Jump! (17 page)

Hearing Shagger’s voice, Etta thought he must be talking about Shade, until Shagger added, ‘Make a cracking bloke.’

‘Cracking the whip more likely,’ said Toby Weatherall gloomily.

Turning round, Etta saw Carrie in the doorway. She wore a black velvet trouser suit and a white silk shirt, her short rain-soaked black hair brushed back from her forehead. How pale, tense and tired she looked, thought Etta helplessly. If only I understood big business and could discuss her latest deal with her.

Nodding to Alan, seeing her mother was talking to the great Shade Murchieson, Carrie crossed the room and pecked her cheek.

‘Where’s Trixie?’

‘Babysitting for Martin and Romy.’

‘She OK?’

‘In great form, come home to revise.’

‘Pigs would fly.’ Carrie raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘You OK?’

‘Fine,’ said Etta.

‘Odd to see you without Dad.’ Then, totally ignoring Olivia, Carrie congratulated Shade on his Iraq contract and started to quiz him about a possible Japanese recession.

‘Here’s a whisky for Shade,’ whispered Dora, who’d been making notes in the kitchen. ‘I’ve put in a couple of cloves to make it look authentic. For God’s sake don’t let on to Ione.’

Harvey-Holden was outraged when his sales pitch to Lester Bolton was interrupted by the Major and Old Mrs Malmesbury, whom he wanted to offload.

‘Are you a jockey, like Ralph?’ Mrs Malmesbury asked Lester Bolton. ‘You’re the right height. Lose a few pounds though.’ Seeing Lester turn purple, Harvey-Holden said quickly, ‘And I’m no longer a jockey, Mrs M. I’m a trainer, so I get far more nervous.’

‘What’s this about you buying North Wood, Lester?’ asked
Major Cunliffe, in his role of chairman of the Parish Council. ‘Hope you’re not planning to develop. Price of timber’s rocketing, even sell sycamore now.’

‘I intend turning it into a Harboretum as a showcase for my wife, Cindy. I’m looking for an estate manager,’ said Lester grandly.

‘Has to be at least a thousand acres to be counted as an estate,’ snorted Mrs Malmesbury. ‘Must have a word with Farmer Fred, think he’s shooting badgers.’ And she stumped off.

‘I’d cull the lot,’ snarled Harvey-Holden. ‘Horses always putting their feet down the setts.’

‘Old bag should be in a bin,’ said a nettled Lester. ‘Thousand acres indeed.’

Miss Painswick’s new navy-blue court shoes were killing her, so she persuaded Etta to join her on a faded chintz sofa, from which Etta retrieved two half-eaten pieces of lentil bake.

She noticed Shade still pretending to listen to Carrie’s views on the Japanese stock market, while his hand like a giant tarantula wandered over Olivia’s boy’s bottom.

Alan, who had a kind heart, was rescuing Niall the vicar, who’d been cornered by Direct Debbie demanding support for her church flowers. She was talking about her roses as if she personally knew the people they were named after: ‘Gordon Ramsay, Anna Ford, Alan Titchmarsh, Angela Rippon and Cliff Richard in the same bed make a lovely splash.
The Times
was saying only yesterday bright colours attract butterflies. Ione’s so high-handed about gardens. Pocock does her donkey work. Normie and I do all our own. My favourite dahlia is the Bishop of Llandaff,’ she went on, ‘such a brilliant scarlet. Would you believe it, I got a hundred Bishops from a single plant this year.’

‘Good God,’ said Alan, ‘that’s nearly a synod.’

Shagger was now trying to sell insurance to Lester Bolton: ‘There are some dangerously overhanging trees along the footpath.’

Phoebe Weatherall meanwhile had buttonholed Woody as he slid in to put more logs on the fire: ‘Our cherry tree’s fallen down, would you have a moment to chop it up? We’ll be needing some logs for Christmas.’

‘She’ll never pay him,’ Painswick muttered to Etta.

Cindy Bolton was doing a number on a handsome blond hunk with a badge on his dark green fleece saying ‘Thank you for looking after my dog’.

‘How sweet,’ cooed Cindy. ‘What kind of pooch have you got, Jase?’

‘I haven’t. Found the badge at a service station. Sure pulls the birds.’

Cindy shrieked with laughter. ‘What d’you do for a living?’

‘I’m an equine podiatrist.’

