by Jilly Cooper
Paris tugged, Dora pushed, Chisolm resisted and the lead broke. Paris unbuckled his trouser belt.
One by one, the little goats, tempted by treats, allowed themselves to be loaded into the waiting van. Only Chisolm refused to budge until she’d stripped every leaf within reach off the maple tree. ‘We can’t waste any more time,’ ordered Brunhilda. ‘We’ll have to take her back and swap her for one of the young ones.’
‘No, no,’ wailed Dora. ‘Mrs Wilkinson needs her. We can’t leave her.’
True to her capricious nature, and tempted by Nuala’s Polos, Chisolm decided to join the other goats in the van. She was even amenable to being loaded into Paris’s mother’s trailer, until the ramp slammed on her and she realized she’d lost her companions, when she tried to kick and butt the walls down. ‘She’ll probably settle down soon,’ said Brunhilda, shaking hands with Paris and Dora. ‘Thanks very much, and give us a ring tomorrow.’
‘If there’s a problem,’ advised Nuala, ‘you could always put her in the back of the car.’
‘Whatever,’ said Paris wearily.
Luckily the roads were emptier going home. Hercules had long sheathed his sword and gone to bed. Bootes had led his flock over the hill, and Capricorn the goat had appropriately risen. There was a pale apricot glow on the horizon.
Chisolm, having wheedled herself into the Rover, scattered currants all over the back seat, polished off the midnight feast of digestive biscuits, grapes and tomato sandwiches prepared by Dora, and now rested her head on Paris’s shoulder as the convoy rumbled towards Willowwood.
Dora was asleep, curls flattened by her discarded balaclava. Fiery aeroplane trails criss-crossed the angelic blue. Paris looked at Marius’s gallops, bare sweeps of grass dotted with occasional clumps as though some giant had missed them whilst shaving. Willowwood’s pale green willows barely moved above the ice-blue river.
In about four hours Paris would be taking his Greek exam. It felt rather pagan to be bringing home a goat, when his academic career was going to be sacrificed. His adoptive father, the bursar at Bagley, would not take kindly to such an exploit. Nor would the school. He needed a shower. Chisolm, nibbling his hair, smelled far sweeter than he did.
In the driving mirror, he could see Chisolm had long yellow eyes with a black hyphen for a pupil, a pink nose, pink ears, and a white coat turned rose by the rising sun.
‘You’re an escape goat,’ he told her.
In retrospect, he was proud he hadn’t crashed the car. It was quite an achievement the day after he’d passed his test.
Coming out of Little Hollow to take in the milk, Etta discovered Dora and a most beautiful youth with silver-blond hair, strange pale grey eyes and an even paler face, leading a white goat up the path.
‘Hello, Etta,’ said a beaming Dora. ‘This is Paris, my boyfriend. We’ve brought you a companion for Mrs Wilkinson. She’s a frightful show-off. Her name is Chisolm and she’s really tame.’
‘Oh my goodness, isn’t she lovely,’ stammered Etta. ‘Where did you find her?’
‘We rescued her from a hideous fate.’ Dora rolled her blood-shot eyes. ‘Paris was so brave, he lifted her up and shoved her into the back of the car when she tried to kick out the trailer. We’ve got exams in a couple of hours so shall we put her in the orchard?’
‘Oh goodness,’ exclaimed a worried Etta as Chisolm started to eat the white roses in a blue tub by the front door, ‘I’m not sure what Valent Edwards will say. He’s been so kind letting Mrs Wilkinson stay, I don’t want to abuse his hospitality, and I’m not sure what Mrs Wilkinson will think.’
Despite the growing heat of the day, Mrs Wilkinson shivered in the orchard, gazing into space. She looked up listlessly as Dora led Chisolm towards her. At first they gazed, then sniffed, then nuzzled each other.
‘How sweet,’ cried Dora, giving them each a Polo. ‘They’re really bonding.’
But as she undid Chisolm’s lead, Mrs Wilkinson gave a scream of rage and chased the goat round and round the orchard, until Chisolm took a flying leap over the fence.
‘Goat’s the one who ought to go chasing,’ observed Paris, as Dora finally managed to catch her.
‘Don’t be so spiteful, Mrs Wilkinson,’ pleaded Dora.
As if she heard, Mrs Wilkinson trotted to the gate, called out to Chisolm, and they sniffed identical pink noses. When Chisolm was returned to the field, they both began to graze peacefully.
