by Jilly Cooper
‘You two only have one vote between you, Woody. You and Joey cancel each other out anyway,’ pointed out the Major.
‘What about Tilda, she’s got a half-share with Shagger.’
‘Tilda’ll do what I choose,’ boomed Shagger, looking at Etta. ‘She’s not Wilkie’s greatest fan after the way she was humiliated at your party, Etta.’
‘No, I understand, I’m sorry.’
Pocock was dickering. He loved Etta and Miss Painswick. He was very fond of Wilkie. But he didn’t like Seth or the Major or Bolton, he hadn’t been able to go racing very often because of work and the presence of Alban in the syndicate intimidated him.
Joey went over to Chrissie and the bar because he felt a traitor and wanted to fill his glass.
‘Marius hasn’t got what it takes,’ said Shagger. ‘He’s so bloody stroppy. If you twist my arm I’ll have another Scotch,’ he shouted at Joey.
‘What’s the point of a syndicate with no action?’ Toby looked up from the Shooting Times.
Etta could see Alan, Seth and even Pocock wavering.
If Valent were here, she thought in panic, he’d never let this happen. It was Valent who’d accused her of betraying the judge when the syndicate was formed: ‘He gave her to you, Etta.’
‘Valent wouldn’t want to sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ she cried. ‘He loves her to bits, he’d never let her go.’
‘I beg your pardon, Etta,’ said Bonny icily, ‘I think I know what Valent “thinks”. You’ve clearly forgotten that Valent gave me the share in Mrs Wilkinson as a birthday present. It’s nothing to do with him if we sell her, or you,’ she added rudely.
‘Mind your manners, young lady,’ snapped Painswick.
‘Bravo,’ murmured Shagger, smiling across at Bonny and winking at Phoebe. ‘Let’s have a vote.’
Alan, Seth, Shagger, Bonny, Phoebe and Toby who counted as one vote, the Major and Debbie who counted as another, Bolton and Cindy who counted as two. That was eight votes, Etta worked out with trembling fingers. Joey for and Woody against cancelled each other out, as did Pocock and Painswick. Even if Alban and Trixie and Dora, who counted as one vote, came in on Wilkie’s side that was only two votes, three with Etta’s, to eight.
‘It mustn’t happen,’ Etta’s voice was rising, ‘we’re betraying her.’
Distraught, she clanged down the iron steps into the street, where she was asphyxiated by aftershave and nearly sent flying by Niall coming into the pub.
‘They’re going to sell Wilkie, please try and save her,’ she begged. Rustling through the leaves, conkers crunching like pebbles beneath her feet, she raced left up the high street then right, across the village green.
Up in the sky Pegasus was jumping over the church steeple. Surely a good omen. Reaching Ione’s iron gates, she was greeted by the red and crimson glow of acers, dogwood and parrotia.
The house was in darkness. Ione isn’t in, she thought in despair. But drawing close, she detected a slight gleam from low-energy bulbs. Ione, sitting in three jerseys at her desk near the window to catch the last of the light, had a deadline to meet for Compost magazine. She was writing on the back of recycled paper, teabag on its second innings in her mug.
Etta rang the bell furiously, a waft of icy air hitting her as Ione opened the door.
‘Please help,’ gasped Etta, ‘I need Alban’s mobile number. Bolton’s called a meeting in the Fox, they’re voting to sell Mrs Wilkinson because she costs too much, and they don’t believe she’s going to come right.’ She burst into tears.
‘Have a drink,’ said Ione.
‘No, no, there isn’t time. I just thought if I rang Alban, he might talk them round. He’s always seemed to love Wilkie.’
‘We all do,’ said Ione, and gathering up a vegetable marrow lying in the hall as a weapon of mass destruction, not bothering to close the door, she stormed out of the house across the village green and into the Fox.
Gaunt, beaky-nosed, dark eyes flashing, dark hair escaping from her bun, splendid eco-warrior, she stood in the doorway for a second, then, pummelling aside rugger players, made for the stairs.
‘We’ll have you in the second row, darlin’,’ called the captain, raising his beer mug, as she bounded up the stairs three steps at a time, bursting into the skittle alley just as the Major was gleefully counting a majority vote.
Pocock leapt behind Painswick.
