by Jilly Cooper
‘Thunk you, I must go.’ Valent took the book and dropped a reluctant Gwenny gently on the floor. He didn’t want to burden Etta with his problems.
On his way back to Badger’s Court he slipped twice on the path and only saved himself by clutching on to willow branches.
Earlier, back at Harvest Home, having asked Romy why she was such a fucking bitch, Seth wandered into the kitchen to find Trixie furiously chucking pudding plates into the dishwasher. Sliding his hands inside her flowered blazer, encountering bare flesh, he caressed the undersides of her breasts with his little fingers, squeezing her hardening nipples between his first and second fingers.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ he murmured.
For a second Trixie’s resistance faltered and she dropped her head back against his chest, then she said, ‘You effing won’t. I only live next door, if you’d forgotten. And I don’t know which is more seriously retarded: voting to sell Mrs Wilkinson or trying to shag Aunt Romy. How could you!’
Wriggling out of his grasp, she escaped out of the back door into the freezing night. Reaching Russet House, finding neither of her parents home, she wandered down the garden and, oblivious of the cold, lurked in the trees.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, Seth and Bonny emerged and set out not down through the wood but along the road towards Badger’s Court. Unable to hear what they were saying, shivering uncontrollably, aching with longing, Trixie retreated to her empty house.
‘I love, I hate,’ she intoned, ‘the cause I know not, but it is excruciating.’
Bonny was no more pleased than Trixie that Seth had asked Romy out to lunch.
‘Only to take the smug smile off her husband’s face,’ protested Seth.
‘I find Martin very charming,’ said Bonny coldly.
‘How would you like to play Amanda in Private Lives for a few weeks?’ asked Seth.
Bonny was excited by the idea, but all thoughts fled out of her head when she got back to Badger’s Court and found no Valent.
Having dropped Bonny off, and left Corinna passed out on Martin and Romy’s sofa – hopefully she might throw up and serve them both right – Seth dialled Trixie’s mobile.
‘Hi, babe. How about running me up a whisky and soda.’
Returning back from Etta’s half an hour later, Valent discovered Bonny’s little bleak dress, her bra, her high heels, her diamond necklace and her bracelet draped up the stairs and Bonny lying naked on the heart-shaped bed with her legs apart. His huge fingers slid in easily, finding her even more slippery than Etta’s path through the woods. Was she acting when she sobbed:
‘Where have you been? I was so scared. There was no party once you left. I love you so much, Valent.’
Ripping off his flowered shirt, tugging at his cords and his boxers, she pulled him down on top of her.
Afterwards he couldn’t sleep and picked up Etta’s anthology. On many of the pages, she’d jotted down other quotes.
‘And beauty, though injurious,’ he read, ‘Hath strange power … to regain/Love once possessed.’
*
The following day, Valent ordered Joey to hammer in wooden posts at four-foot intervals down the footpath, for Etta to cling on to when she was walking back and forth. To his amusement, around dusk Martin came banging at the cockpit door.
‘Don’t know who’s been putting up those posts, Valent, probably one of my mother’s dubious friends, Woody or Joey, but they must come down, they’re an eyesore, I am so sorry.’
‘I saw Esau sitting on an eyesore, how many esses in that,’ murmured Valent, not looking up from Etta’s anthology, then, in a tone that froze Martin’s blood: ‘I had them put up because your mother could easily slip in wet or icy weather. And I’d like to point out, she’s been looking very tired recently. If your children wear you out, think how exhausting it must be for someone thirty years older. Etta should have some life of her own. Now get out, I don’t want to hear any presentations,’ and he returned to his book.
Before going to bed, Valent glanced out of the window and caught sight of Etta and Priceless going home in the moonlight. As if in a bending race, they were weaving in and out of the poles.
‘He likes me, he likes me not, he likes me, he likes me not, oh he likes me.’ As Etta wheeled round the bottom pole, she kissed it.
‘Valent Edwards thinks Mother ought to have more of a life of her own,’ Romy grumbled to Debbie.
‘What about an evening class? You can take courses in everything from welding to wine appreciation.’
‘Mother’s got a degree in that already,’ said Romy heavily, ‘and we need her to babysit.’
