Jump! (80 page)

For a second Valent pressed a great muscular forearm to his eyes, his shoulders shaking again. Then he picked up Gwenny and plonked her on Etta’s knee.

‘Forgive me, Etta, I’ve been a wimp. I’m so sorry. Priceless needs his sofa back.’

Stumbling to his feet, he squeezed her hands, then patted Gwenny and Priceless and lumbered off into the night.

Next day he ordered Joey to install an electric fence down to the ground round Mrs Malmesbury’s geese run, sent Etta lilies and altroemerias and flew off to the Far East, bitterly ashamed of himself. He had never broken down since Pauline died.

Towards the end of June, Alan, who was longing for the school holidays so he could see more of Tilda, took his laptop and a bottle of red into the garden and seated himself under a big lime tree which was in flower.

He could hear, like a great orchestra, the growling hum of bees glutting themselves on the sweetly scented flowers. How industrious they were, unlike him. Disinclined to work, he decided to send Dora an email, which he could use later as material for his book on Mrs Wilkinson:

Darling Dora, Please come home, we need you to cheer us up. You were so right to suggest Rafiq rode Wilkie, they were really flying – but everything seems to have gone belly up. Talk about a summer of discontent.

For a start the terrorist bomb scares have made everyone even more suspicious of poor Rafiq, who thought every policeman at the races was going to arrest him, particularly now his infamous cousin Ibrahim has been peddling propaganda on the internet.

Secondly, the stock exchange crash has screwed the hedge fund market, disastrous for my dear wife Carrie, who is putting a lot of pressure on yours truly to make some money out of writing. This makes me so depressed, I ought to interview myself for my depression book, but I’ve been forced to send it off to my publishers as they were threatening to tear up the contract.

In passing, I fear Carrie’s soon going to sack Toby, who’s on paternity leave because Bump has arrived. He’s a dear little baby, but Phoebe is already expecting the whole of Willowwood to babysit for nothing.

But to return to our summer of discontent, foot and mouth
has caused hideous problems for Marius, preventing him moving his horses around. Even worse, poor little Chisolm has become such a celebrity, she’s being stalked by DEFRA because she’s got cloven hooves. They first suffocated some other poor goat at a nearby farm, by way of an example, then buzzed all over Marius’s yard in helicopters trying to track down and kill off Chisolm. Mrs Malmesbury was convinced World War III had broken out.

In fact the bird had flown. Ione had already very sportingly allowed Chisolm to be hidden in the priest’s hole at Willowwood Hall. Chisolm isn’t at all grateful and keeps escaping. She’s already demolished Direct Debbie’s roses and eaten the piece Ione was writing for
Compost Weekly
and the minutes of Alban’s quango on doctors.

Far more seriously, without her bleating friend, Mrs Wilkinson is flatly refusing to go to the races. Marius dragged her all the way to Fontwell and she wouldn’t even unload. She’s become a complete prima donna and a prima donna who ain’t
mobile
, which means my story of her life is at a standstill.

Meanwhile everything else is horrible. All livestock movements are stopped, auctions and market places empty of animals.

What’s really unnerving Willowwood is that Lester Bolton has bunged the District and Parish Councils so much, he’s been allowed to install a vast moat round Primrose Mansions, not only diverting two streams into it but also topping it up with endless tankers of water. If the predicted floods occur, we’re all going to be submerged. We’d better get Joey to build an ark.

As a result, all the locals blacked Lester and Cindy’s arse-warming party, except H-H and Jude, Martin and Romy, and our own wank manager, the Major, who all live on high ground anyway. I went along too, reluctantly – writers have to experience everything – but it was terribly funny. The party was roaring away in Lester’s underground leopardskin bar when Jude rolled up so hot and sweaty from jogging with Martin that Cindy persuaded her to strip off and go fatty-dipping in Lester’s glass-bottomed swimming pool.

Suddenly the room went dark and the guests, who included lots of Lester’s porn clients, choked on their cheap champagne as this vast whale, far bigger than the one in the Natural History Museum, started splashing around above us. She is
enormous
. Martin claims she’s lost eight kilos, but I can’t see where. Harvey-Holden was laughing his head off, he’s such a shit. Evidently
Lester is in line for a gong. Pity Orwell isn’t alive today to write
The Road to Becoming a Peer
.