‘Stop, stop,’ ordered Ione, brandishing her marrow. ‘You can’t sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ she added in a voice that had silenced Mothers’ Unions and army wives in far-flung posts of the Empire. ‘She’s not any old racehorse now. She’s the Village Horse, all the children at Greycoats love her, we all love her, and we’ll keep her as long as it takes.’
‘We’ve voted to sell her,’ squealed Cindy.
‘I don’t care!’ Snatching the voting papers from the Major, Ione ripped them up and threw them on the fire. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.’
The syndicate quailed. Next moment they all jumped at the sound of clapping. It was Painswick.
‘Thank you, Mrs Travis-Lock. Let me buy you a drink.’
‘I’ve got to rush, thank you, but I don’t want to hear any more nonsense, particularly from you, Toby, you earn enough in the City as it is.’ Then, glancing round the room: ‘Too many lights on, Chrissie, and you’re not using low energy,’ and she was gone.
‘My only recourse is to resign,’ announced Bolton. ‘I doubt if you’ll find anyone to take my share, but that’s your problem, Major. Come, Cindy.’
‘I’m going to send that piccie of her widdlin’ on her compost heap to the News of the World,’ stormed Cindy. ‘Bossy old cow.’
‘I suppose we better try and soldier on till Christmas,’ spluttered the Major.
‘Oh, thank you all so much,’ whispered Etta, ‘I promise you won’t regret it.’
She couldn’t stop shaking and she couldn’t promise any such thing. It had been a terrible blow that her friends Seth, Alan, Joey and Pocock had been prepared to sacrifice Wilkie.
Niall took the initiative, smiling across at Woody, so proud his dear friend had stood out against the majority, then clearing his throat.
‘Dear God, look after Mrs Wilkinson, restore her to health, and please rain blessings on our little Village Horse.’
Etta was slightly comforted when Debbie, who was suffering from Viagra-phobia, drew her aside.
‘Oh Etta, thank you. I’m so sorry Ay didn’t stick up for Wilkie, so pleased the Boltons have gone. Normie’s so crazy about Cindy and Bolton’s invited us to his villa in Portugal, and she’d have been there the whole time.’
84
Despite the saving of Mrs Wilkinson, Etta felt terribly low and guilty that so many of the syndicate were being forced to fork out more than they could afford. Her illusions of a band of brothers had been shattered. She still loved Alan, Joey, Pocock and Seth, but felt she couldn’t trust them any more – and guilt on their parts stopped them dropping in on her. She was passionately grateful to Woody, Painswick and Ione for standing by her and gave them all bottles of sloe gin.
She was exhausted looking after Drummond and Poppy as well as Priceless, whom she adored even though his master, despite his ‘pashnit’ letter on Royal Shakespeare writing paper, clearly wasn’t interested. She mustn’t think of Valent, he belonged to Bonny, who Etta didn’t think was nearly nice enough for him.
Towards Christmas, the weather turned bitterly cold and racing was cancelled. Wilkie couldn’t go on the frozen gallops and the lads, as they broke the ice on the water buckets on dark winter mornings, longed for the spring.
Martin and Romy decided to give a dinner party to raise money for Sampson’s Fund and for WOO.
‘I hope they serve bread and water,’ said Alan, who was not invited.
Those on the guest list included Seth and Corinna, and Bonny and Valent. Martin wanted to tap Valent for cash and get him to lend Badger’s Court for fundraising extravaganzas. Having no loyalty, Martin had a
lso invited Harvey-Holden and Jude the Obese. With the all-weather gallops and indoor school Jude had paid for, H-H was able to carry on training and was very busy buying horses for his demanding new owner, Lester Bolton.
Corinna, still on tour in The Deep Blue Sea, couldn’t make it. Valent, who couldn’t stand Martin and Romy, and who, as the fourth anniversary of Pauline’s death in the Cotchester rail crash approached, was hardly in party mode, wanted to refuse, which resulted in a frightful row with Bonny, who accused him of selfishness.
‘You come all the way back from China for the widow Bancroft’s party. You want me to love living in the sticks, and deny me the opportunity to engage with people. I so enjoy Martin and Romy, who are inviting some congenial locals – you might put me first for once.’
So Valent agreed. He could check on his cockpit office and on Marius and it would be nice to see Etta again.
