Mount!

by Jilly Cooper

  Scented candles awaited them in the house. No scented candles were needed to scent the garden, where the sweet tobacco smell of buddleia mingled with peppery phlox and heady wafts of regalia lilies.

  But Etta noticed reddening apples, yellowing wisteria leaves, pale-green conkers polka-dotting darker green horse chestnuts, ripe blackberries along the footpath: the first signs of autumn – and in me too, thought Etta. She and Valent mustn’t waste time. What mattered in life, she told herself firmly, was putting this dear man first and making him happy.

  ‘Wear something sexy.’ Having washed her hair and herself, she smiled in the mirror: her beautiful new teeth had been worth the pain. Not being able to eat, she had lost ten pounds of her elderly spread and, resting in the sun, she had acquired a tan.

  ‘Wear something sexy.’

  She had a brainwave.

  Cindy Bolton, Willowwood’s porn star, had always had a soft spot for Etta who, as a syndicate member, had never patronized her, and Cindy had therefore given her and Valent a gift box from Ann Summers as a wedding present.

  ‘To sparkle up your erotic life.’

  The gift box had been briefly opened when they returned from their honeymoon. Objects entitled clit clips, vibrating nipple clamps and costumes for naughty nurses and teasing teachers had been giggled over and set aside for a fun weekend, but with Etta and Valent distracted by the arrival of Hereward, a romping deterrent, the box had been shoved in the wardrobe and forgotten about.

  Valent, as a great goalkeeper, had developed arthritis in both hands and had difficulty opening champagne bottles so Etta saved him the bother by opening one of the Bolly bottles in advance. Then, pouring herself a large glass, she dropped a silver spoon in the neck of the bottle.

  Unearthing Cindy’s box from the wardrobe, she discovered raspberry and banana-flavoured lubricant ‘to make licking a delight’ and what could one do with Bubblegum Slide N Ride? It would get stuck in one’s bush. She took a slug of champagne, then as Gwenny the cat rolled up and started weaving round Etta’s legs, ‘Oh look – here’s some Cock and Pussy Rub for you, darling.’

  Taking another slug, Etta delved deep into the red satin bag and discovered underwear.

  ‘Gosh, gosh, gosh!’ She tried on a black Quarter Cup bra called Edie, over which her breasts rose like a soufflé, and a ‘show-stopper’ crotchless thong in black and scarlet, held up by four narrow ribbons over the bottom.

  She was just dickering between a peephole bra called Fiona and another crotchless thong called Arabella, such grand names, but felt the way her breasts flowed over the quarter bra was more sexy.

  At the bottom she could see whips, paddles and a ‘sex and mischief’ leather flogger. Gwenny jumped into the box and started playing with a ‘spank me silly’ paddle.

  ‘I’m quite silly enough,’ giggled Etta. Topping up her glass, settling finally for Fiona and Arabella, she pulled on a pair of black fishnet hold-ups and slipped into some never worn before four-inch heels.

  Ann Summers’ lease hath all too short a date, she sighed.

  She really should put on a lot of black eye-liner and scarlet lippy; instead she drenched herself with 24 Faubourg.

  As she pressed a button, the Allegro Moderato of Rachmaninov’s Second Symphony flooded the house. There was going to be nothing moderate about their lovemaking tonight. Etta examined herself in the long mirror in their bedroom and felt pretty pleased with herself. Her nipples protruded like bullets out of Fiona and parting Arabella, she could see a glisten of pink.

  ‘I am a member of the Labia Party, Gwenny,’ she announced, then jumped as she heard a crackle of tyres on the gravel outside. She took another gulp of champagne and, seizing the banisters, waggling her hips, she danced down as the Second Movement of Rachmaninov drew to a close.

  Valent had arrived just in time for the heartbreakingly beautiful Adagio.

  ‘Darling, darling Valent, welcome home,’ she cried, as clutching her glass with the other hand, she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Granny,’ called a voice. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Gaggie,’ cried Hereward. Next moment, the front door flew open and Etta was flooded with sunlight.

  ‘We’ve brought you some flowers,’ began Trixie. ‘Herry missed you so much I thought you might like to spend a few hours …’ Her words slithered to a halt. ‘Oh my God, Granny, oh my God. Are you going to a fancy-dress party?’

