Jump. Part 14

Perhaps Mrs Wilkinson could be the first new horse he trained, thought Etta.

Being Willowwood, there were vastly different estimates of the insurance money Harvey-Holden would be able to call on.

'Lucky he didn't use s.h.a.gger as a broker,' observed Woody. Returning to Little Hollow one frosty morning, Etta met the postman delivering a postcard from Trixie: 'Sorry I was b.l.o.o.d.y, most of the ski instructors gay.'

Joey, after a boozy and expensive Christmas with his four children, kept trying to inject a note of reality into the pantomime. Valent couldn't swan around with Bonny Richards for ever, he had empires to run he must roll up sometime and unless Mrs Wilkinson was ejected fairly soon, someone would be caught at Badger's Court red-handed.

If Joey was edgy about Valent coming down, Etta was even more worried about the return of Martin and Romy from France and Carrie, Alan and Trixie even earlier from the Rockies. She'd be scooped up into their lives again and how would she escape to look after Mrs Wilkinson? Martin, with his obsession for getting Valent Edwards on side, would be furious, Romy hated animals, and what about Drummond's asthma?

'Perhaps she'll give the little sod a serious attack,' said Jase.

'Don't worry, Etta, if the worst comes to the worst, Wilkie can move in with Not for Crowe and Doggie,' Woody said.

Everyone was having great fun inventing parents for Mrs Wilkinson.

'Her sire could be Rugger Jonny,' suggested Joey, 'and her mother Near Miss.'

When the Macbeths returned from what seemed to have been an embattled holiday, Carrie promptly drove up to London, Alan sloped off on some date of his own, and Trixie, who was going back to school the next day, descended on Etta and commandeered her landline.

'The reason I wouldn't snog you,' Etta could hear her shouting, 'is because you've got a hairy back, a fat a.s.s, narrow shoulders, a huge tummy and you're a pompous geek.'

'That's a boy called Boffin Brooks who goes to Bagley Hall and who turned up in the Rockies,' she told Etta, as she picked at the shepherd's pie Etta had made for her lunch.

Afterwards Trixie pretended she was going back to Russet House to pack and mug up for her exams. She had, however, developed a crush on Woody, the buffest and fittest, and had observed him and her grandmother sloping off to Badger's Court twice that morning.

She therefore followed Etta and rumbled her secret.

'I promise I won't tell anyone,' said Trixie, collapsing in the wood shavings beside a trembling Mrs Wilkinson. 'Just let me stroke her, she's really sweet. I'll look after her while you go and prepare the fatted calf for Uncle Martin.'

Etta had already made two shepherd's pies, one with salt for Trixie and one without for Martin and Romy, but got them muddled. Martin and Romy, replete and bronzed from skiing and living in a five-star hotel, were not impressed.

'You could have made us a nicer meal, Mother,' complained Romy. 'This is so salty, I'll be up drinking water all night.'

'We're tired,' Martin announced the moment supper was over. 'You've had a good break, nice if you could put the kids to bed.'

Etta was gratified when Poppy hugged her.

'I've missed you, Granny, snow's boring. Yours were the only presents we got. Will you read me two stories?'

Drummond wanted a story, but only one.

'You can go now,' he said coolly. 'I want to play with my w.i.l.l.y.'

On the way home, Etta popped into Badger's Court to check on Mrs Wilkinson and found Trixie asleep there, her head on Mrs Wilkinson's shoulder, their dark and white manes entwined.

Once more swearing Trixie to secrecy, Etta sent her home.

26.

As Valent Edwards landed the Lear at Staverton, he wondered how difficult it would be to install a runway in Willowwood. The locals, spearheaded by that monster Ione Travis-Lock, had kicked up enough fuss about a helipad.

Valent was not a man who ever admitted to tiredness, but Bonny Richards had been a very exacting companion. She had upset his routine. She was always two hours late for everything, which drove him demented.

