As Olivia ran off to answer the telephone in another room, Etta
examined the lovely kitchen, where horse photographs were joined on the wall by India’s drawings. A big sofa was covered with dogs, and rugs where dog paws had torn the upholstery. A large ginger and even larger tabby cat snored in baskets on higher shelves. Any animal smell was driven away by the scent of a huge bunch of white lilies in a dark green vase and apple logs, flickering and crackling merrily in the fireplace.
Returning, Olivia switched on the kettle and said Poppy and Drummond were having tea in the stable lads’ cottage.
‘You haven’t met Marius,’ she went on, getting a last loaf out of the bread bin and putting two slices under the grill. ‘When I met him, I used to pray he’d be as forthcoming to my friends and my family as he was when we were alone.’
She looked so slim and gorgeous, with her windswept curls, tight jeans and a turquoise jersey which turned her eyes green.
‘Do you ride in races?’ asked Etta.
‘Not much since I had India. I lost my nerve at the prospect of having half a ton of horse falling on me, but I break in the young horses and go to the sales.’
Etta, still looking at the photographs, found a familiar face: ‘There’s Shade Murchieson.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Not to speak to. He came to my husband’s funeral, and gave a fantastic donation to help fight the illness that killed him.’
‘Shade’s very generous.’
Olivia took out the toast, spread it with butter and, after scraping off the mould, home-made strawberry jam.
‘Sorry there isn’t any cake,’ she said, handing the plate to Etta. ‘Shade’s a terrible bully. He’s always rowing with Marius, who can’t be too rude because we need the money. Rupert Campbell-Black just tells him to fuck off. Shade tried to persuade Rupert to pull strings to get his son into Harrow, where Rupert went. Rupert said you have to put them down at birth, or lack of birth in your case.’ Olivia burst out laughing. ‘Isn’t that too dreadful?’ Etta was in heaven, two terriers on either side and one on her knee, all with wood shavings in their fur like Woody.
‘Do you terribly miss your husband?’ asked Olivia, collapsing on the sofa beside her, then answering herself. ‘I think it’d be awfully restful without one. No more “Where’s my blue shirt, where are my car keys?”’
She had a sweet way of rattling off these remarks that took the sting out of them.
‘It’s so lovely of you to have us over,’ said Etta. ‘India must come over to us. So exciting meeting all your horses in person –
or in horse – after we’ve admired them as they ride out. When’s Preston going to run again? How old is he?’
When no answer came, she realized Olivia had fallen asleep, russet-curled head resting on the back of the sofa, like a poem about autumn. Her mug of tea, however, was at a dangerous angle. When Etta got up and removed it, Olivia woke with a start.
‘So sorry, so rude of me.’
‘I know you get up at five,’ said Etta. ‘I often see your light across the valley.’
They had all enjoyed themselves and Etta drove home in tearing spirits. But that evening, she received another sharp telephone call from Romy.
‘Drummond should never be taken near horses, Mother. He’s having great difficulty breathing and he said he was absolutely terrified and Poppy’s just told me she wants a pony like India Oakridge. We are not a horse family, Etta. We don’t want to go down that road – all that expense and time and snobbishness. And Drummond said they had fish fingers, frozen peas and tomato ketchup.’
Etta felt intensely irritated. Drummond was a bloody little liar and the children had loved every moment of it.
She did, however, feel guilty when she met Niall the vicar next day in the post office. She’d so meant to go to church but on Sundays Romy liked to go to Matins with Martin and expected Etta to cook lunch. When she returned, full of Christian spirit, she would complain that everything had far too much salt in it.
‘I know salt is a generation thing, Mother, but it is bad for you.’
At Evensong time, Martin and Romy would be working on the Sampson Bancroft Fund and Etta would be putting the children to bed. Afterwards she’d walk home through the wood, which got very dark and made her long for Bartlett’s reassuring presence.
At least she’d won over Mr Pocock, Mrs Travis-Lock’s gardener, who’d previously given her a very cold shoulder because Martin had sacked him. This was because Etta had rescued his black cat, Gwenny, who, when chased by a passing Alsatian, had taken refuge up one of Etta’s conifers. When Pocock came to collect Gwenny, he found her purring on Etta’s knee, having polished off half a tin of sardines.
‘She’s such a lovely cat.’