  ‘I thought you were Valent,’ stammered Etta, seizing a stuffed duck-billed platypus on the hall table and holding it over her bush as Priceless came bounding down the stairs to greet Trixie.

  ‘We came to pick up the pushchair, Herry’s trike and a couple of Eddie’s shirts. Oh my God!’

  Stymied by her unfamiliar high heels, Etta’s only recourse was to swing round the banister and totter towards the kitchen, on her way grabbing an ankle-length Barbour that Trixie’s mother Carrie had given her when she moved to Willowwood and had never worn. She then went slap into Eddie, who’d come in the other door through the kitchen, having retrieved Hereward’s tricycle and the pushchair. He immediately wolf-whistled and burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh God!’ squeaked Etta, desperately trying to find the armholes in the Barbour. ‘I was expecting Valent.’

  ‘Lucky Valent, you look sensational!’

  ‘So sorry, so sorry,’ moaned Etta.

  Hereward was still crying because he’d wanted to see his great-grandmother and Eddie was still crying with laughter as he drove them back to Penscombe.

  ‘I cannot beeleeve it,’ stormed Trixie.

  ‘She looked terrific,’ protested Eddie. ‘She’s in great shape for a geri. You ought to get some of that kit. With her boobs falling out and “a thong in her parts”,’ he sang.

  ‘Oh shut up – and shut up, Herry, for God’s sake,’ Trixie screamed at her bawling child. ‘What on earth will Valent think? They can’t be having sex at their age.’

  ‘Oh grow up, everyone has sex, given the chance.’

  ‘Oh yuk, oh yuk, talk about a Yuk Fuck.’

  ‘Yuk Fuck – oh, that’s very good.’ Eddie wiped his eyes. ‘With a thong in my parts …’

  Arriving ten minutes later, Valent was greeted by Priceless wagging his tail and flashing his teeth even more than Etta. Inside he was greeted by Etta in a Barbour, battling tears and laughter.

  ‘You going out?’

  ‘Oh Valent,’ she wailed, ‘oh darling, something so terrible and embarrassing has happened. I wanted to make it up to you for all the times we haven’t been alone together. I wanted to look sexy for you, but I heard a car, thought it was you and ran down in these clothes, or lack of clothes, and I think I’ve utterly traumatized Herry and Trixie and made a complete fool of myself.’

  ‘Hush, hush.’

  ‘No, don’t look, you’ll hate it.’ Thank God she hadn’t worn black eye-liner as the tears spilled over.

  ‘Shoot oop.’ Valent pulled open the Barbour and gave a gasp of delight. ‘Oh God, Etta, you look so goddam sexy, you lovely, lovely woman. Look at your breasts.’ As he covered them with his huge hands, he could feel his cock soaring like Concorde, particularly as he parted the crotchless Arabella, finding soft slippery flesh. ‘Oh Etta, let’s go upstairs, I’ll lock up.’

  Turning, he locked the front door and carried her upstairs, where he undressed in a trice, untangling his boxer shorts from Concorde.

  ‘Get off, Priceless and Gwenny!’ He shoved them out of the door. ‘Let me have another look. Oh Etta, leave everything on.’

  Then, as she lay back on the bed, he confessed, ‘I won’t last a moment. I never went to prep school.’

  And now he was on top of her. No longer Concorde but the QE2 sliding inside her crotchless thong, kissing her breasts, burying his face in her cleavage and then exploding a glorious burst water-main inside her.

  ‘So sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I told you, I didn’t go to the kind of school where you learned to recite Latin verbs to stop yourself coming.�
�

  ‘It’s wonderful, I wanted to excite you,’ whispered Etta. ‘You are the most heavenly man in the world, and all mine.’

  ‘Now I’ll make you come,’ promised Valent, rolling off her.

  ‘Do you want some banana gel or toffee apple or raspberry ripple lube to make licking a pleasure?’ giggled Etta. ‘I opened Cindy’s wedding present. It’s like a sweet shop.’

  ‘You taste lovely enough as it is.’ Valent’s arthritis in no way hampered a most delicate touch as his fingers slid between her legs. His tongue was even better. Moaning with delight, Etta was driven to shuddering ecstasy.

