‘Don’t go, Etta,’ said Woody and Joey.
‘Trixie’s at home,’ Alan pointed out.
‘Is that your gorgeous granddaughter, Etta?’ asked Shade.
‘Mother,’ said Martin ominously.
Olivia raised an eyebrow. ‘Do bring Poppy over to see the horses again.’
‘I don’t want Poppy to get involved in ponies,’ snapped Romy. ‘She’s got so many other interests.’
‘A pity,’ said Olivia lightly. ‘Horses teach children to love and to cherish.’ She smiled up at Shade, then, turning to Etta: ‘Come and have supper without Poppy, we’ll find you a nice man.’
‘Utterly inappropriate,’ exploded Romy. ‘Etta has just lost the most wonderful man.’
And Etta fled, hardly having time to grab her coat and stammer thanks for a lovely party before a going-away present of a jute bag, with ‘Join the Jute set’ on the side, was thrust into her hand.
‘Goodbye, Etta,’ called out Alban, kissing her as his wife went round dimming the lights even further to encourage everyone to go.
‘Give me the sun,’ cried Alan theatrically. ‘Your wife’s going to do us for drink biking, Alban.’
‘Go home,’ chided Ione. Despite his leading her husband astray, she was fond of Alan and amused by his antics.
Ralph Harvey-Holden, having not sobered up after the races, invited Cindy and Lester to join him as well as Olivia and Shade for dinner.
‘That’ll set him back a few bob,’ observed Jase. ‘Surprised he can afford it. Hasn’t paid me for months.’
‘Don’t forget, Mr Bolton,’ Ione called after a departing Lester, ‘solar panels provide hot water, and you’ll halve your electricity bills with a wind turbine. Save money yourself and save the planet.’
‘Shut it, you bossy cow,’ muttered Cindy. ‘Why the ’eck doesn’t she have lights down her drive?’
Next moment, Lester had tripped over his lifts and landed in a flower bed, pulling Cindy on top of him.
‘Pooh,’ shrieked Cindy. ‘Think of all those worms wriggling round underneaf you, Lester.’
‘You must feel among friends,’ said Alan.
Waving Miss Painswick off into the gloaming, a still giggling Etta swayed back to Harvest Home. Alban and the Major had kissed her good night. Pocock had asked her if she’d like him to organize her an allotment. Woody had invited her to join him and Jase in the pub. She’d refused reluctantly, sad to see the dreadful Shagger spurning a disconsolate Tilda’s fish pie and belting after them.
Willowwood, with far too many lit-up windows for Ione’s liking,
looked like an opera set. Stars glittered like diamond earrings in the bare trees, while Orion, arms raised like a victorious returning jockey, bestrode the valley. The moon, emerging sad, white-faced and hollow-eyed from behind a black cloud, reminded her of Beau Regard. Wet willow fronds brushed her face like lank hanging locks on a ghost train.
Arriving thankfully ahead of Romy and Martin, Etta found Poppy and Drummond watching the adult channel and eating forbidden chocolate, and Trixie on the leather sofa in Martin’s den ferociously snogging red-headed Josh, the best-looking of Marius’s stable lads, who exited quicker than any three-year-old out of the starting stalls.
Buttoning up her shirt, diverting any reproach, Trixie said:
‘Dad’s just texted me saying: “Great dress, Granny was the belle of the ball.” He and Mum have joined Lester, Shade and Ralph Harvey-Holden for dinner.’
Etta’s thank-you letter crossed Ione’s, saying how nice it had been to meet Etta at last and how she looked forward to receiving Etta’s cheque. Etta sighed. For the same reason, she was dreading Christmas and all the money she would have to spend on presents, not just for the family but for Drummond and Poppy’s teachers and for every time they were invited to a children’s party. Romy always conveniently forgot to reimburse her. But at least Etta needn’t bother with fairy lights and a tree this year because both her children were going skiing: Romy and Martin to Courchevel, Alan and Carrie off to the Rockies.
Both sides apologized to Etta for abandoning her the first Christmas after Sampson’s death.
‘Anniversaries are always painful,’ pointed out Romy. ‘It’s as hard for Martin as for you, Mother. He needs to get away to achieve closure.’
Etta reassured everyone she’d be fine. In fact she was passionately relieved at a chance to catch up on sleep and get Little Hollow into some kind of order.
