Jump! (61 page)

Etta went crimson, had she been rumbled? Then, glancing at them, her face softened. ‘Oh Valent, how lovely.’

Valent had been very busy launching a robot made in his Chinese factory called the Iron Man, which ironed everything from shirts to sheets and would forever transform the lives of women.

‘And men too,’ said Alan, perching on the tenth of the sofa not occupied by Priceless. ‘My wife, your daughter, has never liked ironing.’

‘How is she?’

‘Eruptive. When both the women in my family are at the wrong time of the month, I make myself scarce.’

‘How’s
Depression
going?’

‘Nearly finished,’ lied Alan. ‘I wish Mrs Wilkinson would get off her arse so I could get on with her life story.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Etta guiltily. Across the valley, she could see
Marius’s horses relishing the sun on their backs, lying flat out on the grass with just the occasional flick of their tails. When the sun went down they would all gallop round – to show how much horses enjoy racing each other.

‘I’m sure Wilkie will be fit soon. Gosh, these cuttings are lovely. The interviewers really like him.’

Previously the press had emphasized Valent’s ruthlessness and killer instinct, dubbing him the ‘Tin Man without a Heart’.

‘Of course he’s got a heart,’ protested Etta. ‘No matter how busy he is he sends postcards from all over the world asking after Wilkie. More than Bonny does. Do you know Seth can’t stand Bonny?’ she couldn’t resist saying. ‘I thought he adored her.’

So did Alan, but he didn’t say so.

‘He doesn’t like Valent either.’

‘Seth doesn’t like competition. Valent’s a heavyweight.’

Alan was full of gossip:

‘Lester, another would-be heavyweight, is due to start filming any moment. He’s determined to use Furious, so Amber is booked as a stand-in for Cindy in the riding scenes. Cindy told me, “Amber’s boobs aren’t as good as mine, but on an ’orse, her ’air will cover them.” Lester’s still interviewing Peeping Toms, the queue went round the village this morning. He even asked Trixie to play Godiva’s handmaiden.’

Etta shuddered. ‘Loathsome little man, I hope she refused.’

‘She did, but only because the money was lousy. As Mrs Wilkinson is off games, Bolton wants his horse, Furious, led up by Michelle, natch, to give pony rides at the fête.’

‘He’s mad,’ cried Etta in horror. ‘Furious would savage all the children.’

‘Then Drummond must have the first ride.’

‘Hush,’ smiled Etta, ‘Drummond can be a sweetheart.’

As they heard a crash from outside, Etta ran to the window.

‘You little beast,’ she screamed.

Drummond had tipped all her bulbs on to the tarmac, mixing and scattering pink, white, dark blue, light blue and dark red underneath his father’s Range Rover.

‘
Such
a sweetheart,’ said Alan.

Desperate for events to hold the syndicate together, Etta was relieved so many members were going to meet at the village fête and flower show held in Farmer Fred’s big field next to the cricket pitch at the end of August.

Although Pocock, Craig Green, Ione and Debbie were expected to win most of the cups, the morning of the fête saw many Willowwood residents sloping off to the local farm shop to buy vegetables, fruit and flowers to pass off as their own in the various classes. The Major, as president of the fête, was very much in command, and finding no water in his rain gauge, had rightly forecast a fine sunny day.

Lester Bolton had donated half a dozen of Cindy’s steamiest DVDs to the tombola. The Major had hastily confiscated them and was looking forward to a good watch in his den later. His most exciting duty of the day, however, was to look after Corinna, who had returned briefly from a triumphant tour in
The Deep Blue C-word
(as Seth called it) to open the fête and remind everyone how beautiful she was.

Wearing a huge, shocking-pink picture hat and a scarlet suit, which showed off her splendid bosom and the still slender legs that had captivated audiences in the stalls for so many years, she allowed the Major gallantly to lead her on to the platform and urge the big crowds and stallholders to ‘gather round’.

Corinna’s speech, written by Seth and Alan, was meant to be a witty take-off of an Oscars acceptance speech, in order to make the inevitable list of thank-yous less tedious.