‘That was fun, just like the Famous Five,’ beamed Dora as they climbed back into the bursar’s Rover. ‘We should have brought Cadbury. What shall we rescue next?’
30
Returning from Washington a week later, Valent Edwards was irritated to find himself driving through a downpour towards Willowwood, ostensibly to find out why the builders were taking for ever but actually to check on Mrs Wilkinson. Sprinting through the rain to his one-time office, where he noticed the imposing oak door had been sawn in half, he heard a bleat and discovered Mrs Wilkinson curled up beside a large white goat. Etta, who was sitting in the straw beside them reading The Oldie, leapt up in embarrassment. She had been having tea with Painswick and was wearing a blue denim dress and looked much more attractive than he’d remembered her.
‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry,’ she stammered. ‘Mrs Wilkinson was so lonely and nervous of being turned out by herself into your lovely orchard, Dora and her boyfriend Paris rescued this dear goat. They adore each other and now Mrs W goes outside. She’d be in the orchard today if it wasn’t raining and the grass is doing her so much good.’
As if to prove her point, Mrs Wilkinson scrambled to her feet, whickering and nudging Valent with pleasure.
‘She recognizes you,’ said Etta in delight. ‘She’s so grateful for all you’ve done for her and so am I.’
Valent scratched Mrs Wilkinson behind the ears.
‘And I haven’t thanked her for her valentine,’ said Valent, suddenly aware that he’d pronounced the words ‘thunked’ and ‘vulentine’. Bonny’s voice coach had made him so self-conscious.
‘Oh, you got it,’ asked Etta, ‘and it was your birthday on the fourteenth too.’
‘Lousy day for a birthday.’ Valent got a packet of Polos out of his pocket. ‘You find loads of coloured cards on the doorstep and imagine they’re valentines from glamorous birds, and they turn out to be lousy birthday cards. And when I wanted to go out to celebrate and get wasted in the evening with my mates, I was expected to take Pauline,’ he paused, ‘and now Bonny out for a romantic Valentine’s dinner.’ Suddenly he smiled, lifting the heavy forbidding features like sun falling on the Yorkshire crags.
He’s gorgeous, thought Etta in surprise.
Hearing Mrs Wilkinson crunching Polos, Chisolm leapt to her feet, shoving Mrs Wilkinson aside, giving little bleats and butting Valent’s hand. Once she’d been given a few Polos, however, Mrs Wilkinson shoved her firmly out of the way.
‘Wouldn’t have done that at Christmas,’ said Valent approvingly, ‘and she looks very well. Where’d you find the goat?’
‘From some dreadful laboratory, but despite all the horrible tests she went through and apart from a slightly dodgy knee and a cough she seems to be fine. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her. I wanted to send you a photograph, but she’s so affectionate, she rushes up to the camera before you’ve got time to take a picture.’
Chisolm started to eat The Oldie.
‘I must go and find Joey.’ Valent petted goat and horse and turned towards the half-door.
‘I’m sorry about that too,’ muttered Etta. ‘Mrs Wilkinson just loves gazing out and talking to your builders. It’s given her so much more confidence.’
‘More talking than building, judging by the progress of the last few months,’ said Valent dryly, ‘but I’m glad they’re both thriving.’
‘Dora’s already tacked up Mrs Wilkinson,’ Etta told him, ‘and although she bucked and kicked at first, Dora thinks she’s already broken, so she was probably a flat horse.’
/> Nice lady, thought Valent, delighted to see how Etta had perked up, and how pretty she looked with her pale skin tanned, her hair washed and her dark blue eyes no longer swollen and bloodshot.
As he made his way through the puddles, hearing the rain slapping on the hard summer leaves, he noticed a little tree he was sure hadn’t been there last time. Next moment Chisolm had leapt over the half-door and, butting and nibbling, escorted him to his car.
When Dora started hacking Mrs Wilkinson out, Chisolm trotted behind them, and when autumn came, she taught Mrs Wilkinson to climb up banks and eat blackberries off the bushes. They were soon denuding Valent’s trees of apples and pears.
When Charlie Radcliffe came to check on Mrs Wilkinson, her new goat friend had got so possessive, she stamped her cloven foot and butted Charlie out of the field. When Charlie had recovered his dignity and his medicine case, he thought the whole thing very funny.
‘Little bugger nearly got me in the nuts,’ he pronounced from behind the safety of the gate. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job, Etta. Mrs Wilkinson looks wonderful, and she’s certainly fit enough to go hunting.’
