by Jilly Cooper
‘Etta!’ He looked startled. Perhaps she really was looking good. ‘What a coincidence, both of us here on the same day. Have you got time for a drink?’
As Seth was always joking, Etta said she had all the time in the world, at least until she had to pick up the children.
‘Such a thrill,’ the words came tumbling out, ‘I haven’t been asked out to lunch for centuries. Sampson would never let me, and after he was ill it was impossible to get away. Thank you for your dear, dear letter, it’s the naughtiest, loveliest letter I’ve ever had. Even if you were a bit plastered, it’s been such a boost to my ego.’
And Seth poured Etta a large glass of champagne and on no breakfast, she proceeded, as they downed one bottle and started on a second, to get legless. Under his warm, sympathetic, admiring gaze, as she inhaled great wafts of Terre, his sexy aftershave, she was soon telling him about her life with Sampson – ‘I was so in awe of him’ – and how worried she was about Carrie and Alan.
‘Carrie’s a workaholic like Sampson and I’m so sad she and Trixie don’t get on and see so little of each other. I love Alan, he’s so sweet to me, but he’s so wrapped up in his writing.’
‘Could I possibly have your autograph, Seth?’ asked one of the prettier ladies. ‘I’m such a fan of you in Holby City, I wish you’d cure my migraines, and we’re all coming to see you at Stratford.’ As Seth smirked and scribbled, Etta studied the menu, feeling humble. How could such a gorgeous man ask her out to lunch? She was far too nervous to eat much, which ruled out roast pork, so she settled on grilled lamb’s liver and when persuaded to have a starter, opted for melon and smoked duck with grilled figs.
‘Could I possibly have your autograph, Seth?’ asked another beauty.
‘Let’s push off to the dining room,’ muttered Seth.
This was in a conservatory. Outside, the dark green woods merged with parched fields that had turned yellow in the heat. Etta wished the sun wasn’t beating quite so hard on the glass roof, exposing every wrinkle and liver spot and turning her so pink, she should have been keeping cool in the ice bucket.
But Seth was so interested, so kind. In the end she found herself gushing like the Willowwood stream in winter, talking about Trixie, who was adorable but so wild and hadn’t been taking her exams seriously enough. And how difficult she found Romy and Martin.
Seth ended up eating most of Etta’s smoked duck, as well as his risotto.
‘Stefan,’ he told her delightedly, ‘calls adultery “adult-tree”.’
‘Rather like Valent’s mature conifers,’ giggled Etta.
‘Has Romy been unfaithful to Martin?’
‘No, no, I’m sure not.’
‘Has Trixie got a boyfriend?’
‘Well, she had Josh at the yard, but he seems to have moved in permanently with Tresa. Lots of boys ring her up.’
‘Did you commit adult-tree when you were married to Sampson?’
Etta went scarlet. ‘No, no. You’ll be divine as Benedict,’ she gibbered, trying to change the subject. ‘I loved Kenneth Branagh in the part.’
‘“Speak low, if you speak love”,’ murmured Seth, making Etta’s toes curl. ‘Was Sampson unfaithful to you?’
‘Yes,’ said Etta.
‘“Men were deceivers ever,”’ quoted Seth, letting his deep husky voice drop, ‘“One foot in sea and one on shore/To one thing constant never.” Did it hurt terribly?’
‘Yes. No, I got used to it. Hugs, shared jokes, compliments when you’re dressed to go out. These are the things one’s supposed to miss as a widow. I never had them as a wife. Sampson hugged other women.’
‘Poor darling.’ Seth took her hand. ‘Your hair looks so pretty.’
‘I did it for you.’ So used to stroking Gwenny, Priceless and Mrs Wilkinson, Etta found herself running her hand over Seth’s chin. ‘I thought Benedict shaved off his beard because Beatrice didn’t like them.’
‘He did, but I have to start the play with stubble, after that I can wear a false beard.’
‘It does suit you.’
‘I’m getting old like Corinna, I find it more and more difficult to learn lines.’
‘You’re only a baby,’ chided Etta, then humbly, ‘As I’ve said, I’d love to hear your lines if it’s any help. Do drop in at any time.’
‘Is little Trixie staying in Willowwood in the holidays?’