As Christmas approached, she had the added hassle of Trixie home for the holidays. With Carrie flat out at the office and Alan pretending to work on his book, Trixie was left her to her own devices and vices: smoking, drinking, slamming doors, coming in late, and hanging a NO ENTRY sign outside her bedroom.
Poppy and Drummond were revving up for their nativity plays. Poppy made an adorable angel, but screwed up by ignoring her parents and yelling, ‘Hello, Granny,’ when she caught sight of Etta in the audience.
‘When Santa got stuck in the chimney, he began to shout,’
chanted Drummond. ‘You girls and boys won’t get any toys unless you pull me out.’
They wouldn’t get any anyway, reflected Etta. Romy and Martin had announced they weren’t giving presents this year, just making a contribution to charity: their own. Sampson Bankable, as Alan called it.
To counteract Ione’s compost push, Martin and Romy gave a fundraising Christmas party at Harvest Home to which they asked Valent and Bonny and Seth and Corinna, who again hadn’t replied. Etta, who’d done all the cooking, couldn’t help feeling resentful that it was her and Sampson’s splendid oak table that she was laying with her own glasses and lovely silver candlesticks, a wedding present from her godmother. Sampson’s portrait by John Ward, not remotely daunted by the soaring barn wall, glowered down, daring her to make a fuss.
Martin was practising his after-dinner pitch just before the guests arrived, when he dispatched Etta to the Fox to get beer for Valent in case he turned up. He was, said Martin, ‘the kind of rough and ready chap who’d drink that sort of thing’.
‘Joseph was a carpenter, bang, bang, bang,’ shouted Drummond.
Outside it was bitterly cold and starless with a yellowish tinge to the sky. Shagger’s cottage, Phoebe and Toby’s cottage and the village shop were in darkness, but Etta could see Niall at his computer, probably wrestling with all the Christmas sermons. She wondered if the blue spotted mug beside him contained sherry.
Aware of a shiny face, an old brown jersey and seated trousers, Etta crept into the Fox. She was immediately hailed by Chris the landlord, wearing a too-tight pink shirt and a Father Christmas hat.
‘Long time no see, Etta. Have one on the ’ouse.’ He held up a jug of lurid reddy-orange liquid. ‘Foxy Lady, our Xmas special, first one on the ’ouse for a pretty lady.’
‘Oh goodness,’ squeaked Etta, ‘it does look delicious.’ Noticing branches of holly topping the hunting pictures, and paper chains and tinsel round the necks of hounds and foxes, she added, ‘Doesn’t the place look festive? Oh, I really shouldn’t,’ as Chris thrust a large glass into her hand. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Secret,’ said Chris. ‘Orange and cranberry juice and a bit of et cetera.’
‘Wow,’ gasped Etta, taking a gulp. ‘I mustn’t stop, I came to get some beer.’
‘Bitter or lager?’
‘I don’t know. How stupid of me. It’s for Valent Edwards in case he turns up at my son’s party.’
‘He won’t,’ said a voice. ‘He and Bonny are in the Maldives. So you can relax.’ And a great furry kiss was planted on her cheek.
It was Joey, who with Jase and Woody was discussing their syndicate and handing over the December money to sustain it, which meant an excuse for a piss-up. Not for Crowe had run out in a hunter chase that afternoon. They had to save enough to put him into training.
‘Horrible day’s racing,’ sighed Joey. ‘Harvey-Holden ran an unfit horse. Jockey thrashed it over the second last and it fell and broke its neck. Denny Forrester, H-H’s head lad, was already plastered. Heard him and H-H shouting at each other in the lorry. Bloody disgrace.’
Joey then produced the latest photographs of Family Dog to show Etta. She was the sort of person people showed things to, reflected Woody, because she was always so interested and enthusiastic. He thrust a second Foxy Lady into her hand.
‘Such a sweet horse,’ cried Etta.
‘He is,’ agreed Joey. ‘Ilkley Hall cost a hundred and fifty grand. Doggie cost two grand. It’s what’s inside that counts.’
‘I could run faster than Doggie,’ mocked Chris.
‘I like your pink shirt,’ said Etta.
‘Men in pink, make the girls wink,’ guffawed Chris.
‘This is a delicious drink. How soft is it?’ asked Etta.