Since he'd met her, he'd spent 30,000 on very beautiful teeth but wasn't any more inclined to smile in photographs. He had lost two stone, worked out in the gym and ceased to look laughable in bathing trunks. Women had always run after him, more, he suspected, for his success than his s.e.x appeal, but it was wonderful for his ego to have such a beauty on his arm and in his emperor-sized bed, although it was an effort to keep his tummy in. He had refused to wear lifts so he'd appear much taller than Bonny even when she went out in six-inch heels. He had refused to dye his hair or his eyebrows, but had cut his thick, iron-grey hair short so it didn't flop around when he was sailing on the vast new yacht that Bonny had persuaded him to buy. He refused to admit it made him seasick.

Bonny was terribly demanding and hot on her rights. On holiday she had thrown not only tantrums but his mobile and his BlackBerry into the swimming pool to get his attention. She had also engaged him in a colossal amount of s.e.x and s.h.i.+pping. Having kept him up half the night, she would drag him off to visit museums and temples whenever they drew into port.

Having attempted to improve his mind and his figure 'No desserts, Valent' Bonny had set about him socially. Along with the make-up artist, agent and personal trainer, she'd also invited on board a voice coach, ostensibly to prepare her Southern accent to play Maggie, her latest television part, in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but in fact to teach Valent to talk proper.

And when Valent had lost it, and shouted he was not going to talk like a 'f.o.o.king fairy, how now bluddy brown cow', Bonny had replied that he had only to listen to himself to prove her point.

As a final straw, Redwin, the voice coach, had made a pa.s.s at him.

Valent had been born in Bradford sixty-five years ago into a mining family. His dad had loved his mum. He had loved his wife Pauline and had never been into one-night stands, which went against his Chapel background. This was also why he had half committed himself to Bonny but had still not given her a ring.

Bonny didn't drink, which was great for her flawless complexion but not for jollity. Valent, a workaholic, liked to unwind on holiday, read a dozen biographies, watch football on Sky, drink rather too much and put on half a stone.

As a goalkeeper who had once played for a Premier Division club, he had arthritis in both hands but also the hawk eyes that didn't miss a field mouse. As a great racehorse will find a way through a testudine of closely packed, galloping quarters, Valent saw gaps in the market: retirement homes with people of your own background, and 'Attractive and Affordable' houses for young couples that were cheap and charming to look at, and came with a red rambler rose in a blue tub to grow up the wall. Happy Prentice placed bright and trustworthy youngsters, who hadn't necessarily blossomed at school, in friendly flouris.h.i.+ng companies. Another company provided sympathetic people to help you downsize, while a gently ma.s.saging rubber hand successfully winded babies and helped couples to avoid sleepless nights. His laboratories had produced an energy source and a method of disposing of waste. His latest product, Rinstant, saved a ma.s.s of water by enabling hand-washed clothes or even hair to be rid of soap or shampoo after a single rinse. Although he didn't need it himself, he was working on a cure for baldness.

But even Valent couldn't find a cure for a broken heart.

In Duty Free, he discovered he had bought Rive Gauche, Pauline's favourite perfume, and a bottle of Benedictine, which she had loved; just as when at home, he still found himself making two cups of builder's tea in the morning.

She had died in the Cotchester train crash three years ago, just at the moment when he'd decided to stop spending his life in Concorde and superjets and devote some real time to her. Now it was too late ... His son wouldn't speak to him because of Bonny. This was not helped by Valent forgetting his and his wife's and his grandchildren's birthdays. Now he expected Pauline to be there when he got home, expected her voice on the end of the telephone longing to hear about his trip, delighting in every new achievement.

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 b.i.t.c.h like you, so shut oop.'

Now he was feeling like h.e.l.l.

27.

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 h.e.l.l is going on? Get that f.o.o.king 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 h.e.l.l'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 flus.h.i.+ng 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 punis.h.i.+ng 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 a.r.s.e.

'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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. '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 gra.s.s, 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 gra.s.s.' Then, as Etta mouthed in amazement and started to cry again, 'Oh, for G.o.d'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.'

28.

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 surrept.i.tious 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 b.u.t.ter pudding that they put a tin on the bar ent.i.tled 'Mrs Wilkinson's Fund'.