  After she’d come, he wanted to come again, so Etta tried some toffee apple lube which made it even better. Then he fetched the second bottle of champagne.

  ‘You look so gorgeous,’ he sighed.

  ‘I hope I haven’t put Trixie off for life.’

  ‘Was she trying to drop Herry off again?’ asked Valent.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ lied Etta.

  ‘With any luck she might consider you utterly unsuitable to look after him any more.’

  ‘But I love him, in small doses. She wants a pussy rub,’ added Etta, as a thunderously purring Gwenny joined them on the bed, then confessed, ‘Eddie couldn’t stop laughing. He did say I looked great.’

  ‘He’s right. Good boy. The most erotic thing of all,’ Valent ran his hand over her belly, ‘was that you wanted me enough to do this.’

  ‘You’ll never guess what else there is in the box – a feather tickler whip and a leather flogger. If you give me more than eight whacks, we’d have to have a stewards’ enquiry.’

  Long after midnight, ravenous, they heated up the Stroganoff, drank the bottle of red as they sat in the scented garden under the moon and blew out the scented candle after moths flew into it. They then took Priceless out for a run and went to see Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm.

  ‘Do you think they are missing poor Quickly?’ sighed Etta.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Valent. ‘And now Quickly’s gone I am going to install new electric gates again. I’m not having droppers-in interrupting my nights of passion!’

  23

  Quickly soon cheered up at Penscombe, taking chunks out of sweaters, upsetting all the other colts on the horse walker by cantering round, pushing it faster and faster, and whenever possible, creeping into the house to inveigle treats out of Taggie, who already adored him.

  ‘Quickly’s in the kitchen again,’ went up the cry.

  The question arose, which stable lad was going to look after him? Tough Walter Walter, the Head Lad, tried to persuade Rupert that the colt would fare better with a disciplinarian, who would stand no nonsense. Rupert, however, listened to Gav, who recommended Lark, one of the youngest stable lasses, a slim fair-haired Essex girl who laughed and sang all day, was always cheerful and already worked so hard looking after New Year’s Dave and other two-year-olds. Lark, who didn’t put out, and who, as well as going to Penscombe church on Sundays, came in to do her horses rather than let anyone else look after them.

  Mocked by Celeste and some of the tougher, older stable lasses, Lark also had a massive crush on Eddie Alderton and tried to hide her sadness when he and Trixie moved into the hostel top flat together. Gav felt she needed the distraction of taming an equally wayward Master Quickly.

  Gav himself took on the immediate task of breaking Quickly, which he reckoned would take at least three months. Quickly, hating the constriction of anything on his back or in his mouth, kicked out wing mirrors all the way down Penscombe High Street when he was first ridden out.

  ‘He’ll break me before I break him,’ sighed Gav, who fortunately had endless patience. He was, however, amused by a misprint in Dora’s column for Rupert in the Racing Post, describing Quickly as ‘half bother to New Year’s Dave’.

  More a whole bother, reflected Gav.

  One of Quickly’s problems was that he was rendered conspicuous by his unique beauty. His coat was the silver-grey of the night sky when the full moon was out, his tail and mane the luminous silver-blond of the moon itself. Like his mother, he was proud of his little feet which, like a ghost’s, even when he galloped, hardly left a mark on the turf.

  Also like his mother, who went berserk if anyone picked up a whip – but unlike Love Rat, who lay on his back waving his hooves in the air – Quickly had to be doped before he let the farrier fit any plates. Pills had to be given inside a Polo. A liability when turned out, if denied his own way he would lash out at the other colts.

  ‘Are you sure Titus isn’t his sire?’ queried Roving Mike.

  ‘Dora should know, she arranged the covering,’ said Gav.

  Quickly was therefore turned out with Safety Car, the kindest horse in the yard. Retired from racing after his great victory in Hong Kong, he was kept busy leading the two-year-olds on the gallops, nipping them if they overtook, helping them get used to the starting stalls.

  Safety Car was also desolate that his last sheep friend had died; he needed a new mate. Quickly gave him a hard time, nagging and bossing him, but called out piteously if ever Safety Car went out without him.

  Quickly, who pondered a lot, noticing people loving Safety Car and laughing at his antics, was found by Gavin holding a yard brush between his little teeth, trying to sweep up the golden leaves cascading down. One of Safety’s party tricks was playing football with Gilchrist and Cuthbert, the Jack Russells, kicking the ball so they could keep tearing after it and retrieving it. Spoilsport Quickly kept muscling in, trying to pinch the ball.