‘It depends on Alan and Carrie’s plans. I do hope I can keep her amused, she seems to spend her time on chat shows.’
‘Chat rooms,’ Seth said, laughing. ‘What’s the latest on Mrs Wilkinson?’
‘Blissful for her to be home. Dear Valent’s given her back his old office. Bonny had specially feng shui-ed it to calm him down.’ Etta started to laugh. ‘Alas, it distressed rather than de-stressed him, so he handed it over to Wilkie. It’s done wonders for her. She’s so relaxed she keeps falling asleep on my shoulder. Sorry, I’m being bitchy.’
‘Bonny is deeply silly.’ Seth filled up Etta’s glass.
‘You think so?’ Etta tried not to beam with relief. ‘I thought you had rather a soft spot for her.’
‘I’m not wild about either of them, Bonny and Clod. He’s terribly heavy going.’
‘Valent’s a darling,’ protested Etta, ‘and he’s been so sweet to Wilkie.’
‘He’s a yob, a mid-life Croesus,’ said Seth dismissively, ‘and she’s a joke. “Stand aside, Corinna Waters, Bonny Richards appeals to a younger demographic.” She’s not fit to lick Corinna’s boots.’
Etta felt giddy with relief.
With their main course, they moved on to the syndicate.
‘We must have some events to increase the camaraderie,’ sighed Etta. ‘People are getting awfully restless.’
‘Let’s have a mass orgy,’ suggested Seth. ‘Lester Squire can film it. He’s busy auditioning Peeping Toms. He need go no further than the Major. How’s Rafiq getting on?’
‘Riding work angelically, but Marius still won’t put him up. I don’t know how it’s going with him and Amber.’
By the end of lunch, Etta, who’d only managed a few lettuce leaves, had spilled French dressing all over her lovely lilac dress. Linking his arm through hers and singing the Hokey Cokey, Seth guided her, shrieking with laughter, towards the Polo.
She was appalled, as she collapsed against the car, to hear herself saying, ‘I’ve thought you were utterly gorgeous ever since you walked into the Fox and joined the syndicate, making everyone else join it too. Once Mrs Wilkinson runs again, we’ll be able to see each other more often. I don’t want to hurt Corinna, I like her too much.’
‘No, we mustn’t hurt Corinna,’ agreed Seth gravely.
As he opened the door of the Polo, Etta’s head fell back and she opened her lips in ecstasy, but Seth only planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth, adding, ‘We must watch out for the Neighbourhood Witch. Is it all right if I leave Priceless with you tomorrow?’
‘Of course it is,’ cried Etta.
Only when she glanced in the driving mirror to see if Seth were waving her off did she notice two fig seeds stuck between her front teeth.
As Seth wandered back to pay the bill, the prettiest luncher sidled up to him.
‘So kind of you to give Mummy a treat.’
Seth smiled. ‘Have a drink.’
Etta floated home. Such a beautiful day, if only she and Seth could have taken to the woods. She took the side off the Polo going into the school gates. Such a relief Sampson wasn’t alive.
Such a relief, thought Drummond, we can chuck Granny’s dreadful old car. Later he appalled his parents.
‘Pooh, Granny absolutely stank of drink and had to stop and have a wee behind a tree.’
‘And she hurt her car very badly,’ said Poppy. ‘She laughed all the way home and let us have crisps and two slices of chocolate cake for tea.’
Romy and Martin were outraged.
‘You’ve put our kids in jeopardy again, Mother.’
‘Just imagine if
the police had stopped you.’
‘GRANDMOTHER DRUNK ON THE SCHOOL RUN.’
If they hadn’t needed help looking after the children during the interminable school holidays and with their dinner parties, they would have sacked Etta on the spot.
Etta refused to tell them with whom she’d been having lunch.
76
Next day Seth, looking even more gorgeous in a plum-coloured corduroy suit and dark purple shirt, dropped off Priceless. Explaining he was criminally late for rehearsals, he asked if he could possibly borrow the good bottle of claret Etta had splurged on especially to share with him, as a peace offering for the director. What fun lunch had been.
