Jump! (68 page)

There was a pause. ‘Come in,’ said Etta, ‘I’ll get a corkscrew, how incredibly kind.’

Once inside her sitting room, Valent realized the moon was totally blotted out by his mature hedge, planted to protect
Bonny’s privacy, and how dark and poky was the bungalow. He vowed to do something about that too.

‘So sorry I didn’t bother to light a fire.’

Gratified to see a photograph of himself and Mrs Wilkinson on the side table, Valent opened the bottle and filled two glasses.

Etta felt stunned. All she could think of was how awful he should catch her looking so dreadful.

‘I talked to Marius earlier,’ said Valent. ‘Wilkie’s doing smashing but they’ve been held up by the weather. Pity he’s not speaking to Harvey-Holden or he could have borrowed his all-weather gallops.’

‘How was Harvey-Holden tonight?’ asked Etta with a shudder.

‘Evasive, never met my eyes once. Very nice wife.’

‘How did Trixie do?’

‘Brilliantly, best thing about the evening, smashing kid, brave as a lion, gorgeous lookin’. I’ll give her a job when she leaves school. Much better guard dog than that thing.’

Etta’s sad face lit up. ‘I’m so pleased, Martin and Romy and Carrie put her down so much.’

Valent smiled as Gwenny stalked in and jumped on to his knee, purring thunderously.

‘What happened at the meeting about Mrs Wilkinson?’ he asked.

Etta didn’t want to drop Bonny in it.

‘Lester Bolton was horribly persuasive and turned people against Marius,’ she stammered. ‘Some members are finding it difficult to pay their monthly subscription.’

You included, thought Valent.

‘Should have rung me,’ he chided her, ‘I’d have sorted it. Here’s my mobile number,’ he handed her a card, ‘if you get any trouble.’

As she got up to fill his glass, her dressing gown fell open again to show little purple feet.

‘Why aren’t you wearing slippers?’

‘Priceless ate them,’ said Etta.

They chatted about the yard. Everyone was happier without Michelle, Rafiq was doing well and had won several races. Furious had disgraced himself running the wrong way at the start at Towcester, then spinning round, which would have upset most jockeys, had caught up and overtaken the rest of the field.

‘Marius was ecstatic. He thinks if he can stabilize Furious a little, he’s got a world-beater,’ said Etta.

Gwenny settled between Valent’s thighs, purring like distant farm machinery.

‘How was the food tonight?’

‘Smashing, congratulations.’

‘I didn’t cook it. It came from William’s Kitchen.’

As he burst out laughing, Valent’s weary face lifted.

‘Trixie told everyone you’d cooked it all, so a bitch called Blanche Osborne hardly touched anything.’ Oh God, he hoped he hadn’t hurt Etta, but she looked delighted.

‘I’m so pleased you didn’t like her, she always made me feel so hopeless.’

‘She told Corinna to cut her hair, imagine how that went down.’

Neither of them mentioned Bonny, although Valent longed to pour his heart out. How Bonny had demoralized him, who’d always been pretty sure of himself. How he now doubted his taste in houses, in clothes – he was so glad his overcoat was covering the poncy flowered shirt. Bonny had made him so aware of his ignorance of the arts. She was always criticizing his pronunciation, his manners. Was he making a complete fool of himself, running after someone half his age? One of the reasons he had agreed to go tonight was because he had assumed Etta would be there and she made him feel safe.

Turning to the bookshelves and the books piled up beside them, he found novels and the volumes of poetry Martin had mentioned so dismissively.

‘I’ve never read mooch poetry,’ he confessed.

‘Borrow this.’ Etta handed him the
Everyman Book of Poetry
. ‘It’s full of lovely stuff.’

‘Thunk you, I must go.’ Valent took the book and dropped a reluctant Gwenny gently on the floor. He didn’t want to burden Etta with his problems.

On his way back to Badger’s Court he slipped twice on the path and only saved himself by clutching on to willow branches.

Earlier, back at Harvest Home, having asked Romy why she was such a fucking bitch, Seth wandered into the kitchen to find Trixie furiously chucking pudding plates into the dishwasher. Sliding his hands inside her flowered blazer, encountering bare flesh, he caressed the undersides of her breasts with his little fingers, squeezing her hardening nipples between his first and second fingers.

