by Jilly Cooper
‘Finish them,’ cried a delighted Etta – it was such heaven to cook for people who liked her food. ‘When’s Valent moving in?’
‘Depends on her, probably end of next year. He paid four mil, done up proper it could go for 12 mil. Reassures the locals if a lovely ’ouse is restored, improves the whole village, puts everyone’s prices up.’
‘Yours included,’ said Woody, who lived with his mother on the Salix Estate.
‘I like your house, Joey,’ said Etta. ‘Nice and roomy for all your children.’
‘Willowwood don’t think so. Direct Debbie and Phoebe and Toby are petrified Woody’s going to chop down trees round it so they’d ’ave to look at something common that ruins their rural idyll.’ Joey laughed fatly and unrepentantly.
Woody put down the Racing Post and picked up Etta’s garden plan.
‘Those are the plants – foxgloves, hostas, Solomon’s seal, ferns – I’m hoping to put in,’ she explained.
‘Shade-tolerant.’ Woody shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Etta. I’ll dig out a flower bed for you and bring you some manure from the stable.’
‘Oh, how kind! Dora was telling me about your syndicate. I’m so pleased you saved Not for Crowe.’
‘You’ll have to come and see him race, or we’ll bring him over to see you. He never stops eating, he’d love your cakes. Syndicate’s cheap in the summer. He’s been outside, now he’s got to come in and go racing.’
Later they showed Etta a video of Not for Crowe and Family Dog, who had a broad, cheerful face and very short legs. Both horses looked as though they could easily get overtaken by the donkeys at Grange-over-Sands.
One evening, Niall Forbes the vicar, slim, blond and baby-faced (fractionally aged by wearing spectacles), dropped in to welcome her. ‘I do hope you are a worshipper, Mrs Bancroft,’ he said, in a high, fluting voice, and then asked Etta if she was straight yet.
You’re certainly not, thought Etta, as Niall downed four glasses of sherry. Under Etta’s sweet, sympathetic gaze, he tearfully confessed that last week he’d broken the news that he was gay to his parents.
‘They were so good about it. But after I’d gone to bed, I couldn’t sleep and came down for a cuppa and found my father crying his eyes out in the study. I wanted to hug him, but felt it might make him uncomfortable.’
‘You poor boy,’ said Etta. ‘Why don’t you send them a card, just telling them how much you love them and what wonderful parents they’ve been. Parents always think it’s their fault.’
‘I’ll try.’ Niall wiped his reddened eyes. ‘I must go,’ then, as the light from the opened door fell on the rich brown turned earth: ‘I see you’ve been gardening.’
‘Woody’s been so kind, digging up this bed for me.’
‘Oh Woody!’ The vicar’s sad face lit up. ‘Such a nice chap. I saw him swinging round the trees in his harness and asked him to trim my hedge, enough to let in some light but not to allow Debbie Cunliffe to peer in. Sorry, that was dreadfully unchristian, but I expect you know what I mean.’
‘I certainly do.’ The horrible sneak.
‘Honestly, you couldn’t see where Woody had trimmed it, such a nice chap. God bless you, Etta, see you in church,’ said Niall, and nearly falling over a crate of empty milk bottles he stumbled off into the night.
Across the valley, Etta could hear a horse neighing. She wondered if it was Stop Preston, and wished she could visit Marius’s yard to thank him for the pale blue jersey she’d just been able to afford, despite squandering the rest of her winnings on boozing in the Fox. Going inside, she hastily hid the empty sherry bottle in the bin in case a spying Romy accused her of drinking alone.
Etta’s heart lifted every time she saw Harvey-Holden’s and Marius’s horses clattering through the village, or being taught to jump fences and hurdles. Often she watched Olivia Oakridge bumping over the fields on her quad bike, bringing hay to horses that were still turned out. Invariably a troupe of horses would follow the bike, clearly they loved her.
There was lots of gossip about Marius. The weather had been awful and he couldn’t afford to put in an all-weather gallop, Woody and Joey told Etta. Jase the farrier had also overheard Marius and Olivia rowing.
‘Olivia’s jogging a lot, she ought to be jogging horizontally on top of Marius,’ said Joey.
