I can.’ Valent’s voice was as rattling thunder. ‘If either of you act up, I’ve just been talking to Trixie. She hadn’t reached sixteen when you took her to bed at Stratford, you could both go to prison.’
‘She’s a lying little tramp,’ shrieked Bonny. ‘Nothing happened at Stratford.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Valent. ‘She knew you had a diamond in your labia, and for someone who’s always making such a fuss about being abused, you don’t practise what you preach. The Journey of Bonny’s going to look pretty damn hypocritical. Now beat it. Give me a forwarding address and I’ll send all your stooff on.’
‘I’ll be living with Seth.’
‘Good, I’ll send everything round to the Old Rectory,’ said Valent, noticing Seth had gone green.
*
‘“And out of Eden took their solitary way,”’ sighed Seth, as most ignominiously they set off through the snow.
‘At least we can be together,’ said Bonny, who had at least managed to grab a full-length mink.
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ said Seth. ‘Corinna and I go back a long way and I couldn’t possibly support you in the way you’ve been accustomed. Valent’ll cool down. Come back tonight, but tomorrow Corinna’s coming back from America.’
Looking out of the window, Valent could see Bonny slapping Seth’s face and was suddenly overwhelmed with relief.
Going into his octagonal office, he breathed in white hyacinths and poured himself a large Scotch. His hands were shaking so much it took him four goes before he managed to text Woody to tell him to dig up the conifer hedge that had guarded both Bonny’s privacy and her peccadilloes. Peccadillo, that’s a nice name for a horse, he thought.
What a pity Etta was away. He longed to know why she was still refusing to see him. Conversely, he might not have been able to resist telling her about Trixie.
When Etta reached home, which still stank of flood water, the following evening, she discovered moonlight pouring in through her kitchen, drawing-room and bedroom windows. Running outside, she realized the conifers had gone – poor things, she hoped they hadn’t been chucked on a rubbish heap – and had been replaced by a dark blue trellis supporting her roses, honeysuckles and clematis.
Next moment, Joyce Painswick, seeing a light on in the bungalow, rang in excitement.
‘Bonny’s gone, she’s moved out.’
‘Poor Valent, he must be devastated.’
‘Evidently not. According to Woody, he gave her the push. There’ll be dancing in the streets. Joey’s planning a party. Even though it’s winter, he wants to hire a bouncy castle.’
When Valent returned home a week later, he could see straight into Etta’s bungalow and hoped she wouldn’t be upset. Later he watched her coming home from putting Poppy and Drummond to bed, down the path with Priceless, clinging joyfully on to each rustic pole, trying to teach Priceless to bend in and out of them, like her Pony Club days, then Gwenny rushed forward to meet them, black furry tail aloft.
123
Excitement really kicked in the week before the festival. Television companies were flat out filming the most fancied Gold Cup horses. Channel 4 were due at Throstledown to meet Mrs Wilkinson, Chisolm, Furious and the syndicate, who were all dickering about what to wear. In church, Niall prayed for the rain to stay away, so the going would be quick enough for Mrs Wilkinson.
After twelve hours at the typewriter, keeping track of events, Alan needed some fresh air and set out round the village with a torch. Earlier he’d heard a blackbird singing, and every garden shone with daffodils. Seeing a light on in the bungalow now the mature hedge had gone, he toyed with the idea of taking a bottle down to his mother-in-law, who he hoped would go on seeing him after he’d split up from her daughter.
Reaching the top of the high street and turning right on to the village green, he flattened himself against a wall as a Mercedes with an SM1 number plate roared by and flashed its lights outside Cobblers’ wrought-iron gates. A minute or two later, the Major scuttled out and opened them. Strange bedfellows. Even more interestingly, a second later, Alan flattened himself against Ione’s yew hedge as Harvey-Holden, mufflered, trilby over his nose, stormed up and also turned his Land-Rover through Cobblers’ gates. What could the little snake be up to?
The coup de grâce, as Alan turned for home, was his brother-in-law Martin – jogging by in a black tracksuit and a balaclava, far too busy telling a mobile telephone that