When he’d started to go through her things, he found every note he’d ever sent her, and gave up. She wasn’t dead, it hadn’t happened, he must sail his yacht across the Styx to find her.
Valent had houses in London, Geneva, New York, Cape Town, the Caribbean and now Willowwood, which was the one Pauline had longed for. She had so wanted to move to the country, with fields and woods for the grandchildren.
The row had erupted earlier in the day when he and Bonny reached his big white house in St John’s Wood and Valent had announced he was flying down to Willowwood to check on the builders instead of going to a ‘Luvvies’ party with Bonny and her friends.
During the shouting match that followed, Valent had uttered the deadly words, ‘Pauline wasn’t a bitch like you, so shut oop.’
Now he was feeling like hell.
Patches of snow lurked on the lawn and the piles of rubble at Badger’s Court. The black craters were frozen over. Electric gates hadn’t been installed, so Valent drove straight up to the house, surprised, despite the extensive security measures, to find a dim light on in his temporary office.
Marching in, he bit the inside of his cheek instead of his chewing gum and gave a terrified gasp as he caught sight amid the gloom of a white-faced horse. Beau Regard, Christ! His blood froze, his heart pounded and he was about to run for his life when he took in, beside the horse, an old biddy in a dirty blue twinset, with wood shavings in her messy grey hair. Then he realized that the rest of the white-faced horse was small and greyish and at his bellow of:
‘What the hell is going on? Get that fooking animal out of here or I’ll call the police,’ it struggled to its feet and hurled itself, trembling, against the jutting Adam fireplace.
‘Oh, please don’t shout,’ begged the old biddy. ‘She’s terrified of raised voices, particularly men’s.’
Putting her arms round the trembling filly, she tried to calm her.
Valent was wearing a navy-blue cashmere overcoat with the collar turned up. His square broken-nosed boxer’s face betrayed all the outrage of a football manager denied a penalty in injury time.
‘What the hell’s she doing here?’
‘I thought you were still abroad,’ stammered Etta. ‘I’m so sorry, it’s so cold outside. I’ll pay for any damage. She was abandoned in the wood. We – I mean I – rescued her.’
She mustn’t shop Joey.
Valent realized the old biddy wasn’t that old, probably his age in fact, just tired and unmade-up, with hair like a hurricane-trashed bird’s nest.
To make matters worse, Martin had heard the shouts and Drummond had sneaked: ‘Granny’s got a horse next door.’
‘Don’t be silly, Drummond.’
‘Not. I heard Trixie telling Dora on the phone.’
Seeing lights on in Badger’s Court, knowing Valent was away and hoping to ingratiate himself by flushing out a burglar, Martin rushed over and caught Etta in flagrante.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Mother?’
‘Saving Mrs Wilkinson’s life,’ cried Etta, suddenly fired up. ‘I found her tied to a tree, starving, close to death. At first I thought she was Beau Regard. I’ll move her as soon as she’s strong enough. There, darling.’
‘That horse must be put down,’ roared Martin. ‘Look at its ribs. I’m so sorry,’ he turned to Valent, ‘it’ll be out of here first thing tomorrow morning.’ Then, turning on Etta: ‘And how could you have used Father’s duvet, it’s sacrilege. I’ve told you you can’t have pets, Mother.’
‘She’d been tortured, she’s been so brave. You ought to have seen her a fortnight ago.’ Etta clutched at straws and Mrs Wilkinson.
‘A fortnight?’ thundered Martin. ‘How dare you despoil Mr Edwards’s house for that long! She’ll be put down in the morning.’
‘No!’ pleaded Etta. ‘She’s such a fighter.’
‘Go home, Mother,’ ordered Martin. ‘We’ll discuss this later. You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. And don’t forget you’re taking the children to school tomorrow. Romy has to catch an early train.’
Martin swept Valent off for a drink at Harvest Home, giving him an uncharacteristically large brandy and proud to introduce Romy, his beautiful suntanned wife. He quickly briefed her on Etta’s transgression, with particular emphasis on the sullying of Dad’s duvet.
‘My only excuse,’ he turned to Valent, ‘is that Mother is like an old door, ha ha, unhinged by my father’s death. Dad kept Mother’s outlandish behaviour under control. She’s addicted to lame ducks – or rather horses,’ Martin crinkled his eyes, ‘in this case. Even worse, she’s involved my young niece Trixie in this deceit.’
