Wilkinson’s first race back.
‘I can’t, Wilkie’s running at Cheltenham.’
‘You don’t need to be there, you’re only a tenth owner. And Ralph Harvey-Holden told me that unless the weather picks up she hasn’t a hope.
‘Gosh, I’m starving.’ Martin opened the fridge, found a little rounded tin of prawn cat food for Gwenny’s supper, and seized a piece of sliced bread to make himself a sandwich.
Etta was too stunned by what he had imparted to wise him up, particularly when he pronounced it ‘Excellent, glad you’re not stinting yourself, Mother. You don’t seem very excited,’ or ‘grateful’, he nearly added.
Etta had been looking forward to a few days without them and had planned to ask Rafiq, Painswick and Pocock for Christmas dinner.
‘I want to see Wilkie run,’ she repeated bravely, ‘and who will look after Priceless?’
‘Stefan the Pole can do that,’ said Martin, who’d gone off Seth since he called Romy a fucking bitch. ‘Seth has no right to dump that beast on you. You know what Romy and I feel about pets.’
Differently, Etta suspected, if they were offered an animal charity.
As he stalked off into the night, Martin nearly fell over a smart green and red bird table.
‘What on earth’s this?’
‘Joey and Woody,’ Etta gathered up Martin’s discarded crusts, ‘gave it to me as an early Christmas present.’
‘Get rid of it at once,’ snapped Martin, ‘you don’t want to encourage bird flu.’
Carrie, when she heard Etta was going to Switzerland, was outraged.
‘You don’t care about Mother needing a rest, you just want a free babysitter,’ she shouted at Martin. ‘I need Mother in the school holidays. It’s my turn, Trixie wants someone to drive her around and see she eats.’
‘After the way she behaved at our dinner party,’ shouted back Martin, ‘I would think it was your duty to keep an eye on your daughter yourself. She is seriously out of control. And why can’t Alan do that?’
‘Alan is criminally behind on his book on depression,’ snapped Carrie. She didn’t add that he had been spending too much time in the betting shop and, she suspected, with Tilda Flood. He seemed only too willing to attend carol concerts at Greycoats.
Alan was also lagging behind with his book because few of the syndicate seemed depressed at the moment. Joey was going hammer and tongs with Chrissie, the vicar’s carol concert had been very well attended and Woody had provided wonderful branches of holly and spruce for the church. Alban had at last got a quango, £200,000 a year to decide whether the nation’s adultery figures had decreased since doctors had stopped visiting patients at night.
As a result, Alan had been reduced to inventing more and more case histories. Only last week, he’d made up a Catholic priest depressed at not having any sex. Alas, sending the sample chapter to keep his publishers happy, he had so inspired the publicity department that they were determined to have ‘this wonderfully courageous old man’ at the launch party and available for interview. Alan wondered if Seth or Alban or even Pocock would dress up as the priest.
As his publishers believed he’d nearly finished Depression, they had suggested he write a book on celibacy. As he had designs on Tilda, Alan had said he knew nothing about the subject and would rather write about Mrs Wilkinson and the Willowwood legend.
Etta hated leaving Willowwood. She was absolutely exhausted, having addressed all the Christmas cards Martin and Romy were sending out to possible benefactors. She had washed and packed all Drummond and Poppy’s clothes, and was now wondering what to pack for herself.
She had been terribly worried about Rafiq. Every time a suicide bomb exploded anywhere in the world, he felt the ripples of hatred, and he had been unable to ride any races because of the big freeze. Marius, coming to the rescue, had had the brainwave of posting him, Tommy and the lorry to Burnham on Crouch for ten days over Christmas, so Mrs Wilkinson could get fit galloping over the sands, strengthening her legs in the sea water. Tommy and Rafiq were enjoying staying in a B and B, while Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm lodged with a local trainer.
Etta hoped Valent liked her presents: a bottle of sloe gin and his own copy of her favourite Everyman anthology. She in turn was enchanted by her presents. Marius had given her a tiny greenhouse, in return for tending his garden, Pocock a dozen Regalia lilies. Joey and Woody’s bird table had brought her so much joy,