by Jilly Cooper
‘Etta’s far more upset over the death of a smelly old dog than over Sampson,’ she added disapprovingly.
‘Good for her to cry, poor soul,’ said Ruthie furiously. ‘She was wonderful to Mr Bancroft.’
Etta had a hundred things to do but she wandered sobbing round the wood finding bluebells for Bartlett’s grave.
Trixie rang her from boarding school that evening.
‘So sorry to hear about Bartlett. No dog could have had a nicer home. Did you know that when you arrive in heaven all the dogs you’ve had come racing across a sunlit lawn to meet you? I know Bartlett will be leading the pack.’
9
Country Life had long been Etta’s favourite magazine. She always enjoyed fantasizing about the houses advertised in the opening pages. Now, to her horror, Bluebell Hill was in it, and sold terrifyingly quickly to a young couple who’d made a fortune in Hong Kong, had one child, were planning more, and who promised not to dig up Bartlett.
‘We love animals,’ said Ariella, the pretty wife. ‘We’ve got an ancient ginger tom who survived the flight back from Hong Kong, so he’ll probably soon be joining Bartlett in the orchard.’
Etta was hardly allowed to meet them in case she was too generous in the negotiations over furniture and fittings. Ariella had loved the big Prussian-blue sofa in the drawing room, but Romy had earmarked that for the barn.
Martin, fulminating as he went through the Book of Remembrance over the people who hadn’t sent a donation to the Sampson Bancroft Fund, was busy cancelling Etta’s direct debits.
‘Now you haven’t got a dog, you’ll be able to drop Battersea, the Blue Cross and Dogs Trust, and cancel that covenant with the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra.’
It was now early May and the young couple wanted to move in in five months. As a result Etta was frantically busy clearing up and had only a couple of opportunities to visit Willowwood while her bungalow was being built.
At least it had space for a pretty garden nestled in a wood of weeping willows, and had a stream running by. To the south, across the river, was a valley of fields full of sleek racehorses, gallops and flights of hurdles and fences. To the east was the orchard of a ravishing Georgian house surrounded by parkland. To the north up the road was the village of Willowwood. The Georgian house, Badger’s Court, had just been bought by a billionaire, a widower called Valent Edwards, who Martin claimed ‘had known and admired Dad’.
‘So he’ll be a nice neighbour for you, Mother, when he moves in, which probably won’t be for a year or two. The house needs so much throwing at it.’
‘Probably ripe tomatoes,’ quipped Alan. ‘So many of his builders’ lorries keep blocking the road.’
Etta felt slightly lifted from her despair, particularly when she was driving away and a string of racehorses clattered past, their laughing riders, several on their mobiles, raising their hands to acknowledge her decreased speed.
There were evidently two trainers in the area, Marius Oakridge and Ralph Harvey-Holden. She wondered whose horses these were.
Though ever conscious of Sampson glaring down on her from on high, Etta was still having the occasional bet, comparing runners over coffee and cake every morning with Ruthie and Hinton, who she was delighted the young couple were taking on.
She was still too shocked to bother much about curtains and carpets for the bungalow. Romy had taken some measurements for her, so some of the prettier Bluebell Hill curtains could be turned up. Romy, Carrie and Martin all pooh-poohed any panic Etta might have about downsizing, as she packed up her cherished pictures, china and furniture:
‘Don’t worry, Mother. Anything you can’t find room for, we’ll accommodate in our barns.’
Sampson had left various much too good pictures to his mistresses. And, alas, he hadn’t shredded the letter promising Blanche £50,000 a year.
But Etta was still overwhelmed by indecision, chilled to the marrow as ridiculous tears swept over her. How could she throw out her cigarette cards of all the Grand National winners and horse breeds? How could she discard her volumes of poetry and her pony books, Moorland Mousie, National Velvet and all the Pullein-Thompsons, or her father’s favourite books, Dornford Yates, Sapper and John Buchan, or her records. There was no room in the bungalow for the cabinets of sheet music or the Steinway, which was going to Romy and Martin. Perhaps later she might be able to squeeze in a little upright. Music and reading had sustained her through so many long nights when Sampson was away.
Romy was also being horribly bossy about the clothes Etta kept putting into different piles.
