Jump! (34 page)

‘Asbo Andy’s unbeaten,’ protested Etta.

‘That’s because he’s never run,’ said Shagger rudely.

Then Seth, also back from London, swept in, and in the husky, deeply persuasive voice that had been selling luxury cruises to listeners, set about reassuring the syndicate.

‘What you get from racing isn’t money,’ he said. ‘Put in a hundred pounds, you’re lucky if you get twenty back. What you’re getting is fun, friendship and excitement, meeting, mixing and networking with great jockeys and owners and wonderful horses.’

And the lost heart quickens and rejoices, thought Alan, observing the rapture on Woody’s, Tilda’s, Etta’s, Pocock’s, even Painswick’s faces.

So Marius it was.

The syndicate then gathered round a table, with Priceless the greyhound flashing his teeth like a Colgate ad as he rushed in from the kitchen, making the numbers up to fourteen by stretching out on a nearby sofa. First drinks were on the house as the rules were hammered out. Only people who lived in Willowwood could join. The majority vote would prevail on all occasions. Payment of vet’s bills, insurance, proportion of winnings dependent on size of stake and allocation of owners’ badges at
race meetings were all thrashed out. Anyone who backed out, or defaulted for three months on payment, would lose their stake unless they could get someone approved by a majority syndicate vote to take it over.

Major Cunliffe had been mugging up on syndicates and, as an ex-bank manager, he was appointed treasurer. When he suggested that ‘Cash sums can be handed over in this pub on the twenty-fifth of every month, but I’d prefer people to pay by Direct Debit,’ no one dared look at one another.

‘And anyone who defaults will be spanked by the Major,’ yelled Alan, getting up to buy the next round of drinks.

Direct Debbie looked very disapproving.

‘Debbie will be in charge of good behaviour,’ said Seth, feeding crisps to Priceless.

‘We must think of a name for the syndicate,’ said Etta hastily.

Toby, who’d flown down straight off the grouse moors and looking a prat in knickerbockers, interrupted her, announcing that Shagger, ‘a whizz-kid in the City’, should be the syndicate’s banker.

Alan, however, had observed Shagger’s trick of asking for a fiver from everyone to buy some white and red, then, having acquired three or four bottles for much less, pocketing the rest. Equally, Shagger would sidle into a group, bury his fat lips in the cheek of one of the women, buy her a half, slide back into the group and be the beneficiary of succeeding rounds.

Only a couple of days ago, Shagger had edged up to him in the pub to reiterate that if he, Shagger, secured a favourable insurance deal for Mrs Wilkinson, perhaps the syndicate might waive his fee. Remembering how Shagger, with the aid of a vicious Health and Safety inspector, had once ripped off Woody, Alan had snapped that it was most unlikely.

Shagger’s methods were entirely opposite to the generous open-ended way Alan operated, aided admittedly by a rich wife, so Alan now suggested it would be better if Major Cunliffe was also their banker. He was more experienced, more local and therefore more available. Everyone except Shagger and Toby agreed. Major Cunliffe went puce with pleasure.

‘Ask a busy person,’ said Debbie smugly. ‘Daddy always finds the time.’

‘We still haven’t got a name,’ said Etta, making notes.

‘What about Affordable Horsing?’ suggested Seth.

Everyone giggled.

‘Why not the Willowwood Legend,’ said Trixie.

Everyone liked that, it sounded so romantic.

‘Except Beau Regard died,’ said Painswick.

‘Let’s just call ourselves Willowwood,’ said Woody, seeing Etta’s face falter and moving his thigh away from Shagger’s.

‘How are we going to get to the races?’ asked Joey. ‘When Mrs Wilkinson starts winning we’ll want to celebrate on the way home.’

Chris the landlord then announced he’d got wind of a second-hand Ford Transit bus that took ten.

‘Don’t ’spect everyone’ll go every time she races,’ said Joey.

‘Some of us work,’ quipped Chris.

‘And people can sit on people’s knees,’ said Phoebe, looking up at Seth from under her pale brown eyelashes.

‘We’ll provide the picnic,’ said Chris, thinking of a fat profit.

‘We can all make things,’ said Etta.

‘And drink ourselves insensible,’ said Seth, draining his glass.