Anyway, darling, I’ve rabbited along for long enough, I hope
you and Paris are having fun, everyone sends love. I know Trixie would adore to see you, she hasn’t got a boyfriend at the moment and seems awfully low.

The syndicate’s getting very fed up with no Wilkie to watch. In fact we’re so starved of jaunts, we’re off in July to see Family Dog run at Worcester. He’s 200–1. Loads of love, Alan.

PS. Amber’s wrist is recovered and she’s back fighting with Rafiq over who’s going to ride Mrs Wilkinson – so perhaps it’s best the dear pony refuses to race.

July brought a heatwave – infuriating because it was the going Mrs Wilkinson loved. Etta’s stream dried to a trickle, paths cracked, and Ione policed the village for illicit sprinklers, chiding those who had not created compost that would have provided moisture for their flower beds.

Valent, who’d been far too embarrassed to contact Etta after breaking down in front of her, felt compelled to ring her when a second ship decanter, duly engraved, arrived from his friends at Goldstein Phillipson.

‘You shouldn’t have paid for it, Etta.’

‘I didn’t, I didn’t, they were such fans of yours they had another one made for free. They wrote me such a lovely letter.’ Etta didn’t add that they’d begged her to look after Valent.

‘Well, that’s a relief then. Come and have a drink,’ said Valent.

It was another ravishing evening. Jupiter, the archetypal alpha male, blazed above Marius’s yard, billowing blue-black clouds were echoed in shape by deepening green trees, the air was heavy with the scent of a thousand roses, honeysuckle, philadelphus, rank sexy elder and sweet white clover.

The nightingales had left, replaced by Beethoven’s fourth piano concerto played by Marcus Campbell-Black, which flooded the valley.

‘How lovely,’ cried Etta. ‘That was my father’s favourite piece of music. I adored the Proms because for once, on Fridays, which was Beethoven night, I was allowed to stay up and listen.’

‘Why were you called Etta?’ asked Valent, handing her a glass of Pimm’s and leading her into the garden.

‘My real name’s Henrietta, but my maiden name was Bullock and the girls at school kept chanting “Henry ate a bullock” so I
changed it to Etta. Sampson said it sounded like a dodgy terrorist organization.’

How rarely she mentions him, thought Valent.

‘What do you miss about Sampson?’ he asked.

‘I liked the way he used to yell at the television during wildlife programmes. When some starving meerkat had been rejected by the pack or a baby elephant had lost its mother, he’d yell, “You bloody cameraman, why don’t you get out of your Land-Rover and give that poor animal some of your bottled water and egg sandwiches?” or “Why don’t you warn that poor zebra a lion’s bearing down on it, instead of filming it being gobbled up?”’

‘How’s Honky Malmesbury?’ asked Valent.

‘Well, Oxford’s returned to Mrs M for the summer and has personally vowed to catch the fox, and Honky’s fallen in love with the patio heater and won’t leave it alone.’

Valent laughed. ‘How are your grandchildren?’

How kind of him to ask, thought Etta, and confessed Poppy had suddenly become terrified of the dark.

‘Someone told her about the ghost of Beau Regard. And I’m a bit worried about Drummond. He used to be so aggressive. But I went to watch him play football the other day, he kept kicking balls into his own goal and expecting everyone to clap, and the other boys just said, “You’re so stupid, Drummond.” When he was in goal, he kept looking in the wrong direction, letting goals in and getting shouted at. He was so crestfallen.’

‘I’ll kick a ball around with him, next time I’m down.’

‘Oh, would you? Such a thrill for him.’

Etta got to her feet and wandered to the edge of the terrace. She was pleased with the roses and the delphiniums rising like dark and light blue dreaming spires. Across the valley, she could hear the roar of machinery as Marius’s lads pulled up ragwort and drove round spiking up bales of hay shaped like cotton reels.

