by Jilly Cooper
‘Oh please God, let her be all right.’
Suddenly she was aware of darkness as the light from the door-way was blotted out by a large figure. It was Valent.
With a wail, Etta collapsed sobbing against him.
‘I’m so sorry, it’s Wilkie. I’m so terrified she’s going to be put down. I don’t want to frighten her by crying. Oh Valent, she’s so brave, I love her so much.’
‘I know you do.’ Valent enfolded her in a great warm bearlike hug. He was wearing a black shirt and a black and white herring-bone jacket. Both were soaked by Etta’s tears as he patted her shoulder and stroked her hair.
‘It’s OK, it’s going to be all right. What did the vet say?’
‘Lots of meaningless things, meaningless because you can’t take them in. I don’t want them to write her off and s-s-s-shoot her.’
‘No one’s going to shoot her, I promise, we’ll get her the best vets in the world. You pulled her through last time.’ For a moment Etta thought he might break down too, as he went on in a rough, choked voice, ‘She’s going to need you.’ He squeezed her tightly. ‘I’m so sorry, luv.’
‘Thank you.’ Drawing away, Etta tugged the pink and lilac scarf from her neck and blew her nose. ‘She was going so beautifully,’ she gulped.
‘She’ll be all right, she’s tough,’ said Valent, drawing her close again. ‘Come on, luvie, get a grip for Wilkie’s sake. We’ll go and see her.’
They heard a clatter outside and the smell of stables was joined by a waft of Allure.
‘Hello, hello-o.’ It was Bonny, with a distinct edge to her voice. ‘Welcome home, Valent. I thought it was Mrs Wilkinson who needed comforting.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Etta leapt away from him, battling a further onslaught of tears. ‘Valent was just being unbelievably kind.’
Bonny glanced at Etta’s crimson, wrecked, blubbered face incredulously.
‘I didn’t assume for a second he was being anything else.’
‘Don’t be a bitch, Bonny,’ snapped Valent. ‘Wilkie’s special to Etta.’
‘And to me. I’ve got a share in her too. I’d have come sooner, but I can’t bear to see animals suffering. God, this place stinks.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ gulped Etta.
As she stumbled towards the door, Seth appeared.
‘Oh, there you all are. Hi, Valent, good flight? Great to see you back. Bonny managed to enchant some besotted official into driving us over. She’s been really missing you,’ he reassured Valent, then, turning to Etta: ‘Don’t worry, angel, Wilkie’ll be fine, she’s such a gutsy horse.’
Seth hugged Etta, his body so lean and honed, a panther compared with bearlike Valent.
‘I’ll look after Etta,’ Seth added, ‘and leave you two lovebirds to a touching reunion. You’re a lucky man, Valent.’
Seeing Valent’s face like granite, Bonny decided not to make a scene.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ she told him as soon as Seth and Etta were out of earshot. ‘You should have warned me you were coming. Nice jacket, black and grey suit you.’ Then, seeing Valent still looking wintry: ‘Don’t worry about Mrs Bancroft. I’ve spoken with Romy, her daughter-in-law, such a charming woman, and she says Etta’s a drama queen, far too dotty about animals, cries at the drop of a sparrow, and she’s had a little too much bubbly today. Martin and Romy are really concerned about her drinking.’
‘Etta’s a sweet lady,’ said Valent sharply, ‘and Wilkie means the world to her.’
‘And who’s been eating too much chop suey?’ Bonny poked Valent in the tummy. ‘We’ll have to get you back in shape, or on second thoughts,’ even in the dim light, Valent was dazzled by her beauty, ‘let’s go back to Willowwood. I can’t wait for you to see the improvements I’ve made and to try out our new bed.’
She couldn’t understand why Valent didn’t seem to take in what she was saying and insisted on seeing Mrs Wilkinson first.
Finding Bolton still bellyaching: ‘I paid three grand to join this syndicate, what compensation do I get if she’s a write-off ?’ Valent promptly told him to bugger off and stop upsetting Mrs Wilkinson. When Bolton refused, Chisolm, like a bossy staff nurse, butted him out of the stable.
‘Oh fuck,’ said Alan, as the tape ran out.
Word had got around that a big hitter had arrived. Suddenly every trainer on the racecourse made an excuse to stop by and commiserate with Valent and Bonny, who might well be looking for another horse soon.
