by Jilly Cooper
Phoebe Weatherall meanwhile had buttonholed Woody as he slid in to put more logs on the fire: ‘Our cherry tree’s fallen down, would you have a moment to chop it up? We’ll be needing some logs for Christmas.’
‘She’ll never pay him,’ Painswick muttered to Etta.
Cindy Bolton was doing a number on a handsome blond hunk with a badge on his dark green fleece saying ‘Thank you for looking after my dog’.
‘How sweet,’ cooed Cindy. ‘What kind of pooch have you got, Jase?’
‘I haven’t. Found the badge at a service station. Sure pulls the birds.’
Cindy shrieked with laughter. ‘What d’you do for a living?’
‘I’m an equine podiatrist.’
‘How fascinating.’ Hiccuping, Cindy accepted more cider.
‘Your hubby’s bought North Wood.’
‘Where he intends to create a Harboretum.’
‘Woody’s the man to help you,’ grinned Jase. ‘He’ll trim your bush any time.’
Cindy’s shrieks were so excessive that Lester, who disliked competition, beckoned her to join him and Shagger.
Abandoned, Jase sat down beside Etta.
‘Jase Perry,’ he said. ‘I’m the third of the Terrible Trio. Heard a lot about you, Etta, and your cakes.’
Etta blushed and introduced Painswick. ‘This is Jase, the famous farrier.’
‘I’m only an equine podiatrist at parties.’ Jase shook his head. ‘Sad day, I replated Snowball only yesterday. Knew her at Rupert’s too, sweet little mare, held the hammer in her mouth while I did her feet. Would have taken her plates off tomorrow. You never get used to empty boxes.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Etta, thinking how nice he was. ‘It must be nerve-racking shoeing racehorses, they’re so skittish.’
‘Terrifying, but you get the best gossip. People tell you anyfing when your head’s under a horse’s belly, no eye contact. Like being a minicab driver or an ’airdresser like my wife.’
‘She did my hair beautifully,’ said Etta.
‘Why’s Shade taken his horses to Marius?’ enquired Painswick, who wished she’d brought her knitting.
‘More to do with that,’ Jase nodded at Shade’s rotating hand, ‘than Marius’s form at the moment. Marius can be a grumpy bugger. Hope Shade doesn’t take his horses and his missus at the same time.’
As Joey appeared from the kitchen with another jug, he winked at them, but was accosted by Phoebe. ‘Joey darling, can I have a top-up? One of our drains is blocked. I wonder if you’d have a mo.’
‘See what I mean?’ muttered Painswick.
Pocock, leaving the party in the kitchen, filled up Etta’s glass, which enabled her to tell him how well his plants were settling in, and how lovely all his plants in this house were, and how sweet Gwenny had popped back last week and curled up on her bed. Envying Gwenny, amazed how different Etta looked tonight, Pocock said he’d got some Christmas roses for her.
Etta noticed poor Tilda the schoolmistress hovering dis-consolately as Shagger, having had his insurance pitch to Bolton constantly interrupted by Cindy’s giggles, ignored her pronouncement that she’d made his favourite fish pie for supper and sidled off to talk to his friend Toby.
Harvey-Holden was about to renew his attack on Lester when he was pre-empted by Martin: ‘I’d love a chinwag with you about my father’s fund, Lester.’
‘Who’s that talking to Shade and Harvey-Holden?’ asked Lester.
‘That’s Olivia Oakridge, a most attractive lady,’ said Martin.
‘Needs her boobs enhancing and her teeth veneering,’ said Cindy dismissively. ‘Do you know they’ve got creepy-crawlies in the toilet here and Ione’s planted pansies in her hubby’s shoes?’
‘Anyone we know?’ said Alan, who was drunk.
‘I ought to go.’ Etta, also feeling drunk, got to her feet.
‘Don’t,’ called out Olivia. ‘Come and talk to us.’
‘Ilkley Hall’s so beautiful,’ Etta told Shade, ‘and so macho.’
‘Like his master,’ purred Shade.
Seeing her mother-in-law laughing rather too loudly with Shade and Olivia, Romy tried to catch her eye to tell her to leave, but she was too late. The last descendant of Sir Francis Framlingham had clapped hands that had never seen a manicure. Summoning as many guests as possible into the drawing room, Ione exhorted them to join the Compost Club for the benefit of global cooling, recycling, and the beauty and fecundity of their gardens.
