approve of Seth Bainton but she fancies him rotten. Seth has an excellent greyhound called Priceless, who he refuses to castrate so he’s always jumping on other people’s dogs and crapping in the high street. Debbie Cunliffe, she’s the bossyboots with the brilliantly coloured garden, married to the major, would like both Seth and Priceless castrated. She organized a meeting recently to discuss ways Willowwood could be improved. Seth suggested a casino, a betting shop, a massage parlour, and Debbie and the Major going back to Surrey. Debbie was furious.’
‘Seth’s awfully attractive,’ said Etta, accepting a toffee from Dora, hoping it wouldn’t pull her bridge out.
Reaching the top of the village, they passed a lovely eighteenth-century house covered in scaffolding, iron bars and platforms on all levels.
‘Awful,’ spluttered Dora. ‘Like some woman with curlers, braces on her teeth and having every inch of her body lifted. This house, believe it or not, was called Primrose Cottage. It’s been bought by a dreadful porn billionaire called Lester Bolton, known as Bolton Wandering because he’s such a groper. He paid two mil for Primrose Cottage, has renamed it Primrose Mansions, and is chucking another four mil at it, and not moving in for a year or two either. He can’t cock it up too much because English Heritage is breathing down his neck.’
Etta couldn’t stop laughing and patting Cadbury.
‘Bolton,’ went on Dora, ‘has a child-bride second wife called Cindy, the most frightful giggling chav who calls herself an actress and stars in all his porn films.’
12
After providing and receiving so much information, Dora and Etta had a rest on a bench on the edge of the village green, admiring the houses clustering around it. ‘Such a sweet village,’ cried Etta, then, catching sight of the church clock rising above the ring of golding willows: ‘I mustn’t be late.’
‘You’ve got at least forty minutes.’
But Etta had been distracted by the most beautiful Elizabethan house. Set back from the village green, it peered out of narrowed windows, was partly hidden by venerable trees and had a magic garden, all soft colours merging like a rainbow. How could anyone get delphiniums flowering in October and such a pastel profusion of roses?
‘Willowwood Hall,’ explained Dora. ‘Alban and Ione Travis-Lock live there. They’ve just come back from some Arab country where Alban was ambassador, with masses of servants and body-guards following his every movement. He’s seriously clever and speaks loads of languages. But the moment he retired, there wasn’t even a car to meet him at Heathrow. So unkind.
‘Everyone kowtows to his wife Ione, because she was a Framlingham before she married. Framlinghams have lived in Willowwood Hall for ever. Ione looks like one of Auden’s Dowagers with Roman noses. Oh look, there she blows.’ Dora leapt behind a telephone box that said ‘no coins allowed’ as a terrifying woman, not unlike the witch in The Wizard of Oz, hurtled past on a bicycle. ‘That’s Ione off to set up her stall outside Tesco’s and bellow at customers for not recycling their packaging. She’s terribly Green. Alban, her husband, will be straight into the pub to have a large whisky and a bet.
‘Oh, look again!’ Dora grabbed Cadbury as horses came clattering by, doing road work for the coming season. ‘That’s Sir Cuthbert, the oldest horse in the yard, and History Painting, the yard star, and Stop Preston, who’s seriously naughty, and Oh My Goodness, isn’t that a cool name? She’s the one showing a lot of white eye, making her look permanently surprised.’ Dora beamed and waved at all the riders.
‘They’re Marius Oakridge’s horses,’ she went on. ‘His yard’s that way.’ She pointed south. ‘Ralph Harvey-Holden’s to the north and twenty miles up the road is Rupert Campbell-Black’s yard at Penscombe.’
‘How thrilling,’ said Etta, then, terrified of being late: ‘I must go.’
‘We’ve got half an hour,’ said Dora airily. ‘Since Alban Travis-Lock retired Ione has returned to reclaim her rightful place as lady of the manor, but she’s got competition from pretenders like Debbie Cunliffe and Romy Bancroft, who is another cow and so smug. Romy insisted on doing the flowers last Easter and brought branches of may blossom into the church. Ione nearly had a heart attack – may’s so unlucky. Romy doesn’t know anything about the country,’ went on Dora furiously. ‘Oh whoops. So sorry, Mrs Bancroft, I quite forgot Romy was your daughter-in-law. She’s seriously beautiful and a much better mother than mine will ever be.’