would push up Mother’s bills. Showers are better for the environment. Hello, Mother.’ Carrie turned to Etta. ‘Hope you like your new home.’
‘It’s a fucking abomination,’ said Alan furiously.
‘Please don’t swear in front of the kids,’ cried Romy.
Right on cue, Drummond ran through brandishing Barbie, covered in cement, followed by his screaming sister.
‘You’re a fucking spaghetti Bolognese,’ he yelled.
‘There, you see,’ Romy turned on Alan, who was edging plastic glasses out of his pocket.
Carrie was back on her mobile, working on million-pound deals. With her spare hand, she was peeling the cellophane off Alan’s plate of smoked salmon sandwiches.
‘Those are for Etta,’ snapped Alan, opening the bottle of champagne.
‘I haven’t had any lunch,’ said Carrie, helping herself to the sandwiches.
‘Nor have I,’ said Martin, grabbing two more, before handing the plate to Etta. ‘Come on, Mother, keep up your strength.’
Etta’s legs were shaking, but as yet there was nowhere to sit down.
‘Get that inside you.’ Alan handed her a brimming glass.
‘That’s too much,’ snapped Carrie, grabbing another sandwich. ‘You know how Dad hated Mother drinking.’
‘And she’s got a lot of sorting to do,’ said Martin. ‘We must unload the Polo for a start.’
‘Surprised you don’t want her pissed, so you can grab all the loot.’ Alan filled up his own glass and put down the bottle.
‘That is obnoxious,’ spluttered Martin.
A full-dress row was averted by the arrival of a Pickfords removal man to check this was the right house. The pantechnicon had nearly been decapitated by the tree tunnel, he grumbled, and he hadn’t liked the look of the rickety bridge across the stream.
‘Hello, Mrs B,’ he fondly greeted Etta, who had cooked him breakfast back at Bluebell Hill. ‘Bit of a change.’
Drummond, who’d been finishing off his grandmother’s champagne, was soon directing the removal van to wrong parts of the bungalow. Poppy, trying to help, dropped Etta’s favourite Staffordshire dog.
‘You should have packed it properly,’ reproved Romy.
Martin kept chiding Etta over the number of books she’d brought.
As soon as the sofa was installed, Alan, who loved horses, got stuck into Moorland Mousie.
‘Mother cannot throw anything away,’ Martin apologized to the removal men. ‘She’s even brought her old dishcloths.’ He held up a carrier bag in distaste.
‘That’s my underwear,’ said Etta, and when she started giggling she found she couldn’t stop.
An hour later, Hinton’s roses stood on the concrete like arrivals at a party waiting to be introduced.
‘I’m never going to fit everything in,’ wailed Etta.
‘Storage awaits at Harvest Home and Russet House,’ said Romy.
‘You’re not taking that painting of Bartlett,’ said Etta, fired up by a second glass of champagne. ‘Take this one of Daddy.’
Martin raised an eyebrow. ‘We’ll also take the Munnings.’ He grabbed an oil of a lovely dark brown mare with a blond foal. ‘It’s too big for here.’
‘No it is not,’ said Alan, grabbing it back, knowing it was Etta’s favourite painting.
‘Children, children,’ sighed Romy. ‘I want Mother to open my moving-in present.’
It was a huge alarm clock with a double bell.
‘So you’ll wake up in time to take the kids to school. But don’t worry, you’re not on parade until Monday, so you can sort yourself out,’ said Romy, who was now tearing smoked salmon out of the last sandwich and handing it to Drummond.
‘What in hell are you doing?’ demanded Alan furiously.
‘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.