for all Etta’s kindness in looking after Priceless.
‘He’s no trouble,’ lied Etta. When Seth smiled at her she could deny him nothing.
*
If Etta hadn’t had a brilliant win, when she did actually manage to get her money on Penscombe Poodle at Haydock, she would never have been brave enough to give a party to celebrate the end of Mrs Wilkinson’s box rest. She chose the second Sunday in September because Romy and Martin were taking their children to Wales for the weekend, which meant they wouldn’t be around to demoralize her, nor would their vast Range Rover be monopolizing the carport.
As well as all the syndicate, she asked Chris and Chrissie, Niall, Rogue, Amber and Marius and all the lads and lasses from the yard. She was amazed when so many accepted and particularly touched to receive a telephone call from Valent in China saying he hoped to be able to make it, and how great that Wilkie was better. Marius rang to say he’d be at Uttoxeter, alas, but his staff were really looking forward to it.
Etta decided to make a huge chilli con carne, accompanied by salads, and she picked enough blackberries and cookers, rejected by Mrs Wilkinson, who only liked sweet apples, to make two vast crumbles. Neither Seth, Corinna, Bonny, Lester nor Cindy had replied, which made catering difficult.
‘We’ll all bring things,’ said Painswick soothingly.
Shopping beforehand, Etta discovered that Ione Travis-Lock, who’d just been appointed a Master Composter, had set up her stall outside Waitrose and was bellowing at shoppers to make compost, avoid packaged food and buy fruit and veg from local suppliers. Etta scuttled inside. She had just bought mince for the chilli when she heard more yelling. Edging down the pet food aisle, she discovered Corinna about to detonate:
‘I’m afraid we only allow baskets with five items at this till,’ an unfortunate check-out assistant was telling her.
‘Do you know who I am?’ shouted Corinna. ‘I’m not going to wait in that queue. I have an interview with the Guardian in half an hour.’
‘I can’t help it, madam.’
Etta cringed beside the ramparts of Whiskas as Corinna started chucking items out of her basket. Curious customers retreated or ducked as tins of pâté, ripe Bries, jumbo prawns and a pineapple came flying past, until only four bottles of champagne and a packet of cigarettes were left.
‘Now will you let me through? I am one of the greatest classical actresses of my age, and you treat me like a chorus girl.’
‘Chekhov rather than Checkout,’ grinned Alan, when Etta told him later.
‘I do hope she’s in a better mood tomorrow,’ sighed Etta, who was making French dressing.
Chris had lent her two trestle tables from the pub, which he put up in the centre of the carport. These she would cover with the only two white damask tablecloths left from Bluebell Hill and use for glasses, silver, plates and food. Chris had only been able to spare a couple of dozen chairs, but the rest of the guests could perch on the little wall Joey had built round the garden she had made under the mature conifers. This was now filled with white flowers – Michaelmas daisies, dahlias, delphiniums, Iceberg roses and lilies – and looked, even Etta admitted, rather ravishing.
It would be a terrible squeeze, but people could always spill out into the road. Painswick, Tommy and Dora had all promised to help, and had already bathed Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm.
For once Etta felt well organized and was determined to get an early night and try to look pretty, just in case Seth or Valent turned up. Alas, a sobbing Trixie rolled up at midnight. She’d had a dreadful row with her mother, could she sleep on Etta’s sofa? It was already occupied by Priceless, who took himself off to Etta’s bed.
At two, a terrible thunderstorm broke out. Priceless was terrified. Tranquillized, he passed out on even more of Etta’s bed, denying her any sleep as she tossed and turned, wondering if she had enough drink or whether Seth would get away from rehearsals.
81
At least a glorious day rose out of the first mists of autumn, meaning jump racing would soon be taking centre stage. Wandering out, the dew caressing her bare feet, breathing in a smell of mouldering leaves, Etta heard a rumble and a bleat and found Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm demanding breakfast. Mrs Wilkinson had celebrated her new freedom by rolling extensively, covering herself with green muck.
‘Oh Wilkie, you’ll need another bath,’ wailed Etta.