‘If you haven’t worn something for a year, give it away.’
So Etta dispatched two carfuls to the local charity shop. Then, out shopping the day before she left, she saw two of her dresses, one black velvet, one pale blue denim, hanging disconsolately in the window and felt so sorry for them she rushed in and bought them back.
The week she left, Hinton and Ruthie gave a little party for her, inviting several of the locals, and presenting her with some beautiful white and pale pink roses for her new garden.
‘If you want any plants from here, give us a ring and we’ll bring them over,’ said Hinton.
‘We’re going to miss you so much,’ said Ruthie.
Suddenly Etta was hit by the realization of the sweet people and the beautiful house and garden she was leaving. Who would feed the birds every morning and the carp in the pond and the badgers and foxes at night? Who would rescue plants that were being smothered by other plants? Who would take carrots to the bay mare and the skewbald Shetland down the valley? Who would find the first coltsfoot and cry with joy over the first violets?
10
Etta arrived in Willowwood on a warm October afternoon. Sunlight was breaking through shaggy grey clouds and lighting up yellowing willows and drifting blue spirals of bonfires. Ruthie and Hinton’s pink and white roses obscured any view in her rear mirror, telling her she must look forward, not back. Her heart lifted at a large sign saying ‘Go slow, racehorses’, and another saying ‘You are entering the Little Valley of the Racehorse’.
As she drove past pretty grey-gold cottages, Etta hoped they might house potential buddies. She wished she were better at bridge. Bridge and dogs were supposed to be the best way for widows to make friends.
Her bungalow, Little Hollow, had been built at the bottom end of the village. As she dropped down a dark green tree tunnel, she was greeted by a frightful din of drilling and hammering issuing from Badger’s Court. As she turned left over the stream, Martin and Romy awaited her at the gate smiling and waving, with Drummond and Poppy holding a banner saying ‘Welcome to Granny Dorset’.
‘How kind,’ gasped Etta, then her delight turned to horror as she caught sight of her bungalow. It had been clad in fearful marzipan-yellow stone, without a single creeper or shrub to soften it.
Even worse, where on previous visits her little kitchen, drawing room and even littler bedroom had looked out on to Badger’s Court, its orchard and lovely park, a vast dark hedge of mature conifers had been newly planted, totally blocking her view and casting her tiny garden into shade.
‘Those trees weren’t there last time,’ said Etta faintly.
‘No,’ Martin laughed heartily, ‘Valent Edwards, who’s bought the place, is having a relationship with Bonny Richards, the actress, who’s pathological about her privacy, so Valent doesn’t want anyone looking in.’
‘But what about my view and my light? Nothing will grow there.’
Worse was to come. Crossing her bedroom to a second window, she was confronted by a cement mixer. Even Martin was looking sheepish that the rest of Etta’s garden, to the north, which led to a rough track up through the woods to Carrie and Martin’s barns, had just been concreted over to provide parking space for his and Carrie’s second cars.
‘With Larkshire weather, one must have a four-wheel drive,’ explained Martin.
‘We’re a five-car family now,’ said Romy roguishly, ‘although …�
�� She looked doubtfully at Etta’s ancient white Polo, green with moss and still coated with Bartlett’s blonde hairs.
‘I’m not being picked up from school in that tip,’ grumbled Drummond, sticking his tongue out at his grandmother and chucking Poppy’s Barbie into the cement mixer.
Etta took another horrified look at the mature conifers, asking over the hammering and drilling: ‘Might Next Door thin out those trees?’
‘Unlikely,’ said Martin. ‘Valent Edwards is a distinct addition to the village, not to mention Bonny Richards. I’m sure they’ll contribute significantly to Dad’s fund and Badger’s Court would be the ideal venue for fundraising events. Romy and I have lots of plans. Their relationship is very new. He and Bonny need their space. I don’t want to antagonize them.’
‘You can still see your beloved horses across the valley from the kitchen window,’ teased Romy, ‘even better when all the leaves come off the trees.’
‘But I’ve only got that patch of shade under the conifers to put my new roses.’
Suddenly the empty bungalow seemed claustrophobically crammed with bullying, square-faced Sampson replicas. She must try to stand up for herself.