Trixie had longed to get a holiday job with Marius, but even though Shade Murchieson, whom she’d met at her grandfather’s funeral, had put in a good word, Marius had told her there were no vacancies.
‘He hasn’t got any spare cash,’ reported Jase. ‘He’s laying off staff and acting as his own travelling head lad. He had to lead his horses up himself at Bangor the other day. If he drops his prices any more, we’ll be able to send Not for Crowe there.’
Whenever she drove through the village, Etta hoped to catch a glimpse of Seth and Corinna or Valent and Bonny or even Lester Bolton the porn millionaire and his chav wife. But none of them showed up. She was absolutely shattered looking after Poppy and Drummond, trying to find things for them to do. Drummond was even bored when she took him to see the sharks in the aquarium in Bristol, complaining they looked much smaller than they did on television.
He had an answer for everything. When Etta urged him to eat up his carrots because they’d help him see in the dark, Drummond replied that he would rather have a torch.
17
One afternoon, desperate for a horse-fix, Etta took Poppy for a walk along the top road towards Ralph Harvey-Holden’s yard. As they admired some sheep in a field, Poppy took Etta’s hand and asked, ‘Is it black nose day?’
A slight breeze was unleashing more leaves.
‘Every time you catch one, you get a happy day,’ said Etta.
Soon she and Poppy were racing round shrieking with excitement. Belting after a spiralling olive-green ash frond, Etta nearly fell over a quad bike tucked into the side of the road. On it, surprisingly far from home, was Olivia Oakridge talking into a mobile: ‘Thank God we got away with it this time.’
In front of her on the bike, clutching the handles, was a child with her mother’s dark auburn hair and innocent, kittenish blue eyes. Etta thought how pretty they both were. As Olivia switched off her mobile, saying she had to come up here to get a signal, she appeared overflowing with happiness, which seemed at variance with her husband’s lack of form. Perhaps they’d had a winner.
‘You must be Mrs Bancroft. Dora’s told me about you and your spectacular win on Preston, and you must be Poppy. This is India, she goes to the same school as you. You must get Granny to bring you over to see the horses.’
Profoundly grateful for something to fill an afternoon, Etta did just that the following day and it was a huge success. Marius was at the races, so everything was much more relaxed.
‘Pooh, what a stink,’ complained a horrified Drummond when confronted by the muck heap, but he was soon caught up watching the horses being brushed down, skipped out and watered and in helping the stable lads take round hay nets and feed buckets.
India bore Poppy off to meet Horace, her skewbald Shetland pony, who refused to move an inch until he’d been given several whacks. Poppy was even more excited when Josh, a merry-eyed, red-headed stable lad often seen riding or driving much too fast through Willowwood, lifted her up for a ride in front of him on Oh My Goodness.
Etta was in heaven, so busy hugging the horses and patting the swarming pack of lurchers and Jack Russells that she hardly noticed how run-down everything was. Paint was bubbling and peeling, railings were chewed, doors gnawed and most of the horses wore hand-me-down rugs.
She was enchanted to meet Stop Preston, whose huge blaze was splashed over his face like whitewash. He was delighted to eat Etta’s carrots and a whole packet of Polos. Graciously receiving her words of gratitude, he kept nudging her.
‘As if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,’ called out Olivia, arms full of exercise rugs she’d just taken down from the washing line. ‘He’ll probably refuse to go down to th
e start next time.’
Ilkley Hall, on the other hand, flattened his black ears and darted his teeth at Etta.
‘He’s missing Collie, our head lad, who’s gone to the races with Marius. Look, you can see your house across the valley.’
Glancing across, Etta was fascinated to see the cricket pitch, the village green, Willowwood Hall, more of Badger’s Court than from her own garden, and the high street, a gleaming parting up the centre.
Oh dear, like a star in a haze of willows, the colour of French mustard now their leaves had gone, a light was shining in Etta’s bungalow.
‘Mrs Travis-Lock will slap your wrists,’ said Olivia. ‘She’s an old duck really, just bossy.’
‘What a beautiful valley,’ sighed Etta as they looked over yellowing fields falling down to the river.
