The Furies who had been circling for Alice Carter, née Aldridge, seemed for a time to have retreated. After the various catastrophes of her alcoholism, she had been flourishing in recent months: off the drink, managing the riding stables, pulling through her mother’s death, and successfully co-parenting her daughter Martha alongside her ex-husband, sexy Chris the farrier. But just as in Greek tragedy a single decision can change the course of a life, so it is in Ambridge. Alice, I suspect, was doomed the very moment she decided to “help” her recent love interest, the awful Posh Harry (not to be confused with her friend, unposh and wholly delightful Harrison the policeman), to extract himself from his own drink problem, a secret affliction of which she became aware only after they had begun to fall hard for each other. At that juncture, Alice did the right thing: she walked away. Still, the situation was not without its complications, notably, an intervention by Harrison the policeman that led to the latter’s almost losing his job, saved, at the last moment, by Harry’s speaking up for him, Harrison, at his disciplinary hearing. Apologies: the Harry-Harrison medley, or muddle, is not of my making.
The irony! It was Harry’s flash of decency at that hearing that weakened Alice’s resolve. Since then, she has been taking his befuddled midnight telephone calls, accompanying him to support groups, edging him towards rehab, while all the time putting impossible strain on herself, which involved messing up a veterinary inspection of the stables, lying to everyone about why she’s so distracted, palming off Martha on to various family members, a bit of a sexual slip with Harry and – of course, inevitably – succumbing to the siren call of a drink. The fateful moment was articulated wordlessly, through a series of incredibly florid sounds: cupboard door opening, deep breath for the stash retrieval from the back, chinking of glass against work surface, throat clearing, sighing, screw cap removal, pouring, deep breathing and – at last – full-on glugging. Poor Alice.
Elsewhere in Ambridge, Alistair and Denise are still snogging at inappropriate moments in an agonised kind of way; Kate Aldridge made a reference to “goat yoga”, whatever that may be; and the cricket team has won a couple of games. I don’t really care about cricket myself. As Jean Brodie said: “For those that like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like.” Nevertheless, the annual arrival of net practice, fitness training and dark, bitter rivalry with the next village, Darrington, at least marks the weary march of the year from winter into some kind of spring.
