by Jilly Cooper
‘Aren’t they awful?’ she sighed to Valent, who replied: ‘I’ve never understood roober fetishes.’ Etta was so pretty, but even she couldn’t redeem those overalls.
He was watching Searston Rovers, his son Ryan’s football team, putting up a great fight against Millwall. He and Ryan would talk after the game. One of the lovely things about Etta was that she’d embraced his family and they all adored her.
She’d also transformed his kitchen which, because his former girlfriend Bonny had hardly ever eaten, had been like a laboratory. Now there were bowls of hyacinths and narcissi everywhere, every ledge was covered with birthday cards, and on the walls were framed blow-ups of all their grandchildren, including one of Trixie’s new baby, great footballing moments and of Valent, who was now wearing a new birthday shirt in pink and grey stripes from Harvie & Hudson.
All the windows were open on a wonderfully mild evening. Across the lawn spread a rainbow sweep of mauve crocuses, primroses, grape hyacinths, pink polyanthus and sky-blue scillas. A thrush was serenading them, shaking the pale-pink petals from an almond tree as it repeated its exquisite trill.
Etta was again poring over Equine Stud Management.
‘Large studs have oxygen available, obstetrical rope, sedatives and antibiotics,’ she read in a worried voice. ‘Do you think we should get some? And oh Valent, it says unless veterinary attendance is guaranteed within fifteen minutes, such specialist equipment can save life.’ Then she giggled. ‘Within five minutes of the birth, the foal must have his first drink. Do you think he’d like a gin and tonic?’
‘You need a first drink,’ said Valent.
‘Before that, I must get out of these hideous garments,’ said Etta, then gasped in dismay for sauntering up the drive, tanned dark brown and white blond from the Dubai sun, came Rupert Campbell-Black.
It had been so mild, Wilkie and Chisolm were out in the orchard. Chisolm, always the opportunist, scampered bleating up to the fence to greet Rupert. Mrs Wilkinson, not a fan, bustled off to the far end of the orchard.
‘Rupert’s here!’ cried Etta, tearing off the baseball cap in horror.
‘Sorry, luv, I forgot to tell you,’ said Valent.
And Etta was horned by dilemma. She longed to belt upstairs, tear off her awful orange overalls, tone down her flushed face, comb her ruffled hair and slap on some scent, but knowing dearest Valent was a bit uptight about Rupert, she didn’t want to unnerve him. She had never actually spoken to Rupert before, and hadn’t expected him to be quite so disconcertingly shy-making.
When she stammeringly asked him what he’d like to drink, Rupert said he’d like first to check on Mrs Wilkinson. Valent could take him, thought Etta hopefully, while she de-repulsived herself, but Valent was punching the air because Searston Rovers had just scored. So she had to squelch round the orchard after Wilkie, who, displaying aesthetic sensibility, didn’t like the orange overalls either, and cantered about refusing to be caught.
‘She had such a wonderful signing session at Waterstones, Cheltenham, this afternoon,’ babbled Etta. ‘Over five hundred copies of my son-in-law’s book sold – it’s probably gone to her head.’
‘Shouldn’t be jazzing around at this late stage,’ said Rupert disapprovingly, as Mrs Wilkinson trundled past them again.
When Etta finally cornered her, she rolled her eyes and trembled ostentatiously as Rupert examined her.
‘Her udders are swollen, I don’t think it’ll be long. They often want to be alone and retire to a quiet corner, like she’s doing now.’
‘That is because she doesn’t like you,’ Etta just managed to stop herself saying.
Back in the kitchen, Rupert rendered Etta speechless by presenting her with a beautiful pale blue, silver-threaded scarf from Dubai, which actually Taggie had bought in New Look. He then accepted a large mahogany whisky and a plateful of mushroom vol au vents straight from the Aga, which Etta had been warming up as a starter to her and Valent’s supper.
‘With you in a minute, game’s nearly finished,’ called out Valent, thinking it would be a treat for Etta to have Rupert to herself.
Rupert then dropped the bombshell that it was high time Mrs Wilkinson moved into a foaling box at Penscombe so she could settle in.
‘She’s due in another fortnight. She’ll be surrounded by experts. CCTV’ll tell us exactly when she’s about to foal. With such a valuable foal, you don’t want anything to go wrong. And your security’s non-existent here – I walked straight in.’