‘Thank God he’s got his forage in. Torrential rain’s forecast for tomorrow. Oh look, there’s Count Romeo with his head between Wilkie’s hind legs so she can whisk the flies off him with her beautiful tail. Double pleasure. Sir Cuthbert’s looking very jealous. Poor little Chisolm still in her priest’s hole. She’d so love the fruit in this Pimm’s. Good thing Ione thinks fitted carpets are naff. Scattered currants don’t matter so much on polished floors.’

‘Are you going to Worcester to watch Family Dog next week?’ asked Valent.

‘With any luck. Romy and Martin are taking the children away for a long weekend, so I should be free. Doggie’s being given a last chance to acquit himself well after three years unplaced. Should be a laugh.’

Next day the rain started, and by Friday the River Severn had risen about four inches. Severe flooding was forecast. Racing had already been abandoned at Naas, Market Rasen and Brighton. Everyone expected racing to be cancelled at Worcester but it went ahead.

The centre of the course was flooded. Depressed swallows massed on telegraph poles, the Owners and Trainers was shut, and in the unearthly storm light the grass was lurid green and yellowish.

Despite dire reports of roadblocks, trains cancelled and fire brigades pumping out homes, the syndicate had pressed on. Alan had been keen to spend an afternoon with Tilda, Woody with Niall, Alban with Etta, Phoebe, already, without Bump. To the Major’s disappointment, Corinna was in London, rehearsing for
Mother Courage,
which was opening in the West End.

Because of the school term, exams and general revulsion, it was the first time Trixie had joined the syndicate since
Antony and Cleopatra
in February. Afterwards Seth had bombarded her with flowers and telephone calls begging her to forget the four-in-a-bed – everyone had been plastered – and see him again. All of which Trixie had refused but she was still overwhelmed with a sick craving for Seth and had rolled up today in the hope of seeing him again, only to find he was in Bath, in
Private Lives
with Bonny.

Looking up at the unrelenting black clouds, Trixie was distracted from thoughts of Seth by worry about her grandmother.

‘People have been advised to move their valuables and furniture upstairs. Granny doesn’t have an upstairs.’

‘She’ll be fine,’ said Debbie briskly. ‘She can check the state of flooding on the internet.’

‘Granny doesn’t have the internet, and she’s in a car anyway.’

‘Well, as long as she keeps her mobile charged.’

‘She often forgets to switch it on and she sometimes can’t get a signal down at the bungalow.’

‘I thought she was coming today, where’s she gone?’ asked Woody.

‘Bloody Martin and Romy,’ exploded Trixie, ‘have rushed off to London to some stupid WOO launch, leaving poor Granny to drive Poppy and Drummond to Weybridge so Romy and Martin can pick them up on the way to their weekend in Kent. Bloody selfish. Granny was so looking forward to cheering on Doggie.’

Doggie was 250–1 now. There was an expression of hopeful expectancy on his broad white face as he splashed round the parade ring after the seven other runners. It had started to rain in earnest. Tommy, her elbow on Doggie’s shoulder, her hand stroking his neck, had put on two rugs, one pulled up round his floppy ears.

‘Worth putting on twenty quid at that price,’ said Woody, the not very proud co-owner.

‘Worth twenty-five after your boyfriend’s blessed him,’ said Joey, the other owner.

‘Shurrup,’ hissed Woody. ‘He’s such a sweet horse, I can’t bear to sell him.’

His face softened as Niall waded into the paddock, put a hand on Rafiq’s thigh and on Doggie’s shoulder and murmured a few words.

‘Can he put a call in to Allah?’ asked Joey. ‘Oh hell, it’s worth a monkey.’

Valent landed in his red and grey helicopter just before the horses went down to post.

‘Fancy him turning up here when he’s so busy,’ said Phoebe to Debbie. ‘Toby and I thought he’d be a nice rich godfather for Bump.’

Valent was wearing his dark blue overcoat with the collar turned up and a dark blue Searston Rovers baseball cap.

‘Where’s your nan?’ he asked Trixie, thinking how pale and tucked up the child looked. The big smile was wiped off his face when Trixie said Etta had gone to Weybridge.