Also staying with Martin and Romy was Blanche Osborne, Sampson’s chief mistress, who had caused Etta such unhappiness. She had just come reluctantly out of mourning, designer black had so suited her pale blonde hair and creamy complexion. She had left her husband Basil behind and, as Corinna was still away on tour, would make up the eight.
Martin decided it would be easier if Etta wasn’t present, even if she were only waitressing and clearing away. It would be difficult for Blanche to be herself. And after the court case over Mrs Wilkinson, he was sure Harvey-Holden would be happier if Etta wasn’t around, so he had employed Trixie, which he knew would please Seth.
Not prepared to risk Etta’s cooking after her chilli con carne fiasco, Romy had bought dinner in from William’s Kitchen. But they needed Etta’s help in bulling the place up, laying the table and getting Poppy and Drummond supper and into their pyjamas.
‘Mummy and Daddy’s job is to make money for poor people,’ explained Poppy. ‘Your job, Granny, is to tidy up.’
Etta had great difficulty preventing Drummond eating all the toffee roulade layered with white chocolate mousse.
‘They’ll need an ox to feed Jude the Obese,’ said Trixie, who was studying the seating plan drawn up by Romy, in order to put the place names on Etta’s lovely gold-leaf dinner plates.
‘Listen to these ghastly CVs. “Seth Bainton: a most talented and fascinating actor. Bonny Richards: who could have expected someone so gifted and beautiful could be so nice? Ditto Blanche Osborne, very close friend of Sampson Bancroft.” Yuckarama, sorry, Granny. “Judy Tobias, charismatic director of Tobias Inc., married to our most successful trainer.” That is seriously repulsive.’
Trixie poured herself a large vodka and tonic.
‘Romy’s put Seth on her right, greedy bitch, and poor sweet Valent on her left and Jude on his left – she’ll need the whole side of a table – then Martin next to Blanche with toxic Bonny on his left, and even more toxic Harvey-Holden next to her and Blanche next to Harvey-Holden. What a cosy little eightsome.’
Trixie shoved her cigarette in the bin and downed her vodka as Romy swanned in wearing a red dressing gown, hot and scented from the shower, hair in rollers.
‘How many times do I have to tell you to put the dishwasher on eco setting?’ she snapped. ‘Absolutely maddening, Corinna’s decided to come after all. So you’ll have to re-lay the table, Mother. I’m not a stickler for even numbers but she might have let us know before. We’ll have to shift everyone around and put her between Harvey-Holden and Jude. If you roll up that late, you can’t expect a chap on either side. Better add “our greatest Shakespearean actress” to her place card, or she’ll act up. I don’t know how Seth puts up with her.
‘After you’ve readjusted the placement and got the kids into their pyjamas and banked up the fire, Mother, you might as well push off. Must go and get ready, Blanche will be here in a mo.’
Trixie and Etta looked at each other. Trixie poured herself another vodka.
No doubt Blanche, with her £50,000 annuity from Sampson, will have bought something sensational to wow Seth and Valent, thought Etta.
Trixie read her grandmother’s mind. ‘I’ll put arsenic in her pudding.’
‘What are you going to wear?’ asked Etta.
‘A fuck-off dress,’ said Trixie. ‘That table looks gorgeous, so do the flowers.’
Blanche, having been told by Romy that there were some fascinating men coming and wanting everyone to understand exactly why Sampson had adored her and preferred her to Etta, looked stunning. She wore crimson taffeta with transparent trumpet sleeves and a nipped-in waist to glorify a total lack of spare tyre. Sampson’s huge rubies glowed at her neck. Below her collarbone was also pinned a ruby brooch in the shape of a geranium.
Bonny, even slenderer, looked deceptively demure in a little bleak dress in ivy-green silk, high-necked, but slit to her groin to ensnare Valent, Seth, Martin and the devilish Harvey-Holden, who, like her, was accused of shacking up for money.
Romy, in a fuchsia shift worn off one polished brown shoulder to show that she had no need of a bra, was looking as voluptuous as Bonny looked fragile. She was determined to charm a massive donation out of Valent and captivate Seth, who was troubling her dreams.
Sampson’s portrait looked arrogantly down from the twenty-foot high white wall as if to say, ‘I could have the lot of them.’
It was a bitterly cold night but a huge log fire crackled and flickered, bringing colour to everyone’s cheeks. Trixie hadn’t arrived so Martin was forced to open bottles. Jude seemed to have grown even larger like a children’s story: the hippo who came to tea.
