Mount! (18 page)

‘Oh thank God!’ cried Gee Gee, who had been lying down in the straw holding Cordelia’s head collar.

Fortunately, Pat arrived just then so Gala beat a retreat back to the house, hoping Rupert would be pleased with her. Arriving covered in blood, however, she got bawled out by him for abandoning Taggie, who had people coming for supper and had had to feed and put Eddie to bed.

‘Sorry, I’ve been helping out at the stud,’ stammered Gala.

‘A shade presumptuous,’ said Rupert acidly. ‘Your job first and foremost is to look after my father. Taggie’s got quite enough to do.’

Gala just managed to bite her tongue, but as she fled upstairs, the telephone rang. It was Pat, ringing to say that Cordelia had had a colt and Rupert belted down to the stud where Gee Gee, always generous, told him how brilliantly quick-thinking Gala had been, saving both mare and foal.

Returning to the house, Rupert sought out Gala.

‘I owe you an apology,’ he told her. ‘Cordelia’s produced the most lovely colt, thanks to you. How do you know about these things? I thought you were a carer, not a midwife.’

‘I had a farm in Africa, remember?’ said Gala sardonically.

Next day, Rupert gave her a bottle of a lovely sweet scent called Elie Saab, which he’d whipped from Taggie’s present drawer. On the label he’d written:
Dear Karen Blitzkrieg, Sorry and thank you. Love Cordelia and Rupert C-B
.

As the months passed, although Rupert and Gala sparred, to Taggie’s relief they also spent much time discussing horses.

Gradually Gala thawed; the weather got better. She palled up with Young Eddie as they both struggled to lose weight, and with Gav, as he battled not to return to the booze. Both men liked her company, which irritated Celeste, who festered, unable to comprehend why they were attracted to this plump, almost middle-aged woman.

Come August and Rupert was enjoying a brilliant season, his horses notching up numerous Group One races both at home and abroad. Lion O’Connor, the dependable, was heading for Leading Jockey, and breeders were already excited by Blood River, the new South African stallion.

But looking ahead, Rupert wanted next season to be even better. New Year’s Dave, and two potential stars called Touchy Filly and Blank Chekov were about to be broken; it was high time Master Quickly joined them, but silly bitch Etta Edwards was still stalling.

Valent on the other hand was utterly fed up with his delicious new wife being exhausted by caring for Hereward who, over two years old now, was into everything, and tidying up after Trixie and a frequently stopping-over Young Eddie. The situation looked unlikely to improve when Trixie, who had been partying a great deal, got too mediocre grades in her A-levels to ensure her a place at Oxford – so she was insisting on taking them again.

Valent, however, wanted Etta and his house to himself.

‘I’m willing to pay for it,’ he told Rupert, ‘but could you find room for Eddie and Trix at your place?’

‘Only if Master Quickly moves to Penscombe tout de suite.’

Meanwhile, Master Quickly was getting increasingly spoilt and colty. He was very bossy out in the field.

‘Who do you think you are? What are you doing here?’

Anyone who stopped stroking him would get nudged then nipped.

Etta had taken to wearing long sleeves, not only to hide her wrinkling arms, but also the indigo bruises.

One boiling August evening when Quickly was seventeen months old, Etta was dead-heading roses and mourning the number of lilies flattened by Hereward’s football. Glancing down at the footpath running through the lower paddock, she was alarmed to see Quickly with his nose rammed against the small of the very large back of a terrified lady rambler, propelling her along as fast as she could waddle.

Belting down to rescue her, Etta grabbed Quickly’s head collar to lead him away, whereupon Quickly took off, tugging Etta so she tripped over a stray Cotswold stone, knocking out her two front teeth on the water-trough.

‘Enoof is enoof!’ exploded an enraged Valent.

Having flown Etta up to his smart dentist in London, he was determined to dispatch Quickly off to Penscombe to learn to behave. Easier said than done as Quickly had hitherto refused to load. Gav, who had often visited and made friends with him, was at the sales in Ireland or he would have been willing to walk him the twenty miles.

But Walter, Rupert’s Head Lad, the yard NCO, as tough as Gav was gentle, and known as ‘Walter Walter everywhere’ because he stuck his nose into everything, turned up with two strong lads. Despite Quickly nearly kicking out the lorry, they delivered him within the hour.

‘How did you manage that?’ asked Dora, who’d hoped to wheel in the press.

‘He was more frightened of me than the lorry,’ said Walter. ‘Although I was nearly gelded by that effing goat!’