‘We’ll have to find someone sober to drive us,’ said Alan. ‘How about Alban? Poor sod’s just returned from rehab utterly demoralized, off the drink, for ever, if Ione has her way. Desperately needs something to do.’

‘He’s a seriously slow driver,’ protested Toby.

‘Better to be safe than sorry,’ said Miss Painswick, getting another skein of wool out of her bag.

‘Will you approach Alban?’ the Major asked Alan pompously. ‘I was thinking of asking him to address Rotary on his take on the Arab world.’

‘We must paint the bus our colours,’ said Tilda in excitement.

‘What are our colours going to be?’ asked Shagger, filling up his pint mug from one of the bottles of red on the bar.

‘Why not a dark green willow on the palest green background?’ suggested Phoebe, who worked in an art gallery. ‘We must have something that shows up on grey, foggy days.’

‘Or a pale green willow on an emerald green background.’ Etta was surprised by her own assertiveness. ‘It would suit Amber. I do hope Marius puts her up.’ Hark at herself, swinging into the jargon.

‘Rogue Rogers has lovely kingfisher-blue eyes,’ sighed Phoebe.

‘Rogue likes wearing silks with horizontal stripes to make his shoulders look bigger,’ said Trixie, ‘which wouldn’t work with our willow tree.’

‘Perhaps those clever children at your school could come up with a design,’ suggested Etta.

‘And you’ve forgotten your girlfriend’s glass, Shagger,’ said Alan pointedly, as he tipped the remains of his glass into Tilda’s. ‘We’re going to need more bottles, Chris,’ then, as Tilda threw
him a smile of passionate gratitude, thought: she’d be pretty if she had those teeth fixed.

‘Our vicar,’ said Seth, who was admiring Trixie’s legs, ‘must come along whenever Mrs Wilkinson runs to administer the last rites.’ Then, seeing the horror on Etta’s face: ‘And bless her and pray for her safe return.’

‘I do hope she isn’t homesick,’ sighed Etta. ‘It’s like sending her off to boarding school with name tapes, a trunk and a fruit cake.’

‘And costs about the same,’ said Seth, then he put a hand on Etta’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’

Etta looked round the group who were all smiling sympathetically at her, and thought, nothing can go wrong for Mrs Wilkinson with all these sweet people rooting for her.

After the meeting dispersed, Alan and Seth, who were friends, both married to powerful women and led each other astray, stayed behind in the pub to get tanked up and discuss a trip to York.

Alan confessed the biography of Walter Scott he longed to write was hardly started. ‘I can’t get stuck into it. Walter wrote frantically to the end of his life to pay off debts incurred by his partner in a publishing firm. I identify with that aspect of his character. But I’m still wrestling with this bloody book on depression and really I need go no further than Willowwood.

‘I’m depressed about being Mr Carrie Bancroft. You’re pissed off playing second fiddle to Corinna. Alban’s about to slit his wrists missing whisky and the kudos of the embassy. Etta’s terrorized by ghastly Martin and my wife, missing her old house and her dog and, from next week, Mrs Wilkinson. Tilda’s gagging for a husband. Shagger’s a bastard to her, hardly surprising bearing in mind his hopeless passion for Toby. Painswick’s eating her heart out for Hengist. Niall’s terrified of being outed, and demoralized by his empty church. Chris and Chrissie can’t have children, unlikely when they’re working and drinking themselves insensible. There’s something wistful about the divine Woody. Joey seems pretty happy. Mop Idol’s frantically worried about money. Pocock is a poor widower, gagging for a shag. Poor Marius, with Olivia buggering off, is the saddest of them all, poor boy, and that stormy Rafiq’s obviously got a few problems. Hey presto, I can interview them all for my book on trips to the races.’

‘Trixie seems fine,’ said Seth idly.

‘She’d be better if her mother took a bit of notice of her,’ said Alan bitterly.

‘She’s utterly faint-makingly gorgeous, she’s just got to wait for things to happen to her,’ said Seth.

Outside, the constellation Pegasus galloped over Throstledown. Poor gorgeous Seth, on his own until Corinna gets back, thought the female members of the syndicate as they rustled home through the first fallen leaves, all alone in that big house.

