‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Alan and Etta in unison, as they met on the terrace waving bottles. Etta glanced up at the sky and shivered: ‘I do hope Sampson’s OK in heaven.’
‘Not sure God will be too happy having such an alpha male up there,’ said Alan. ‘Sampson’s probably fired St Peter and the Holy Ghost already. Oh cheer up, darling, you’re in shock now but your life will be so much easier and more fun.’
‘Granny Playbridge is in Ibiza,’ announced Drummond, wolfing chocolate cake when his mother wasn’t looking. ‘Granny Dorset is in shock.’
‘Where’s shock?’ asked Poppy.
The Astons and the Mercedes were departing.
‘Shade Murchieson’s got an SM 1 number plate, how naff,’ said Trixie in disappointment.
‘Stands for sado-masochist numero uno,’ said Alan. ‘Don’t get too close to him, darling, he’s not a nice man.’
‘The waitresses don’t need tipping, Mother,’ snapped Martin, just restraining himself from reminding her that it wasn’t her money any more.
8
Next morning, with none of the old teasing affection in his voice, Brian Tenby, the family lawyer, read the will and broke the news to Etta that all the money had been left to Martin and Carrie on condition they looked after their mother.
‘I’m sorry, Etta, Bluebell Hill will have to be sold to pay estate duty.’
The answer, Martin assured his mother, was for her to move to Willowwood and make a fresh start.
‘There are too many memories here to remind you and indeed all of us unbearably of Dad.’
‘Martin and I want you to move to Willowwood,’ urged Carrie, for a moment not checking her messages, ‘into a charming bungalow – we’ve already applied for planning permission – in the valley below our barns. Joey East, an excellent local builder, can knock it up while you’re winding down here. It’ll probably take six months to sell.’
Seeing Etta mouthing in bewilderment and dismay, Martin took up the cudgels.
‘You’ve been so busy caring for Dad, you haven’t had time to get to know your grandchildren. “Who’s Granny Dorset?” Poppy asked the other day and that’s really not good enough. Granny Playbridge has been a tower of strength, but she’s got a part-time job now and won’t be able to drop everything and whizz over from Weybridge. I told her not to worry because you, Mother, would be stepping into the breach.’
‘What about Ruthie and Hinton?’ stammered Etta.
‘They’ll find other work,’ said Carrie. ‘Whoever buys here might take them on. It was what Dad wanted. We couldn’t influence the will in any way.’
‘But I love it here. I could let out rooms …’
‘You’ve got to face up to the fact that you’ve got no money except your old age pension,’ said Romy bullyingly. Her plan was that while she and Martin set up the Sampson Bancroft Fund and took on other charities, her mother-in-law could look after Poppy and Drummond.
‘I’ve looked after my children single-handed,’ she went on sanctimoniously. ‘I need some me-time.’
Etta looked round the pretty primrose-yellow-walled room and out at the white blossom of the blackthorn exploding all over the valley.
‘I don’t want to go,’ she whispered.
‘Blanche was saying how stressed Dad was on Sunday; how he hated being left alone,’ said Carrie brutally. ‘If he’d lived another year, none of this would have happened. If you move to Willowwood, you can ferry Trixie back from Bagley Hall during exeats and keep an eye on her in the holidays. That will free me up to travel and Alan to get on with his book.’
Etta could have so done with Alan as an ally, but unable to face his mother-in-law’s crucifixion he had sloped off to London. She stumbled to the downstairs cloakroom, where, surrounded by the photographs of Sampson’s sporting achievements, she threw up her breakfast cup of Earl Grey. As she rinsed her mouth from the tap, she noticed drawing-room ornaments – the sleeping wooden lion, a Staffordshire dog and a Rockingham Dalmatian removed from Poppy and Drummond’s ravening fingers – sidelined but resigned on one of Sampson’s filing cabinets.
Had she killed Sampson? Weighing herself, she discovered she’d lost ten pounds, glancing down at new greenish veins rising on the backs of her hands she felt so guilty she agreed to everything.
There now seemed to be so much to do, so many hundreds of letters to answer, direct debits to cancel, clubs writing for subscriptions, charities hoping Sampson would give them a donation,