‘Trust the old bugger to depart in Cheltenham week.’
‘Is that where you were?’ said Romy reproachfully.
To his wife, brother-and sister-in-law’s disapproval, Alan got stuck into the whisky. He then produced a lovely piece of Milton, appropriately from Samson Agonistes, for Martin to read.
‘Dad loved Bunyan – what about something uplifting from Pilgrim’s Progress?’ suggested Carrie.
‘Giant Despair had a wife and her name was Diffidence,’ quipped Alan. ‘Sums up your dad and mum to a T.’
Then, when they looked disapproving, he suggested Carrie might ‘read the bit about Mr Valiant-for-Truth and the trumpets sounding for him on the other side. We could hire a trumpeter to play the Last Post.’
‘That would cost money,’ complained Martin. ‘Dame Hermione is singing “Where’er You Walk” for nothing.’
‘Drummond wants to get up and describe all the nice things he remembers about Grampy,’ said Romy, putting on a soppy face.
‘Shouldn’t take long,’ murmured Alan, looking down his list. ‘And for you, Romy …’
‘I prefer to source my own material. I’ve found this lovely piece about only being in the next room.’
‘I love it,’ said Martin, crinkling his eyes engagingly. ‘“Call me by my old familiar name.”’
‘Stingy old bugger, in Sampson’s case,’ muttered Alan, who’d detested his father-in-law, a dislike that had been reciprocated.
Carrie often vanished to work in Sampson’s office, but she and Martin also kept sloping off round the house earmarking loot.
‘Don’t they remind you of the Walrus and the Carpenter,’ Alan remarked to Etta, ‘sobbing over the oysters? Boo hoo, I can manage the Sickert if you can accommodate the Nevinson.’
Etta didn’t laugh. Getting ice out of the fridge for Alan’s whisky, she proceeded to drop four cubes into Bartlett’s water bowl. She was haunted by a memory of Sampson sitting on the edge of the bed looking bewildered, not knowing where he was, like a torch battery running out. She shouldn’t have left him.
Alan wandered upstairs to talk to Hinton, the gardener, who was dismantling the hoists in Sampson and Etta’s bedroom. He and Ruthie, he said, though shaken and worried about their own future, were determined to look after Etta as long as possible.
‘Poor soul’s pushed herself too far. I wish she’d rest. The boss made her use teabags twice. He was so tight with money.’
‘I’m tight without money,’ sighed Alan, aware that he’d overspent at Cheltenham. Wandering downstairs and finding Romy and Martin sipping sherry in the drawing room, he poured himself another large whisky.
‘If you’re writing that book on depression,’ said Romy beadily, ‘perhaps you could counsel Etta. I’m drawing a blank. She’s selfishly refusing to listen, and I’m such a good listener.’
‘All roads lead to Romy,’ observed Alan and received a scowl from his brother-in-law.
Alan wished he hadn’t embarked on the bloody depression book. The advance had all been spent. Observing his wife, brother-in-law and Romy, however, Alan didn’t feel any of them were suffering from depression, more like suppressed euphoria. They were at last free of Sampson’s domination and anticipating riches to come. It was as though Saddam Hussein’s statue had crashed to the ground like a felled oak.
Alan, however, was desperately worried about Etta, who’d been bullied into a gibbering wreck by Sampson and, if her children got their way, would swiftly exchange one tyranny for another. He must protect her.
On the way to bed, having turned on Teletext to look at tomorrow’s runners, Alan noticed that one of the expected guests at the funeral, an arms-dealing billionaire called Shade Murchieson, had a good horse in the 3.00 at Ludlow. Swaying upstairs, he found his wife already in bed, wearing a red wool nightshirt, working on her laptop, and went into the bathroom to clean his teeth.
‘So what’s the form?’ he asked.
‘We’ll have to sell.’
‘Poor darling Etta.’
‘You always stick up for her. She can’t be left rattling around in a huge house with only her memories.’
‘Particularly when you’re going to get four million for it.’
‘Someone’s got to think about money in our house,’ snapped Carrie and regretted it. In blue-striped pyjamas her husband looked about fourteen.
‘I don’t believe you’ve been interviewing monks,’ she snarled. ‘Romy saw you at Cheltenham.’
‘Yes, yes, yes, yes,’ came sobbing confirmation from next door.
‘Jesus!’ cried Carrie, who also longed to be made love to.
‘Death always makes people randy,’ grinned Alan, snuggling under the duvet beside her. Next moment he was asleep.
Hell, I shouldn’t have nagged him, thought Carrie. Unclenching her fists, she slid one hand between her legs.
Alan, who’d only been pretending to go to sleep, thought how nice