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‘Drummond is gluten intolerant,’ said Romy fondly.

‘I’m glutton intolerant,’ snarled Alan. ‘Those sandwiches were for Etta.’

Carrie was peering into the removal van at two portraits of Sampson. ‘I’ll take the Emma Sergeant. You can have the John Ward, Martin.’

‘Those two are going to kill off your mother,’ said Alan as later, pushing aside willow fronds, he and Carrie climbed the two hundred yards up the wood to their barn, Russet House, which lay beside Harvest Home on the edge of the village.

‘Can’t you understand,’ stormed Carrie, ‘Mother will be just as useful to us? She can not only ferry about and keep an eye on Trixie, who’s quite out of control, but also do dinner parties and domestic stuff for us. And free you up to finish that book,’ she added, letting a willow frond whizz back and hit him in the face. Constantly suspicious of her engaging husband, Carrie also planned to use Etta as a spy.

Only after the removal men had manoeuvred her and Sampson’s vast double bed into the tiny bedroom did Etta realize there was no room for the stool to her dressing table, nor to kneel and say her prayers to plead for acceptance and serenity.

Following Romy’s measurements Ruthie had taken up the lovely bedroom curtains: light mauve and dark purple violets that had hung in Etta’s bedroom at Bluebell Hill. In Etta’s new bed-room they now hung six inches too long and muddied by removal men’s feet.

Seeing his mother shivering, Martin exhorted her not to worry. ‘Dad’s huge duvet folded double will keep you warm.’

‘I miss Sampy so much,’ Romy mopped her eyes, ‘seeing all his things here.’

‘These came for you this morning.’ Martin thrust a handful of letters into Etta’s hand as they left.

Now the sledgehammers and drills of Badger’s Court were silent, loneliness swept over Etta. She could have coped if she’d had a lovely bath to soak in or, more importantly, if Bartlett were still alive. She’d never feel herself until she had an animal with whom to share her life. Why did her children paralyse her with fear as Sampson had done? Why hadn’t she visited the bungalow more often and laid down the law about conifer hedges and hard standings?

Listlessly she opened one of the letters. It was crammed with glow stars to put on the ceiling, and contained a card from Trixie: ‘Darling Granny, Good Luck in your new home.’

Etta burst into tears. How could anyone ever call this hellhole a home?

Willowwood, clinging to one side of a steep wooded valley, was one of those sleepy Cotswold villages with a village green, a high street flanked by grey-golden houses, a lichened church and a pub called the Fox, because the politically correct former land-lady had lopped off the words ‘and Hounds’.

To the north was the Salix Estate, inhabited by the less affluent members of the community: some old villagers, and some wilder elements given to dumping rubbish, playing too loud music and chucking fireworks. There was also Greycoats, an excellent village school, which put at least £45,000 on the house prices.

‘So lovely that Drummond and Poppy will grow up with lots of local friends,’ gushed Romy.

Along the bottom of the valley meandered the River Fleet and descending into it, like a host of blondes racing down to wash their hair, was a wood consisting entirely of weeping willows. The same willows, their leaves curling with the approach of autumn or falling to reveal golden stems, ringed the village and adorned the village green – hence the name Willowwood. There was a legend in the village that every time a boy was born a willow must be planted.

Rushing or trickling, depending on recent rainfall, through the village and accompanied when it reached the woods by a grassy footpath was the stream which passed Etta’s bungalow, flowing into a rushy willow-flanked pond and out again, down to the river.

Willowwood was such a lovely village that its inhabitants were as appalled by Etta’s bungalow as Etta herself.

How the hell had Martin Bancroft got planning permission?

People were entirely sympathetic towards Valent Edwards, who must have planted the mature conifer hedge so the lovely grey eyes of Bonny Richards didn’t have to gaze on such a monstrosity.

On the Monday after Etta arrived, Romy and Martin set off on a fundraising course on how to entrap celebrities, leaving her in charge of Drummond and Poppy. Etta promptly goofed by putting chocolate, crisps and ham sandwiches made with white bread in Drummond’s lunch box, which turned him into more of a fiend than ever.

Returning to the barn after school, Drummond had complained he’d seen a big rat in the potting shed, locked Etta in when she went to investigate, ate a box of chocolates she’d been sent as a moving-in present, and became so hyper he beat up his sister for letting Etta out.