Corinna’s voice could carry to Larkminster but had to compete with a screeching, ear-splittingly loud loudspeaker and the local brass band tuning up. She also made the mistake of ending by
quoting lengthily from ‘The Land’ by Vita Sackville-West, from ‘The country habit has me by the heart’, to its lovely last line: ‘only here/Lies peace after uneasy truancy.’ She then ruined the peace by screaming at the band to ‘bloody well SHUT UP!’

‘She didn’t thank anyone,’ stormed Debbie, ‘or exhort everyone to spend, spend, spend and dig deep in their pockets.’

‘She completely forgot to say that it costs ninety-five pounds a day for the upkeep of St James’s, that’s thirty-five thousand a year,’ snorted Ione.

‘We first asked darling Bonny Richards to open the fête,’ Romy was telling everyone, ‘but tragically she’s filming.’

Fortunately the
Larkminster Echo,
which had got stuck behind one of Farmer Fred’s combines, arrived after Corinna had finished and were terribly grateful when she gave them the original typescript.

‘Keep it, my dear, I always write a new speech.’

‘How are you enjoying being a member of the Willowwood syndicate?’ asked the reporter.

‘Alas, I’m hardly ever able to see Mrs Wilkinson run because I’m always working. I so envy Bonny Richards, who’s been free to lead her in several times.’

The Major was hovering. ‘Are you ready to do a tour of the stalls? Your public awaits you.’

What a beautiful setting, thought Etta, the trees dark, dark green against the parched, cracked yellow of the grass, the pale green leaves of the willows already turning gold, blending in with their gold stems, curling black and yellow leaves already littering the ground. Children shrieked with joy on the bouncy castle, steam engines chooed, and Chris and Chrissie from the Fox were doing a roaring trade in Pimm’s laced with cucumber and strawberries.

Mrs Wilkinson was still confined to barracks, but Chisolm, like a carer freed for the afternoon, left an even longer trail of shrieking children as she slyly nicked one ice cream or candy floss after another. She was now eyeing up the fancy cake stall.

‘I’ve seen Seth Bainton, I’ve seen Corinna, I haven’t seen Bonny,’ cried the crowd.

Etta, so broke she had no money to spend, was helping Alban on the plant stall, which gave him the excuse to touch her hand and exchange meaningful glances over the delphiniums.

Etta sidled off, however, to watch the dog show judged by Corinna and Charlie Radcliffe. Drummond had shown no interest in walking Priceless, who had been bathed, polished and buffed to gleaming ebony by Tommy and Etta, and who so sweetly
matched his steps to Poppy’s that the judges had absolutely no doubt about awarding them Best in Show. There was a box of Smarties for Poppy and a huge red rosette and Bonios for Priceless – whereupon Drummond erupted into the ring to punch his sister and kick Priceless’s long, delicate legs.

‘Stop it, you little bugger,’ screamed Etta, dragging him off and shaking him. ‘Don’t you dare hurt Poppy and Priceless,’ and was awarded the biggest round of applause of the day.

Thank God Drummond’s parents had been temporarily hijacked by Ione, manning the Green stall, who urged them to share a bath every night, wash their clothes in the water and syphon it off afterwards to use on their plants.

‘Did you know,’ she told Martin sternly, ‘dripping taps waste four litres a day and sprinklers use a thousand litres an hour? Why not invest in this lavatory hippo which saves three litres a day?’

Martin didn’t seem keen, so Ione tried to persuade Romy to buy some of the scent she’d made from olive, jasmine and lavender oils.

‘Do buy a bottle, Rosie.’

‘A beautiful woman never has to buy her own perfume,’ said Martin roguishly. ‘Come on, dear, I’m pulling in the tug-of-war soon.’

Scuttling back to the plant stall, Etta passed books, cards and bric-a-brac, where she was amused to see a large yellow teapot hadn’t yet sold.

‘How,’ fulminated Debbie, ‘did the vicar get a first in sweet peas when he hasn’t got a garden?’

Convinced by Woody that he had a great body, Niall was winning back his spurs in Willowwood by sitting in the stocks flashing his six-pack and having wet sponges hurled at him by the village children.

‘I’ll share a bath with you any time,’ murmured Woody, as he dried Niall with a big blue towel.

‘Thought he was wet enough already,’ sneered Shagger, who’d been away murdering wildlife in Scotland with Toby and Phoebe. He was not the only person to notice a tendresse between Niall and Woody. Shagger was consequently in a belligerent mood, stirring up trouble.