74
Next day Charlie Radcliffe X-rayed Mrs Wilkinson and diagnosed a possible hairline fracture of the cannon bone. He would X-ray her again in a fortnight and in a fortnight after that, by which time the injury would show up more clearly. After twelve weeks, if nothing more serious had developed, she could very slowly start exercising again, but was unlikely to be race-fit before late spring, which could mean nearly a year off.
Etta, who hadn’t dared ask Marius if she could sleep in the stable with Mrs Wilkinson, spent a miserable night, but was thrilled when Valent rang her mid-morning.
‘Don’t you worry, luv, it could have been a lot worse and later she and Chisolm can come back to Badger’s Court to convalesce.’
‘How lovely to have her home again,’ gasped Etta. ‘Are you sure people won’t mind?’
‘I’m people – and I don’t,’ said Valent and rang off.
Arrangements for the immediate future were more complicated, however. To give Mrs Wilkinson a chance, she had to be confined to twenty-four-hour box rest in big bandages for at least three months. There was even talk of cross-tying her so she couldn’t move around.
Most of Marius’s other horses were turned out. Having been canvassed by Bonny, Romy and Martin were deliberately keeping Etta busy. As a result she had far less time to visit Mrs Wilkinson, who sunk into depression, slumped in her box, refusing to eat, head hanging, not even diverted by Chisolm’s antics. The mass of get-well flowers from fans, propped outside her box and not eaten by Chisolm, had withered away. There were also murmurs of discontent from the syndicate. Why should they go on forking out for a horse that might not be able to race for a year – with no prize money and escalating vet’s bills?
A week later, in early July, Painswick was leaving work when Mistletoe leapt on to her desk, leaving muddy paws all over the medical book and scattering papers.
‘Get down, Mistletoe dear,’ said Painswick fondly, reflecting that six months ago she’d have hit the roof.
Looking out, she saw Valent getting out of his Mercedes, carrying a big bunch of young carrots like a bouquet and heading towards the tack room, then going with Marius into Wilkie’s box. Seeing them return, Painswick turned down At the Races, and poured a beer for Valent and a modest whisky for Marius.
‘And don’t go to bed too late,’ she chided him as she set off for home. ‘You’ve got an early start to Fontwell. There’s a chicken pie for you and Mistletoe in the fridge.’
‘Getting on all right?’ asked Valent as Marius turned up ATR again.
Marius nodded. ‘She drives me round the twist, but she’s an old duck and bloody efficient. She sees off Bolton and Bertie Barraclough, even Nancy Crowe.’
Proudly, shyly, he showed Valent the sapphire and crimson cushion embroidered with the words ‘God, give me winners’, which Painswick had made for him.
‘That’s neat,’ said Valent, and proceeded to give Marius a dressing-down.
‘I know it’s the pot calling the kettle black, Marius, but you’ve got to be more diplomatic, socialize more and stop being so bluddy rude and grumpy. You’ve got to offer owners a more exciting time. They’re not just buying horses, they’re buying oopmarket fun.
‘And Amber mustn’t be so snotty, or Rafiq so sulky. Tommy’s the only decent ambassadress in your yard and she screwed up when she tipped a bucket of water all over Cindy at Worcester. I heard about that.’ Valent started to laugh. ‘Must’ve been bluddy funny though.
‘For a start, I think you should give
Rafiq a contract as stable jockey.’ Then, when Marius looked appalled: ‘I rung them up at the Northern Racing College and they said he was bluddy marvellous.’
‘And bloody tricky.’
‘The trickiness would disappear with a bit of recognition. You’d get a 10 lb allowance for him. You need to win more. You won’t get your wife back by losing races.’
‘That’s fuck-all to do with you,’ snarled Marius, picking up the schooling lists.
‘And when are you going to replace Collie? The yard lacks direction.’
‘Soon. Probably with Michelle. She’s already acting head lad.’
‘Acting up head lad,’ growled Valent. ‘She’s lippy, bitchy, she can’t ride. She hardly ever gets up to ride out, the others have to do five lots sometimes. She cheeks Miss Painswick. All the staff except Josh and Tresa are scared of her and she grasses to Lester Bolton too much.’
‘You’ve been in China,’ exploded Marius, ‘how d’you know all this?’