Returning to screaming chaos, Romy ticked Etta off roundly. Poppy then announced that Granny was going to get a puppy.

‘You are not getting a puppy, Mother,’ exploded Romy. ‘It would chew up everything and dirty our lovely barn. Drummond is allergic to dogs. And frankly, Etta, aren’t you a little too old? It’s rather selfish to take on a puppy that might outlive you. You’ll be kept quite busy enough getting to know your grandchildren.’

The following morning, returning to the bungalow having dropped off Drummond and Poppy at their school, Etta began worrying about what she could give them for tea without poisoning them. And how the hell could she find a home for the towers of books on the floor, the clothes on her bed and the pictures propped against the walls before Romy bagged them for the Willowwood Autumn Fayre?

Her despondency was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Outside were a jaunty chocolate Labrador with a bunch of yellow roses in his mouth, and a very pretty teenager with a round pink face, blonde hair drawn back in a ponytail, large suspicious pale turquoise eyes fringed by thick blonde lashes, a tiny nose and a full, sweet but determined mouth. She was wearing a dark blue man’s sweater, which hung to the knees of her ripped jeans. Not as tall but older than Trixie, Etta thought, putting her at fifteen.

Her manner was formal, her voice piercing, as she announced: ‘Welcome to Willowwood, Mrs Bancroft. My name is Dora Belvedon. This is Cadbury who has brought you some flowers.’

But as the beaming Labrador proffered a fat paw, he reminded Etta so much of Bartlett’s last moment that she burst into tears.

‘I’m so sorry,’ cried Dora, ‘you poor thing. After death and divorce they say moving house is the most stressful experience and you’ve had both.’

Ushering Etta back into the bungalow, Dora handed her a piece of kitchen roll and made her a cup of coffee into which she tipped a large slug of Alan’s brandy, as Etta explained about Bartlett.

‘I miss her so much, she gave a paw like Cadbury. I wanted to get a puppy. There must be such lovely walks round here, but my grandson Drummond is allergic to dogs.’

Forbearing to say that most of Willowwood was allergic to Drummond, Dora said Etta could walk Cadbury whenever she wanted.

‘Why don’t you come for a walk with us now to cheer you up? I’ll tell you who everyone is.’ Then, looking at the clock: ‘It’s at least an hour and a half before you pick up your grandchildren from school. You don’t really need a coat,’ Dora helped a submissive Etta into a Barbour and wrapped a blue and white striped scarf round her neck, ‘but people feel the cold at times of stress.’

‘You are kind. Where d’you live?’ asked Etta.

‘I’m staying with Joyce Painswick,’ said Dora. ‘She was school secretary at Bagley Hall, where Trixie your granddaughter and I go, but she’s recently retired to Ivy Cottage, just up the road. Perhaps you could go to the cinema together. She seems a dragon but she’s got a heart of gold. I can’t live at home at the moment. My mother’s very high maintenance and is on the hunt for a new backer.’

Rather like Blanche, thought Etta with a shiver.

Crossing the wooden bridge over the rushing stream, on reaching the road Dora turned right towards the village. Parked all along the verge were vehicles whose owners were working on Badger’s Court. Two lorries had stopped outside the gates for a gossip, blocking the road to the fury of a stout bald man with a bristling moustache who was driving a very clean Rover.

When hysterical tooting failed, he leapt out and started shouting, only pausing to shake his fist at Cadbury, who was lifting his leg on a sign saying ‘Valent Edwards apologizes for any inconvenience caused during construction’.

Dora giggled and ushered Etta past the furore. ‘That’s Major Cunliffe who lives in the village. A recently retired bank manager who’s got himself on every committee. He’s known as Nosy Parking because he’s always making a fuss about cars parking in front of his gates or sticking out two inches into the high street.

‘Now Badger’s Court,’ Dora tucked her arm through Etta’s, ‘has been bought by Valent Edwards, Mr Attractive and Affordable. That stands for the cheap but nice-looking houses he
sells in their millions to first-time buyers. He keeps inventing things. He’s working on a new fuel to replace gas and electricity and something else to abolish waste. He’s got a company called Small Print, which explains contracts and things far quicker and cheaper than any lawyer, and another one setting up care homes with people “of one’s own class”, as my mother would say. His wife died in the Cotchester train crash three years ago, but he’s just shacked up with Bonny Richards who’s half his age so all the men are drooling.

