Calling for Priceless, who’d as usual pushed off rabbiting, Etta set out wearily for home. Then she froze, cried out in terror and crossed herself before clutching an overhanging willow branch for support, because the pack had been joined in the twilight by a ghost horse with a pure white face. Was it Beau Regard back from the dead? Could it be the ghost of Mrs Wilkinson?
Etta’s heart was hammering louder than the hooves on the parched ground as the other horses raced on, then they too double-took in amazement, slithering to a halt, whinnying, squealing with joy and bewilderment, circling the newcomer, whickering, nuzzling, nudging and nipping her for staying away. An overjoyed Count Romeo laid his dark head on her shoulder. Sir Cuthbert kept butting her, making sure she was real.
Then, ecstatically, they all took off again, round the pond, swishing through the willow curtains, but the little ghost horse led the pack. At her hurtling approach, Etta caught her breath
and clutched the willow branch again, because the ghost horse had an iron-grey body, a white face with one big, wise, dark eye and a pink tongue lolling out.
Etta longed to call out, but no sound came. It must be a double, some cruel trick of similarity.
‘Wilkie,’ she croaked.
The ghost horse stopped in her tracks, then squealing in irritation as Count Romeo and Not for Crowe collided into the back of her, she peered through the pale green waterfall of leaves, searching everywhere. From whence had come that beloved voice?
‘Wilkie’ – it was a strangled whisper – but Mrs Wilkinson heard and, thrusting aside the branches, charged over to Etta, nearly sending her flying, whickering again and again, nudging her joyfully, nosing in her pockets for Polos, holding out one foot and then another, until Etta, who could only raise half a Bonio, tugged at a clump of grass for a reward.
She really was Mrs Wilkinson. There was the microchip scar and the scar above the closed right eye – battle scars now she was home from the wars. Flinging her arms round Wilkie’s neck, she breathed in her lovely, distinctive, newly cut hay smell.
‘Where have you been, darling, where have you come from?’
Then as her stroking fingers crept over Mrs Wilkinson’s face to check that she really was no ghost, they encountered a letter tied with a brown shoelace to her head collar. With frantically trembling hands, Etta ripped it off. Child- and OAP-proof, she thought as she wrestled with the knot and finally smoothed out the paper.
‘Darling Etta,’ she read incredulously, ‘I’ve never stopped loving you. Dearest lady love, please welcome me home. Yours ever, Valent.’
The sun had set, but rosier blushes swept Etta’s face, as her eyes darted round.
‘Valent,’ she cried.
And spitting out his chewing gum, letting go of an extremely restless Chisolm, the man himself emerged from behind an ancient oak.
‘Where did you find her?’ whispered Etta, as rocked by the pounding of her heart she clung on to Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Rafiq had her the whole time.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He had a tip-off from Ibrahim that she was going to be blown up, so he talked his way into the course, smuggled her out, then discovered he was the major suspect and was too terrified to come out of hiding.’
‘My God, oh the poor boy.’ Etta was too confused and shaken to meet Valent’s eye. ‘How did you flush him out?’
Valent clocked the letter which was shaking like a captured seagull in her hand, but he answered quite matter-of-factly.
‘Alban’s been bluddy marvellous. Put messages on the internet and Arabic and Pakistani stations begging Rafiq to come back, that we troosted him. Ironically, what did it was Tommy on the news saying Rafiq didn’t mind about twenty-seven virgins in heaven, only about seeing Furious again.’
Etta laughed shakily. She was passionately relieved Rafiq was innocent, but all she wanted to do was reread Valent’s letter.
‘Who planted all that stuff in his room?’
‘Harvey-Holden, he’s a psychopath. Hated Mrs Wilkinson obsessively. Each win, he loathed her more and more. Wicked thing was the bastard had been using Vakil to pretend to be the Mafia. They’ve been blackmailing Rafiq for months, saying they’d take out Tommy or his family in Pakistan unless he pulled Furious, among others, so Shade’s horses could win. Shade’s all tied up in it. Knows all about sophisticated explosives and he wanted to bury Marius.
‘And Tresa was in on it too.’ Valent’s voice hardened. ‘Rafiq reckons she and Vakil nobbled Bullydozer and she shaved off Wilkie’s whiskers before the Gold Cup.’