It was only after he’d swirled off in a cloud of dust that Etta realized he hadn’t left any dog food. So Etta walked Priceless up to the village shop and bought two tins of Butcher’s Tripe and a packet of dog biscuits. Priceless was a most beautiful dog, black with a white shirt front and loving, long brown eyes. He was wonderful on the lead, matching his step to hers. But when she let him loose on the edge of the wood, he took off after a rabbit sunning itself in Marius’s field and didn’t return for an hour, by which time Etta had nearly rung the police. He then lifted his leg on all her tubs, drank noisily out of the lavatory and ate the contents of the two tins and all the biscuits, before going to the door and whining and whining for Seth.
‘I know how you feel, darling, I miss him too,’ sighed Etta, particularly as she now hadn’t any drink to cheer herself up with.
Priceless, however, was a pragmatist. Having thrown all the cushions, including one saying ‘Love me, love my Golden Retriever’, on to the floor, he stretched out the entire length of Etta’s sofa. When Gwenny came in at bedtime, and hissed worse than water spilled inside Romy’s Aga, Priceless retreated to Etta’s double bed, deciding it was much more restful than the rumpy-pumpy of Seth and Corinna’s or whoever. When Etta sat beside him and stroked his sleek black body, his breathing immediately became faster and shorter until he fell asleep.
Etta was so tired that she got into her nightie but found there was only about three inches of space on either side of Priceless, and one side was soon occupied by Gwenny. Etta therefore curled up in a foetal position along the pillows. No doubt Chisolm would join them any minute, followed by the ghost of Beau Regard. If only Seth were there too. Etta took a deep breath and hunched her shoulders in longing. She was just wondering what she was going to live on for the next month when she fell asleep.
Priceless stayed for a fortnight, eating Etta out of bungalow and home, running away less and less, and endearing himself to Gwenny, Poppy and Drummond, who loved it when he suddenly went berserk and did half a dozen laps round the orchard at thirty-five miles an hour. None of this paid Etta’s bills, but up at the yard she got a tip from Rogue Rogers: Rupert Campbell-Black’s colt, Penscombe Poodle, who was running at Goodwood at 20–1. Seeing Woody in the street, she gave him her last £50 to put on for her.
To her delighted relief, Poodle annihilated the opposition, winning by several lengths. Thank you, thank you, God. Etta was as overjoyed as Rupert in the paddock. To celebrate she rushed out and bought a bottle of Sancerre for herself and a chicken for Priceless, who was the dearest dog. She loved the way he took her hand gently in his mouth to lead her on walks. She was sad Seth hadn’t rung but he was probably very busy.
On the way back from the shop, she met Woody in his stump-grinding van.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she cried. ‘I hope you backed Poodle too.’
Woody felt the same sickening crunch as when you tread on a snail in the dark. Next moment he had clapped a big grimy hand to his smooth, normally untroubled forehead in horror:
‘Oh my God, Etta, I forgot, I am so sorry. I got sidetracked. Oh Christ, here’s your fifty quid back.’ He unearthed it from his jeans pocket. ‘What were the odds?’
‘Twenty to one. Don’t worry, it’s not your fault, Woody, please don’t worry.’
But how on earth was she going to feed herself, Gwenny and Priceless and the children for the next month? She’d hoped to use the rest of the money as down payment on a car.
Woody was appalled. Poor Etta, he ought to give her the equivalent but he was desperately broke, paying for a home carer for his mother when he went out to work because she’d started taking all her clothes off at the day centre. Insurance premiums were still rising, and there was a limited amount of work he could take on by himself. He had, on the other hand, done a lot of clearing up in North Wood in preparation for Lady Godiva, but Bolton, apart from occasional dollops of cash, was turning out to be a very reluctant payer.
Even a starring role as Lord Godiva only offered £500, which wouldn’t repay his debt to Etta. Woody shuddered. He couldn’t shag Cindy. More shaming, he had forgotten about Etta’s bet because he had caught sight of Niall the vicar coming out of church. He was looking so low, Woody had pulled up for a chat.
Niall was in despair because, with Mrs Wilkinson out of action and the syndicate suspended, no one came to church to hear him pray for her and report on her progress. The congregation had dwindled humiliatingly and the interminable Sundays after Trinity were grinding on.
Woody had longed to hug Niall, but seeing him near to tears, only muttered that he was sure things would pick up. The Lord had struck him down for being so feeble, by making him forget dear Etta.
