Jump! (107 page)

Priceless sighed and rubbed his nose along her thigh.

‘You still have me.’

Etta was one of the few people who publicly defended Rafiq.

‘Rafiq adored Mrs Wilkinson,’ she told the press. ‘He stayed up
all night with her once when she had colic. He was overjoyed when he won a race on her when Amber broke her wrist. And he was far too fond of Tommy to destroy the horse she loved. It doesn’t add up.’

‘Rafiq would never hurt an animal,’ protested a numb, tearful Tommy from her hospital bed. ‘Marius could hardly get him to use a whip. He always worried if Mistletoe’s water bowl wasn’t filled up. He loved animals.’

Tommy’s detective sergeant father tried to convince her otherwise. ‘Rafiq wimped out as a suicide bomber last time. He wanted to prove to Cousin Ibrahim that he was one of the boys.’

‘He didn’t,’ wailed Tommy, and as she left the hospital she defiantly told the massed journalists and television cameras, ‘Rafiq didn’t want twenty-seven virgins in heaven. The only reason he’d want to go to heaven would be to see Furious again.’ But Etta and Tommy appeared to be Rafiq’s sole champions, particularly when Ibrahim was alleged to have rung in claiming Al-Qaeda’s responsibility. What remained uncertain was whether Rafiq had perished with Mrs Wilkinson or had escaped and was still alive.

The syndicate took it very hard.

‘St Peter needn’t open the Pearly Gates,’ observed a choked Joey. ‘Mrs Wilkinson’ll jump clean over them.’

‘At least she’ll know Furious up there, and Best Mate, Dessie, Arkle, Rummy and Sefton will form a guard of honour,’ said Woody stoutly.

‘She united us like a band of brothers,’ wept Painswick.

Poor Alan’s book was screwed because of the mass coverage. The bandwagon creaked as Corinna, Bonny and even Cindy leapt on it to convince the media of their deep sense of personal loss and sent out photographs of themselves hugging Mrs Wilkinson. Willowwood was a sea of flowers.

‘Now thrive the florists,’ sighed Seth. ‘Amsterdam will be stripped of tulips.’

Chisolm was much too upset to write her diary in the
Mirror
.

‘You must be able to cobble something together, Dora,’ pleaded the features editor. ‘Readers have the right to know.’

‘Chisolm’s probably the only one who knows the truth,’ confessed Dora, whose stolen service had also gone by the board.

‘Did you know that Mrs Wilkinson was going to be a mother?’ she sobbed to Trixie.

‘You let her run that huge race when she was in foal?’ exploded
Trixie. ‘How could you, Dora? If you hadn’t, she wouldn’t have brought down Furious or been nominated for that award.’

‘I know, I’m so sorry,’ bawled Dora.

And if Willowwood was weeping, so was the nation. Like Shergar, Mrs Wilkinson was a martyr to terrorism. The government stepped up security. At racecourses all round the country, the jockeys wore black armbands and a two-minute silence was observed.

Mrs Wilkinson’s box was left empty, both at Penscombe, where Love Rat’s great stallion’s bell rang out for her, and at Throstledown, where even though she’d departed a month before, Sir Cuthbert, Count Romeo, History Painting and Doggie still peered in hopefully every time they passed. Her bridle with its green browband hung empty from the manger. The People’s Pony was no more.

There were no bodies so no funeral but a memorial service was planned, first in St James’s, Willowwood, then, because of the demand, it was moved to Larkminster Cathedral.

Niall was revving up to help the bishop take the service. Major Cunliffe was organizing parking and a video of Mrs Wilkinson’s finest hours – so many of them. Ione would do the flowers with Direct Debbie, draping the cathedral with willow branches and never a splash of colour. Chris and Chrissie and Mop Idol were organizing food for the syndicate and friends afterwards. Seth and Corinna were doing readings but all the syndicate wanted to say a word, except Etta. She looked at Mrs Wilkinson’s betting slips and then at the coloured pieces of string, like a child’s ball, which had attached her owner’s badges to her handbag. She knew she was being wet but she also knew that she was incapable of paying tribute to Mrs Wilkinson without breaking down. Day and night she longed for her deep-throated whicker.