‘How terrible,’ said a dazed Etta, ‘poor Rafiq. How did you flush him out?’ she asked a second time.
Realizing she wasn’t taking anything in, Valent said he’d explain later. Then, as Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm wandered off to talk to their horse friends, he added roughly, ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I went down to Dorset. It’s Sampson’s birthday, though I forgot actually and dropped in on our old house. Such a lovely girl living there now. She said that …’
Valent scuffed the ground with a laceless brown shoe.
‘I went there.’
‘She said you had.’
‘Smashing place. I recognized some of the flowers and the colour combinations. Must have hurt you leaving it.’
‘Not that,’ Etta almost shouted. ‘What hurt was losing Mrs Wilkinson, Furious and Rafiq, but most of all you. I’m so pleased you’ve got her back.’
‘You’ve got her back, she’s yours,’ blurted out Valent. ‘She need never race again if you don’t want her to. Not for a bit anyway, she’s in foal.’ Then, at Etta’s look of amazement: ‘Dora organized a stolen service with Love Rat. Rupert was livid and was
going to bill Dora, now Mrs Wilkinson’s alive he’s tickled pink. Bugger off, Chisolm luv, we’re busy, and you too, Gwenny.’
Valent was once more slumped against the ancient oak, Etta against a willow, because their legs wouldn’t hold them up any more.
‘Rupert thinks—’ Valent began.
‘I don’t give a damn what Rupert thinks,’ cried Etta, ‘I’ve been so unhappy. I didn’t believe it was possible to love anyone like I love you. It’s made me realize I never loved Sampson.’
Valent said nothing, but he went very still.
‘I went to apologize to him for not loving him,’ stumbled on Etta, ‘and to say goodbye.’
‘I thought you adored him and then that it was Seth, then Sampson again. I was so jealous,’ confessed Valent, then added bitterly, ‘and Romy said you could never love a yob.’
‘The bitch, that’s vile,’ stormed Etta. ‘You’re not remotely yobbish. I’ve loved you for so long, it began the first night when you were so sweet about Wilkie staying at Badger’s Court. Seth was a stupid crush. He’s got such a weak face.’
Somehow they’d both left their supporting trees and almost sleepwalked towards one another. Etta put a hand up to Valent’s cheek, stroking it:
‘You’ve got the strongest, kindest face in the world. I was always so happy when I was with you. The world lit up.’
Valent took her hands, kissing them slowly, lingeringly:
‘Same for me. The times we spent together were the happiest of my life, discovering poems, listening to the nightingales and the Proms, planning the garden. I felt so cherished and peaceful, no more compulsion to work my arse off, free to be completely myself …’
‘Oh, so did I.’
Etta looked up into Valent’s face properly for the first time, noticing how unusually pale and drawn it was, the circles beneath his eyes as black as his dark eyebrows.
‘I don’t believe it was just Alban that got Rafiq and Mrs Wilkinson back,’ she protested in wonder. ‘It was you working flat out night and day that did it.’
And as she found herself in Valent’s arms, face against the yellow-check tweed jacket they’d bought for him to wear at the races, she realized how much weight he’d lost.
‘I didn’t know how to get you back,’ muttered Valent, ‘but I knew I wouldn’t have a moment’s happiness until I did. I bought Wilkie in such a cack-handed way to stop Harvey-Holden and Shade getting her.’
‘That and the beautiful portrait I was so vile about, please can I have it back?’ begged Etta. ‘And all the other sweet things, mending the Polo and Sky in Switzerland and the rustic poles.’
‘Hush,’ said Valent and he kissed her, very tentatively then passionately, until they both had to collapse on a conveniently mossy bank.
‘That was so earth-shatteringly lovely,’ sighed Etta and then, cast down, ‘but oh Valent, I’m not glam enough for you. I was so jealous of Bonny. She’s so beautiful – and young.’
‘And daft as a brush. Don’t be so bluddy stupid.’ Valent tried to kiss her again, but Etta stopped him, really perturbed.
‘I’ll probably horrify you with nothing on, all saggy and varicose.’
Valent laughed softly.
‘I saw you in the bath on the night of the flood. I barged into the bathroom with Gwenny and shot out before you realized. I didn’t want to embarrass you but you looked bluddy gorgeous.’