‘Isn’t he small – but isn’t he beautiful,’ said everyone.

‘If he grows a bit, we could enter him in the Greyhound Derby,’ mocked Walter.

Etta, ringing from London, was desperately worried, not
just about Quickly but about the effect on Chisolm and Mrs Wilkinson.

‘They’re fine, luv,’ insisted Valent. ‘I think they heaved a sigh of relief to be shot of him and have immediately started planning bridge parties and shopping trips to Cheltenham.’

‘Oh Valent,’ half laughed and half sobbed Etta. ‘You will make sure we can visit him as often as we like? I’m afraid he’ll be terribly lonely.’

Quickly, in fact, missed Mrs Wilkinson dreadfully. Only now did he realize how much she had loved and protected him. Turned out on his first sweltering evening, he stood trembling, tired and hungry and too frightened of the other yearlings to graze or drink from the water-trough, crying himself hoarse, unable any longer to stand behind her to have the flies whisked off his face.

When she got home from London, poor Etta’s face was so bruised and her mouth so swollen as she awaited her new set of teeth that, to her shame, she felt too embarrassed to visit Quickly and risk showing herself to Rupert in such an unattractive light.

‘You could always wear a burka,’ said Dora.

To reassure Etta, Valent popped over to Penscombe next day.

‘He’s fine, honest,’ he reassured her on his return, handing her a vodka and tonic with a straw. ‘A lovely little lass called Lark is looking after him, and Taggie sends lots of love. Look what else she sent you.’

From a basket he unpacked a jar of Vichyssoise, a big cold omelette and a bowl of lemon sorbet.

‘Oh, how sweet of her!’

‘She adores Quickly – he’ll be in the kitchen soon.’

‘You’re back, Granny! How lovely!’ cried Trixie, rushing in with Hereward and a bunch of red roses. ‘I won’t kiss you as I might hurt your poor face. God, it looks painful.’

As Hereward raced forward to be picked up by his grandmother, Valent grabbed the child.

‘Granny’s not well,’ he told him, then turning to Trixie: ‘She cannot babysit or do your washing or cook supper for you,’ he told her firmly.

‘Of course not,’ said Trixie politely.

Two days later, however, Valent was working in the office he’d made out of the dovecote down the garden. Etta was so unused to inactivity, she found herself gathering up the washing littering the floor in Trixie’s and Eddie’s room. Putting away the laundry, she discovered a pair of Trixie’s jeans terribly torn at the knees, and while listening to Glazunov’s First Piano Concerto, carefully sewed them up.

Towards evening, Trixie breezed in, opening the fridge and cutting herself a huge chunk of Taggie’s omelette.

‘God, this is good.’ She gave a slice to Hereward, who promptly spat it out.

‘How are you, Granny, darling? How are you feeling?’

‘Fine,’ lied Etta.

‘Sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘That’s good. I honestly wouldn’t ask if you were still feeling awful, but I’m running terribly late. Would you possibly mind bathing Herry and putting him to bed? Eddie’s asked me to an amazing party with loads of celebs.’

Hereward, who was pulling all the cushions off the kitchen sofa, bellowed when his mother rushed upstairs then started taking all the saucepans out of the cupboards and smashed a pretty plate.

Etta sighed. She had been looking forward to listening to Beethoven’s Ninth on The Proms outside with a gentle supper of cold omelette. She hoped Valent wouldn’t be too livid.

Half an hour later, Trixie rushed in wearing only a scarlet bra and knickers, fully made up, newly washed hair flying, wafting Etta’s 24 Faubourg.

‘Help, help, I can’t find my jeans anywhere.’

‘They’re here,’ said Etta proudly. ‘I’ve mended them for you.’

‘You what?’ shrieked Trixie, horror and incredulity spreading across her face. ‘You stupid cow, they’re meant to be ripped! How could you do something so bloody stupid? I’ve got nothing to wear now!’ Her voice rose to a scream.

‘That’s enuff,’ roared an incoming Valent, delighted to have
a legitimate excuse to achieve what he wanted. ‘How dare you speak to your grandmother like that, you spoilt brat. You’ll move out tomorrow and take Hereward with you.’

‘Oh Valent,’ cried Etta. ‘They can’t.’

‘Don’t interroopt,’ warned Valent. ‘You’ve really pushed your luck, young lady!’

Appalled, never having seen Valent so furious, Trixie burst into tears.

‘I’m so sorry I lost it, Granny. I wanted to impress all Eddie’s friends – they’re just so glamorous. Please forgive me.’

‘It’s OK.’ Etta turned pleadingly to Valent, who shook his head.

