It’ll clean up OK. Fortunately Mother kept Dad’s photographs and letters on a special high shelf, and they’re unharmed. She would have been heartbroken if they’d been ruined.’
Thank God he and Carrie had appropriated most of Etta’s more valuable things when she left Bluebell Hill.
Poppy was the most excited that her grandmother was coming to stay, and by her adventures.
‘All the same, Granny, it’s a shame you didn’t die, then I could have gone on television saying what a caring grandmother you were and put tulips outside the bungalow and all my friends would have cried and hugged me.’
108
From the safety of the stage at the Theatre Royal, Bath, Seth was greeted by applause even louder than the water thundering down Willowwood high street.
After a rapturously received Saturday night performance, he had returned to Willowwood on Sunday afternoon, having been summoned by an outraged Martin to retrieve his dog. Seth was relieved to discover the Old Rectory at the top of the village was unflooded, and the delphiniums in the garden had been toppled (since they laid off Pocock) by bindweed rather than downpour. Corinna was currently wowing Broadway with Mother Courage and Bonny had returned to Badger’s Court and Valent. As the ground floor of the Fox had been flooded, Seth met his friend Alan in the skittle alley upstairs.
Outwardly Seth was in cracking form, but secretly he was irked by the fuss Bonny was making over the massive publicity afforded to Gallant Valent’s rescue of Mrs Wilkinson and Etta.
There was no ice because the pub fridge had surged up from the floor, smashing the kitchen ceiling, so they had warm Bloody Marys. On the trestle tables rescued from downstairs were the framed photographs of the hunt and Marius and Harvey-Holden’s horses, alongside horse brasses, drenched silks, foxes’ masks and red coats.
‘It was like being on the Titanic,’ grumbled Chris, who was polishing glasses. ‘Water gushed in through the walls and the floorboards.’
‘Bloody bad luck,’ commiserated Alan.
‘This’ll all make a great chapter for your book on Wilkie,’ said Seth.
‘Bloody needs to,’ said Alan gloomily. ‘I’ve a feeling the publishers won’t find enough bullying and sexual abuse in Depression for today’s market.’
‘Interview Bonny. She loves rabbiting on about her journey. You been flooded?’ Seth asked Alan.
‘Only the cellar, we found a dead rat floating there.’
‘Probably Harvey-Holden.’
‘Au contraire,’ sighed Alan, ‘the little weasel is very much alive and gloating because his yard’s untouched, unlike poor Marius, who’s had two furlongs of his new all-weather washed away.’
‘Jesus – that bloke’s star-crossed. How’s Etta?’
‘In floods in all senses of the word – poor angel. That bungalow Martin built for her nearly disappeared beneath the water.’
‘Which would have benefited Willowwood aesthetically.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ grinned Alan. ‘Even worse, bloody Romy whisked her away from Badger’s Court, insisting she stay with her and Martin, but they wouldn’t allow her to take Gwenny and Priceless so they’ve all moved in with us until—’
‘That’s very kind of you to take in Priceless,’ Seth interrupted quickly. ‘Great weight off my mind, couldn’t take him on tour. Let me buy you a drink.’ Seth splashed vodka from the bottle into Alan’s glass, topping it up with tomato juice and Worcester sauce before filling his own. ‘How’s little Trixie?’
‘Buttering Gwenny’s paws and the house because Gwenny keeps escaping.’
‘Lucky Gwenny.’ Seth wondered if he dared have another go at calling Trixie to beg forgiveness for the Stratford foursome. Bonny would go ballistic if she found out.
‘How’s Private Lives going?’ asked Alan.
‘Fantastic – sold out in every city – possible film in the offing. Oh God, here comes the Major to bore us.’
The Major was in a high state of chunter and statistical overkill.
‘Last time we had this much rain in Larkshire was in July ’sixty-eight. Folk rushed around providing portable toilets.’
‘It was Bolton’s moat bursting its banks wot did it,’ accused Chris, handing the Major a tepid pint.
‘Jude probably fell in,’ said Alan.
‘Willowwood should sue Bolton collectively,’ said Seth.
‘And the planners and the Parochial Church Council he bribed,’ said Alan slyly.
The Major choked on his beer.
‘Must keep a sense of proportion,’ he spluttered. ‘All Larkshire’s been hit. Hundreds of people trapped in their cars. Thousands still without power. A hundred and eighty thousand homes without water.’
‘Let them drink Scotch,’ said Seth.
‘Debbie is very distressed all the carp in her pond were swept away. I intend to form an action group to address the problem of flood defence.’
‘I hear the banging of stable doors,’ Alan shook his head.