‘Phone works in China too. I ask questions and I learn a lot. You orta sack Michelle.’ Valent thought Marius was going to hit him.
A diversion was then caused by Chisolm running into the office pursued by Horace the Shetland. Having done a lap, scattering magazines and papers, they ran straight out again.
Marius looked at Valent, and they burst out laughing.
I’ve never let anyone bawl me out like this, thought Marius as he got up to refill his drink. But I trust this man, he’s straight.
Valent in turn was wistfully thinking how handsome Marius was and how elegantly he was built. If he looked like that, Bonny wouldn’t be giving him the runaround and always bullying him to lose weight. Last night, Valent had nearly fallen off the heart-shaped bed, which ought to have seat belts, and the mirror on the ceiling only showed how out of shape he was.
‘What’s your take on Mrs Wilkinson?’ he asked.
Marius shrugged. ‘Not great. Charlie X-rayed her again today. The fracture isn’t as bad as we thought but she’s terribly low. She’s a mare who suffers from depression, tough as hell but easily cast down.’
‘We don’t want to lose a bluddy good horse,’ said Valent. ‘I’ve got a plan. Send her back to my place to convalesce. Trixie, Dora, Poppy and Drummond will all be home for the holidays, and Wilkie loves children.’
Marius was dubious and said he’d have to ask Charlie Radcliffe.
Getting up, Valent thought how pretty Marius’s garden looked, with foxgloves, pinks, alstroemerias, delphiniums and roses jostling for position in the beds and spilling over emerald-green lawns. A white rose had been grown up the office wall and peered in, pale and lovely as Bonny.
‘Looks good. Place looking much better, but you’ve got to get rid of Furious.’
‘Not mine to sell. I can’t afford to buy him back.’
‘He’s not going anywhere and Bolton will sue you if he does any more damage.’
‘He’s been better since Rafiq came back.’
What Rafiq hadn’t told Marius was that when he came back from the course to get a licence up in Doncaster, which he’d really enjoyed, Furious had greeted him with every affection until he’d entered the box, whereupon Furious had picked him up by the ribs, thrown him into the corner so he couldn’t escape and kicked him in the back of the head.
Reluctant to show the terrible bruising, Rafiq had made excuses not to sleep with Amber when she needed him, the night after Wilkie broke down. It had not improved their relationship.
Despite 120 get-well cards from the children of Greycoats, Mrs Wilkinson was not responding, and after a week Charlie and Marius agreed to Valent’s plan.
Gleefully Valent rang Etta.
‘Mrs Wilkinson’s coming home to Badger’s Court.’
‘But she’s not allowed out.’
‘She can start in her old stable. Tommy and Rafiq aren’t busy. With so many horses turned out, they’ll lend a hand.’
‘But that’s your lovely office,’ said Etta, aghast.
‘I’ve decided to turn the cockpit into my office,’ said Valent. ‘Octagonal shapes are considered very auspicious and it’s more peaceful away from the house.’
He didn’t add that Bonny, on her latest feng shui kick, had junked the £9,000 wallpaper and redecorated his office in flesh-coloured paint to balance the flow of positive and relaxing energy. Then she’d littered it with seashells and joss sticks, and hung his white kaftan on the back of the door. On the windowsill she had placed a yellow teapot, which according to feng shui encouraged stability in relationships, and given him an orange chair to provide the fire element to boost his career.
Worst of all, she’d thrown out his microwave because electro-magnetic waves weren’t friendly, so, if he was hungry, he could no longer chuck in a pizza at one o’clock in the morning. She’d also covered the television in the bedroom and his Lowry with throws because they acted as mirrors, which was bad feng shui.
According to a gleeful Joey, who reported all this to Etta, the mother and father and baby bear of all battles had followed.
Bonny was incandescent with rage. She’d earmarked the cock-pit for herself, as a quiet room for learning lines and meditation, and what about the private cinema Valent was going to build for her? Even worse, Mrs Wilkinson would be back in the office, which meant Etta Bancroft and that pestilential goat bleating round the place 24/7.
Immediately she rang Romy, who was appalled and rang Etta.
‘You must stop taking advantage of Valent’s kindness. Don’t you realize Bonny is an artist who needs her personal space? She has incredibly kindly put her name to a beautiful letter launching WOO – the War on Obesity. Do you really want to rock the boat?
