Jump. Part 22

'Oh Joyce.' Etta grabbed her hand.

'Oh well done, Miss Painswick,' said Dora, 'Hengist would be proud of you. I'd like to have a share but I'm not sure I can afford a hundred and eighty-five pounds. I've got "A" Levels next year, so I won't have time to flog so many stories.'

'I'll take a half-share with you, Dora,' said Trixie, stopping texting in her excitement.

'With what?' demanded Alan.

'You'll help me, Dad. You won't have to pay school fees any more if I go to Larkminster High.'

Poc.o.c.k, who would soon be working extra time for Corinna and Seth, then said he'd take a half-share with Miss Painswick.

'Good for you, we'll chip in too,' said Chris. A horse would take Chrissie's mind off the baby. 'We can't sell Mrs Wilkinson to some 'orrible owner who might not cherish her. She belongs to Willowwood.'

Jase, Woody and Joey, though they were committed to Not for Crowe and Family Dog, agreed to take a fourth share.

'Just over sixty pounds a monf,' said Joey, who was yet to tell Mop Idol about a third horse he'd bought with his point-to-point winnings.

Debbie glanced at the Major, who polished his spectacles and nodded.

'Father and I have always wanted a Mercedes when we retired,' said Debbie, 'but we'd rather have a racehorse!'

'Oh, come on, Toby. We're both working, and if the Cunliffes are joining ...' pleaded Phoebe. Then, turning to Alban: 'And you come in too, Uncle Alban. And you and Tilda could take a share, s.h.a.gger.'

'I suppose we could manage it,' said Tilda, hiding her blushing face in another turgid essay. Anything to provide an ongoing link with s.h.a.gger. She'd just have to take on more coaching.

'Even with Etta, that's only nine shares,' said s.h.a.gger crushingly. 'We haven't got enough people.'

'Yes, you have,' said a deep, husky voice and in walked a tall, dark, very suntanned man in a black shirt and jeans, who was followed by an equally beautiful sleek black greyhound. As everyone surged forward to kiss him or shake his hand, except Phoebe, who scuttled off to the Ladies to take the shine off her flushed post-tennis face, Etta realized it was Seth Bainton.

'What are you doing here?' asked an utterly delighted Alan.

'I'm back in England for a good nine months,' said Seth. 'We're doing a BBC film of The Seagull The Seagull and after that Corinna is off to the States in a tour of and after that Corinna is off to the States in a tour of Macbeth Macbeth. And next year there's talk of Antony and Cleopatra Antony and Cleopatra at Stratford.' Then, breaking away from his well-wishers, Seth added, 'And you must be Etta Bancroft. Alan told me how pretty you were and about the syndicate. I'm desperate to have a share in Mrs Wilkinson, such a sweet horse. I love her big white face, looks as though they ran out of grey paint.' at Stratford.' Then, breaking away from his well-wishers, Seth added, 'And you must be Etta Bancroft. Alan told me how pretty you were and about the syndicate. I'm desperate to have a share in Mrs Wilkinson, such a sweet horse. I love her big white face, looks as though they ran out of grey paint.'

And Etta melted because he was absolutely gorgeous.

'She must run a lot at Stratford so I can nip out of rehearsals and cheer her on,' he added, taking Etta's hands. 'And lots of Sundays as that's my day off.'

'That's one day the vicar can't do,' giggled Trixie.

Within five minutes, such was Seth's exuberance and charm, they'd agreed to form a syndicate.

These are my friends, thought Etta joyfully. If they have shares in Mrs Wilkinson, nothing can go far wrong.

'What a heavenly dog,' she said, patting the black greyhound's sleek body, which was even more toned and muscular than his master's. The dog proceeded to look down his long nose at Araminta and Cadbury, rotate his tail and stand on his toes, before crossing the garden and leaping on to the bench seat with the most cushions.

'What's his name?' she asked.

'Priceless, in all senses of the word,' said Seth. 'This calls for another drink.'

'Several drinks,' said Alan. 'We must decide on a trainer.'

