Jump! (69 page)

As his publishers believed he’d nearly finished Depression, they had suggested he write a book on celibacy. As he had designs on Tilda, Alan had said he knew nothing about the subject and would rather write about Mrs Wilkinson and the Willowwood legend.

Etta hated leaving Willowwood. She was absolutely exhausted, having addressed all the Christmas cards Martin and Romy were sending out to possible benefactors. She had washed and packed all Drummond and Poppy’s clothes, and was now wondering what to pack for herself.

She had been terribly worried about Rafiq. Every time a suicide bomb exploded anywhere in the world, he felt the ripples of hatred, and he had been unable to ride any races because of the big freeze. Marius, coming to the rescue, had had the brainwave of posting him, Tommy and the lorry to Burnham on Crouch for ten days over Christmas, so Mrs Wilkinson could get fit galloping over the sands, strengthening her legs in the sea water. Tommy and Rafiq were enjoying staying in a B and B, while Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm lodged with a local trainer.

Etta hoped Valent liked her presents: a bottle of sloe gin and his own copy of her favourite Everyman anthology. She in turn was enchanted by her presents. Marius had given her a tiny greenhouse, in return for tending his garden, Pocock a dozen
Regalia lilies. Joey and Woody’s bird table had brought her so much joy, but her best present had been a pair of brown Ugg boots, so blissfully warm and comfortable. Inside was a card: ‘No excuse for chilblains now. Love, Valent.’

What a dear, dear man.

While Etta was in Switzerland Painswick was coming in to feed Gwenny and the birds.

‘Why not save money and feed Gwenny on the birds?’ she had suggested when she had dropped in on Etta earlier and found Gwenny on the windowsill, angrily chattering at two blackbirds.

‘I like the robins best,’ sighed Etta.

One, which she’d nicknamed Pavarobin because he sang so beautifully, was always waiting in the winter honeysuckle, eyes bright, orange chest thrust out, often hitting her hand as she put out the first crumbs.

‘Most of his time,’ she told Painswick, ‘is spent perched on the table, wings on his hips, ready to attack any bird that approaches.’

‘Typically male,’ said Painswick. ‘Old Mrs Malmesbury calls robins: “souls of the dead”.’

Etta hoped Pavarobin wasn’t Sampson keeping an eye on her.

She hated leaving the birds and Gwenny, but she was most worried about Priceless. She didn’t trust Seth or Corinna or Stefan to look after him.

Wandering into her bedroom to finish her packing, she found him stretched out on her rumpled bed, flashing his teeth, his head resting on one of her Ugg boots, at which he’d been gently nibbling.

‘Wish you’d come and pull my sledge,’ sighed Etta.

Before Christmas, arctic conditions returned to Larkshire, which made flying off to the Swiss Alps and leaving behind Mrs Wilkinson, whom Etta had found in the snow, even more poignant.

Ever since Ione had sided with Etta over keeping Mrs Wilkinson and refused to give Sampson’s fund any money, Martin and Romy had given up any attempt to reduce their carbon foot-print or take a Green skiing holiday. It was Zermatt or nothing.

Judging by the splendour of their hotel bedroom, which had a blue-velvet-curtained four-poster, a jacuzzi, a vast television and a spectacular view of the Matterhorn, WOO and their other charities must be paying them well.

By contrast Etta had a single bed, no minibar and no television in a tiny room next to Poppy and Drummond, so she was constantly refereeing squabbles.

Returning from a shattering third day hawking the children round skating rinks and toboggan runs and applauding every achievement, while Romy and Martin acquired mahogany tans whizzing down the mountains, Etta found Sky and a huge wide-screen television installed in her room.

Aided by Drummond, she quickly located
At the Races,
where Marius was being interviewed in a snow-covered yard. The children screamed with delight to see Mrs Wilkinson in her patchwork rug and Chisolm in a Father Christmas hat kicking a huge snowball, followed by Mrs Wilkinson peeling a banana and shaking hooves with Matt Chapman, the presenter.

A most uncharacteristically smiling Marius then admitted Mrs Wilkinson was in great form and looking forward to her return. Cheltenham wasn’t cancelled because of the weather. The
camera then switched to her 422 Christmas cards strung across the office and Miss Painswick reading out some of her fan letters.