Pocock had burning yellow eyes, a big beaky nose, a crest of grey hair sticking up like a bird of prey and a lean sinewy body. He was very dismissive of Etta’s concreted-over garden and mature conifers.
Noticing the still empty bed Woody had dug out, which was now fertilized courtesy of Not for Crowe and Family Dog, and learning that Etta was saving up to buy some plants, Pocock said he might find her something that would flourish there.
‘Ferns, hostas, goat’s beard.’
‘Cowslips, hellebores, foxgloves, primulas, there’s a heavenly white one called Moonbeam,’ piped up Etta in excitement. And they were off.
Three cups of tea and three slices of chocolate cake later, Pocock was telling her about Mrs Travis-Lock.
‘She’s very Green, Etta, if I may call you Etta? Won’t even use slug pellets. She ought to use them on her neighbour Mr Lester Bolton. I ought to retire, but it’s lonely being a widower, so I’ll keep going as long as I can.’
With Gwenny mewing under his arm, he set off into the dusk.
The next day, Romy took the children off to visit Granny Playbridge and Etta was roused from a rare lie-in by a pounding on the door. Mr Pocock had arrived with a boot full of yellow-leaved hostas, magnificent ferns, a tree peony, a big clump of foxgloves and a splendid goat’s beard.
‘Those six are primulas and those roots are lily of the valley.’
‘Oh, you darling, darling man. Where did you get them from?’
‘No names, no pack drill, Etta, but quite a lot from Badger’s Court. Joey doesn’t know a daffodil from a delphinium. He’s planning to knock down a major wall by a flower bed, so we’re saving them from certain death. I’ll bring you some hellebores and white primulas tomorrow.’
‘Oh, oh,’ Etta was close to tears, ‘thank you so much. Would you like some breakfast?’ Then, remembering there was only half Gwenny’s sardines in the fridge, she was relieved when he said he’d got to be at Mrs T-L’s by nine.
‘But thanks, and thanks for rescuing Gwenny. You spoiled her, she turned up her nose at cat food this morning.’
Etta felt absurdly happy. What a kind chap. What marvellous plants. The
Aruncus
, or goat’s beard, such a lovely name, was the tallest and had better go at the back. She was just digging a hole when Dora rolled up in the highest excitement, with Cadbury leaping and bouncing around her.
‘Mrs Bancroft, gossip, gossip, gossip. What are you doing?’
‘Putting in shade-tolerant plants.’
‘That is so perfect!’ Dora went off into fits of laughter. ‘Someone who is not Shade-tolerant is Rupert Campbell-Black. His daughter Bianca, my best friend, rang me yesterday morning to tell me.
‘Shade,’ began Dora, one hand on her hip, the other gesticulating wildly, ‘had ten horses with Rupert, or rather he did have but he made the fatal error of making a pass at Rupert’s wife Taggie. Taggie wasn’t going to tell Rupert because he’s soooo jealous, but Michael Meagan, one of the Irish lads, who hates Shade, tipped him off. Anyway Shade had the temerity to roll up at Penscombe next morning and Rupert, who has the shortest fuse in Christendom, howled, “Get orf my gallops
now
and get your horses, all your fucking horses, out of my yard now.”’
‘Good God,’ said Etta, putting down the
Aruncus
and leaning on her spade.
‘Well, Shade drove off in a fury, and three hours later he got a hysterical call on his mobile to say all ten horses had been delivered to his offices in St James’s Square by high-speed lorry and were crapping everywhere. They had to be led to St James’s Park to await further instructions.’
‘Good God,’ repeated Etta, leaping forward to rescue the Solomon’s seal from Dora’s pacing feet.
‘So I rang Colin Mackenzie, and he raced back from Newbury and it’s all in the
Mail
today.’ Dora brandished the paper in triumph.
‘Gosh, a double-page spread,’ said Etta, examining the pictures of Shade, Rupert and Taggie. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
Shade is quoted as saying: ‘I kissed Taggie Campbell-Black on the cheek. I was euphoric my horse had won a race and she’s my trainer’s wife. Such behaviour is standard. I feel very sorry for Taggie, who’s a lovely woman.’
‘Shade’s threatening to sue,’ went on Dora gleefully, ‘claiming Rupert’s endangered at least five million pounds’ worth of horse-flesh.’
‘Poor horses, they must have been terrified in London. Where will they go?’