‘I’ll walk you home,’ he murmured.

For a second Trixie’s resistance faltered and she dropped her head back against his chest, then she said, ‘You effing won’t. I only live next door, if you’d forgotten. And I don’t know which is
more seriously retarded: voting to sell Mrs Wilkinson or trying to shag Aunt Romy. How could you!’

Wriggling out of his grasp, she escaped out of the back door into the freezing night. Reaching Russet House, finding neither of her parents home, she wandered down the garden and, oblivious of the cold, lurked in the trees.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, Seth and Bonny emerged and set out not down through the wood but along the road towards Badger’s Court. Unable to hear what they were saying, shivering uncontrollably, aching with longing, Trixie retreated to her empty house.

‘I love, I hate,’ she intoned, ‘the cause I know not, but it is excruciating.’

Bonny was no more pleased than Trixie that Seth had asked Romy out to lunch.

‘Only to take the smug smile off her husband’s face,’ protested Seth.

‘I find Martin very charming,’ said Bonny coldly.

‘How would you like to play Amanda in
Private Lives
for a few weeks?’ asked Seth.

Bonny was excited by the idea, but all thoughts fled out of her head when she got back to Badger’s Court and found no Valent.

Having dropped Bonny off, and left Corinna passed out on Martin and Romy’s sofa – hopefully she might throw up and serve them both right – Seth dialled Trixie’s mobile.

‘Hi, babe. How about running me up a whisky and soda.’

Returning back from Etta’s half an hour later, Valent discovered Bonny’s little bleak dress, her bra, her high heels, her diamond necklace and her bracelet draped up the stairs and Bonny lying naked on the heart-shaped bed with her legs apart. His huge fingers slid in easily, finding her even more slippery than Etta’s path through the woods. Was she acting when she sobbed:

‘Where have you been? I was so scared. There was no party once you left. I love you so much, Valent.’

Ripping off his flowered shirt, tugging at his cords and his boxers, she pulled him down on top of her.

Afterwards he couldn’t sleep and picked up Etta’s anthology. On many of the pages, she’d jotted down other quotes.

‘And beauty, though injurious,’ he read, ‘Hath strange power … to regain/Love once possessed.’

*

The following day, Valent ordered Joey to hammer in wooden posts at four-foot intervals down the footpath, for Etta to cling on to when she was walking back and forth. To his amusement, around dusk Martin came banging at the cockpit door.

‘Don’t know who’s been putting up those posts, Valent, probably one of my mother’s dubious friends, Woody or Joey, but they must come down, they’re an eyesore, I am so sorry.’

‘I saw Esau sitting on an eyesore, how many esses in that,’ murmured Valent, not looking up from Etta’s anthology, then, in a tone that froze Martin’s blood: ‘I had them put up because your mother could easily slip in wet or icy weather. And I’d like to point out, she’s been looking very tired recently. If your children wear you out, think how exhausting it must be for someone thirty years older. Etta should have some life of her own. Now get out, I don’t want to hear any presentations,’ and he returned to his book.

Before going to bed, Valent glanced out of the window and caught sight of Etta and Priceless going home in the moonlight. As if in a bending race, they were weaving in and out of the poles.

‘He likes me, he likes me not, he likes me, he likes me not, oh he likes me.’ As Etta wheeled round the bottom pole, she kissed it.

‘Valent Edwards thinks Mother ought to have more of a life of her own,’ Romy grumbled to Debbie.

‘What about an evening class? You can take courses in everything from welding to wine appreciation.’

‘Mother’s got a degree in that already,’ said Romy heavily, ‘and we need her to babysit.’

Christmas was approaching, the cold spell not letting up. Marius was desperate to gallop his horses, particularly Mrs Wilkinson, who had made progress but needed to be race-fit for a handicap chase in which she’d been entered on New Year’s Day.

Marius was very much aware how the increasingly impatient Willowwood syndicate would act up if she didn’t run soon – so he tore his hair as he gazed across his white frozen fields, and thought of his loathed and eternally gloating rival H-H, whose horses thundered along the all-weather gallop, and notched up one win after another.