Matt Chapman was just telling viewers that tomorrow’s race was of great interest because Mrs Wilkinson would be pitted against her old enemy Ilkley Hall, who’d won his last four races, when Martin roared in and, to wails of protest that Wilkie and Chisolm were on the television, switched off the set. Well aware that Drummond had the skills to track down adult movies featuring goats in more questionable activities, Martin promptly rang the manager to complain.

‘Take it away, I’m not subjecting my kids to pornography.’

Martin was wearing a banana-yellow ski suit. Etta had a vision of Mrs Wilkinson peeling it off him. Romy followed him, red as her ski suit with rage: ‘How dare you order Sky, Etta,’ and was followed by the manager, Mr Marcel, who’d already earmarked Martin as a pest.

Marching in, with a grin lifting his black moustache, Mr Marcel announced that Sky and the big screen had been specifically ordered and paid for. Then, brandishing a magnum of Moët and a vast bunch of alstroemerias and pink scented lilies, he added: ‘These also are for Mrs Bancroft.’

‘They’ll be for me,’ said Romy, snatching the flowers. ‘Don’t want them to go to the wrong Mrs Bancroft this time.’ Laughing heartily, she ripped open the envelope and read out, ‘“Darling Etta, All your friends at Willowwood are missing you, lots of love Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm.”’

Romy’s red, turning-to-puce face was a picture: a Francis Bacon cardinal.

‘How pathetic, a horse and goat sending flowers.’

‘Surprised Chisolm didn’t eat them,’ said Etta ecstatically.

Who would have known alstroemerias were her favourite flowers? Seth, Valent, Alan, Painswick, Pocock, Marius? She’d planted enough in his garden. She waited until her room had emptied to ring the Major, as head of the syndicate, to thank him. She got Debbie, who said Wilkie was fine, and Cheltenham would be inspecting the course at 8am, to see if racing could go ahead.

‘It’s very cold here, how’s Switzerland?’

‘OK. Thank you all for the lovely flowers and champagne and Sky so I can watch the race. I can’t believe it.’

‘We all chipped in but it was Seth’s idea,’ said Debbie tartly. ‘He was so fed up with Romy boasting to everyone that he’d muddled the two Mrs Bancrofts and meant to ask her rather than you out to lunch.’

‘Oh no,’ whispered Etta. ‘He what? How dreadful, how embarrassing.’

For once Direct Debbie was contrite. ‘Oh Etta, I thought you knew, I’m so sorry. And you’ve been forced to look after Seth’s awful dog.’

Etta put down the telephone and died. Poor, poor Seth having to give her lunch and her getting so drunk and trying to kiss him. What a laugh everyone must have had. Oh God.

Then she tried to be sensible. After his first passionate letter, she’d grown increasingly deflated as Seth’s behaviour hadn’t been remotely amorous. How she had beaten herself up, wondering if she’d repelled him coming on too strong at lunch, when he’d never meant anything in the first place. How he must only have dropped in so often to gaze at Trixie. Wryly she looked at her single bed:

Take back the hope you gave – I claim
Only a memory of the same.

Would it be sacrilege to put a teaspoon in the neck of a magnum of champagne and have a glass now?

The flying cork nearly took Martin’s eye out, as he popped in wearing a dinner jacket, bound for a New Year’s Eve jaunt.

‘Mother!’

‘I’m not taking your children out tomorrow. I’m going to watch Mrs Wilkinson.’

‘Mother!’

‘And I’m going to have several glasses of champagne now, so I’m sure you won’t consider me a responsible enough person to babysit this evening. Happy New Year, Etta,’ she added, and slammed the door in Martin’s face.

Then she looked in the mirror. The cowardly lion was roaring.

If the sea saved Mrs Wilkinson’s legs, Cheltenham, putting down enough frost cover for twenty-five football pitches, saved racing on New Year’s Day. The covers had now been rolled up like black brandy snaps and sent off to Sandown to save racing later in the week. There was something schizophrenic about thick snow on the surrounding fields and ring of hills, their woods silvered with hoarfrost, and the bright green course below.

Etta stuck to her last and insisted on staying in to watch the race. Poppy and Drummond opted to stay with her, partly because Mr Marcel had presented her with a huge basket of fruit. Etta didn’t tell them she’d rung Joey earlier and asked him to put £2 for each child and £30 for herself on Mrs Wilkinson, whose odds had shortened to 10–1. She tried, however, to explain to them about betting.