‘Well, Shade’s other ten were already with Marius, so they’ve gone there. Poor Marius has plenty of empty boxes. But Shade won’t like that because he likes to play trainers off against each other, and he likes his horses to win, and Marius is having an even worse year than Ralph Harvey-Holden.
‘Taggie’s terribly embarrassed, but Colin Mackenzie agrees with me: Rupert’s used the whole thing as an excuse to get rid of Shade, who demanded more attention than all the other owners put together. He’s known in the yard as Needy Gonzales. ‘Plants partial to Shade,’ giggled Dora as she watched Etta tread in the goat’s beard.
‘Would you like a cup of tea and some toast and marmalade?’ asked Etta.
‘Yes please,’ said Dora. ‘And now, shifting from the profane to the sacred, my heavenly boyfriend Paris is having a driving lesson, so I’ve got an hour or so to kill. Shall I take you round the church and tell you the legend of Willowwood?’
‘I must get these plants in.’
‘You can do that this afternoon.’
As they set out for the village, coming out of Badger’s Court was a Water Board van with Leakline printed on its sides.
‘I ought to drive round in that,’ smirked Dora. ‘I must say that was a brilliant scoop …’
‘How is your boyfriend?’ asked Etta.
‘Got his part in
Othello
. He’s playing Cassius, who in the play is described as “having a daily beauty in his life”. I hope Paris doesn’t, and I’m the only one.’
The weeping willows in the churchyard were all bare. Nearby yews retained a few of their gold leaves in their dark branches like loose change.
‘Sit, Cadbury,’ said Dora as they went into the church. ‘That’s where Pocock and his pals ring their bells,’ Dora pointed left to the tower, ‘and that font blazing with colour is Direct Debbie’s handiwork.’
Near the chancel steps lay a stone knight wearing chainmail.
‘Nice,’ Dora stroked the little whippet lying against his crossed feet, ‘that they had dogs in bed with them even in those days. The knight is Sir Francis Framlingham the first, Ione Travis-Lock’s umpteenth great-grandfather. He went on a crusade and beat the hell out of Saladin.
‘But in that window,’ Dora indicated a handsome man with a pointed beard and long dark hair astride a knowing-looking white-faced horse, ‘is the eighth or ninth Sir Francis and that’s his beautiful grey charger, Beau Regard, who was home-bred. Beau Regard and Sir Francis had never been parted and were almost more devoted than Sir Francis was to his lovely young golden-haired wife, Gwendolyn, who was expecting their first baby.
‘Now it really gets romantic. Sir Francis wrote sonnets to Gwendolyn – actually my boyfriend Paris writes me sonnets too – and in her honour planted a wood of weeping willows all round the churchyard, because their cascading yellow leaves and darker yellow stems in winter reminded him of her flowing hair before she pinned it up.
‘Well,’ Dora sat down in a pew, picking up a hassock on which a weeping willow was embroidered, ‘the Civil War was raging
round here at the time, and there are lots of priest’s holes in Willowwood Hall where the King’s men sought asylum.
‘Sir Francis, who was a very good friend of General Fairfax and a leading light of the Cavaliers, went off to fight for the King. Like Napoleon’s horse Marengo, Beau Regard was pure grey, so Sir Francis’s men could recognize their leader in battle. Alas, it made him a Roundhead target. Wounded at the battle of Naseby, Sir Francis crawled into the bushes and managed to fasten a letter he’d been writing to Gwendolyn, telling her how much he loved her, to Beau Regard’s bridle, before setting him loose. Beau Regard refused to leave his master, but when he was fired on by the enemy he took off so fast, no one could catch him.
‘Gwendolyn was about to give birth when Beau Regard staggered up to the gate, neighing imperiously. He’d found his way home – a hundred miles – with a bullet in his side, his grey coat drenched in blood. When one of the grooms removed his bridle they found the letter for Gwendolyn, who managed to read it before she died giving birth to a son, little Francis.
‘Poor Beau Regard was distraught his master wasn’t there.’ Dora rolled her eyes in horror and dropped her voice. ‘Even when the bullet was dug out, he pined away and died a few days later. Meanwhile, poor Sir Francis escaped and stole home after dark (even though the house was being watched by Cromwell’s men) and was absolutely gutted to find both his wife and his beloved horse had died. So he buried them side by side in the churchyard.