The following week Joey mounted Mrs Wilkinson for a ride round the orchard, which ended with her carrying his fifteen-stone bulk round the valley.
‘She’s incredibly strong,’ he reported in amazement.
Meanwhile Dora, who’d been riding Mrs Wilkinson all over Larkshire, jumping anything in her path, also spent a lot of time teaching her tricks: making faces, sticking out her tongue for a Polo, shaking hooves and bowing. Chisolm, as had been noted, was very quick with her little horns. Both of them spent hours kicking and heading a football.
31
A captivated village had a whip-round to pay for the cap when Dora took Mrs Wilkinson hunting for the first time. Early in November the West Larks Hunt met at Willowwood Hall. Having alerted people with a notice in the Fox, Dora expected a good turnout, but was apprehensive of how Mrs Wilkinson might react. Her fears increased when Etta refused to go along.
‘But Mrs Wilkinson has got to hunt six times to qualify to run in a point-to-point,’ protested a horrified Dora. ‘She’s such a progressive horse, you can’t deprive her of the chance.’
‘I accept that hunting may be good for Wilkie, but I’m not coming to support it,’ said Etta. ‘Nor is Chisolm. Hounds might eat her. I’m sorry, Dora.’
Denied her two comfort blankets on the day, Mrs Wilkinson neighed with increasing desperation. But it would have been hard to say who looked better: Mrs Wilkinson, with her pewter coat gleaming, neat plaits and newly washed white and silver tail, or Dora in her dark blue riding coat, snow-white stock for which she’d abandoned her Pony Club tie, and new black leather boots. These had been bought with the proceeds from several stories – including the rescue of Chisolm.
If only Paris could see me now, thought Dora, waving her whip at passers-by and admiring her reflection in the village shop window as she trotted up the high street. So sad Wilkie was blind in her right eye and couldn’t admire herself as well.
Willowwood Hall, dozing in the low-angled morning sun, swarmed with horses and riders, gossiping and knocking back drink. An already trembling, sweating Mrs Wilkinson was further unnerved to be greeted by loud cheers.
The atmosphere was unusually relaxed because Ione had been called away to chair a Compostium in London. This enabled Alban to sex up his wife’s innocuous cider cup with lashings of brandy and sloe gin. Nor was there anyone to bellow if hounds, horses or foot followers (mostly retired people in flat caps or pull-on felts and dung-coloured coats) absent-mindedly trod on a precious plant.
In compensation, in between handing round flapjacks, fruit cake, Kit Kats and trays of drink, Mop Idol and Phoebe clanked Compost Club collecting tins.
It was a beautiful day with enough cloud for the sun to idle in and out, casting magic shadows on rolling downs and gold cascades of willows, then lighting up ash-blond stubble and rich brown ploughed fields. Huge proud trees rippled gold, orange and olive green against the rough grass as hounds roved around Ione’s orchard and garden, and strayed out through the door into the churchyard. Dirty white, freckled, beige and white, brown, black and white, their amber eyes darting, they leapt to snatch a passing sausage, jumped up lovingly on anyone who stroked them, or rolled joyfully in the grass and piles of leaves.
If only Etta could see how adorable hounds were, thought Dora, she couldn’t have stayed away.
‘Oh, do shut up, Wilkie,’ she snapped, as Mrs Wilkinson jumped all over the place, screaming for Chisolm.
‘Come over here,’ shouted Woody, looking as beautiful in the formality of hunting kit as the ginger Not for Crowe, who was hoovering up Ione’s veggie snacks, looked ugly.
Beside them, skiving from Badger’s Court, talking into two mobiles and marking the Racing Post, was Joey, who was mounted on the other syndicate horse, Family Dog, or Doggie, whose white face looked remarkably cheerful, despite his belly ruffling the fallen leaves as he buckled under Joey’s fifteen stone.
Seeing her two horse friends, Mrs Wilkinson calmed down a bit and blew in their nostrils.
‘Where’s Etta?’ asked Woody.
‘Not coming,’ said Dora sadly. ‘Thinks hunting’s cruel.’
‘I like people who stick to their principles,’ said Painswick, who’d brought a dashing green trilby to match the green and blue scarf Hengist Brett-Taylor had given her for Christmas. She immediately presented Mrs Wilkinson with a Polo, which she rejected with a tossing head.