Mrs Wilkinson’s portrait had brought the worst luck in the world, but at least if Etta hadn’t hurled it back at Valent she would have had a reminder of how sweet Wilkie had been and how Valent had tried so hard to please her. He and Alban had completely disappeared. And his last memory would be of Etta screaming at him to leave her alone.

She was comforted by Poppy and Drummond.

‘Are you sixty, Granny?’ asked Poppy.

‘No, nearly seventy, alas.’

‘So you’ll go to heaven like Mrs Wilkinson soon.’ Then, when Etta looked really sad, ‘Don’t worry, Granny, you’ll die soon anyway.’

‘If you can’t sleep, Granny,’ Drummond put an arm round her, ‘you wake me and we’ll talk.’

‘I think they’d better have counselling,’ said Romy.

Amber was also crippled with guilt that her photograph had been found in Rafiq’s room. ‘I didn’t realize he still cared. Rafiq would never have blown up Mrs Wilkinson if I hadn’t jilted him and, far, far worse, brought down Furious. He had a double motive.’

As he tried to comfort her, Rogue reflected it was a pity they couldn’t hold Billy’s memorial service on the same day. Amber’s mother, Janey, was making such a meal of it.

Shagger wondered if they’d get insurance.

‘Does this count as an Act of God?’

‘Whose god?’ said Alan bleakly. ‘We’d only get 1 per cent anyway.’

On the morning of the memorial service, which coincided with a heatwave, Seth had the temerity to roll up at Etta’s and ask her to hear his reading. Now he’d shaved off his beard and moustache to play a rather old Brick in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
, she realized what a weak, self-indulgent face he had compared with Valent’s. She was tempted to tell him to go away, but let him in because she was so desperate for news of Valent. Priceless greeted his old master with much flashing of teeth, but showed no desire to get off the sofa.

Seth had no news to report, except what hell Bonny was to rehearse with. ‘She’s insisting on reading a passage from
The Journey of Bonny
this evening.’

Through the open window Etta could hear Pocock practising ‘Here’s To You, Mrs Wilkinson’ on the church bells.

‘Bonny won’t be pleased,’ Seth went on. ‘It doesn’t look as though Valent’s going to make the service. I guess he’s lost interest in Willowwood. Badger’s Court’s on the market for six mil. Can you just bear to hear this, darling?’ He handed over a poetry book.

‘“Brightness falls from the air,”’ read Etta. ‘“Queens have died young and fair,/Dust hath closed Helen’s eye.”’

The words made her cry and she certainly couldn’t face the memorial service now. No one would want a sobbing, emotional grandmother.

As soon as Seth had gone, disappointed she hadn’t offered him a drink, Etta threw Priceless into the back of the Polo and drove south-west towards her old house. She had forgotten how ravishing Dorset was, particularly in early May, with wild cherry blossom and cow parsley decking out the countryside, like the young
bride she had been when she and Sampson moved to Bluebell Hill.

She went first to Sampson’s grave in the churchyard and was just leaving a bunch of white roses when she noticed a small posy of crimson-flecked geraniums. Attached to them was a little note: ‘Darling Sampy, never a day goes by, all love Blanche.’

In a trice, Etta remembered her own anguish when she had found the same geraniums, which she herself had specially propagated, growing in a pale blue tub on Blanche’s terrace, obviously given her by Sampson. It must have been a special bond between them and, twenty-five years later, here they were on his grave. He and Blanche must have really loved each other.

Now Etta loved Valent so helplessly, she could understand and forgive them and not feel jealous any more.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered as she placed the white roses in their vase of water on the grave beside the geraniums. ‘I’m so sorry for not loving you enough.’

Then, as if sleep-walking, she found herself driving to Bluebell Hill. Bluebells were appropriately staining sapphire the woodland floor behind the soft russet house, and the peonies and irises were in their pink and purple glory. On the lawn was a tank, a football and a push-along dog, which had belonged to Trixie. The swing still hung from the chestnut tree.

Ariella, who lived there now, was thrilled to see her, asked her in for a cup of tea and some rather stale Swiss roll, then showed her over the house, which was nice, messy and lived-in. A large ginger cat snoozed on an unmade bed.