Etta glanced at Alban leaning against the wall, listening so politely and patiently, as he must have had to do all his career, to potentates and difficult heads of state, smoothing paths, but now centre stage no longer. Glancing round, he caught Etta looking at him and gave her a smile of such sweetness.
‘We all have holes in our lives,’ Ione’s voice was rising, ‘so why not refill your hole with compost?’
‘I’ll fill your hole with something much more exciting,’ murmured Shade into Olivia’s hair.
Olivia laughed and wriggled against him.
Mrs Travis-Lock then drew attention to her wormery, urging guests to get one of their own.
‘Pooh,’ said Cindy, at which Jase the farrier started snaking his hand along, opening and closing his fingers and thumb like a devouring worm. Everyone fought the giggles – even more so when Ione paused for breath and Mrs Malmesbury could be heard haranguing Farmer Fred from a nearby room: ‘Cows with TB defecate near badger setts.’
‘Hope they use forest-friendly loo paper,’ whispered Dora.
Ione, however, carried on unfazed: ‘And with Christmas not too far away, I implore you to buy Christmas trees with roots which can be replanted, to take your Christmas cards to the recycling banks afterwards, and to leave sellotape off your parcels so the wrapping paper can be used again.’
‘Then the dung beetle lays eggs in the cowpat and badger comes along searching for grubs and beetles under the cowpat and catches TB, poor fellow,’ yelled Mrs Malmesbury.
‘Oh shut up, Mrs M,’ called out Ione. ‘Tonight I hope you’re all biking or walking home, but first I want you to join the Compost Club.’
Such was the force of her personality and her audience’s desire for her to also shut up that most people signed up, promising a subscription of £20 per annum.
‘I’m going to sort out our garden,’ vowed Phoebe, who had managed not to join. Then, smiling at Etta: ‘We haven’t met, Mrs Bancroft, but I hear your garden in Dorset was lovely. Will you come to tea and advise me?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ hissed Dora and Alan simultaneously.
‘I haven’t really got a garden here,’ said Etta.
‘You can always put creepers in tubs up your walls,’ said Ione briskly. ‘I’ll earmark some speedy growers. They’ll need some compost. Come on, Etta, join the Compost Club.’
‘Bungalow-ho-ho,’ whispered a grinning Alan, then, as Lester Bolton wrote out a large cheque and handed it to Mrs T-L: ‘The little creep ought to spread it on himself. He might grow a few inches.’
Martin meanwhile was hopping. All these people could have contributed to the Sampson Bancroft Fund.
‘I hope we may receive you at Primrose Mansions when it’s finished,’ Cindy was telling Jase. ‘It’s so cool to be an equine podiatrist.’
Woody, who was shy and had hidden in the kitchen talking to Pocock and cider-brewing Joey, appeared beside Etta and said, ‘I tell people I’m an arborist at parties.’
‘Cindy probably thinks that’s something to do with boats. Sorry, that was bitchy.’
‘You been OK?’ asked Woody. ‘I’ll take you home when you want. This drink’s disgusting but it seems to be doing the trick,’ he added, as Mrs Malmesbury nearly fell off the arm of the sofa. ‘She’s a good old girl, still does her own shopping at Tesco’s, goes wide round the bends but she’s OK coming up on the straight.’
Seeing the delectable Woody and Etta laughing together, both the vicar and Shagger bore down, asking Etta how she was getting o
n in Willowwood.
‘Etta’s great,’ said Woody, ‘best cake-maker in the world.’
‘How wonderful! Might you make something for our Christmas Fayre?’ asked Tilda. She was shadowing Shagger, to his intense irritation.
‘How are things?’ he asked, pointedly turning to Woody.
‘Crazy since the gales.’
‘Why don’t you take on an assistant?’
‘Insurance gone up too much.’
‘Call me.’ Shagger posted a card into Woody’s breast pocket, letting his fingers linger against Woody’s chest. ‘I’ll get you a better deal.’
‘Have a Fairtrade nut,’ said Tilda, waving a bowl between them.
‘Shagger’s only interested in rough-trade nuts,’ observed Alan, returning from the kitchen with another large whisky.
As the guests were thinning out and Mop Idol was gathering up glasses, Araminta, the black Labrador who missed embassy life, and an adorable springer spaniel puppy were allowed to bound into the room.