‘How fascinating.’ Hiccuping, Cindy accepted more cider.

‘Your hubby’s bought North Wood.’

‘Where he intends to create a Harboretum.’

‘Woody’s the man to help you,’ grinned Jase. ‘He’ll trim your bush any time.’

Cindy’s shrieks were so excessive that Lester, who disliked competition, beckoned her to join him and Shagger.

Abandoned, Jase sat down beside Etta.

‘Jase Perry,’ he said. ‘I’m the third of the Terrible Trio. Heard a lot about you, Etta, and your cakes.’

Etta blushed and introduced Painswick. ‘This is Jase, the famous farrier.’

‘I’m only an equine podiatrist at parties.’ Jase shook his head. ‘Sad day, I replated Snowball only yesterday. Knew her at Rupert’s too, sweet little mare, held the hammer in her mouth while I did her feet. Would have taken her plates off tomorrow. You never get used to empty boxes.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Etta, thinking how nice he was. ‘It must be nerve-racking shoeing racehorses, they’re so skittish.’

‘Terrifying, but you get the best gossip. People tell you anyfing when your head’s under a horse’s belly, no eye contact. Like being a minicab driver or an ’airdresser like my wife.’

‘She did my hair beautifully,’ said Etta.

‘Why’s Shade taken his horses to Marius?’ enquired Painswick, who wished she’d brought her knitting.

‘More to do with that,’ Jase nodded at Shade’s rotating hand, ‘than Marius’s form at the moment. Marius can be a grumpy bugger. Hope Shade doesn’t take his horses and his missus at the same time.’

As Joey appeared from the kitchen with another jug, he winked at them, but was accosted by Phoebe. ‘Joey darling, can I have a top-up? One of our drains is blocked. I wonder if you’d have a mo.’

‘See what I mean?’ muttered Painswick.

Pocock, leaving the party in the kitchen, filled up Etta’s glass, which enabled her to tell him how well his plants were settling in, and how lovely all his plants in this house were, and how sweet
Gwenny had popped back last week and curled up on her bed. Envying Gwenny, amazed how different Etta looked tonight, Pocock said he’d got some Christmas roses for her.

Etta noticed poor Tilda the schoolmistress hovering dis-consolately as Shagger, having had his insurance pitch to Bolton constantly interrupted by Cindy’s giggles, ignored her pronouncement that she’d made his favourite fish pie for supper and sidled off to talk to his friend Toby.

Harvey-Holden was about to renew his attack on Lester when he was pre-empted by Martin: ‘I’d love a chinwag with you about my father’s fund, Lester.’

‘Who’s that talking to Shade and Harvey-Holden?’ asked Lester.

‘That’s Olivia Oakridge, a most attractive lady,’ said Martin.

‘Needs her boobs enhancing and her teeth veneering,’ said Cindy dismissively. ‘Do you know they’ve got creepy-crawlies in the toilet here and Ione’s planted pansies in her hubby’s shoes?’

‘Anyone we know?’ said Alan, who was drunk.

‘I ought to go.’ Etta, also feeling drunk, got to her feet.

‘Don’t,’ called out Olivia. ‘Come and talk to us.’

‘Ilkley Hall’s so beautiful,’ Etta told Shade, ‘and so macho.’

‘Like his master,’ purred Shade.

Seeing her mother-in-law laughing rather too loudly with Shade and Olivia, Romy tried to catch her eye to tell her to leave, but she was too late. The last descendant of Sir Francis Framlingham had clapped hands that had never seen a manicure. Summoning as many guests as possible into the drawing room, Ione exhorted them to join the Compost Club for the benefit of global cooling, recycling, and the beauty and fecundity of their gardens.

Etta glanced at Alban leaning against the wall, listening so politely and patiently, as he must have had to do all his career, to potentates and difficult heads of state, smoothing paths, but now centre stage no longer. Glancing round, he caught Etta looking at him and gave her a smile of such sweetness.

‘We all have holes in our lives,’ Ione’s voice was rising, ‘so why not refill your hole with compost?’

‘I’ll fill your hole with something much more exciting,’ murmured Shade into Olivia’s hair.

Olivia laughed and wriggled against him.

Mrs Travis-Lock then drew attention to her wormery, urging guests to get one of their own.

