but her best present had been a pair of brown Ugg boots, so blissfully warm and comfortable. Inside was a card: ‘No excuse for chilblains now. Love, Valent.’
What a dear, dear man.
While Etta was in Switzerland Painswick was coming in to feed Gwenny and the birds.
‘Why not save money and feed Gwenny on the birds?’ she had suggested when she had dropped in on Etta earlier and found Gwenny on the windowsill, angrily chattering at two blackbirds.
‘I like the robins best,’ sighed Etta.
One, which she’d nicknamed Pavarobin because he sang so beautifully, was always waiting in the winter honeysuckle, eyes bright, orange chest thrust out, often hitting her hand as she put out the first crumbs.
‘Most of his time,’ she told Painswick, ‘is spent perched on the table, wings on his hips, ready to attack any bird that approaches.’
‘Typically male,’ said Painswick. ‘Old Mrs Malmesbury calls robins: “souls of the dead”.’
Etta hoped Pavarobin wasn’t Sampson keeping an eye on her.
She hated leaving the birds and Gwenny, but she was most worried about Priceless. She didn’t trust Seth or Corinna or Stefan to look after him.
Wandering into her bedroom to finish her packing, she found him stretched out on her rumpled bed, flashing his teeth, his head resting on one of her Ugg boots, at which he’d been gently nibbling.
‘Wish you’d come and pull my sledge,’ sighed Etta.
88
Before Christmas, arctic conditions returned to Larkshire, which made flying off to the Swiss Alps and leaving behind Mrs Wilkinson, whom Etta had found in the snow, even more poignant.
Ever since Ione had sided with Etta over keeping Mrs Wilkinson and refused to give Sampson’s fund any money, Martin and Romy had given up any attempt to reduce their carbon foot-print or take a Green skiing holiday. It was Zermatt or nothing.
Judging by the splendour of their hotel bedroom, which had a blue-velvet-curtained four-poster, a jacuzzi, a vast television and a spectacular view of the Matterhorn, WOO and their other charities must be paying them well.
By contrast Etta had a single bed, no minibar and no television in a tiny room next to Poppy and Drummond, so she was constantly refereeing squabbles.
Returning from a shattering third day hawking the children round skating rinks and toboggan runs and applauding every achievement, while Romy and Martin acquired mahogany tans whizzing down the mountains, Etta found Sky and a huge wide-screen television installed in her room.
Aided by Drummond, she quickly located At the Races, where Marius was being interviewed in a snow-covered yard. The children screamed with delight to see Mrs Wilkinson in her patchwork rug and Chisolm in a Father Christmas hat kicking a huge snowball, followed by Mrs Wilkinson peeling a banana and shaking hooves with Matt Chapman, the presenter.
A most uncharacteristically smiling Marius then admitted Mrs Wilkinson was in great form and looking forward to her return. Cheltenham wasn’t cancelled because of the weather. The camera then switched to her 422 Christmas cards strung across the office and Miss Painswick reading out some of her fan letters.
Matt Chapman was just telling viewers that tomorrow’s race was of great interest because Mrs Wilkinson would be pitted against her old enemy Ilkley Hall, who’d won his last four races, when Martin roared in and, to wails of protest that Wilkie and Chisolm were on the television, switched off the set. Well aware that Drummond had the skills to track down adult movies featuring goats in more questionable activities, Martin promptly rang the manager to complain.
‘Take it away, I’m not subjecting my kids to pornography.’
Martin was wearing a banana-yellow ski suit. Etta had a vision of Mrs Wilkinson peeling it off him. Romy followed him, red as her ski suit with rage: ‘How dare you order Sky, Etta,’ and was followed by the manager, Mr Marcel, who’d already earmarked Martin as a pest.
Marching in, with a grin lifting his black moustache, Mr Marcel announced that Sky and the big screen had been specifically ordered and paid for. Then, brandishing a magnum of Moët and a vast bunch of alstroemerias and pink scented lilies, he added: ‘These also are for Mrs Bancroft.’
‘They’ll be for me,’ said Romy, snatching the flowers. ‘Don’t want them to go to the wrong Mrs Bancroft this time.’ Laughing heartily, she ripped open the envelope and read out, ‘“Darling Etta, All your friends at Willowwood are missing you, lots of love Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm.”’
Romy’s red, turning-to-puce face was a picture: a Francis Bacon cardinal.