One of the children was out playing with a friend, the other, now a chubby eighteen-month-old, who hadn’t been born when they bought the house, had just tipped a whole packet of Rice Krispies all over the floor. Ariella proceeded to shove them back into the packet.

‘Ruthie cleaned the floor this morning. She always speaks so fondly of you, Mrs Bancroft. There are so many things I wanted to ask you. Did all your streams dry up in the summer and do you take those lovely agapanthus into the greenhouse in winter?’

‘May I wander round the garden?’ asked Etta.

An outraged Priceless, nose rammed against an open inch of car window, glared as the ginger cat wandered after her, rolling lasciviously in the catmint. There were an awful lot of weeds; slugs had eaten most of the young delphiniums. Etta found a plastic JCB in one flower bed, a rocking pig in another and the see-saw that went round and round and up and down, which Sampson had made. At least someone had weeded round Bartlett’s grave.

Etta sat on a stone bench gazing into space. After a while Ariella came and sat with her:

‘So pleased you came. Heard you were heartbroken to leave here. I don’t blame you. It’s such a happy house, despite the awful things that happened to you.’

‘It needs children and laughter. There wasn’t much laughter in my husband’s last years.’

Seeing Etta was crying, Ariella took her hand.

‘So terrible to lose a husband and a lovely house.’

And the rest, thought Etta wearily.

But as they walked back to the house, Ariella said:

‘We had another visitor recently, Valent Edwards.’

‘
The
Valent Edwards?’ squeaked Etta, going scarlet.

‘He just knocked on the door, apologized, said he was driving through and loved the house. I showed him all over. He said we could name our price. I said we didn’t want to sell. Cally had just got into a lovely local school and we were so happy here. He gave me his card in case we changed our minds. I suddenly realized it was
the
Valent Edwards. He looked tired and older than his photographs, but he’s still very dynamic and attractive for an older man. He said he wanted to buy it for a very special lady. I expect it was one of those glamorous A-list celebs he runs around with.’

‘How long ago was that?’ said Etta faintly.

‘Last week, no, the week before. Said he had a horse running in the National. I said I was sorry I didn’t know anything about horses. Johnnie said it was crazy of me not to take him up. I told him how sad it was you couldn’t bear to come back. Everything reminded you of Mr Bancroft.’

It’s not true, Etta wanted to scream.

She drove home in turmoil, twice losing the way. Valent probably hadn’t been buying it for her and if he had, he’d have changed his mind now, thinking she still loved Sampson and remembering how vile she’d been to him. She drove slower and slower.

She must remember people in tsunamis and earthquakes and forest fires, with whole families wiped out. She must pull herself together. She still had Trixie, Poppy, Drummond, Priceless, who was now resting his head on her shoulder, and Gwenny to live for.

The sun was an hour off setting as she drove into a totally deserted Willowwood. She noticed Valent’s gates padlocked as she passed. Would he ever come back? Would he make the memorial service, which would be starting in a few minutes?

It was still terribly hot. Etta had a shower and pulled on her old jeans and a faded blue denim shirt from the sixties she couldn’t bear to throw away. Then, overwhelmed with restlessness, she took Priceless and Gwenny for a walk in the woods.

Down by the pond, on the edge of Marius’s land, she found his horses turned out. There was Count Romeo, History Painting, Not for Crowe, Sir Cuthbert, still a little stiff from the National, Doggie and Oh My Goodness. Suddenly, they all formed up and started hurtling round the pond, weaving in and out of the willows, snorting, kicking up their heels, stopping then galloping on again. Who could say horses didn’t enjoy racing?

Over in Larkminster Cathedral, Tommy, who’d agreed to say a few words about Mrs Wilkinson, wondered how she’d get through it without losing it. She’d lost so much more weight, nothing fitted. Etta had lent her the black dress with a frilled collar which she’d once worn to Ione’s party. The only colour in Tommy’s newly hollowed face were eyes red with weeping.

Revving up for the memorial service, she’d hardly had time to think, but afterwards, how could she go on without Rafiq, Furious and Mrs Wilkinson, the three things she cared most about in life? How could she survive never feeling Mrs Wilkinson’s whiskery nose in her hand, or nudging her in the back, or hearing a low whicker of love, or being cheered up by her silly faces or by her particular way of carrying her lovely head to the right so she could see ahead out of her left eye?