  Quickly’s second friend was feline. Lark had rescued a long-haired black cat she’d found wandering in the woods and, calling him Purrpuss, had installed him in her room in the hostel.

  ‘When he’s had his supper, you can call him Purrpussfull,’ said Dora. Celeste, who lived in the next-door room, was incensed and complained to Walter that cats were dirty animals who gave her asthma. Walter said with so many dogs around, the cat’s days were numbered anyway.

  ‘Oh please let him stay, he’ll keep the mice down,’ pleaded Lark.

  Ignoring her, Celeste seized Purrpuss next morning and chucked him out into the yard. Instantly the pack, led by Forester, gave chase, whereupon a terrified Purrpuss took refuge on the silver back of Quickly, who was tied up outside his box.

  As the ravening horde closed in, Quickly squealed, bared his teeth at them and lashed out with all fours until the dogs retreated, whimpering, and even Rupert applauded.

  ‘That is an encouragingly brave horse.’

  From then on, the pair were inseparable. Whenever Quickly was inside, Purrpuss took up residence on his back, even lapping saucers of milk or eating cat food up there, standing up in the manger to wash Quickly’s face and ears, curling up against his belly like a hot water bottle at night.

  Dora sent a photograph to Owner & Breeder with the caption: ‘Son of Love Rat and Catch a Rat’.

  Turned out, Quickly would race round his paddock with his tail in the air, charging up and spooking any passing horse. Confined to his box with Purrpuss on his back, he would hang over the door, thinking about fillies. When one little two-year-old, Nerissa, of whom Rupert thought very highly, started getting fatter, Rupert berated Gav and Walter for not getting her fit. Like Quickly and Dave, she was due on the racetrack in a few months but still looked like a lard barrel. No amount of roadwork or galloping made any difference – until it was realized that the poor creature was in foal, impregnated by Quickly, the son of a Grand National winner. Despite being thought too young by Gav, he must have hopped over the fence into Nerissa’s paddock one day.

  ‘A teenage pregnancy,’ cried a delighted Dora. ‘Will she qualify for a free loose box?’

  ‘Better if the randy little sod was gelded,’ said Walter, who’d been bitten too often by Quickly, and wasn’t a fan.

  Better if Quickly and both Eddies were gelded, thought Rupert, who was furious at having lost a brilliant filly before she’d had time to race.

  He was
n’t any happier with Young Eddie, who was still not cutting it as a jump jockey, and not pulling his weight in the yard, either. Eddie was mortified repeatedly, appearing in the Racing Post’s Cold Jockeys list, which stated the increasing number of days since he’d had a winner.

  Even though the jump season had started full on in October, Eddie was not getting rides from other trainers, and Rupert’s obsession with nailing Leading Flat Sire meant he now only kept a couple of jump horses. Eddie was missing the buzz of being a poster boy, chased by all the girls.

  In addition, he and Trixie were not getting on. Trixie was taking her A-levels again and got fed up with Eddie coming in late with cronies, and waking Hereward, who was teething and cried a lot. This disturbed the lads in the flats below, who had to get up at five in the morning.

  Eddie was desperately trying to lose weight to ride on the flat, and Trixie’s junk food – supermarket lasagne heated up in the microwave – was a far cry from Taggie’s Dover soles and fillet steaks. Trixie, realizing how much Etta had done for her, was horrified that she was expected to cook Eddie’s dinner, make his bed, wash and iron his shirts, and do all his other laundry as well as Herry’s and her own.

  Trixie felt desperately hard done by, particularly when Eddie got mad when she shrank a purple cashmere jersey, which Taggie had given him for his birthday, down to Action Man size.

  ‘Be an incentive to lose more weight and get back into it again,’ she snapped back at him.

  No longer was there endless access to babysitters. Rupert had made it quite clear that he didn’t want them using Taggie or Gala, ‘my father’s enough trouble,’ nor dropping in, raiding the fridge at all hours.

  ‘Bloody martinet,’ Trixie had stormed.

  ‘Martin ate what?’ Eddie had asked, not looking up from his laptop.