‘Plant them in our garden.’ Romy appeared to be bestowing a huge favour – let’s humour the old biddy. ‘Just as you can enjoy your pictures on our walls, your furniture in our barn.’ She smiled warmly at Etta. ‘We want you to treat our home as your home and live as family.’
‘And as a fucking unpaid nanny,’ drawled Alan, sauntering in carrying a plate piled high with smoked salmon sandwiches, a magnum of Veuve Clicquot under one arm and a bottle of brandy under the other. Plonking them down on the window ledge, he hugged Etta.
‘Angel, how are you? So lovely to see you. Christ, it’s dark in here.’ He switched on the lights. ‘Who on earth planted Birnam Wood and put that ghastly parking lot outside?’
‘Been in the P-U-B,’ mouthed Romy to Martin, who snapped, ‘Don’t be negative, Alan. You know perfectly well the aggro it causes in Willowwood, cars blocking the road.’
‘If you live in a community, you must think of other people,’ said Romy sanctimoniously.
‘So you’ve deprived poor darling Etta of any garden so you could dump your Chelsea tractors here.’ Alan glanced round the room. ‘And where’s that bath you promised her?’
‘Stop stirring it, Al.’ Carrie stalked in, having just arrived from London in yet another Savile Row suit. ‘Martin and I came to the conscious decision that baths use up too much water, which would push up Mother’s bills. Showers are better for the environment. Hello, Mother.’ Carrie turned to Etta. ‘Hope you like your new home.’
‘It’s a fucking abomination,’ said Alan furiously.
‘Please don’t swear in front of the kids,’ cried Romy.
Right on cue, Drummond ran through brandishing Barbie, covered in cement, followed by his screaming sister.
‘You’re a fucking spaghetti Bolognese,’ he yelled.
‘There, you see,’ Romy turned on Alan, who was edging plastic glasses out of his pocket.
Carrie was back on her mobile, working on million-pound deals. With her spare hand, she was peeling the cellophane off Alan’s plate of smoked salmon sandwiches.
‘Those are for Etta,’ snapped Alan, opening the bottle of champagne.
‘I haven’t had any lunch,’ said Carrie, helping herself to the sandwiches.
‘Nor have I,’ said Martin, grabbing two more, before handing the plate to Etta. ‘Come on, Mother, keep up your strength.’
Etta’s legs were shaking, but as yet there was nowhere to sit down.
‘Get that inside you.’ Alan handed her a brimming glass.
‘That’s too much,’ snapped Carrie, grabbing another sandwich. ‘You know how Dad hated Mother drinking.’
‘And she’s got a lot of sorting to do,’ said Martin. ‘We must unload the Polo for a start.’
‘Surprised you don’t want her pissed, so you can grab all the loot.’ Alan filled up his own glass and put down the bottle.
‘That is obnoxious,’ spluttered Martin.
A full-dress row was averted by the arrival of a Pickfords removal man to check this was the right house. The pantechnicon had nearly been decapitated by the tree tunnel, he grumbled, and he hadn’t liked the look of the rickety bridge across the stream.
‘Hello, Mrs B,’ he fondly greeted Etta, who had cooked him breakfast back at Bluebell Hill. ‘Bit of a change.’
Drummond, who’d been finishing off his grandmother’s champagne, was soon directing the removal van to wrong parts of the bungalow. Poppy, trying to help, dropped Etta’s favourite Staffordshire dog.
‘You should have packed it properly,’ reproved Romy.
Martin kept chiding Etta over the number of books she’d brought.
As soon as the sofa was installed, Alan, who loved horses, got stuck into Moorland Mousie.
‘Mother cannot throw anything away,’ Martin apologized to the removal men. ‘She’s even brought her old dishcloths.’ He held up a carrier bag in distaste.
‘That’s my underwear,’ said Etta, and when she started giggling she found she couldn’t stop.
An hour later, Hinton’s roses stood on the concrete like arrivals at a party waiting to be introduced.
‘I’m never going to fit everything in,’ wailed Etta.
‘Storage awaits at Harvest Home and Russet House,’ said Romy.
‘You’re not taking that painting of Bartlett,’ said Etta, fired up by a second glass of champagne. ‘Take this one of Daddy.’