Etta forbore to explain that Valent had abandoned his electric gates so Chisolm and Priceless the greyhound could push their way back in after escaping on jaunts.
‘Any member of the public has access to her along the footpath.’ Rupert’s light, clipped voice was relentless.
‘Wilkie loves that,’ insisted Etta.
‘Well, it’s lunatic – easily get stolen. She’ll be safe at Penscombe, then eight days after the birth, Love Rat can cover her again.’
‘No!’ gasped a horrified Etta, who had cystitis from a surfeit of Valent; then wincing further, as she remembered how she’d been ripped apart giving birth to vast twins, Martin and Carrie, more than forty years ago, with Sampson reclaiming his marital rights three weeks later.
‘She can’t have sex so soon, she’s too little. We must wait a few weeks so she’s healed up.’ She looked frantically across at Valent, but Ryan’s match had gone into injury time.
‘Coom on lads, coom on lads.’
‘It’s standard practice,’ insisted Rupert. ‘Mares come into season within eight days of foaling.’ Then, at Etta’s look of dismay, ‘What you must realize is that successful sires like Love Rat or Peppy Koala can produce thousands of foals in their lifetime. But the greatest mare, even if she’s fertile and robust, is unlikely to produce more than a dozen foals. Mrs Wilkinson mustn’t waste any time – we’re talking about a serious foal.’ Rupert, who as usual hadn’t eaten since breakfast, was hoovering up mushroom vol au vents. ‘If Mrs Wilkinson went under the hammer at Tattersalls now, she could fetch several million.’
‘We’re not selling her.’ Etta was aghast.
‘Course we’re not, I’m just pointing out how valuable she is.’ Better humour the silly cow. ‘I’ll send the lorry over tomorrow. She’ll see her father, just back from New Zealand and on top form, having covered 120 mares. How’s that for a holiday romance? He’s now rubbing his hooves at the prospect of another full book of mares at Penscombe.’
But Etta was not won over. Valent, meanwhile, gave a shout and punched the air as Searston Rovers scored in the closing seconds. ‘Bluddy marvellous.’
‘Oh Valent, Rupert wants Wilkie to foal at Penscombe.’ Etta was near to tears.
‘It’s sensible, luv,’ said Valent after Rupert explained the procedure. He sympathized with Etta, but the China bloodstock project was too important to risk falling out with Rupert. ‘Joost for a couple of weeks, don’t want to jeopardize anything.’
‘What about Chisolm?’ protested Etta, as on cue the little white goat trotted in, helped herself to the last vol au vent and settled down on the sofa beside Valent to admire Ryan hugging his victorious team.
‘Wilkie loathes being parted from her,’ added Etta.
‘Wilkie’ll be far too interested in her own foal and should be left to bond with her. Chisolm had better go to kennels,’ said Rupert.
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Etta was losing her temper. ‘I’ve bought all this stuff.’
‘Any self-respecting foal seeing you in that kit would shoot straight back into the womb,’ said Rupert acidly.
‘Any thoughts of a name?’ asked Valent, who’d missed this exchange but sensed tension. ‘You like Shakespeare ones, don’t you, Rupert? If she’s a filly as fast as her mum, you could call her Mistress Quickly.’
‘I like wives better than mistresses,’ said Rupert, who was checking his iPhone. ‘Must get back to Taggie. It’s been madness since I got home from Dubai – I’ve hardly seen her. Thank
s for the drink, I’ll send the lorry over tomorrow morning.’
7
Mrs Wilkinson, however, who had always been a very good listener, had absolutely no intention of going back to Penscombe. Valent, who’d downed a bottle of red to celebrate Ryan’s victory, fell asleep straight away that night. Etta didn’t: fretting about Wilkie being hijacked and, if she were truthful, humiliated by disdainful Rupert, catching her looking so repulsive.
Light was beginning to filter through the curtains when she was roused by frantic bleating. Pulling on a pink silk negligée, yet another present from Valent, she ran barefoot into the garden, through the rainbow sweeps of flowers. Panting to the top of the orchard, she heard deep joyful whickering and there, under the bowed pale-green lichened branches of the oldest pear tree, stood the proudest mother in the world gazing down at a beautiful chestnut foal, with Chisolm bleating and supervising beside her.