‘In the old days trees were cut down so you could see your enemies coming. Marius had to gouge a gallop out of the hillside. It’s very steep but it gets the horses fit, and we’ve got a lot of turnout area. It’s also very exposed, which hardens the horses – and their trainer,’ said Olivia cryptically.
‘They lead a four-star life, our horses,’ she went on slightly defensively. ‘We don’t have holidays, the horses do. Marius is up at five and out in the yard at ten o’clock, putting on another rug, giving them some more hay. Come and have some tea.’
‘Have you got time?’
As Olivia ran off to answer the telephone in another room, Etta examined the lovely kitchen, where horse photographs were joined on the wall by India’s drawings. A big sofa was covered with dogs, and rugs where dog paws had torn the upholstery. A large ginger and even larger tabby cat snored in baskets on higher shelves. Any animal smell was driven away by the scent of a huge bunch of white lilies in a dark green vase and apple logs, flickering and crackling merrily in the fireplace.
Returning, Olivia switched on the kettle and said Poppy and Drummond were having tea in the stable lads’ cottage.
‘You haven’t met Marius,’ she went on, getting a last loaf out of the bread bin and putting two slices under the grill. ‘When I met him, I used to pray he’d be as forthcoming to my friends and my family as he was when we were alone.’
She looked so slim and gorgeous, with her windswept curls, tight jeans and a turquoise jersey which turned her eyes green.
‘Do you ride in races?’ asked Etta.
‘Not much since I had India. I lost my nerve at the prospect of having half a ton of horse falling on me, but I break in the young horses and go to the sales.’
Etta, still looking at the photographs, found a familiar face: ‘There’s Shade Murchieson.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Not to speak to. He came to my husband’s funeral, and gave a fantastic donation to help fight the illness that killed him.’
‘Shade’s very generous.’
Olivia took out the toast, spread it with butter and, after scraping off the mould, home-made strawberry jam.
‘Sorry there isn’t any cake,’ she said, handing the plate to Etta. ‘Shade’s a terrible bully. He’s always rowing with Marius, who can’t be too rude because we need the money. Rupert Campbell-Black just tells him to fuck off. Shade tried to persuade Rupert to pull strings to get his son into Harrow, where Rupert went. Rupert said you have to put them down at birth, or lack of birth in your case.’ Olivia burst out laughing. ‘Isn’t that too dreadful?’ Etta was in heaven, two terriers on either side and one on her knee, all with wood shavings in their fur like Woody.
‘Do you terribly miss your husband?’ asked Olivia, collapsing on the sofa beside her, then answering herself. ‘I think it’d be awfully restful without one. No more “Where’s my blue shirt, where are my car keys?”’
She had a sweet way of rattling off these remarks that took the sting out of them.
‘It’s so lovely of you to have us over,’ said Etta. ‘India must come over to us. So exciting meeting all your horses in person – or in horse – after we’ve admired them as they ride out. When’s Preston going to run again? How old is he?’
When no answer came, she realized Olivia had fallen asleep, russet-curled head resting on the back of the sofa, like a poem about autumn. Her mug of tea, however, was at a dangerous angle. When Etta got up and removed it, Olivia woke with a start.
‘So sorry, so rude of me.’
‘I know you get up at five,’ said Etta. ‘I often see your light across the valley.’
They had all enjoyed themselves and Etta drove home in tearing spirits. But that evening, she received another sharp telephone call from Romy.
‘Drummond should never be taken near horses, Mother. He’s having great difficulty breathing and he said he was absolutely terrified and Poppy’s just told me she wants a pony like India Oakridge. We are not a horse family, Etta. We don’t want to go down that road – all that expense and time and snobbishness. And Drummond said they had fish fingers, frozen peas and tomato ketchup.’
Etta felt intensely irritated. Drummond was a bloody little liar and the children had loved every moment of it.
She did, however, feel guilty when she met Niall the vicar next day in the post office. She’d so meant to go to church but on Sundays Romy liked to go to Matins with Martin and expected Etta to cook lunch. When she returned, full of Christian spirit, she would complain that everything had far too much salt in it.
‘I know salt is a generation thing, Mother, but it is bad for you.’