Two weeks later Mrs Wilkinson moved to Throstledown, along with her football and ten pages of notes listing her likes – being sung to, Beethoven, Sir Walter Scott and bread and butter pudding – and her phobias, which included men with loud voices, pitchforks and shovels, cars backing towards her and people approaching unannounced on her blind side. Marius promptly tore up the notes and Tommy pieced them together again when he wasn’t looking.

‘Christ, it’s a Shetland,’ sneered Michelle, which didn’t endear her to Etta.

Marius then put Mrs Wilkinson into an isolation box thirty yards from the other boxes, so any infections or viruses could be identified. This return to a racing yard, evoking all the horrors of a former life, totally traumatized Mrs Wilkinson. Trembling violently, hurling herself against the walls, she refused to eat, pacing her box at one moment, standing in the corner, her head drooping, the next, as she cried and cried for Etta and Chisolm.

Even when Marius relented and allowed Chisolm, who’d been driving Etta and Valent’s builders equally crackers with her pathetic bleating, to move in, Mrs Wilkinson kept up her desperate whinnying. The first time, three days later, she was taken out for a little gentle exercise, she bucked Rafiq off and clattered down the drive, reins and stirrups flying, back to Little Hollow, neighing her head off at the gate like Beau Regard.

A demented Etta rang up Tommy to alert her as to Mrs Wilkinson’s whereabouts.

‘Oh thank God,’ cried Tommy, ‘Rafiq was so worried. It’ll be a wonderful birthday present for him that she’s safe.’

Leading Mrs Wilkinson back to Throstledown and feeling like a traitor, Etta kept up a stream of apologies.

‘I’ve got to tough it out, Wilkie darling, because you’re not mine any more to do what I want with. I can’t give the syndicate back all their money.’ Most of hers had been handed over to Martin and Carrie to pay for Little Hollow.

Rafiq came down Marius’s drive to meet her.

‘She’ll settle soon,’ he said.

Thrusting Mrs Wilkinson’s reins into his hands, Etta fled down the drive, hands over her ears to blot out any more frantic whinnying.

‘Poor darling, I can’t do this to her. If only I wasn’t too old to sell my body.’

Back at Little Hollow, she spent the afternoon cooking, but before picking the children up from school she drove back to Throstledown, parking halfway down the drive. Crawling into the yard on her hands and knees so Mrs Wilkinson wouldn’t see her, she bumped slap into Rafiq’s ragged-jeaned legs.

Rafiq was not in carnival mood, having just suffered the racing yard’s birthday rituals of being chucked on the muck heap and drenched with a bucket of water. Nor did his temper improve when Etta thrust a white cardboard box at him, and whispered:

‘Happy birthday.’ Then, when he looked suspicious, she blurted out, ‘It’s not a bomb,’ at which Rafiq’s face darkened and his eyes blazed.

‘Sorry,’ jabbered Etta, ‘such a stupid thing to say. It’s a present actually.’

For a second she thought Rafiq was going to bolt, then he took the box, cautiously opened it and smiled broadly.

‘What a beautiful cake, thank you, thank you.’

‘I only put on one candle, it’s a bit twee, because I didn’t know how old you were.’

‘And you spelt Rafiq right. Thank you.’

‘Thank you for looking after Mrs Wilkinson.’ Etta winced as another despairing whinny rent the air.

‘I look after her. Once she settle, you can visit her more times.’ The pathetic cries followed her down the drive.

‘How is she?’ asked the builders, going home after at last starting work on Valent’s study.

Etta still couldn’t relax. She had given supper to Drummond and Poppy, who was gratifyingly upset at Mrs Wilkinson’s departure, and had them in their pyjamas at Harvest Home by the time their mother came home.

‘How’s Mrs Wilkinson getting on? Has she won the Derby yet?’ mocked Romy.

Etta wanted to punch her.

Poor Mrs Wilkinson, but at least she had Chisolm for company. Etta’s other concern was Seth Bainton, all on his own. I do hope he’s eating enough, thought Etta for the hundredth time.

There was nothing on telly on a Tuesday. The only way to assuage acute unhappiness was to do a good deed for another person, reasoned Etta.

After a quick bath, she splashed on the last drops of For Her and applied some make-up. Then, putting half the flapjacks she’d made for Valent’s builders in a tin, she set out for the Old Rectory.