Having read that mares must be left alone, Etta retreated, belting back and waking Valent.
‘Quickly, quickly, Wilkie’s had the most gorgeous foal all by herself with no one to help her, and boo sucks to bloody Rupert. Come and have a quick peep.’
As Valent charged downstairs in birthday blue and white striped pyjamas, Etta smiled to see her pile of pregnancy kit still on the kitchen table. She doubted if a charity shop would take the orange overalls.
Chisholm, meanwhile, was back bleating in the doorway.
‘So clever of Wilkie to have a nanny in situ,’ giggled Etta, who was feeling euphorically light-headed.
As she and Valent crept up the dew-drenched hill, they found Mrs Wilkinson licking and nudging the foal. Looking up, she gave another great whicker of joy, metaphorically putting her hoof to her lips, as she caught sight of them.
‘Oh, you little beauty,’ breathed Valent.
‘I wonder what’s happened to the afterbirth,’ whispered Etta.
‘Chisolm probably flogged it to the nearest fox. We had better leave them to bond. I wonder what sex it is? Do you think it should be lying on the wet grass?’
As if listening, the foal opened an eye, leapt to its feet, tottering off drunkenly on long giraffe legs, then scampering back again, butting under Wilkie’s belly, finding the teat and starting to suckle.
‘It’s a colt,’ crowed Valent.
Despite the approach of day and a deafening dawn chorus, a gold sickle moon and a bright silver star were still visible above the trees.
‘The moon stayed out to welcome him. Oh Valent, isn’t he adorable, isn’t Wilkie clever?’
They turned to each other, tears streaming down their faces.
‘Homebred ones are the best,’ said Etta, then: ‘Oh, I love you so much.’
‘We’re too old for babies,’ said Valent, taking Etta’s hand. ‘But this is as good as it gets. I’m sorry I didn’t stand up to Rupert.’
‘I couldn’t either. He’s such a bully. We must stick together. Your first morning, little one,’ called out Etta, as the foal collapsed on the grass again.
Valent wiped his eye with his sleeve. ‘As he’s a colt, let’s call him Master Quickly.’
‘Perfect. Do you think we should ring Rupert?’ asked Etta as they reeled back to the house.
‘No, let’s keep it a secret for a bit.’
Fat chance. The moment the news reached Dora, texting and tweeting to rival any dawn chorus, the world knew.
IT’S A BOY! shouted the headlines. NEWLYWEDS VALENT AND ETTA EDWARDS ANNOUNCE THE BIRTH OF MRS WILKINSON’S SON, MASTER QUICKLY.
‘My adorable foal arrived at 5 a.m. local time and weighed in at 120 lbs,’ wrote Wilkie in her online diary. ‘He is chestnut now but will probably go grey like myself and his sire, drop-dead gorgeous Love Rat Campbell-Black.’
‘You’d think it was a royal birth,’ remarked the syndicate sourly, as the world’s press raced down to photograph dam and colt lying in a huge bed of straw with Priceless, Chisolm and Gwenny perched on Mrs Wilkinson’s back, flanking them as godparents.
Rupert was not amused, particularly when the Daily Mirror, who published Chisolm’s diary, printed a large unflattering picture of a yawning Love Rat with a caption ‘Who’s the Daddy?’
‘You said you were desperate to raise Love Rat’s profile,’ protested Dora.
The first time Rupert visited him at Badger’s Court, Master Quickly pretended to be fast asleep, then leaping to his feet, he snatched off Rupert’s cap and scampered away up the orchard. From the moment he was born, he had attitude.
8
There was a tradition that every time a boy was born in Willowwood, as part of his christening ceremony, a weeping willow would be planted for him in the churchyard. As Mrs Wilkinson had been such a local heroine, this honour was being bestowed on her son, Master Quickly, by the Lady of the Manor, Ione Travis-Lock. Born Ione Framlingham, she and her sister were the only descendants of Sir Francis Framlingham, who had once owned the village and whose stone effigy lay in the church with a little whippet at his feet.
Ione’s husband Alban, a charming ex-ambassador and reformed alcoholic like Gav Latton, had nobly driven the Willowwood syndicate minibus to the races. As he had been dumped along with other members of the syndicate, it was considered very magnanimous of his wife Ione to plant a willow for Quickly. In fact, the seriously green Ione had only agreed on condition Valent installed solar panelling at Badger’s Court.