‘The Driver’s Friend,’ said Chris piously.
‘You need another to sustain you on the walk home,’ said Joey. ‘Snow’s forecast.’
‘You might see that Beau Regard in your woods,’ warned Chris. ‘Rumoured only to appear in the snow. Loses hisself against the white background, so you can only see the blood and the gashes.’
‘Old wives’ tale,’ snapped Woody, not wanting Etta to be frightened.
‘Craig Green saw a great white thing in the woods last year,’ said Jase.
‘Probably his mother-in-law,’ said Woody.
‘That Romy’s lucky to have you as a mother-in-law, Etta,’ said Joey.
‘Oh heavens,’ said Etta in horror. ‘I forgot I must get back. Thanks for the lovely drinks.’ She fled towards the door.
‘I’ll walk you back,’ said Woody.
‘Good King Wenceslas looked out,’ sang the radio.
King Wenceslas and the vicar, who, seeing Etta and Woody
emerging from the Fox, rushed out and invited them in for a cup of coffee.
‘I must go,’ squeaked Etta, and fled.
Returning beaming and hiccuping to Harvest Home, Etta had forgotten the beer, which didn’t matter as Valent Edwards hadn’t turned up. But alas, she had forgotten the potatoes roasting in cream and chutney in the top of the Aga, which had charred and blackened like volcanic waste, and was bawled out by Romy.
‘Chill, Aunt Romy,’ reproved Trixie, who was waitressing and had been at the vodka. ‘You can always enter it for the Turner Prize.’
Later Etta dropped and smashed one of her own gold-leaf-patterned plates when she was serving out the chocolate torte. Martin couldn’t shatter his caring image by yelling at his mother in front of his amused guests, but once they had gone, only writing cheques for a collective £350, he and Romy weighed in.
‘You’ve let us down again, Mother, after all we’ve done to make you welcome. You’re simply not pulling your weight. Not only are we supporting you but we’re also putting so much work into the Sampson Bancroft Memorial Fund because we know how much it means to you.’ Martin glanced up at his father’s portrait, brushing away a tear. ‘You’re letting Dad down too.’
‘Father Christmas, Father Christmas, he got stuck,’ intoned Drummond, who was peering down the stairwell. ‘Coming down the chimney, what bad luck, what bad luck.’
Thank God the whole family were off in the morning, thought Etta, but Romy was bound to leave the dinner-party washing-up and a host of instructions about ironing and cooking.
Lighting her torch, fighting back the tears, Etta wearily set out down the icy path, through the wood to her bungalow. Despite her sadness, her heart lifted at the beauty of snowflakes falling on the bowed willows. This would be a night for the ghost of Beau Regard to appear.
As she dropped downhill, Badger’s Court to her left was in darkness. She could no longer see any lights in the village and shivered. Even ancient, crippled Bartlett and incapacitated Sampson had been a comfort in the old days. If only she still had Bartlett.
She was so exhausted she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, only to be roused by a cannonade of exploding fireworks – perhaps someone was having a party on the Salix Estate. Then she heard screaming and neighing. Was it the ghost of Beau Regard calling her? She pulled her sodden pillow over her head.
Next morning, heaving a sigh of relief to hear cheerful banging and the whine of machinery from Badger’s Court, and happy that she didn’t have to run the gauntlet of Drummond and Poppy, Etta woke to thick snow. The hedge of mature conifers was weighed down and no longer blocked all her view.
Turning on the television, she was greeted by the hideous news that Harvey-Holden’s yard, Ravenscroft, had burnt to the ground during the night. No humans had died, but all the horses had perished. Etta hadn’t liked Harvey-Holden at the party, but felt desperately sorry for him, the owners and all the stable lads. That must have been the screaming and neighing she had heard.
A later bulletin announced that five fire engines had been called to the scene and battled to contain the blaze. Despite so many crews, flames had spread to the tack room and the office, only just sparing the house.
Harvey-Holden’s staff were mostly foreign.
‘We heard the horses crying,’ said a distraught, swollen-eyed Polish stable lass. ‘They were cooked meat when we found them. Even worse, all were lying in the same position, their poor heads pointing away from the fire.’
Etta was appalled: poor, poor Harvey-Holden. She immediately wrote him a letter of commiseration, sending him a hundred pounds she’d saved up for a winter coat.