87
Christmas was approaching, the cold spell not letting up. Marius was desperate to gallop his horses, particularly Mrs Wilkinson, who had made progress but needed to be race-fit for a handicap chase in which she’d been entered on New Year’s Day.
Marius was very much aware how the increasingly impatient Willowwood syndicate would act up if she didn’t run soon – so he tore his hair as he gazed across his white frozen fields, and thought of his loathed and eternally gloating rival H-H, whose horses thundered along the all-weather gallop, and notched up one win after another.
One couple with no desire to see Mrs Wilkinson back on the racecourse was Romy and Martin. What with Gwenny and Priceless and her trips to see Wilkie and Chisolm, Etta had been failing in her duties as their children’s nanny. Romy had actually had to cut short a meeting to pick them up from school the other day. Poppy cried all night because no one came to the carol concert at Greycoats.
Martin and Romy had so many charitable functions at Christmas.
‘We must capitalize on the moment when people are feeling festive and generous.’
Jude the Obese had very kindly sent them £1,000 after the presentation at the dinner party. Martin had been tempted to launch WOO just after Christmas when people were feeling fat from bingeing, but they’d probably be too broke to give generously. He planned lunches with both Bonny, the proposed spirit of WOO, and Jude, the roly-poly model.
Martin, however, was capable of gross foxiness. Rolling up at the bungalow in early December crinkling his eyes engagingly, he handed Etta an envelope.
‘Romy and I think you’ve been looking very tired recently. We’re very conscious you missed out on holidays when Father was failing. Your turn has come, you’re going to join us when we go skiing over Christmas, before the kids go back to school.’
In the envelope was a plane ticket to Switzerland.
Etta’s heart sank, she’d miss Mrs Wilkinson’s first race back.
‘I can’t, Wilkie’s running at Cheltenham.’
‘You don’t need to be there, you’re only a tenth owner. And Ralph Harvey-Holden told me that unless the weather picks up she hasn’t a hope.
‘Gosh, I’m starving.’ Martin opened the fridge, found a little rounded tin of prawn cat food for Gwenny’s supper, and seized a piece of sliced bread to make himself a sandwich.
Etta was too stunned by what he had imparted to wise him up, particularly when he pronounced it ‘Excellent, glad you’re not stinting yourself, Mother. You don’t seem very excited,’ or ‘grateful’, he nearly added.
Etta had been looking forward to a few days without them and had planned to ask Rafiq, Painswick and Pocock for Christmas dinner.
‘I want to see Wilkie run,’ she repeated bravely, ‘and who will look after Priceless?’
‘Stefan the Pole can do that,’ said Martin, who’d gone off Seth since he called Romy a fucking bitch. ‘Seth has no right to dump that beast on you. You know what Romy and I feel about pets.’
Differently, Etta suspected, if they were offered an animal charity.
As he stalked off into the night, Martin nearly fell over a smart green and red bird table.
‘What on earth’s this?’
‘Joey and Woody,’ Etta gathered up Martin’s discarded crusts, ‘gave it to me as an early Christmas present.’
�
��Get rid of it at once,’ snapped Martin, ‘you don’t want to encourage bird flu.’
Carrie, when she heard Etta was going to Switzerland, was outraged.
‘You don’t care about Mother needing a rest, you just want a free babysitter,’ she shouted at Martin. ‘I need Mother in the school holidays. It’s my turn, Trixie wants someone to drive her around and see she eats.’
‘After the way she behaved at our dinner party,’ shouted back Martin, ‘I would think it was your duty to keep an eye on your daughter yourself. She is seriously out of control. And why can’t Alan do that?’
‘Alan is criminally behind on his book on depression,’ snapped Carrie. She didn’t add that he had been spending too much time in the betting shop and, she suspected, with Tilda Flood. He seemed only too willing to attend carol concerts at Greycoats.
Alan was also lagging behind with his book because few of the syndicate seemed depressed at the moment. Joey was going hammer and tongs with Chrissie, the vicar’s carol concert had been very well attended and Woody had provided wonderful branches of holly and spruce for the church. Alban had at last got a quango, £200,000 a year to decide whether the nation’s adultery figures had decreased since doctors had stopped visiting patients at night.