‘My, we are off our food,’ said Painswick, giving the Polo to Family Dog. Immediately Not for Crowe heard crunching, he had to have one too.
‘You do look splendid, Wilkie,’ added Painswick, ‘and so do you, Dora dear.’
They were joined by a beady Direct Debbie in a ginger trouser suit.
‘You exactly match Crowie,’ giggled Dora. Direct Debbie’s bright red lips tightened.
‘How did you get the day off, young lady? Half-term’s long gone.’
‘Amber Lloyd-Foxe always has exeats from Bagley to hunt with the Beaufort,’ protested Dora.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Painswick, ‘Amber ran the beagle pack at Bagley. Her father, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, was one of our nicest parents.’
‘Anyway this is research,’ answered Dora. ‘Hunting comes in our GCSE set book, Pride and Prejudice, with Young Lucas saying, “If I were as rich as Mr Darcy I would keep a pack of hounds and drink a bottle of wine a day.” Sensible guy.’ Defiantly Dora reached over and grabbed a glass of port from Phoebe’s tray.
Phoebe, as pretty as the day but ever on the scrounge, was trying to persuade Woody to lop the beech hedge that grew between Wild Rose Cottage and Cobblers, in return for an unlimited supply of Bramleys.
‘You know how your old mum loves stewed apple, Woody.’
‘Hello, Debbie.’ Turning, Phoebe pecked Debbie on her mastiff jaw, ‘Woody’s going to trim our beech hedge so you’ll get your sun back.’
‘Tree loader,’ snarled Dora.
Hunting was anathema to the Cunliffes. How could the Major’s traffic-calming plans operate with people unloading their horses and leaving filthy Land-Rovers and lorries so arrogantly all over the village? The Major was having a seizure because Marius Oakridge’s trailer was blocking his drive.
‘Oh, is Marius here?’ asked Phoebe in excitement.
To enrage Debbie, dogs had relieved themselves all over the verges, village green and no doubt her lawn, from which she’d hoovered up every leaf that morning. And now the foot followers were photographing Ione’s garden and letting out their terriers without a pooper scooper in sight.
Having hidden a pair of secateurs and trowel in the jute bag handed out at Ione’s Christmas drinks, Debbie intended to nick or dig out as many cuttings and plants as possible. She was also determined, if she could escape Pocock’s bird-of-prey eye, to annex Dame Hermione Harefield, a glorious gold rose, which would feel so at home at Cobblers beside Angela Rippon, Anna Ford and
Cliff Richard.
Pocock himself was not happy. That morning he had been forced to rake up thousands of leaves before mowing the lawns and now they were strewn with leaves again. This time of year, he dreamed of leaves and more recently of Etta Bancroft, such a lovely lady.
Even sadder that Etta hadn’t shown up was Alban Travis-Lock, who was walking round filling people’s glasses from a big jug. He had longed to hunt once he retired, but last autumn had mounted one of Marius’s chasers and it had carted him across country almost to the motorway, and he’d completely lost his nerve.
He pretended he’d backed off because the ban had made hunting so tame. Now he longed to surge off into the falling leaves with the rest of the field. If only he could have poured his heart out to Etta and gazed into her kindly blue eyes … Instead he poured himself another drink. He’d better go and kick-start Ione’s nephew Toby, who would much rather have been shooting.
Toby had run for his school and once had an Olympic trial. Now, outside the kitchen, he was gloomily rubbing bloody meat into his running shoes to lay a trail that would ensure the hunt a fast and furious run. At his destination, five miles away, a hunt lorry waited with a bucket of meat to reward hounds.
‘Better get going,’ urged Alban. ‘They’ll be moving off in twenty minutes.’
‘Head off across the fields, then left at the bridle path,’ suggested a hunt servant shrugging on his red coat. ‘We’ll go round by the top of the village and pick up the scent in North Wood. Good luck,’ he added, walking off to find his horsebox.
‘Safe journey, Toby Juggins,’ called Phoebe, leaning out of the kitchen window as her husband set off down Ione’s rosewalk.
‘Wiv any luck hounds will gobble up hubby, then I’ll be in wiv a chance,’ chortled Chris from the Fox, winking as he put more full glasses on to a tray for Phoebe to carry out.
‘You are wicked,’ she said, going into peels of laughter.
‘Better go and open up,’ said Chris. His wife Chrissie would be making moussaka, in the hope of brisk custom, once the hunt set off.