‘Oh how lovely,’ cried Etta, moving forward, but Harvey-Holden, irritated at being lectured by Ione about his inorganic yard, had already picked up the puppy by the scruff of her neck. He roughhoused with her until she shrieked, then dropped her from a great height on to the floor.
Beastly man, thought a horrified Etta, then was distracted by Shagger’s great red hand shooting out to grab and down a three-quarters-full glass.
‘That’s Alan’s whisky,’ she squeaked loudly.
A squeak overheard by most of the guests, who had difficulty not laughing, except Ione, who looked at the empty glass: ‘Whisky, surely not?’
‘I must be mistaken,’ stammered Etta.
‘Go back to Harvest Home at once, Mother,’ said Martin icily, ‘and check on the kids.’
‘Don’t go, Etta,’ said Woody and Joey.
‘Trixie’s at home,’ Alan pointed out.
‘Is that your gorgeous granddaughter, Etta?’ asked Shade.
‘Mother,’ said Martin ominously.
Olivia raised an eyebrow. ‘Do bring Poppy over to see the horses again.’
‘I don’t want Poppy to get involved in ponies,’ snapped Romy. ‘She’s got so many other interests.’
‘A pity,’ said Olivia lightly. ‘Horses teach children to love and to cherish.’ She smiled up at Shade, then, turning to Etta: ‘Come and have supper without Poppy, we’ll find you a nice man.’
‘Utterly inappropriate,’ exploded Romy. ‘Etta has just lost the most wonderful man.’
And Etta fled, hardly having time to grab her coat and stammer thanks for a lovely party before a going-away present of a jute bag, with ‘Join the Jute set’ on the side, was thrust into her hand.
‘Goodbye, Etta,’ called out Alban, kissing her as his wife went round dimming the lights even further to encourage everyone to go.
‘Give me the sun,’ cried Alan theatrically. ‘Your wife’s going to do us for drink biking, Alban.’
‘Go home,’ chided Ione. Despite his leading her husband astray, she was fond of Alan and amused by his antics.
Ralph Harvey-Holden, having not sobered up after the races, invited Cindy and Lester to join him as well as Olivia and Shade for dinner.
‘That’ll set him back a few bob,’ observed Jase. ‘Surprised he can afford it. Hasn’t paid me for months.’
‘Don’t forget, Mr Bolton,’ Ione called after a departing Lester, ‘solar panels provide hot water, and you’ll halve your electricity bills with a wind turbine. Save money yourself and save the planet.’
‘Shut it, you bossy cow,’ muttered Cindy. ‘Why the ’eck doesn’t she have lights down her drive?’
Next moment, Lester had tripped over his lifts and landed in a flower bed, pulling Cindy on top of him.
‘Pooh,’ shrieked Cindy. ‘Think of all those worms wriggling round underneaf you, Lester.’
‘You must feel among friends,’ said Alan.
Waving Miss Painswick off into the gloaming, a still giggling Etta swayed back to Harvest Home. Alban and the Major had kissed her good night. Pocock had asked her if she’d like him to organize her an allotment. Woody had invited her to join him and Jase in the pub. She’d refused reluctantly, sad to see the dreadful Shagger spurning a disconsolate Tilda’s fish pie and belting after them.
Willowwood, with far too many lit-up windows for Ione’s liking, looked like an opera set. Stars glittered like diamond earrings in the bare trees, while Orion, arms raised like a victorious returning jockey, bestrode the valley. The moon, emerging sad, white-faced and hollow-eyed from behind a black cloud, reminded her of Beau Regard. Wet willow fronds brushed her face like lank hanging locks on a ghost train.
Arriving thankfully ahead of Romy and Martin, Etta found Poppy and Drummond watching the adult channel and eating forbidden chocolate, and Trixie on the leather sofa in Martin’s den ferociously snogging red-headed Josh, the best-looking of Marius’s stable lads, who exited quicker than any three-year-old out of the starting stalls.
Buttoning up her shirt, diverting any reproach, Trixie said:
‘Dad’s just texted me saying: “Great dress, Granny was the belle of the ball.” He and Mum have joined Lester, Shade and Ralph Harvey-Holden for dinner.’
22
Etta’s thank-you letter crossed Ione’s, saying how nice it had been to meet Etta at last and how she looked forward to receiving Etta’s cheque. Etta sighed. For the same reason, she was dreading Christmas and all the money she would have to spend on presents, not just for the family but for Drummond and Poppy’s teachers and for every time they were invited to a children’s party. Romy always conveniently forgot to reimburse her. But at least Etta needn’t bother with fairy lights and a tree this year because both her children were going skiing: Romy and Martin to Courchevel, Alan and Carrie off to the Rockies.