As a result, Alan had been reduced to inventing more and more case histories. Only last week, he’d made up a Catholic priest depressed at not having any sex. Alas, sending the sample chapter to keep his publishers happy, he had so inspired the publicity department that they were determined to have ‘this wonderfully courageous old man’ at the launch party and available for interview. Alan wondered if Seth or Alban or even Pocock would dress up as the priest.
As his publishers believed he’d nearly finished Depression, they had suggested he write a book on celibacy. As he had designs on Tilda, Alan had said he knew nothing about the subject and would rather write about Mrs Wilkinson and the Willowwood legend.
Etta hated leaving Willowwood. She was absolutely exhausted, having addressed all the Christmas cards Martin and Romy were sending out to possible benefactors. She had washed and packed all Drummond and Poppy’s clothes, and was now wondering what to pack for herself.
She had been terribly worried about Rafiq. Every time a suicide bomb exploded anywhere in the world, he felt the ripples of hatred, and he had been unable to ride any races because of the big freeze. Marius, coming to the rescue, had had the brainwave of posting him, Tommy and the lorry to Burnham on Crouch for ten days over Christmas, so Mrs Wilkinson could get fit galloping over the sands, strengthening her legs in the sea water. Tommy and Rafiq were enjoying staying in a B and B, while Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm lodged with a local trainer.
Etta hoped Valent liked her presents: a bottle of sloe gin and his own copy of her favourite Everyman anthology. She in turn was enchanted by her presents. Marius had given her a tiny greenhouse, in return for tending his garden, Pocock a dozen Regalia lilies. Joey and Woody’s bird table had brought her so much joy, but her best present had been a pair of brown Ugg boots, so blissfully warm and comfortable. Inside was a card: ‘No excuse for chilblains now. Love, Valent.’
What a dear, dear man.
While Etta was in Switzerland Painswick was coming in to feed Gwenny and the birds.
‘Why not save money and feed Gwenny on the birds?’ she had suggested when she had dropped in on Etta earlier and found Gwenny on the windowsill, angrily chattering at two blackbirds.
‘I like the robins best,’ sighed Etta.
One, which she’d nicknamed Pavarobin because he sang so beautifully, was always waiting in the winter honeysuckle, eyes bright, orange chest thrust out, often hitting her hand as she put out the first crumbs.
‘Most of his time,’ she told Painswick, ‘is spent perched on the table, wings on his hips, ready to attack any bird that approaches.’
‘Typically male,’ said Painswick. ‘Old Mrs Malmesbury calls robins: “souls of the dead”.’
Etta hoped Pavarobin wasn’t Sampson keeping an eye on her.
She hated leaving the birds and Gwenny, but she was most worried about Priceless. She didn’t trust Seth or Corinna or Stefan to look after him.
Wandering into her bedroom to finish her packing, she found him stretched out on her rumpled bed, flashing his teeth, his head resting on one of her Ugg boots, at which he’d been gently nibbling.
‘Wish you’d come and pull my sledge,’ sighed Etta.
88
Before Christmas, arctic conditions returned to Larkshire, which made flying off to the Swiss Alps and leaving behind Mrs Wilkinson, whom Etta had found in the snow, even more poignant.
Ever since Ione had sided with Etta over keeping Mrs Wilkinson and refused to give Sampson’s fund any money, Martin and Romy had given up any attempt to reduce their carbon foot-print or take a Green skiing holiday. It was Zermatt or nothing.
Judging by the splendour of their hotel bedroom, which had a blue-velvet-curtained four-poster, a jacuzzi, a vast television and a spectacular view of the Matterhorn, WOO and their other charities must be paying them well.
By contrast Etta had a single bed, no minibar and no television in a tiny room next to Poppy and Drummond, so she was constantly refereeing squabbles.
Returning from a shattering third day hawking the children round skating rinks and toboggan runs and applauding every achievement, while Romy and Martin acquired mahogany tans whizzing down the mountains, Etta found Sky and a huge wide-screen television installed in her room.