Mrs Wilkinson had been confined to box rest for two and a half months now. Even if she recovered it would take three or four months to get her match-fit. All round the fête field, little pools of discontent were bubbling. Why should they go on forking out £185 a month for Mrs Wilkinson to eat grass?

‘Surely Mrs Bancroft isn’t the answer for getting a horse right?’ grumbled Bolton to Charlie Radcliffe, who shrugged his shoulders.

‘These things take time, you can’t hurry horses.’

Matters weren’t helped that even with a drought and rock-hard ground, which would have suited Mrs Wilkinson, Marius had taken on Doggie and Not for Crowe and found a race bad enough for the latter to come in third. Joey, Woody and Jase were still celebrating, rather too triumphantly for the rest of the syndicate.

To the rage of Direct Debbie and Ione Travis-Lock, Valent’s roses, which had been nurtured by Etta, won the Millennium Trophy for Best in Show.

A merry party was gathering round the Fox’s Pimm’s stall. Miss Painswick, who’d been taking money at the gate, was brought over by Alan. On the way he gathered up Tilda and bought them both a drink.

‘You look tired, darling,’ Alan murmured to Tilda. ‘We’ve missed you at the races. Do say you’re depressed and we can have lunch and I’ll interview you for my book.’

‘I bought your book on Swinburne at the book stall,’ said Tilda blushing. ‘Would you sign it for me?’

Trixie, in a very short white smock, turned all the men’s heads as she walked round with Chisolm, who was now trying to eat Priceless’s red rosette.

‘Buy me a drink, Dad,’ she asked Alan.

Within seconds, Seth had drifted up and given her a kiss. ‘Hi, “my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?”’ Then he handed her a Pimm’s. ‘How’s your love life?’

‘“There is not one among but I dote on his very absence,”’ replied Trixie, tossing her shaggy mane.

‘Good girl,’ murmured Seth, ‘you’ve watched my DVD.’

‘It’s cool,’ admitted Trixie. ‘Oh bugger, here comes Malvolio.’

‘Hello, Seth. Hello, Trixie,’ Martin tugged his niece’s hair, ‘got your results yet?’

‘Next week.’

‘Your aunt Romy needs some help on the Nearly New stall,’ Martin said pointedly. Trixie ignored him, so he turned back to Seth. ‘I need your help.’

‘Hide your wallet,’ hissed Trixie.

‘I’ve got to make a DVD for our War on Obesity charity, wonder if you and Corinna could give me a bit of coaching. May I drop in?’

‘Only if you bring your lovely wife,’ said Seth.

Lester Bolton meanwhile was seething. Not only were his lifts killing him, but Marius had been so unbelievably rude when Cindy had announced that she wanted to ride into the fête as Lady Godiva, on her ‘frisky mount’ Furious. She planned to offer whatever little kiddie was crowned Flower Queen not only a ride but also a part as one of Lady Godiva’s children.

‘Furious shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near children, particularly at a fête,’ snarled Marius.

So instead Family Dog and Not for Crowe, with a large placard saying ‘I came third at Bangor’ round his scrawny neck, were now proudly obliging round the fête field. Led up by Angel and Dora, they were enjoying more treats than Chisolm.

Apart from Angel, the rest of the Throstledown lads had been invited over to Penscombe for the annual rounders match against Rupert Campbell-Black’s lads, which was always a great party.

‘I’d like to come back to life as a Penscombe stallion,’ sighed Josh, ‘and have one hundred and fifty mares a year.’

Rafiq, however, couldn’t relax at the rounders match when he noticed Michelle hadn’t joined them. Of all people, she would have wanted to admire the wonders of Penscombe and have a gawp at Rupert. Why had she offered to stay behind and man the yard? He didn’t trust her, and rightly. Hitching a lift back to Throstledown, he found Furious’s box empty, Dilys, his sheep, bleating pitifully, and belted down the fields up through the woods to the fête ground.

Corinna had just crowned the Flower Queen when cries of amusement and excitement rose from the field. Cindy, in an eight-denier body stocking, that left zero to the imagination, hair extensions swinging round her ankles, was screaming and squealing as Michelle, tipped £500 by Bolton, led her up to the platform on a plunging Furious.