Both sides apologized to Etta for abandoning her the first Christmas after Sampson’s death.
‘Anniversaries are always painful,’ pointed out Romy. ‘It’s as hard for Martin as for you, Mother. He needs to get away to achieve closure.’
Etta reassured everyone she’d be fine. In fact she was passionately relieved at a chance to catch up on sleep and get Little Hollow into some kind of order.
As Christmas approached, she had the added hassle of Trixie home for the holidays. With Carrie flat out at the office and Alan pretending to work on his book, Trixie was left her to her own devices and vices: smoking, drinking, slamming doors, coming in late, and hanging a NO ENTRY sign outside her bedroom.
Poppy and Drummond were revving up for their nativity plays. Poppy made an adorable angel, but screwed up by ignoring her parents and yelling, ‘Hello, Granny,’ when she caught sight of Etta in the audience.
‘When Santa got stuck in the chimney, he began to shout,’ chanted Drummond. ‘You girls and boys won’t get any toys unless you pull me out.’
They wouldn’t get any anyway, reflected Etta. Romy and Martin had announced they weren’t giving presents this year, just making a contribution to charity: their own. Sampson Bankable, as Alan called it.
To counteract Ione’s compost push, Martin and Romy gave a fundraising Christmas party at Harvest Home to which they asked Valent and Bonny and Seth and Corinna, who again hadn’t replied. Etta, who’d done all the cooking, couldn’t help feeling resentful that it was her and Sampson’s splendid oak table that she was laying with her own glasses and lovely silver candlesticks, a wedding present from her godmother. Sampson’s portrait by John Ward, not remotely daunted by the soaring barn wall, glowered down, daring her to make a fuss.
Martin was practising his after-dinner pitch just before the guests arrived, when he dispatched Etta to the Fox to get beer for Valent in case he turned up. He was, said Martin, ‘the kind of rough and ready chap who’d drink that sort of thing’.
‘Joseph was a carpenter, bang, bang, bang,’ shouted Drummond.
Outside it was bitterly cold and starless with a yellowish tinge to the sky.
Shagger’s cottage, Phoebe and Toby’s cottage and the village shop were in darkness, but Etta could see Niall at his computer, probably wrestling with all the Christmas sermons. She wondered if the blue spotted mug beside him contained sherry.
Aware of a shiny face, an old brown jersey and seated trousers, Etta crept into the Fox. She was immediately hailed by Chris the landlord, wearing a too-tight pink shirt and a Father Christmas hat.
‘Long time no see, Etta. Have one on the ’ouse.’ He held up a jug of lurid reddy-orange liquid. ‘Foxy Lady, our Xmas special, first one on the ’ouse for a pretty lady.’
‘Oh goodness,’ squeaked Etta, ‘it does look delicious.’ Noticing branches of holly topping the hunting pictures, and paper chains and tinsel round the necks of hounds and foxes, she added, ‘Doesn’t the place look festive? Oh, I really shouldn’t,’ as Chris thrust a large glass into her hand. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Secret,’ said Chris. ‘Orange and cranberry juice and a bit of et cetera.’
‘Wow,’ gasped Etta, taking a gulp. ‘I mustn’t stop, I came to get some beer.’
‘Bitter or lager?’
‘I don’t know. How stupid of me. It’s for Valent Edwards in case he turns up at my son’s party.’
‘He won’t,’ said a voice. ‘He and Bonny are in the Maldives. So you can relax.’ And a great furry kiss was planted on her cheek.
It was Joey, who with Jase and Woody was discussing their syndicate and handing over the December money to sustain it, which meant an excuse for a piss-up. Not for Crowe had run out in a hunter chase that afternoon. They had to save enough to put him into training.
‘Horrible day’s racing,’ sighed Joey. ‘Harvey-Holden ran an unfit horse. Jockey thrashed it over the second last and it fell and broke its neck. Denny Forrester, H-H’s head lad, was already plastered. Heard him and H-H shouting at each other in the lorry. Bloody disgrace.’
Joey then produced the latest photographs of Family Dog to show Etta. She was the sort of person people showed things to, reflected Woody, because she was always so interested and enthusiastic. He thrust a second Foxy Lady into her hand.