At Evensong time, Martin and Romy would be working on the Sampson Bancroft Fund and Etta would be putting the children to bed. Afterwards she’d walk home through the wood, which got very dark and made her long for Bartlett’s reassuring presence.
At least she’d won over Mr Pocock, Mrs Travis-Lock’s gardener, who’d previously given her a very cold shoulder because Martin had sacked him. This was because Etta had rescued his black cat, Gwenny, who, when chased by a passing Alsatian, had taken refuge up one of Etta’s conifers. When Pocock came to collect Gwenny, he found her purring on Etta’s knee, having polished off half a tin of sardines.
‘She’s such a lovely cat.’
Pocock had burning yellow eyes, a big beaky nose, a crest of grey hair sticking up like a bird of prey and a lean sinewy body. He was very dismissive of Etta’s concreted-over garden and mature conifers.
Noticing the still empty bed Woody had dug out, which was now fertilized courtesy of Not for Crowe and Family Dog, and learning that Etta was saving up to buy some plants, Pocock said he might find her something that would flourish there.
‘Ferns, hostas, goat’s beard.’
‘Cowslips, hellebores, foxgloves, primulas, there’s a heavenly white one called Moonbeam,’ piped up Etta in excitement. And they were off.
Three cups of tea and three slices of chocolate cake later, Pocock was telling her about Mrs Travis-Lock.
‘She’s very Green, Etta, if I may call you Etta? Won’t even use slug pellets. She ought to use them on her neighbour Mr Lester Bolton. I ought to retire, but it’s lonely being a widower, so I’ll keep going as long as I can.’
With Gwenny mewing under his arm, he set off into the dusk.
18
The next day, Romy took the children off to visit Granny Playbridge and Etta was roused from a rare lie-in by a pounding on the door. Mr Pocock had arrived with a boot full of yellow-leaved hostas, magnificent ferns, a tree peony, a big clump of foxgloves and a splendid goat’s beard.
‘Those six are primulas and those roots are lily of the valley.’
‘Oh, you darling, darling man. Where did you get them from?’
‘No names, no pack drill, Etta, but quite a lot from Badger’s Court. Joey doesn’t know a daffodil from a delphinium. He’s planning to knock down a major wall by a flower bed, so we’re saving them from certain death. I’ll bring you some hellebores and white primulas tomorrow.’
‘Oh, oh,’ Etta was close to tears, ‘thank you so much. Would you like some breakfast?’ Then, remembering t
here was only half Gwenny’s sardines in the fridge, she was relieved when he said he’d got to be at Mrs T-L’s by nine.
‘But thanks, and thanks for rescuing Gwenny. You spoiled her, she turned up her nose at cat food this morning.’
Etta felt absurdly happy. What a kind chap. What marvellous plants. The Aruncus, or goat’s beard, such a lovely name, was the tallest and had better go at the back. She was just digging a hole when Dora rolled up in the highest excitement, with Cadbury leaping and bouncing around her.
‘Mrs Bancroft, gossip, gossip, gossip. What are you doing?’
‘Putting in shade-tolerant plants.’
‘That is so perfect!’ Dora went off into fits of laughter. ‘Someone who is not Shade-tolerant is Rupert Campbell-Black. His daughter Bianca, my best friend, rang me yesterday morning to tell me.
‘Shade,’ began Dora, one hand on her hip, the other gesticulating wildly, ‘had ten horses with Rupert, or rather he did have but he made the fatal error of making a pass at Rupert’s wife Taggie. Taggie wasn’t going to tell Rupert because he’s soooo jealous, but Michael Meagan, one of the Irish lads, who hates Shade, tipped him off. Anyway Shade had the temerity to roll up at Penscombe next morning and Rupert, who has the shortest fuse in Christendom, howled, “Get orf my gallops now and get your horses, all your fucking horses, out of my yard now.”’
‘Good God,’ said Etta, putting down the Aruncus and leaning on her spade.
‘Well, Shade drove off in a fury, and three hours later he got a hysterical call on his mobile to say all ten horses had been delivered to his offices in St James’s Square by high-speed lorry and were crapping everywhere. They had to be led to St James’s Park to await further instructions.’