'Let's go for Marius,' suggested Seth. 'He's so near and Olivia's so sweet. Harvey-Holden's a no-go after that horrendous court case. Isa Lovell's broken away from Rupert and only just started up on his own, and he's a tricky b.u.g.g.e.r.'

'We ought to ask Rupert,' protested Etta. 'He did lend me his lawyer for the court case.'

'He's too big and too opinionated,' said Seth, who didn't like compet.i.tion. 'Meanwhile Dermie O'Driscoll's too far away. Robbie Crowborough's bent. Corinna's nephew paid thirty-five thousand for a horse that Robbie claimed had never been beaten. In fact it had never actually raced, just stayed in a field so it developed laminitis then broke down.'

'We won't go to Robbie,' interrupted Alan, seeing alarm on people's faces. 'Let's check out Marius.'

'Who will approach him?' asked Major Cunliffe, who'd had several up-and-downers with him over speeding racehorses.

'I will if you like,' said Alban, feeling a surge of authority. 'Known him since he was a boy. Now what would everyone like to drink?'

'This calls for champagne,' said Seth.

'I do hope Marius will allow us to see lots of Mrs Wilkinson,' said a suddenly worried Etta.

'You can always wave across the valley at her,' suggested Woody.

How sweet he is, thought Niall, then out loud, 'I'm afraid I can't run to a share in Mrs Wilkinson yes, I'd love a gla.s.s of fizz please, Seth but I hope when she goes racing I can pray for her success and safe return.'

'Bless this horse,' grinned Seth.

He had such merry dark eyes and a wonderful laugh, decided Etta, which immediately made people feel better. She was horrified to find herself thinking what fun he'd be in bed.

'Will Marius let us drop in?' she asked.

'Well, he is rather anti-visitor,' admitted Alan, 'but Olivia will be very accommodating, she's so easy-going.'

'Pity Wilkie can't be a weekly boarder,' said Trixie.

'Cheer up, darling,' whispered Alan. 'You've just made twenty-seven thousand. Nine shares at three thousand pounds each in Mrs Wilkinson. Thirty thousand minus your three thousand share.'

Etta clapped her hands for quiet.

'I can't thank you all enough for helping me,' her voice trembled, 'but if Mrs Wilkinson retires from racing, would it be OK for me to try and buy her back?'

Later, Alban insisted very unsteadily on walking Etta home through the gloaming to her bungalow, commenting on the frightful mess Valent's builders were making at Badger's Court.

'Can't leave well alone.'

'He's been angelic to Mrs Wilkinson,' protested Etta.

'Surprised he didn't slap scaffolding on her as well.'

Outside her bungalow, as Etta groped for her key, she had a feeling that if she asked Alban in for a drink he'd accept. Only because he wants another drink, she thought humbly. But as she turned to say good night, he suddenly blurted out: 'Awfully glad you've come to live in Willowwood, Etta, think we'll have a lot of fun with Mrs Wilkinson,' and he planted a kiss only half a centimetre off her mouth, which was half open in surprise.

'I'm pleased too,' she stammered and scuttled into the house.

'How can we possibly afford another horse,' cried a despairing Mop Idol, when a drunk Joey finally got home, 'with four children to feed and little Wayne's christening to pay for? I can't clean any more houses in Willowwood.'

Little Wayne's christening took place the following Sat.u.r.day afternoon at the parish church, with the ceremonious planting of a willow in the churchyard afterwards to mark the birth of a son. Lots of Ione's compost was used to bed the tree in. Niall was thrilled for once to have a full church. Sir Francis Framlingham's effigy in the church was garlanded with roses, a white ribbon was tied round the neck of the little whippet at his feet, and lilies and willow fronds placed on Beau Regard and Gwendolyn's joint grave.

Tilda's children, who had sung charmingly in church, now accompanied by their parents and other villagers, gathered round to watch the tree ceremony, performed by Ione Travis-Lock, before singing a final hymn and repairing for tea in the village hall.

Alas, Alban had had a h.e.l.lish morning. In the post he had received a letter turning him down for yet another New Labour quango. He would therefore not be paid 250,000 a year to decide over the next two years whether a lack of playing fields leads to obesity in children.