‘If I put on a pound, I get eleven back.’

‘Why?’ said Drummond, eating grapes.

‘If it’s 7–4 like Ilkley Hall, and I put on a four pounds, I get eleven back.’

‘Why?’

It was frustrating only to get a glimpse of the syndicate gathering in the parade ring. Nice that Ione, in a Saturn-ring fur hat, had accompanied Alban. Perhaps Cheltenham was warmer than Willowwood Hall.

She could see Corinna (who’d told the
Daily Mail
her New Year’s resolution was ‘to give up smoking and Seth Bainton’), Seth (how could she ever face him again?) and Alan, all in dark glasses, obviously with fearful hangovers. There was Phoebe, voluminous green cloak covering her still non-existent bump.

At least Etta wouldn’t have to relay every moment of the race
to her. Five minutes to the off – pre-recorded film was now showing the twelve runners circling the parade ring.

All eyes were on Ilkley Hall, the black and beautiful favourite with his white zigzag blaze, and on Michelle, slinky in tight black leather jeans and a waisted scarlet jacket with a red fur-lined hood, as she led him up.

Ilkley Hall was followed by another of Mrs Wilkinson’s old rivals, Cosmo Rannaldini’s Internetso and by two younger horses, Last Quango, which Harvey-Holden had sold for vast profit to Lester Bolton, and a flashy chestnut gelding called Merchant of Venus, trained by Rupert Campbell-Black.

If only I were there to gaze at Rupert, thought Etta.

She was so nervous, she could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down her sides. She took a huge gulp of champagne.

‘Here’s Wilkie,’ shrieked Poppy. ‘Doesn’t she look lovely.’

Etta had to fight back the tears as Mrs Wilkinson came dancing out in her patchwork rug. Chisolm, in a red Christmas bow, followed, irked that the public were warming their hands on cups of coffee or soup rather than eating ice creams. Etta was so pleased to see the crowds clapping and smiling as they passed: ‘Welcome back, Wilkie, Happy New Year, Chisolm.’

She knew she was being sentimental but as Wilkie jigjogged past, ears pricked, she kept turning her head as though she were searching for Etta, wanting to give that rumbling thunderous whicker of pleasure.

‘You’ll see her again soon, Granny.’ Poppy took Etta’s hand.

Oh, there was Lester Bolton, shaved head covered by a brown trilby, and Cindy smothered in white furs like the Snow Queen.

‘This is boring,’ grumbled Drummond, grabbing the remote control.

‘Don’t you dare,’ snapped Etta.

‘Oh look, there’s Rupert talking to Rogue, who’s riding Merchant of Venus.’

Then she gave a gasp of horror as the list of runners and riders came up, and she realized Killer O’Kagan, back in circulation after his year-long ban, had flown in from Ireland at the last moment to ride Ilkley Hall. The young Irish jockey Johnnie Brutus had been demoted to Last Quango and Dare Catswood jocked off altogether.

Because she in turn had been off since June, Mrs Wilkinson had never come up against the dreaded Killer before.

Oh God, what evil schemes might Shade and H-H be cooking up? For a minute into shot came Olivia in blond furs and Shade in a black fur hat, both richly brown from skiing. By contrast
Killer, skeletal thin but huge across the shoulder, his thumb constantly caressing his whip, was white as the snowflakes tumbling down. Malevolence gave a green tinge to Harvey-Holden’s ratty little face. What a terrifying quartet, plotting, caballing.

Etta caught a glimpse of Marius ignoring his ex-wife as much as Amber was ignoring Rogue. Etta had no idea how hopelessly Amber had been thrown earlier in the day to see Rogue lounging, muscular thighs apart, on Channel 4’s programme
The Morning Line
.

Although Merchant of Venus had a spectacular turn of foot, Rogue had told the panel, Ilkley Hall would probably win the race. Mrs Wilkinson, he went on, didn’t have his cruising speed, but it was nice to have her back and her jockey Amber Lloyd-Foxe would certainly win the beauty stakes. He’d then gone on to talk about the likelihood of his retaining his champion jockey title.

Rafiq, watching at Throstledown, had nearly kicked the television in.