‘The room is going to be gutted anyway.’
‘Nevertheless, I can’t apologize enough, Valent. We will of
course pick up the bill for any damage. Mother is here to look after our children, not dead horses. I’m so sorry you lost your wife, Valent.’
‘I didn’t lose her,’ snapped Valent. ‘She was killed.’
Not missing a beat, Martin launched into a pitch for the Sampson Bancroft Fund, during which a ping brought Valent a text message from Bonny.
‘I’m sorry, I was stressy, call me.’
Mistressy, thought Valent, but felt happier.
Romy meanwhile was studying Valent and decided that in a rough and ready way he was very attractive indeed. A determined chin, jawbones honed by chewing gum, nose broken by a punishing last-minute goal in a cup final, hard eyes the dark green of a Barbour, close-cropped hair more dark than grey, an athlete’s body that had thickened but not run to flab, and a tan even richer and darker than Martin’s. Here they were, major players, with their winter tans. Romy was going to enjoy working with Valent Edwards. She was sure he’d had a father or a grandfather who had died in pain. Badger’s Court would be ideal for functions. Willowwood Hall was obviously lost to compost.
‘I expect you knew my father, Sampson Bancroft,’ said Martin, pointing to the portrait.
‘I met him,’ replied Valent. An even more ruthless alpha male bully than himself, he remembered. He had disliked Sampson intensely. He disliked Martin even more – the pompous arse.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ he drained his brandy. Then, more to irritate Martin than anything else, he added, ‘You’ve talked me into it, the horse can stay for a bit.’
Horrified, Martin stopped in his tracks.
‘No, no, the horse must go. Mother can’t afford to keep it anyway. You’re too kind, but we know that room’s due to be gutted. And you don’t want mountains of horse poo and late-night neighing.’
‘How’s Bonny?’ asked Romy, as she followed Valent to the front door, lingering under the hall light, so he could appreciate her eyes, even tan and lovely breasts. ‘I hope we’re going to have the pleasure and privilege of meeting her soon. I so admire her oeuvre.’
Valent said nothing. He walked back up the lime avenue to Badger’s Court, crossed the grass, avoided falling down a badger sett and treading on the only snowdrops, to find Etta sobbing into Mrs Wilkinson’s shoulder.
‘We’ll save you, darling.’
She jumped as Valent entered the room, frantically wiping
tears from her cheekbones, her face red and blotchy like a bruised windfall. Mrs Wilkinson struggled to her feet and collapsed into the corner awaiting new torture, her panic-stricken eye darting round for escape. But as Valent moved forward and ran a big, name-braceleted hand over her shoulder, caressing it, she quivered for a moment and lay still.
‘There, there, good little girl,’ he murmured, kneeling down beside her. ‘You can keep her here for the time being,’ he said roughly, ‘until they start on this room, and when the weather picks up there’s an orchard behind the house with plenty of good grass.’ Then, as Etta mouthed in amazement and started to cry again, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, what’s the matter now?’
‘I’m not used to good luck,’ muttered Etta, ‘nor is she.’ Continuing to stroke the mare, Valent stopped Etta’s flood of thanks by asking why she was called Mrs Wilkinson.
‘There was an invitation on the mantelpiece, rather a smart one: “Mrs Hugo Wilkinson: At home. Drinks 6.30,” so we called her Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘Well, she is at home now,’ said Valent, giving her a last pat and getting to his feet. Then, with the first flicker of a smile lifting his face: ‘I’m so bluddy glad she wasn’t the ghost of Beau Regard.’
Martin and Romy were outraged Valent had given sanctuary to Mrs Wilkinson, but reluctant to antagonize a rich and powerful neighbour. They felt they could no longer force Etta to give her up.
‘How can you possibly afford to keep a horse, Mother? Who is going to pick up all the feed and vet’s bills?’
Etta had been wondering the same thing. But quickly the village came to her rescue. Joey and Woody were so grateful to Etta for not shopping them to Valent that they offered free hay, feed and shavings until summer came. Jase pitched in, offering shoeing and to pick up any vet’s bills. (Charlie Radcliffe owed him.) Tilda the village schoolmistress, learning from Drummond about his grandmother’s poor horse, suggested the children make her a patchwork rug. Miss Painswick, the out-of-work dragon, grew devoted to the ‘dear little soul’ and popped in with carrots every day.