‘But not like Bonny,’ wailed Etta.
‘She’s for a weekend, you’re for always. I want a playmate, not a plaything.’ Valent stroked her hair.
‘And I’m heavily into yob-satisfaction,’ giggled Etta, trapping his hands under hers. ‘You are so bluddy gorgeous too.’
Valent smirked.
‘Where do you want to live?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d like Bluebell Hill back.’
‘No I would not.’ Etta decided it was time to be assertive. ‘I love Willowwood, we’ve got so many friends here. Little Hollow’s a bit small but I’d love to stay at Badger’s Court with you.’ And she kissed him, putting her hands on either side of his face, unbelievably touched to feel the tears spilling out of his eyes.
‘Ouch,’ she squawked as a jealous Priceless, back from rabbiting, nudged her in the ribs.
‘Ouch,’ yelled Valent, as Gwenny shimmied down the oak tree and landed, claws out, on his shoulder. Next moment Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm had wandered up to join the party.
‘With this menagerie, we’re going to need Badger’s Court,’ said Valent happily, ‘particularly if we’ve got to find room for Mrs Wilkinson’s foal,’ and probably Trixie and her baby too, he thought, but he’d tell Etta about that tomorrow.
The stars were coming out, the moon rising to witness their joy, when suddenly, sweetly, over the bowed willows floated the pealing of church bells.
‘Oh how heavenly,’ sighed Etta, ‘Pocock must be back from the memorial service.’
‘They’ll be ringing for us in a week or two,’ Valent tucked his arm through Etta’s, ‘and Niall can marry us.’
‘Oh yes please.’ Etta gave another sigh of happiness.
As Pocock started ringing ‘Here’s To You, Mrs Wilkinson’, Valent said, ‘We’d better get her back to face the world’s press. She’d hate to miss them.’
‘My mother always said VE were the most beautiful initials in the world, because they stood for Victory in Europe,’ said Etta, kissing his cheek, ‘but my most beautiful initials are VE because they stand for Valent Edwards.’
And I’m going to be Mrs Valent Edwards, she thought in ecstasy.
As they wandered back through the wood, followed by Priceless with Chisolm and Gwenny both hitching a lift on Mrs Wilkinson’s back, Etta said it was like the end of
The Incredible Journey
.
‘Do you think Romeo and Sir Cuthbert will call Love Rat out when they learn Mrs Wilkinson’s in foal?’
‘No, Auntie Chisolm will put paid to that.’
On the village green, amid scenes of riotous celebration, a hastily assembled disco had taken over from the church bells. Ione was twisting with the Bishop, Old Mrs Malmesbury was teaching an absolutely plastered Joey the Charleston, the Major foxtrotted with Tilda, Shagger bopped with Debbie.
Niall, his black vestments flying, jived with Woody, each congratulating the other on saving the Willowwood Chestnut as they gazed up at its multiple moonlit candles. Woody was particularly excited that he and Valent were getting close to a cure for chestnut fungus and might save the great chestnut avenue of Rupert, who, for the past hour, had been nose to nose discussing horses with Marius. Trainers didn’t change, their wives, Taggie and Olivia, were fondly agreeing.
Alan the incredible journalist was dictating an even more exciting ending into a tape recorder. Dora was on her mobile to the
Daily Mail
: ‘Mrs Wilkinson is to become a mother, Mr Dacre,’ she was shouting over Robbie Williams. ‘I can confirm Penscombe Love Rat is the father, rather an exciting mating.’
Martin, also on his mobile, was desperately calling his bank to find out if Harvey-Holden’s cheque had gone through.
Alban, ringed by admiring journalists, was explaining how his numerous languages had enabled him to track down Rafiq and Mrs Wilkinson. He was delighted to have another quango: £300,000 a year for one day a month to find out if immigrants mostly come from abroad.
Toby was dancing round with Bump in his arms, making the gorgeous blond little boy scream so much with laughter that the photographers competed to take their picture. Then Phoebe, determined to get in on the act, snatched Bump away and started
dancing with him, whereupon Bump bawled his head off and, to loud cheers, uttered his very first words: ‘Want to go back to Daddy.’