Matters went from worse to even worse for Niall.
The following Sunday, the Travis-Locks and the Weatheralls, his stalwarts, were in Scotland in preparation for 12 August. Miss Painswick was away, Mrs Malmesbury staying with her sister. Niall, having spent half the week trying to find something inspiring to say about the 6th Sunday after Trinity, rolled up at St James’s for the family service, to find Craig Green the organist dispiritedly idling through ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’, Pocock, as single bell-ringer doubling up as sidesman, looking gloomy and Major Cunliffe, the church warden, boot-faced. His wife Debbie, who had gastric flu, had, with the flower show coming up, wasted a lot of precious flowers to make a splash of colour, but there was absolutely no congregation.
‘I’m so sorry,’ stammered Niall, retreating into the vestry and feeling tempted to drink all the communion wine.
The Major looked broodily at the bronze and red alstroemerias by the hymn list, Bishop of Llandaff on the windowsill and coral begonias on the table as you came in, not to mention the time Miss Painswick had spent on her housemaid’s knee, polishing brass.
‘No one’s coming, we better go home,’ he said brusquely. Then, marching Niall into the side chapel to be blinded by red and orange dahlias, the Major suggested that he really ought to think about packing it in.
‘There’s a feeling in Willowwood you lack vocation and conviction. You’ve tried but the people in Willowwood need spiritual guidance. Perhaps the church fête at the end of the month would be a good time to announce your retirement. We can discuss it more fully – come and have a jar later in the week – but you should think carefully, Niall. I’m sorry, old chap. Would you like me to put out the candles and lock up?’
‘No, I’ll do it.’ Niall’s heart was thumping so hard he expected it to crash out of his ribs. ‘I think I’ll stay and pray a bit.’
‘Do that. Sorry to be blunt, have to be cruel to be kind.’
As the door clanged behind him, Niall looked down at his white surplice, slightly pink from a red handkerchief in the washing machine. What would his parents say? They hadn’t really got over the fact that he was gay, how would they cope with a failed priest?
He tore off his dog collar and slumped to his knees in the third pew, catching sight of the little whippet, ever watchful, supporting the bruised, chipped feet of the first Sir Francis Framlingham. Such a beautiful church, such a lovely village, and Niall was beginning to feel such a part of it. He had hoped to do so much good.
He tried to pray, but loss and sadness overcame him, great sobs racking his body. The stained glass saints looking down could offe
r him no comfort. ‘Oh help me, God.’
Suddenly he felt a warm hand on the back of his neck, steadying him when he started violently, then a voice with a soft, infinitely tender Larkshire accent saying:
‘Don’t be sad, there’s no need to be sad, I’m here.’
Staggering to his feet, clutching the back of the pew in front, Niall discovered Woody, looking gentler in a grey T-shirt and jeans than in his regulation tree-surgeon green shirt and trousers and ropes. Concern was written all over his beautiful open face, intense kindness in his big turned-down grey eyes.
‘There there, my lamb. Come back home to breakfast and we can talk. Things will seem better.’ He put out a thumb, smoothing away Niall’s tears. Then, looking down and smiling: ‘You’re kneeling on the hassock my mum embroidered of a lamb, that’s nice. She’d have been pleased.’
He put an arm round Niall’s still shaking shoulders.
‘Sorry to be such a wuss,’ Niall gulped. ‘It was just having no one turn up except Major Cunliffe. He said I ought to pack it in, I’d lost the hearts of the people here.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Woody, then, looking up to the roof: ‘Sorry, God. Don’t listen to the insensitive bastard. You saved my horse chestnut, now I’m going to save you.’
Standing on the check-tiled aisle, they gazed at each other. Their mouths, one trembling, one smiling and reassuring, were so close, their eyes meeting, the next moment they were in each other’s arms, for a kiss that went on and on and on, until they were both giddy.
‘You may kiss the bride,’ murmured Woody. ‘Don’t be frightened, nothing so miraculous as that could be blasphemous. I’ve wanted to do that for such a long time.’
‘Have you?’ said Niall in amazement. ‘Oh Woody.’
‘Come home for a fry-up,’ Woody took his hand, ‘my mum’s been taken out for the day.’