‘Valent has a sentimental attachment to Mrs Wilkinson, but he’ll soon transfer his affections to another horse.’
Etta was mortified, but it was too late. Joey, utterly fed up with repainting and being bossed about, was joyfully transforming the office back into a stable and the cockpit into an office. It meant several months’ more work. He wanted to put his elder daughter on the tennis circuit, and he was worried Chrissie might be pregnant. Times was hard.
The change in Mrs Wilkinson was dramatic. Installed in Badger’s Court, peering over a newly painted dark blue half-door, she could see the orchard and the valley. Etta was close by and Chisolm, chewing the bark off apple trees and stealing the workmen’s lunches, was never far away. Gwenny curled up on her back again, and the syndicate popped in to see her as they’d never felt able to at Throstledown.
She’d perked up in a fortnight and was walking by the end of July. Etta, having been so upset by Romy and Bonny, had also cheered up. Listening to her singing as she skipped out Mrs Wilkinson and rebandaged her legs, Willowwood smiled.
‘So lovely for her, having her Village Horse home again.’
75
Etta’s apparent ecstasy was not just due to Mrs Wilkinson’s return to Badger’s Court. One lovely morning soon after she had moved back in, Etta was watering her garden, delighting in the way white and pink clematis and honeysuckle swarmed up the mature conifer hedge as if to catch a glimpse of Valent.
But she mustn’t think of Valent, who was on a yacht somewhere, supposedly ‘mending his relationship’ with Bonny.
Etta did, however, still harbour a long-distance crush on Seth and was saving up to see him at Stratford when he opened as Benedict in Much Ado.
The stream had dried to such a trickle, she was just sliding her watering can along the pebbly bottom to refill it when Stefan the Pole rolled up and admired Etta’s garden saying he wished Corinna and Seth were more interested in theirs, so many plants had died in the drought. Corinna Waters, reflected Etta, was something of a misnomer – but she had been away on tour.
Stefan confided that, pre-Stratford, Seth was running around like a ‘blue-iced fly’. He then handed Etta an envelope marked ‘Private’.
The letter was on Royal Shakespeare paper.
‘Darling Mrs B,’ she read
incredulously, ‘I know I shouldn’t write this but I think you’re absolutely gorgeous and bedworthy. We must keep it a secret but I wonder if you’d have lunch with me on Wednesday, one-ish at Calcot Manor. I’m not expecting miracles, but if by any chance you’re free just turn up and I’ll be waiting. Yours adoringly, Seth (Bainton).’
And she’d covered it with earthy finger marks. Rushing inside, Etta had to sit down and read the letter twenty times, leaping up to check in the mirror that she was ‘gorgeous and bedworthy’ and real.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she cried, gathering up Gwenny and dancing round the room. ‘Could he mean me? “Yours adoringly”?’ And Wednesday was tomorrow.
Etta was waltzing on air, worries about syndicates and fractured cannon bones forgotten. Rushing off to Larkminster, she blued most of next month’s pension on a dress in lilac linen which brought out the dark violet of her eyes. Such a pretty dress needed new dark blue high heels and a lovely new scent called 24 Faubourg.
And if I’m going to be an Oldie, decided Etta, I’m going to be a golden one, and had blonde highlights put back in her hair.
Wednesday was ideal because Drummond and Poppy were going to some end-of-term party and didn’t have to be picked up until four o’clock. As she got out of the shower on Wednesday morning, however, euphoria gave way to despair. If only she could afford some Botox, or her body looked less old and unused, as the morning sun fell on the evening pleating on her breastbone and inside arms. Perhaps the letter was a wind-up.
Driving all dolled up past Badger’s Court, she was surprised to see Valent coming out of the gates and waved at him gaily but he just stared and didn’t seem to react. Stopping every few minutes to check her face for caked powder or lipstick escaping down wrinkles, she arrived at Calcot Manor, a beautiful sixteenth-century house whose emerald-green lawn defied any hosepipe ban.
Omigod! Omigod! She felt just like Cindy, for there was Seth in the dark of the champagne bar with a bottle of Moët on ice, being drooled at by pretty women at adjacent tables. He looked bronzed and utterly stunning in a dark green shirt and chinos. The beard he was growing to play Benedict had reached the stubbly stage and really suited him in a piratical way.