Ione Travis-Lock, on her eco-warrior kick, aware that manure was a capital activator for compost, offered to pay for any of Mrs Wilkinson’s droppings. Alban and Alan, who were mad about racing and had surreptitious bets most days, took to looking in with a packet of Polos after the Fox closed in the afternoon, and after a good win at Stratford bought Mrs Wilkinson a smart new head collar and grooming kit. Chris and Chrissie were so delighted by Mrs Wilkinson’s continued devotion to bread and butter pudding that they put a tin on the bar entitled ‘Mrs Wilkinson’s Fund’.
Even the Cunliffes contributed their old wheelbarrow, after the Major gave Debbie a smart new one for Christmas. And Toby and Phoebe gave her a salt lick as a late birthday present.
‘Make her drink more, not something that’s needed in your case,’ mocked Shagger.
Most excited of all was Dora, when she popped in in late January.
‘Mrs Wilkinson’s got a long back and she’s long over the loins, great for a jumper,’ she cried in ecstasy. ‘You may have a serious horse here.’
Gradually Mrs Wilkinson recovered, her dull brown coat turned a glossy steel grey and her confidence grew. Big ears waggling, she began greeting her regular visitors with delight, searching for treats in their pockets with her pale pink nose, gently nudging and head-butting, or laying her head on their shoulders and going to sleep.
To Joey’s horror, Woody sawed in half the oak door leading to Mrs Wilkinson’s stable, so she could look out into Valent’s building site of a garden and see her admirers approaching.
‘That door was a beauty, Valent’ll do his nut.’
Etta pondered and pondered on what she could give Valent to repay him for his kindness. Miss Painswick, who was a great reader of
The Times
’s social pages, reminiscing about the Great and Good she’d met while working for Hengist Brett-Taylor, came rushing in on Valentine’s Day, brandishing a list of the day’s birthdays. It included a picture of Valent, who was sixty-six, and a little piece listing his achievements.
‘So he’s really called Valentine,’ sighed Etta. ‘How romantic.’
‘Why don’t you send him a Valentine email from Mrs Wilkinson?’
‘I expect he gets cards by the sackful,’ said Etta, but she drew a picture of Mrs Wilkinson asleep in her wood shavings and underneath wrote:
The rose is red, the violet’s blue,
I’m snug in bed, all thanks to you.
‘I’m going to buy him an almond tree,’ Etta told Miss Painswick, ‘which will flower and brighten the dark days of winter. I’d like to create a rose and name it after him: dark red shot with black, with a heavenly smell.’
‘Steady on,’ reproved Miss Painswick.
Speculation was endless about how Mrs Wilkinson had come to be so horrifically treated and what had actually happened to her.
One afternoon, when Dora was gossiping to Etta, Pocock rolled up to collect some manure for Mrs Travis-Lock’s garden, brandishing a shovel. Mrs Wilkinson, who’d been peering out
nosily, screamed in panic, stood back on her hocks, cleared the half-door and shot across the grass over a six-foot hedge, just missing a pile of rubble on the other side. Only after careering round Badger’s Court, narrowly avoiding skips, JCBs and Portakabins, did she allow herself to be caught.
‘Blimey,’ Pocock whistled through his remaining teeth, ‘that is some horse.’
‘Isn’t she?’ beamed Dora. ‘And we must remember she doesn’t like shovels. We better start a syndicate: you, Mr Pocock, Jase, Joey, Woody, Etta and Painswick. She’ll need this year to get her strength back,’ she went on in excitement. ‘Then next spring she can go point-to-pointing. I’ll start taking her hunting in the autumn. I know you think hunting’s cruel,’ she added to Etta, who was comforting a shuddering Mrs Wilkinson, ‘but it’s very kind to horses. They love it and it’s the best way to get Mrs Wilkinson going. My pony, Loofah, used to blow out after a mile, but a season’s hunting got her fit. They don’t account for many foxes these days. The stupid bird of prey who’s supposed to finish off the fox was gobbled up by hounds the other day.
‘I’m going to be Mrs Wilkinson’s press officer,’ she added.
As spring turned into summer, Charlie Radcliffe recommended Mrs Wilkinson be turned out for a few hours each day. ‘As long as she’s well rugged up, I’m a great believer in Dr Greengrass.’