As it was only to say he’d liked Etta’s poetry book, her hyacinths and her snowdrops, Valent snapped he wouldn’t interrupt her, he’d ring another time.
‘Give her my love.’
Etta, who’d heaved herself out of the cherry-red armchair, hand out to take the cordless, fell back in disappointment.
‘Said he’d ring again,’ said Seth.
Later, to wind Bonny up, Seth told her about Valent calling Etta. Bonny was further irritated that Seth wouldn’t let her hear his lines. He hated her correcting him all the time, suggesting poncy interpretations.
Romy was even more irritated.
‘Why don’t you let me hear your lines?’ she demanded, trapping Seth with her bicycle as he came out of the village shop.
‘You’re much too distracting,’ murmured Seth, ‘I’d want to do other things.’
‘Oh Seth.’ Then Romy’s voice hardened. ‘I hope you’re not taking that bottle round to Mother-in-law, she drinks quite enough as it is.’
The mega jaunt to Stratford grew. Valent insisted the minibus leave an hour early so that, to please Etta, they could drop in on a snowdrop garden on the way.
‘How can I wear the same thing to traipse through the woods, go to the races, to the theatre and on to a party?’ grumbled Painswick.
‘When I was young there was a thing called a dress’n’jacket,’ reflected Etta, ‘which looked like a coat and skirt until you took off the jacket and discovered a sleeveless dress, but I don’t think my wrinkled little arms are up to it.’
She longed to stay in her Ugg boots all day, but didn’t want the suede to get ruined if it were muddy at Warwick.
Seth and Corinna were travelling direct to Stratford separately, and Bonny also decided to miss the races and join everyone later at the theatre.
‘So she can swan in looking a million dollars,’ stormed Trixie, appalled at how much she was longing to see Seth again.
Everyone else was surprised how much they enjoyed the snow-drops, which drifted for miles round a ruined abbey and along a mysterious darkly flowing stream.
‘I can joost imagine the Lady of Shalott floating past,’ said Valent, showing off his new literary knowledge.
‘Yes, and so many different kinds of snowdrop,’ cried Etta.
‘The common garden snowdrop Galanthus nivalis of course predominates,’ said Debbie importantly.
‘As a symbol of hope in a long winter,’ said Painswick.
Pocock, not to be outdone in the poetry stakes, cleared his throat:
‘The snowdrop, in purest white array,
First rears her head on Candlemas day.’
When the others looked at him in amazement, Painswick said, ‘Who wrote that, Harry?’
‘It’s an old Larkshire rhyme.’
‘Harry now,’ whispered Alan, making a thumbs-up to Etta, ‘watch that space.’
‘When’s Candlemas?’ asked Etta quickly, to stop herself laughing.
‘Feb the third,’ said Niall, ‘the day Mary presented Jesus at the temple, so it’s a day of purity.’
‘Like we’re going to have today,’ said Alan.
‘Was it a sort of christening? I suppose Bump will be christened at Toby Jug’s family church.’
‘You’re like a brilliant guidebook, that’s lovely to know,’ Etta put her arm through Niall’s. ‘Isn’t it beautiful here?’
‘Not enough splashes of colour for Debbie,’ said Alan.
Debbie’s lips tightened, then she laughed: ‘And you don’t know much about purity, young man.’
‘Touché.’ Alan winked at Tilda.
‘You oughta see the snowdrops Etta’s planted at Badger’s Court,’ said Valent. Dropping to his knees, he tucked in a trouser leg which had escaped from Etta’s boot, and she found herself trembling as she felt his hands on her leg. She was so happy they were all getting on, like in the early days.
‘I don’t want to leave here.’
‘We can always come back next year,’ said Valent.
‘Chop chop,’ shouted the Major from the minibus, who couldn’t wait to get to Stratford and see Corinna in all her glory. ‘We’ll miss the first race.’
He and Alban had been discussing Lester Bolton’s defiant plans for a moat to encircle Primrose Mansions.
‘He’s intending to divert the Willowwood stream,’ said the Major, ‘so we’ll lose out on water, and also to divert Harvey-Holden’s stream into it, so if we have a lot of rain it’ll flood the village.’
‘We need moat control,’ said Alban, braying with laughter.
In the bus, Debbie sidled up to Valent, who was reading Antony and Cleopatra, and said that Normie had given her the Iron Man for Xmas.
‘Changed my life. Irons shirts better than I do. Normie often wears three shirts a day if he has a lunch and an evening function. Sheets and duvet covers are done in a trice, when the family come to visit.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Valent, looking as though he really was.