‘You’ll notice not a blade of grass on the verge, because of locals climbing up to gawp over the wall. Valent’s arrival has caused intense excitement in Willowwood.’

As Dora and Etta peered in through the vast heraldic gates, the big house seemed to gaze out over the rubble with an air of expectancy, awaiting her new owners.

‘Cadbury adores the workmen.’ Dora let the dog off his lead so he went bounding towards the house. ‘We can retrieve him and have a good snoop. Valent’s putting in a heated swimming pool here, a tennis court, a gym and solarium, an underground cinema and a little theatre where Bonny can strut her stuff. Valent’s office in the old cockpit will be amazing, according to Joey East. Joey’s wonderful, I’ll introduce you, he can put his hand on anything – plumbers, sweeps, electricians, stone wallers – and do most of it himself. He’s just landed this plum job masterminding the complete gutting and rebuilding of Badger’s Court, which is a good thing as he has four children and he gambles.’

Although there was no one in earshot, Dora lowered her voice dramatically, adding a wonderful air of mystery and conspiracy, then crying, ‘Cadbury, Cadbury,’ as she followed the dog over mountains of rubble, round piles of sand and craters full of black water.

‘Valent’s so mad for Bonny to move in, he’d buy her anything, even her own production company to make films for her to star in.’

‘Have you met her?’ asked a panting, fascinated Etta.

‘No – but Joey tipped me off last time she came down, so I climbed up that,’ Dora pointed to an ancient walnut tree, ‘and had a watch.

‘Bonny’s a bit subtle and still waters: crisp white shirts and grey linen trouser suits. It’s difficult to have a shag round here, you’d get rubble trouble, but she and Valent disappeared for yonks into an upstairs room, so I don’t think it’s platonic, and Bonny’s shirt didn’t look crisp and white when she came out.’

‘You do know a lot,’ said Etta in awe.

‘My mother’s stingy about pocket money so I tip off the press from time to time. They’re obsessed with Bonny Richards.

‘There’s so much rubble and bashing down of buildings in Willowwood,’ sighed Dora, ‘that if the Martians landed they’d probably think they were in the middle of a war. Now this little house on the left,’ she added as they moved on, ‘is Ivy Cottage, where I’m staying with Miss Painswick. And this house, Catkin Cottage, belongs to Old Mrs Malmesbury, who keeps geese.

‘And this lovely but somewhat decrepit house,’ went on Dora as the road curved round to the right towards the top of the village, ‘is inappropriately called the Old Rectory and belongs to Corinna Waters and Seth Bainton. You can only see the very top windows like eyes looking out over the trees, so people can’t tell how badly they’re behaving.’

‘Not
the
Corinna Waters?’ squeaked Etta in excitement. ‘She’s marvellous. I loved her in
The Cherry Orchard
, and she and Seth were wonderful in
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
and Seth was so sexy as Valmont.’

‘You’re quite a groupie, Mrs Bancroft,’ said Dora approvingly.

‘My son Martin and his wife are on a course, among other things, to get celebrities involved in raising money for charity,’ explained Etta. ‘Do you think Corinna, Seth and Bonny might …’

‘I don’t think so.’ Dora shook her head until her ponytail whacked her ears. ‘The only charity Corinna and Seth would subscribe to is themselves.

‘They come here to relax from prying eyes, or pretend they do. Corinna gets cross if she isn’t recognized. Seth is seriously naughty. Corinna likes the privacy to sunbathe in the nude – body’s a bit past its best, think she’s about ten or fifteen years older than Seth. Major Cunliffe, the one leaning on his horn just now, pretends to be birdwatching, but he’s looking through his binoculars at Corinna. You can see the Cunliffes’ garden from here, blazing with colour on the other side of the village green.

‘I wouldn’t think,’ mused Dora, ‘that there’s a huge amount of love lost between Bonny Richards and Corinna. Both regard themselves as serious actresses, although everyone, including my mother, wants to get off with Valent Edwards. I don’t know why, he’s quite rude and seriously old, at least sixty-five.