One couple with no desire to see Mrs Wilkinson back on the racecourse was Romy and Martin. What with Gwenny and Priceless and her trips to see Wilkie and Chisolm, Etta had been failing in her duties as their children’s nanny. Romy had actually had to cut short a meeting to pick them up from school the other day. Poppy cried all night because no one came to the carol concert at Greycoats.

Martin and Romy had so many charitable functions at Christmas.

‘We must capitalize on the moment when people are feeling festive and generous.’

Jude the Obese had very kindly sent them £1,000 after the presentation at the dinner party. Martin had been tempted to launch WOO just after Christmas when people were feeling fat from bingeing, but they’d probably be too broke to give generously. He planned lunches with both Bonny, the proposed spirit of WOO, and Jude, the roly-poly model.

Martin, however, was capable of gross foxiness. Rolling up at the bungalow in early December crinkling his eyes engagingly, he handed Etta an envelope.

‘Romy and I think you’ve been looking very tired recently. We’re very conscious you missed out on holidays when Father was failing. Your turn has come, you’re going to join us when we go skiing over Christmas, before the kids go back to school.’

In the envelope was a plane ticket to Switzerland.

Etta’s heart sank, she’d miss Mrs Wilkinson’s first race back.

‘I can’t, Wilkie’s running at Cheltenham.’

‘You don’t need to be there, you’re only a tenth owner. And Ralph Harvey-Holden told me that unless the weather picks up she hasn’t a hope.

‘Gosh, I’m starving.’ Martin opened the fridge, found a little rounded tin of prawn cat food for Gwenny’s supper, and seized a piece of sliced bread to make himself a sandwich.

Etta was too stunned by what he had imparted to wise him up, particularly when he pronounced it ‘Excellent, glad you’re not stinting yourself, Mother. You don’t seem very excited,’ or ‘grateful’, he nearly added.

Etta had been looking forward to a few days without them and had planned to ask Rafiq, Painswick and Pocock for Christmas dinner.

‘I want to see Wilkie run,’ she repeated bravely, ‘and who will look after Priceless?’

‘Stefan the Pole can do that,’ said Martin, who’d gone off Seth since he called Romy a fucking bitch. ‘Seth has no right to dump that beast on you. You know what Romy and I feel about pets.’

Differently, Etta suspected, if they were offered an animal charity.

As he stalked off into the night, Martin nearly fell over a smart green and red bird table.

‘What on earth’s this?’

‘Joey and Woody,’ Etta gathered up Martin’s discarded crusts, ‘gave it to me as an early Christmas present.’

‘Get rid of it at once,’ snapped Martin, ‘you don’t want to encourage bird flu.’

Carrie, when she heard Etta was going to Switzerland, was outraged.

‘You don’t care about Mother needing a rest, you just want a free babysitter,’ she shouted at Martin. ‘I need Mother in the school holidays. It’s my turn, Trixie wants someone to drive her around and see she eats.’

‘After the way she behaved at our dinner party,’ shouted back Martin, ‘I would think it was your duty to keep an eye on your daughter yourself. She is seriously out of control. And why can’t Alan do that?’

‘Alan is criminally behind on his book on depression,’ snapped Carrie. She didn’t add that he had been spending too much time in the betting shop and, she suspected, with Tilda Flood. He seemed only too willing to attend carol concerts at Greycoats.

Alan was also lagging behind with his book because few of the syndicate seemed depressed at the moment. Joey was going hammer and tongs with Chrissie, the vicar’s carol concert had been very well attended and Woody had provided wonderful branches of holly and spruce for the church. Alban had at last got a quango, £200,000 a year to decide whether the nation’s adultery figures had decreased since doctors had stopped visiting patients at night.

As a result, Alan had been reduced to inventing more and more case histories. Only last week, he’d made up a Catholic priest depressed at not having any sex. Alas, sending the sample chapter to keep his publishers happy, he had so inspired the publicity department that they were determined to have ‘this wonderfully courageous old man’ at the launch party and available for interview. Alan wondered if Seth or Alban or even Pocock would dress up as the priest.