Aided by Drummond, she quickly located At the Races, where Marius was being interviewed in a snow-covered yard. The children screamed with delight to see Mrs Wilkinson in her patchwork rug and Chisolm in a Father Christmas hat kicking a huge snowball, followed by Mrs Wilkinson peeling a banana and shaking hooves with Matt Chapman, the presenter.
A most uncharacteristically smiling Marius then admitted Mrs Wilkinson was in great form and looking forward to her return. Cheltenham wasn’t cancelled because of the weather. The camera then switched to her 422 Christmas cards strung across the office and Miss Painswick reading out some of her fan letters.
Matt Chapman was just telling viewers that tomorrow’s race was of great interest because Mrs Wilkinson would be pitted against her old enemy Ilkley Hall, who’d won his last four races, when Martin roared in and, to wails of protest that Wilkie and Chisolm were on the television, switched off the set. Well aware that Drummond had the skills to track down adult movies featuring goats in more questionable activities, Martin promptly rang the manager to complain.
‘Take it away, I’m not subjecting my kids to pornography.’
Martin was wearing a banana-yellow ski suit. Etta had a vision of Mrs Wilkinson peeling it off him. Romy followed him, red as her ski suit with rage: ‘How dare you order Sky, Etta,’ and was followed by the manager, Mr Marcel, who’d already earmarked Martin as a pest.
Marching in, with a grin lifting his black moustache, Mr Marcel announced that Sky and the big screen had been specifically ordered and paid for. Then, brandishing a magnum of Moët and a vast bunch of alstroemerias and pink scented lilies, he added: ‘These also are for Mrs Bancroft.’
‘They’ll be for me,’ said Romy, snatching the flowers. ‘Don’t want them to go to the wrong Mrs Bancroft this time.’ Laughing heartily, she ripped open the envelope and read out, ‘“Darling Etta, All your friends at Willowwood are missing you, lots of love Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm.”’
Romy’s red, turning-to-puce face was a picture: a Francis Bacon cardinal.
‘How pathetic, a horse and goat sending flowers.’
‘Surprised Chisolm didn’t eat them,’ said Etta ecstatically.
Who would have known alstroemerias were her favourite flowers? Seth, Valent, Alan, Painswick, Pocock, Marius? She’d planted enough in his garden. She waited until her room had emptied to ring the Major, as head of the syndicate, to thank him. She got Debbie, who said Wilkie was fine, and Cheltenham would be inspecting the course at 8am, to see
if racing could go ahead.
‘It’s very cold here, how’s Switzerland?’
‘OK. Thank you all for the lovely flowers and champagne and Sky so I can watch the race. I can’t believe it.’
‘We all chipped in but it was Seth’s idea,’ said Debbie tartly. ‘He was so fed up with Romy boasting to everyone that he’d muddled the two Mrs Bancrofts and meant to ask her rather than you out to lunch.’
‘Oh no,’ whispered Etta. ‘He what? How dreadful, how embarrassing.’
For once Direct Debbie was contrite. ‘Oh Etta, I thought you knew, I’m so sorry. And you’ve been forced to look after Seth’s awful dog.’
Etta put down the telephone and died. Poor, poor Seth having to give her lunch and her getting so drunk and trying to kiss him. What a laugh everyone must have had. Oh God.
Then she tried to be sensible. After his first passionate letter, she’d grown increasingly deflated as Seth’s behaviour hadn’t been remotely amorous. How she had beaten herself up, wondering if she’d repelled him coming on too strong at lunch, when he’d never meant anything in the first place. How he must only have dropped in so often to gaze at Trixie. Wryly she looked at her single bed:
Take back the hope you gave – I claim
Only a memory of the same.
Would it be sacrilege to put a teaspoon in the neck of a magnum of champagne and have a glass now?
The flying cork nearly took Martin’s eye out, as he popped in wearing a dinner jacket, bound for a New Year’s Eve jaunt.
‘Mother!’
‘I’m not taking your children out tomorrow. I’m going to watch Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘Mother!’
‘And I’m going to have several glasses of champagne now, so I’m sure you won’t consider me a responsible enough person to babysit this evening. Happy New Year, Etta,’ she added, and slammed the door in Martin’s face.
Then she looked in the mirror. The cowardly lion was roaring.