Urged by her parents, Poppy sat down at the piano and played a Beethoven minuet, irritating the hell out of Blanche and Bonny, who had to shut up. A lot of wrong notes resulted because Poppy couldn’t take her eyes off Jude.
‘Are you having twelve babies like that lady in America?’ she asked the moment she’d finished.
‘Time for bed, young lady,’ said Martin firmly.
‘Good night, darling.’ Romy kissed Poppy tenderly.
Drummond then rode his new bike round the room over the corns of Harvey-Holden, who for a second looked sufficiently convulsed with hatred to throttle him.
A diversion was created by Valent’s arrival. He had been to see Marius and learnt from Painswick how nearly Mrs Wilkinson had come to being sold. Bonny had been economical with the truth and not told him she’d come down to Willowwood or that Seth had been present.
My Bonny lies over the ocean, My Bonny lies …
Valent loathed dinner parties, everyone talking about house prices and schools and asking him for free financial advice.
He also felt a prat. Insisting the dress code for tonight was casual, Bonny had persuaded him, before he left for the yard, to put on a poncy pink flower-patterned shirt, which Bonny had bought for his birthday and which he’d always resisted wearing. And there were Seth, Martin and H-H all in smoking jackets.
As he arrived, Romy was saying playfully to Seth, ‘You must talk to Bonny now, because you’re not sitting next to her at dinner.’
‘How’s Clod?’ murmured Seth.
‘You must not call him that,’ murmured back Bonny.
‘There’s an interesting development, tell you later,’ said Seth.
Next moment the men’s hands fluttered to smooth their hair as Trixie sauntered in, deliberately provocative in a flower-patterned satin blazer, worn with nothing underneath and the briefest pink satin shorts.
‘You’re late,’ fumed Romy. ‘You’re supposed to be waitressing, and that’s not an appropriate outfit.’
‘For God’s sake, push around the fizz,’ exploded Martin, handing her a bottle.
‘I’ll open it,’ said Valent, taking the bottle from Trixie.
‘You look cool,’ said Trixie, kissing him. ‘If we stand side by side, people’ll think we’re a herbaceous border.’
‘Blanche,’ called out Romy, ‘this is our neighbour Valent Edwards.’
Blanche left her tiny hand in Valent’s huge paw longer than necessary.
‘I’m sure you’d rather have a beer,’ interrupted Trixie, handing Valent a can of Carlsberg, so he turned away from Blanche to talk to her. ‘Where’s your nan, I mean grandmother?’
‘Romy didn’t want her here,’ hissed Trixie. ‘That enamelled stick insect was Grandpa’s mistress. She’s bound to make a pass at you.’
‘Nice pictures,’ said Valent, glancing round the room.
‘They’re Granny’s, they shoved her into that bungalow so they could cop the lot. Mum’s done the same.’
‘How’s Mrs Wilkinson?’
Trixie’s face darkened. ‘Did you know that Seth, Dad, Bonny and all those creeps voted to sell her?’
‘I had heard,’ said Valent grimly.
‘Trixie,’ thundered Martin, ‘you’re supposed to be waitressing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Where the hell’s Corinna?’
‘She’ll be along in a minute,’ said Seth.
He and Corinna had in fact had a frightful row. Both due to go into Antony and Cleopatra at Stratford in February, they had been offered a short provincial tour of their great hit as Elyot and Amanda in Private Lives.
Corinna had refused; she was shattered from her last tour as Hester in The Deep Blue Sea.
‘I’d look like Amanda’s grandmother. You do it, it’ll keep you busy.’
‘They want you,’ Seth had said evenly. That was the irking thing. ‘They’ll only do it if you do it, you’re the crowd-puller.’
Corinna had mentally left Hester and was morphing into Cleopatra, the great man-eater. She knew Seth and Bonny were up to something. Her aim for tonight was to seduce Valent. Then she wouldn’t have to spend her life on tour and supporting Seth.
85
Corinna arrived half cut in very low-cut black velvet and was irritated when Romy insisted they went straight in. She was even crosser when she discovered she had been seated between that little weasel Harvey-Holden and his mountain of a wife, round whom she couldn’t see a millimetre of Valent who was seated on Jude’s right.