‘We’ve carried you long enough. Your parents can support you for a change.’

‘I hate Dad’s new woman and I hate Mum’s new woman even more.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Valent. ‘Granny’s not well.’

Next moment, as Young Eddie roared up in his dark-green Ferrari, Trixie raced out to him, wailing, ‘Granny and Valent have thrown me out.’

‘Well, that’s OK, they need their own space.’

‘Can I move in with you?’ There was a long pause. ‘Just till I get myself straight.’

She was looking so forlorn yet so sexy in those scarlet panties.

‘Sure,’ said Eddie.

Trixie was quite excited when she first saw the flat, which took up the top floor of a four-storey hostel, and which had central heating, Sky television, dishwasher and washing machine, a little extra bedroom for Hereward, and fine views on one side into the yard and on the other side over the paddocks and down the valley. As accommodation went, it was one of Rupert’s best, coveted by most of his other stable staff – but anything to get Young Eddie and his din and friends out of our house, thought Rupert.

‘This’ll do for the moment,’ said Trixie, who didn’t want Eddie to feel trapped, ‘but I’m sure Granny’ll miss us and long to have Herry and me back in a week or two. I mean, they’ll rattle around in that big house. What on earth will they do?’

‘Each other most probably, they want the place to themselves,’ said Eddie. As he switched on Radio One, he caught sight of Marketa sauntering across the yard and wondered if it were going to cramp his style living full-time with Trixie.

‘Can’t be having sex at their age,’ mused Trixie, switching to Radio Three. ‘Granny’s led such a sheltered life, she thought Chlamydia was a lovely name for a horse the other day!’

‘Don’t teach your grandmother to suck cock,’ quipped Eddie, as Berlioz’ Corsaire galloped into the room.

One of the things that had brought Etta and Valent together was listening to music, particularly The Proms, and reading a new poem and then discussing it.

On his trip to Europe, Valent had just read some verses in which Ben Jonson bemoaned reaching the age of forty-seven (over twenty years younger than me, thought Valent) and complained about numerous grey hairs, a rocky face and a mountainous belly. The only way his mistress could fancy him, sighed Jonson, was if she shut her eyes and listened to his poetry.

Was he attractive enough for such a beautiful woman as Etta? worried Valent. Should he darken his hair and lose weight? As a result of his wife’s lovely cooking he’d piled on twenty pounds, but his belly wasn’t exactly mountainous.

Nor could he contain his excitement at having Etta and all of the house to themselves.

Although Etta was wracked with guilt for chucking out Trixie and Herry, she also couldn’t contain her joy that at last she and Valent would be alone. Valent had just rung from Paris. He’d be home in a couple of hours, he said, and he wanted to make love to her under the stars, so she must wear something sexy for their first night alone.

They had first fallen in love whilst listening to a Prom of Mahler’s First Symphony on the same kind of hot, still August evening. Tonight it was another favourite, Rachmaninov’s Second Symphony, and Etta had put two bottles of Bollinger in the fridge and a bottle of red by the Aga. Valent’s favourite Beef Stroganoff and a blackberry crumble just needed heating up – much later, thought Etta with a shiver of excitement.

Scented candles awaited them in the house. No scented candles were needed to scent the garden, where the sweet tobacco smell of buddleia mingled with peppery phlox and heady wafts of regalia lilies.

But Etta noticed reddening apples, yellowing wisteria leaves, pale-green conkers polka-dotting darker green horse chestnuts, ripe blackberries along the footpath: the first signs of autumn – and in me too, thought Etta. She and Valent mustn’t waste time. What mattered in life, she told herself firmly, was putting this dear man first and making him happy.

‘Wear something sexy.’ Having washed her hair and herself, she smiled in the mirror: her beautiful new teeth had been worth the pain. Not being able to eat, she had lost ten pounds of her elderly spread and, resting in the sun, she had acquired a tan.

‘Wear something sexy.’

She had a brainwave.

Cindy Bolton, Willowwood’s porn star, had always had a soft spot for Etta who, as a syndicate member, had never patronized her, and Cindy had therefore given her and Valent a gift box from Ann Summers as a wedding present.

‘To sparkle up your erotic life.’

The gift box had been briefly opened when they returned from their honeymoon. Objects entitled clit clips, vibrating nipple clamps and costumes for naughty nurses and teasing teachers had been giggled over and set aside for a fun weekend, but with Etta and Valent distracted by the arrival of Hereward, a romping deterrent, the box had been shoved in the wardrobe and forgotten about.