As a result, he had been getting tanked up in the Fox, ending up putting a full gla.s.s to his cheek, so red wine spilled all over his check shirt. When he fell off the bar stool, comely Chrissie, in a miniskirt, low-cut T-shirt and pink boots, offered to help him back across the green, through the churchyard and in via the side door of Willowwood Hall. Unfortunately she had forgotten about the planting of the willow.

In the middle of 'Gentle Jesus meek and mild,' Alban tottered into view. 'Q-U-N-G-O, Q-U-N-G-O, Q-U-N-G-O,' he sang, 'and his name was QUANGO, but it's not quango for Alban,' and he collapsed on top of Chrissie, rucking up her miniskirt to reveal a leopard-print thong between plump white b.u.t.tocks. As they writhed around between the gravestones, grief and rage twisted Ione Travis-Lock's face. She had seen this all before. Throwing down the spade, she hurdled over the gravestones, roaring, 'Put my husband down,' to Chrissie, and frogmarched Alban home.

Next day, he was shunted off to rehab and wouldn't be joining any syndicate.

42.

In late July, Etta and Alan because he was a friend of Olivia's drove across the valley to meet Marius. It was a suffocatingly hot afternoon with fields yellowing and the ground cracking from lack of rain. Etta felt sick with apprehension. She was wearing a new off-white linen trouser suit, which Trixie had persuaded her to buy.

'You'd better spend some of the money you're going to get from Mrs Wilkinson, before Romy and Martin swipe the lot.'

As Alan drove past a sign saying 'Horses' and turned into Marius's long drive, Etta hastily pulled down the mirror to check her face. 'I don't know how one should look as a prospective owner.'

'Solvent and undemanding,' replied Alan. 'You look perfect.'

Since she'd met Seth, Etta had found herself taking more trouble with her appearance. She had lost five pounds, and Trixie had persuaded her to have her hair highlighted again and cut so it fell in soft tendrils over her forehead.

Etta tried not to talk about Seth all the time, but now found herself saying, 'Such fun Seth's joined the syndicate, Corinna must be quite a bit older than him.'

'Lots, Seth's a bit of a gerontophile,' then glancing slyly at Etta, 'so there's hope for you, darling.'

'Don't be silly.' Etta went crimson and hastily changed the subject. 'Oh, do look, there's Willowwood from a completely different angle. There's Badger's Court and Wilkie and Chisolm under the trees, and Willowwood Hall, and the top of your barn. Thank goodness you can't see Little Hollow for willows or Marius would reject us out of hand.'

Throstledown was a long, low eighteenth-century Cotswold house, tucked into the hillside with gallops soaring below it and fields, including an exercise ring, spreading over the valley down to the river. Looking across from Willowwood, you couldn't see how run-down it was: tiles missing from the roof, drainpipes and gutters rusting, paint peeling on doors and window frames.

'In need of modernization,' observed Alan.

'Rather like me,' sighed Etta. 'Wouldn't Lester Bolton or Valent just love to gut it.'

The garden was also desperately neglected. Etta longed to pull up the weeds and water the wilting plants. No one answered the front-door bell, so they went round the back, past a huge horse chestnut, through an arch topped by a weatherc.o.c.k of a golden bird. Here loose boxes and a tack room and office formed three sides of a square joined up by the back of the house.

Etta wondered if they'd see Josh, the handsome red-headed stable lad who still kept up an on-off relationship with Trixie, encouraged by Alan because Josh had given him some excellent tips.

The place, however, was deserted, except for a few horses brought in to escape the flies, who were half asleep in their boxes. Only one horse, lurking at the back of its box, kept up a shrill, desperate whinnying.

Etta could smell burning and found the remnants of a bonfire beside the nearly dried-up fountain in the middle of the yard.

'That's odd,' murmured Alan, extracting a sapphire and crimson fragment from the ashes and putting it in his pocket. 'Someone's been burning a flag which once was flown almost continually at Throstledown to indicate a winner.' He looked at his watch. 'The stable lads must be still on their break. Anyone around?' he shouted.

Instantly a man appeared at an upstairs window of the house.

