s.h.a.gger'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 s.h.a.gger 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 s.h.a.gger'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 gla.s.s.

'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 s.h.a.gger, 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 a.s.sertiveness. '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 gla.s.s, s.h.a.gger,' said Alan pointedly, as he tipped the remains of his gla.s.s into Tilda's. 'We're going to need more bottles, Chris,' then, as Tilda threw him a smile of pa.s.sionate grat.i.tude, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y book on depression and really I need go no further than Willowwood.

'I'm depressed about being Mr Carrie Bancroft. You're p.i.s.sed off playing second fiddle to Corinna. Alban's about to slit his wrists missing whisky and the kudos of the emba.s.sy. 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. s.h.a.gger's a b.a.s.t.a.r.d to her, hardly surprising bearing in mind his hopeless pa.s.sion 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. Poc.o.c.k is a poor widower, gagging for a s.h.a.g. Poor Marius, with Olivia b.u.g.g.e.ring 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.

45.

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 b.u.t.ter 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 Mich.e.l.le, 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 G.o.d,' 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 b.u.mped 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 a.s.suage 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.

The sun had left an orange glow along the horizon. The old house was smothered in yellow roses and honeysuckle growing up to the roof, entwining the gutter, clawing at the windows. Shaking uncontrollably, Etta rang the bell. Relieved there was no answer, she was about to dump the tin and run when Seth's head appeared through the s.h.a.ggy creepers out of an upstairs window.

'Oh, it's you,' he said in gratifying relief, 'I'll come down.'

Answering the door clutching a large whisky, he immediately poured one for Etta. She was too embarra.s.sed to say she never drank the stuff.

'I thought you were another ca.s.serole,' he said. 'Talk about ignorant armies clashing by night.'

He led her into an incredibly messy drawing room, lifted a pile of scripts off one end of the sofa and chucked them on the floor for Etta to sit down.

Priceless the greyhound, inhabiting the remaining part of the sofa, gave her a toothy smile and flicked the white end of his tail in recognition. Etta yelped as her coccyx splintered something, but it was only a Bonio.

The room was more a shrine to Corinna than to Seth. Three portraits of her, one, Etta recognized, by John Bratby, graced the walls, photographs of her and Seth in plays were everywhere, and Polaroids, from photographic sessions, adorned the mantelpiece. As in Marius's house, every surface was covered by trophies, BAFTAs, Oliviers, even an Oscar.

'h.e.l.lo, darling,' Etta stroked Priceless, then to Seth, she added humbly, 'I thought you might like something to snack on, and brought you some flapjacks.'

'How brilliant.' Seth opened the tin and took one out. He broke off half for Priceless. 'G.o.d, these are wonderful. I'm rather over-ca.s.seroled. I am a ca.s.serole model,' he grinned. 'In fact a boeuf bourguignon was in collision with a coq au vin by the war memorial last night. Come and look.'

He led her off to an even messier kitchen and opened the fridge. Inside were four full ca.s.serole dishes topped by cling-film.

'Irish stew from Direct Debbie, Lancashire hot pot from Miss Painswick, shepherd's pie from Mop Idol, coq au vin from your daughter-in-law, Romy, "by my own fair hand," she said. Alan told me you did all her cooking for her.'

Etta felt a surge of irritation. 'I didn't make that. She must have got it from William's Kitchen.'

Seth roared with laughter. 'I'll be too fat to play Trigorin soon. She's very up herself, that Romy. Conversation always comes back to her: "That reminds me of a time when I ..."'

Etta tried not to laugh. He had caught Romy's deep, patronizing tones to perfection.

'Martin's up himself too. I know he's your son, but the first time I met him, not knowing they were married, I told him I wouldn't mind giving Romy one. And he chortled himself insensible, then said, "Actually, old boy, I do that every night. I'm her husband." Yuck, as the divine Trixie would say.'

'Romy is very pretty,' protested Etta.

'Pretty ghastly. Priceless loves Direct Debbie's Irish stew, but then he's Irish.'

As they wandered back, stepping over clothes and books, Etta noticed a copy of Antony and Cleopatra Antony and Cleopatra spine side up. spine side up.

'b.l.o.o.d.y long part,' sighed Seth.

'Would you like me to hear your lines?' Etta was shocked to hear herself asking.

Seth grinned. 'Romy, Direct Debbie, Ione and Phoebe (no ca.s.serole from her, you notice, the little sponger) have each offered an ear, but they'd all start questioning my interpretation and my p.r.o.nunciation. I'd much rather you heard me. I'll drop in if I may when I'm further down the line, or lines. After The Seagull The Seagull Corinna's touring in Corinna's touring in Macbeth Macbeth in America, thank G.o.d, as she always becomes the part she's playing. I wish she was doing the d.u.c.h.ess of Malfi and I Bosola, so I could smother her,' Seth half laughed. in America, thank G.o.d, as she always becomes the part she's playing. I wish she was doing the d.u.c.h.ess of Malfi and I Bosola, so I could smother her,' Seth half laughed.

'You'll adore Corinna,' he went on in mitigation. 'She's very exacting, but she's fun and wonderful at pulling down the mighty from their country seats. She'll annihilate Romy and Direct Debbie and she'll be a riot on the syndicate bus.'

'She was Sampson's favourite actress,' sighed Etta. 'He'd have so loved to have met her.'

Seth topped up his gla.s.s and helped himself to another flap-jack. 'These are b.l.o.o.d.y good. Do you miss him?'

'Yes ... no,' said Etta. 'I miss what he expected. I feel guilty about reading in the bath, eating between meals and putting on weight.' She squeezed a spare tyre. 'He'd have hated that, he used to weigh me every week. When I'm alone I talk to him. He doesn't answer,' she gave a shrug, 'but he didn't much when he was alive.'

Then she gave a cry of anguish. 'I didn't mean to be disloyal. I'm sorry. I just feel so utterly miserable about Mrs Wilkinson going into training.'

'The heart is a muscle like any other, and must be exercised,' said Seth gently. 'Let's discuss the syndicate, who are all so excited about her future.' He topped up her gla.s.s. 'I adore your son-in-law, Alan, and Trixie's enchanting. Tilda's a kind old rabbit and Woody, Jase and Joey are great and I like old Painswick. Beneath that heaving mono-bosom is a heart of l.u.s.t and pa.s.sion craving for Hengist Brett-Taylor.'

'Really?' giggled Etta. 'Is he nice?'