox. I nodded, thanked him for his assistance then turned to get ready.

I arrived at the Comptons’ promptly at nine, as per Portia’s request, and gave her the missive from the dryad. While we were having tea, John Burton telephoned. Apparently his horse has developed a curious bout of laminitis. The veterinarian cannot find a cause for the sudden inflammation, since he had been out to the paddocks just yesterday and Gustav’s hooves had been fine. However, that means John must forego the hunt. He sent his regrets that he’d be unable to visit with me, and Portia made arrangements to have lunch with him once back in Oxfordshire.

We arrived at the starting point, half an hour before anyone else, in part because I’d volunteered to help St. John’s Ambulance. As I checked in with the first aid officers, John Smythe, the publican, was leaning against the fence across from his establishment, animatedly discussing something with the event organisers. Portia winked and hobbled over (she should have let me go in her stead). Upon her painful return, she explained that, despite a recent fumigation, the building behind the pub had become a scene from a bad horror movie. Nothing to disturb the hunt, Portia had assured Mr Smythe, as this is the time of year that spiders normally breed, but he’s famed for his arachnophobia. She suggested he call his son into help, since the building serves as storage for the pub and someone will need to go in there for supplies, given the appetites of the predicted crowd.

That took care of Alain Smythe.

Margaret Windsor arrived in a style worthy of Cordelia’s wildest dreams. Including the horse’s handler. Not only did Margaret come in complete formal hunt attire, her Arabian was led out of the trailer and saddled by a man whose disgustingly handsome looks actually shut Portia up. To quote Alain, who had arrived to help his father, Portia was "utterly gobsmacked."

I don’t remember that ever happening before. Portia claims it was due to the excitement of what was in store for her primary school archrival. I, for one, do not believe it.

The handler (Henri, Portia discovered later) led the horse onto the green, then held him steady while Margaret mounted. The ground is still over-saturated from two days of rain, and I know Portia had hopes Margaret would topple off the saddle into the mud then and there. Alas, that did not happen.

The hunt was called to order and we were informed the fox had been let loose. Trumpets blared and the hounds were sent out. Horses and their riders followed in quick pursuit.

Quick, indeed. The whole event lasted less than forty minutes: we had only just started on the second of Portia’s bottles of champagne when the riders began to return.

Margaret was the first to arrive, fifteen minutes after the start, caked in mud. The GP who had treated Portia promptly returned to place Margaret's dislocated shoulder. I set her into a sling and listened to her whinge about her brand new saddle that she bought especially for this year’s hunt. It seems mice chewed enough of the girth, just at the juncture with the saddle, that Henri did not notice anything amiss when he tacked the horse. But, in mid-chase, after the lead hound had disappeared into one of many badger holes in the field, Margaret turned to speak to the rider behind her and the saddle gave way, toppling her into a small bog. As the rest of the group had continued after the fox, she walked back alone.

Margaret also mentioned that the sheer number of badger holes which ran the entire length and breadth of the field means a virtual plague has erupted in the shires! (Margaret always did exaggerate, just a tad.)

She was taken to Casualty for X-rays to her shoulder and head.

Twenty minutes later, the rest of the party began to straggle home. Reports are a bit sketchy. Something – the scent of the fox, some are postulating – frightened a great number of the horses, most of which reared and shied. Three bolted with their riders. A few of the other riders, among them the leader of the hunt, were thrown.

Into a patch of stinging nettle.

In desperation, the hunt was cancelled and the hounds called back in. On their return, the hounds seem to have run through another patch of stinging nettle (although I know this in not the case). They’ve arrived in the green, howling, yapping and frantically chasing their tails.

The sight put Portia into a hysterical fit. Which in turn caused Father to glare at us when he passed.

The fox disappeared and has not been found.

I have a feeling he never will.

*****

The post-hunt parties and recovery brunch went ahead as scheduled. A little bit more subdued than usual, but pleasant enough.

Father suspects I had something to do with the catastrophe. He announced as much at the brunch, but Portia assured him that I was with her the entire time and could not have possibly planted any traps.

"Besides," she argued. "If it had been Wesley, there would have been a residue of magic or maybe even demons. Those cronies from the Executive found neither and, as you well know, Mr Wyndham-Price, the area was scoured last night. Nothing untoward was found!"

I doubt he believes her.

*****

Portia rode with me to Gatwick, promising her mother she’d stay the night at her Aunt Corinthia’s in Harrow-on-the-Hill.

Along the way, I realised how little I miss of England now, with the exception of specific people. Very few people, at that.

At the first of the security checks, we embraced and made to part. It was then that I pulled out the envelope and handed it to her.

"This is my payment?" she asked, waving the envelope about and holding it up to the light.

"Open it, you silly git," I laughed.

I waited while she looked at the ticket and read the itinerary Cordelia and Fred had devised.

"So, what kind of hotel is the Hyperion?"

"It’s right up your alley, Portia," I said and kissed her on the cheek. "I’ll see you in June."

Now I’m returning home, in an aisle seat in business class (I wonder how Cordelia managed that) to get the rest I deserve. The only thing keeping me awake is the idea of Cordelia and Portia shopping together.

God help Greater Los Angeles.

Finis