‘Hurrah,’ said Dora, who’d set the whole thing up. ‘We can have a big christening party to celebrate.’
‘Not too big,’ pleaded Etta. ‘People can handle not being asked to a small party, but not a great big one.’
She was already tearing her newly streaked hair out over the guest list. Because the Travis-Locks and Niall and Woody were invited, she would have to ask the rest of the disgruntled syndicate, which included Seth Bainton, the egregious, glamorous, middle-aged actor father of her granddaughter Trixie Macbeth’s baby. Seth’s mistress Corinna was such a famous actress and so self-obsessed, she hadn’t twigged that Seth was the father. The party, if Dora had anything to do with it, would be swarming with press to promote Love Rat as Quickly’s sire and Etta’s son-in-law Alan Macbeth’s biography of Mrs Wilkinson, which had just come out in paperback. And if a party were thrown to help Alan, Martin – Etta’s fundraiser son – would push even harder for Badger’s Court to be opened for one of his charity bashes. Etta hated her family imposing on Valent’s generosity.
Many of the female members of the syndicate had threatened to boycott the party until, learning that Rupert Campbell-Black had been invited, they changed their minds and rushed off to buy new dresses, followed by new coats, in case one got frost or snow in mid-April.
To Gav’s horror, Rupert had summoned him the evening before and ordered him to attend the christening in his place, virtuously claiming that he was taking Taggie away to France for a few days’ break: ‘She’s been looking very tired.’
Then, when Gav looked mutinous: ‘Need you to keep an eye on things. Quickly’s an extremely valuable colt, might easily get loose. I don’t trust that frightful syndicate not to sabotage things. And you’ll get a bloody good lunch.’ Seeing Gav looking even more sullen, he added, ‘Do you good to get your nose out of a book or a horse for an hour and meet a few people. Can’t live like a monk for ever.’
Bastard, thought Gav, behaving as though he was doing me a favour. Parties were torture. In the past, the only way he coped with his shyness and lack of small talk was to arrive three parts cut. Nor did a lovely evening with pink sky along the horizon, pale-green leaves blurring the trees or paths starry with primroses calm or cheer him, as he walked down to the Long Meadow by the lake, which was filled with foals and their mothers.
As he hung over the gate and whistled, his beloved New Year’s Dave bounded out of the herd to talk to him, ready for any amount of patting.
The little colt was such a dream, Gav lived in dread that someone might find out he had been born on New Year’s Eve. He’d managed to
keep nympho Celeste at arm’s length, saying he didn’t want to provoke Bethany in the middle of a messy divorce, but he didn’t trust Celeste not to sneak if he showed interest in anyone else.
Dave jerked his head up, bounding away as a voice shouted, ‘Gav!’ It was Rupert’s grandson Young Eddie Alderton, deeply tanned from visiting his parents in Palm Beach. Even jet lag and nights of carousing didn’t dim his golden beauty.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, seeing Gav’s face looking longer than usual.
‘Gotta go to Master Quickly’s christening.’
‘I’ll look after you.’ Eddie pulled the invitation out of his jeans pocket. ‘I’ve been asked to the same bash. I’ll introduce you to Trixie. Are you up to Trix? She is so gorgeous. Etta’s granddaughter, doing her A-levels. You can rabbit on to her about literature. If she wasn’t only seventeen and a teenage mom, I’d be very serious about getting serious.’
‘Helluva commitment.’
‘Helluva. Don’t want to hurt her. Father of the baby screwed her over, but she’s special – and crazy about me.’ Eddie grinned and rolled his cornflower-blue eyes.
Gav liked Eddie, who was arrogant, spoilt, opinionated, identical in looks and as wild and ragingly promiscuous as Rupert had been in his youth. They often fell out when Eddie was too rough on horses, but the boy was fun, and Gav felt warmed by his high spirits.
‘I’m so pooped,’ announced Eddie as they walked back to the yard, ‘I’m going to bed alone for a change … or perhaps not,’ he added as Marketa, the ‘Woluptuous’ Czech stable lass came out of the tack room. ‘But I’ll take you to that party tomorrow. Dora’ll be there, you can drive the Ferrari and all the women’ll think it’s your car. Gramps is right, you need some fun.’