Martin raised an eyebrow. ‘We’ll also take the Munnings.’ He grabbed an oil of a lovely dark brown mare with a blond foal. ‘It’s too big for here.’
‘No it is not,’ said Alan, grabbing it back, knowing it was Etta’s favourite painting.
‘Children, children,’ sighed Romy. ‘I want Mother to open my moving-in present.’
It was a huge alarm clock with a double bell.
‘So you’ll wake up in time to take the kids to school. But don’t worry, you’re not on parade until Monday, so you can sort yourself out,’ said Romy, who was now tearing smoked salmon out of the last sandwich and handing it to Drummond.
‘What in hell are you doing?’ demanded Alan furiously.
‘Drummond is gluten intolerant,’ said Romy fondly.
‘I’m glutton intolerant,’ snarled Alan. ‘Those sandwiches were for Etta.’
Carrie was peering into the removal van at two portraits of Sampson. ‘I’ll take the Emma Sergeant. You can have the John Ward, Martin.’
‘Those two are going to kill off your mother,’ said Alan as later, pushing aside willow fronds, he and Carrie climbed the two hundred yards up the wood to their barn, Russet House, which lay beside Harvest Home on the edge of the village.
‘Can’t you understand,’ stormed Carrie, ‘Mother will be just as useful to us? She can not only ferry about and keep an eye on Trixie, who’s quite out of control, but also do dinner parties and domestic stuff for us. And free you up to finish that book,’ she added, letting a willow frond whizz back and hit him in the face. Constantly suspicious of her engaging husband, Carrie also planned to use Etta as a spy.
Only after the removal men had manoeuvred her and Sampson’s vast double bed into the tiny bedroom did Etta realize there was no room for the stool to her dressing table, nor to kneel and say her prayers to plead for acceptance and serenity.
Following Romy’s measurements Ruthie had taken up the lovely bedroom curtains: light mauve and dark purple violets that had hung in Etta’s bedroom at Bluebell Hill. In Etta’s new bed-room they now hung six inches too long and muddied by removal men’s feet.
Seeing his mother shivering, Martin exhorted her not to worry. ‘Dad’s huge duvet folded double will keep you warm.’
‘I miss Sampy so much,’ Romy mopped her eyes, ‘seeing all his things here.’
‘These came for you this morning.’ Martin thrust a handful of letter
s into Etta’s hand as they left.
Now the sledgehammers and drills of Badger’s Court were silent, loneliness swept over Etta. She could have coped if she’d had a lovely bath to soak in or, more importantly, if Bartlett were still alive. She’d never feel herself until she had an animal with whom to share her life. Why did her children paralyse her with fear as Sampson had done? Why hadn’t she visited the bungalow more often and laid down the law about conifer hedges and hard standings?
Listlessly she opened one of the letters. It was crammed with glow stars to put on the ceiling, and contained a card from Trixie: ‘Darling Granny, Good Luck in your new home.’
Etta burst into tears. How could anyone ever call this hellhole a home?
11
Willowwood, clinging to one side of a steep wooded valley, was one of those sleepy Cotswold villages with a village green, a high street flanked by grey-golden houses, a lichened church and a pub called the Fox, because the politically correct former land-lady had lopped off the words ‘and Hounds’.
To the north was the Salix Estate, inhabited by the less affluent members of the community: some old villagers, and some wilder elements given to dumping rubbish, playing too loud music and chucking fireworks. There was also Greycoats, an excellent village school, which put at least £45,000 on the house prices.
‘So lovely that Drummond and Poppy will grow up with lots of local friends,’ gushed Romy.
Along the bottom of the valley meandered the River Fleet and descending into it, like a host of blondes racing down to wash their hair, was a wood consisting entirely of weeping willows. The same willows, their leaves curling with the approach of autumn or falling to reveal golden stems, ringed the village and adorned the village green – hence the name Willowwood. There was a legend in the village that every time a boy was born a willow must be planted.
Rushing or trickling, depending on recent rainfall, through the village and accompanied when it reached the woods by a grassy footpath was the stream which passed Etta’s bungalow, flowing into a rushy willow-flanked pond and out again, down to the river.