'I don't care what paper you come from,' he yelled, 'get the f.u.c.k out of here!'

Next moment a bullet whistled over their heads, through the arch, and lodged in the vast horse chestnut.

'We're not press,' shouted back Alan, leaping behind Etta. 'It's Alan Macbeth, Marius. We've got an appointment with you, but not yet with the Grim Reaper. It's about putting a horse in training.'

Marius stared down at them in bewilderment, then shook his head. 'I'll come down.'

He emerged not unlike the Grim Reaper, his eyes bloodshot, his face deathly white above the stubble, except for a faint tracery of crimson veins, caused by drink. His dark hair was tousled and drenched with sweat, yet despite the heat he wore a thick navy-blue Guernsey inside out. A belt on the last notch barely held up his jeans. Thin as a pencil, he could have ridden his horses himself. He reeked of whisky, yet such was his bone structure, he still looked beautiful.

A grey and black lurcher ran out expectantly, looked hopefully around, gave a whimper and slunk back into the house.

'We wanted to talk to you about training our horse, Mrs Wilkinson,' repeated Alan.

Marius led them back into the kitchen, where the lurcher shuddered in its basket. On the table was a pile of unopened post. The telephone was off the hook. At the Races At the Races was on the television with the sound turned down, a three-quarters empty bottle of whisky on the draining board. On the kitchen table, an untouched bowl of dog food was gathering flies, as was a tin of Butcher's Tripe with a spoon in it. was on the television with the sound turned down, a three-quarters empty bottle of whisky on the draining board. On the kitchen table, an untouched bowl of dog food was gathering flies, as was a tin of Butcher's Tripe with a spoon in it.

Propped against a vase of wilting flowers, drawing the eye, was a cream envelope with 'Marius' scrawled on it and a letter sticking vertically out of it. Alan sidled over, dying to read it. Etta longed to fill up the vase and cuddle the trembling lurcher.

'Is it a bad time?' she stammered, as Marius glowered at them. 'We made the appointment with Olivia earlier in the week.'

'Didn't put it in the diary,' said Marius flatly. 'Mind obviously on other things. Nor did she put in the diary that she was leaving me. She's gone,' he added, gritting a jaw already trembling worse than the lurcher.

'I'm so sorry,' whispered Etta.

'She's gone off with Shade Murchieson, taking my child and most of my dogs, and Shade's taken his twenty horses away as well.'

'Christ,' said Alan, appalled. 'Where's he taken them?'

'Not far.' Marius gave a horrible, unamused laugh. 'To Ralph Harvey-Holden. The press have got on to it already. Shade must have tipped them off, he gets off on publicity.'

Alan shook his head. 'This is awful. When did she go?'

'Friday afternoon. Shade moved his horses on the same day, while I was rather appropriately at Bangor, or bang-her.'

Marius reached for the whisky bottle, taking a swig. Then, catching sight of horses circling at the start, he turned up the sound. 'One of my remaining horses is running in the four fifteen at Market Rasen.' Going to the door, he bellowed, 'Tommy! Can you show these people round what's left of the yard?'

As Alan and Etta retreated outside, a hot breeze was nudging the golden weatherc.o.c.k. The shrill, desperate whinnying was continuous now. A stable la.s.s, with fuzzy dark hair, very reddened eyes and a large bottom, emerged from the flat over the tack room, tugging on a rugger shirt and buckling up her jeans.

Introducing herself in a breathy voice as Tommy Ruddock, she said Collie, the head lad, was at Market Rasen, with the yard's best horses, History Painting and Don't Interrupt. She showed them Oh My Goodness, Wondrous Childhood, who was lazy at home but caught fire at the races, and Asbo Andy, who was very naughty and always running away on the gallops.

Etta noticed how pleased the horses were to see Tommy.

'Asbo Andy sounds like darling Stop Preston. He's naughty too, isn't he?' asked Etta, who was then horrified to see Tommy's face collapse as she mumbled, 'Preston's gone to Harvey-Holden. I've looked after him since he was a yearling, it's very hard when they go.' She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her rugger shirt.