‘Pooh,’ said Cindy, at which Jase the farrier started snaking his hand along, opening and closing his fingers and thumb like a
devouring worm. Everyone fought the giggles – even more so when Ione paused for breath and Mrs Malmesbury could be heard haranguing Farmer Fred from a nearby room: ‘Cows with TB defecate near badger setts.’

‘Hope they use forest-friendly loo paper,’ whispered Dora.

Ione, however, carried on unfazed: ‘And with Christmas not too far away, I implore you to buy Christmas trees with roots which can be replanted, to take your Christmas cards to the recycling banks afterwards, and to leave sellotape off your parcels so the wrapping paper can be used again.’

‘Then the dung beetle lays eggs in the cowpat and badger comes along searching for grubs and beetles under the cowpat and catches TB, poor fellow,’ yelled Mrs Malmesbury.

‘Oh shut up, Mrs M,’ called out Ione. ‘Tonight I hope you’re all biking or walking home, but first I want you to join the Compost Club.’

Such was the force of her personality and her audience’s desire for her to also shut up that most people signed up, promising a subscription of £20 per annum.

‘I’m going to sort out our garden,’ vowed Phoebe, who had managed not to join. Then, smiling at Etta: ‘We haven’t met, Mrs Bancroft, but I hear your garden in Dorset was lovely. Will you come to tea and advise me?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ hissed Dora and Alan simultaneously.

‘I haven’t really got a garden here,’ said Etta.

‘You can always put creepers in tubs up your walls,’ said Ione briskly. ‘I’ll earmark some speedy growers. They’ll need some compost. Come on, Etta, join the Compost Club.’

‘Bungalow-ho-ho,’ whispered a grinning Alan, then, as Lester Bolton wrote out a large cheque and handed it to Mrs T-L: ‘The little creep ought to spread it on himself. He might grow a few inches.’

Martin meanwhile was hopping. All these people could have contributed to the Sampson Bancroft Fund.

‘I hope we may receive you at Primrose Mansions when it’s finished,’ Cindy was telling Jase. ‘It’s so cool to be an equine podiatrist.’

Woody, who was shy and had hidden in the kitchen talking to Pocock and cider-brewing Joey, appeared beside Etta and said, ‘I tell people I’m an arborist at parties.’

‘Cindy probably thinks that’s something to do with boats. Sorry, that was bitchy.’

‘You been OK?’ asked Woody. ‘I’ll take you home when you want. This drink’s disgusting but it seems to be doing the trick,’
he added, as Mrs Malmesbury nearly fell off the arm of the sofa. ‘She’s a good old girl, still does her own shopping at Tesco’s, goes wide round the bends but she’s OK coming up on the straight.’

Seeing the delectable Woody and Etta laughing together, both the vicar and Shagger bore down, asking Etta how she was getting on in Willowwood.

‘Etta’s great,’ said Woody, ‘best cake-maker in the world.’

‘How wonderful! Might you make something for our Christmas Fayre?’ asked Tilda. She was shadowing Shagger, to his intense irritation.

‘How are things?’ he asked, pointedly turning to Woody.

‘Crazy since the gales.’

‘Why don’t you take on an assistant?’

‘Insurance gone up too much.’

‘Call me.’ Shagger posted a card into Woody’s breast pocket, letting his fingers linger against Woody’s chest. ‘I’ll get you a better deal.’

‘Have a Fairtrade nut,’ said Tilda, waving a bowl between them.

‘Shagger’s only interested in rough-trade nuts,’ observed Alan, returning from the kitchen with another large whisky.

As the guests were thinning out and Mop Idol was gathering up glasses, Araminta, the black Labrador who missed embassy life, and an adorable springer spaniel puppy were allowed to bound into the room.

‘Oh how lovely,’ cried Etta, moving forward, but Harvey-Holden, irritated at being lectured by Ione about his inorganic yard, had already picked up the puppy by the scruff of her neck. He roughhoused with her until she shrieked, then dropped her from a great height on to the floor.

Beastly man, thought a horrified Etta, then was distracted by Shagger’s great red hand shooting out to grab and down a three-quarters-full glass.

‘That’s Alan’s whisky,’ she squeaked loudly.

A squeak overheard by most of the guests, who had difficulty not laughing, except Ione, who looked at the empty glass: ‘Whisky, surely not?’

‘I must be mistaken,’ stammered Etta.

‘Go back to Harvest Home at once, Mother,’ said Martin icily, ‘and check on the kids.’