before, Sir Cuthbert, Count Romeo, History Painting and Doggie still peered in hopefully every time they passed. Her bridle with its green browband hung empty from the manger. The People’s Pony was no more.
145
There were no bodies so no funeral but a memorial service was planned, first in St James’s, Willowwood, then, because of the demand, it was moved to Larkminster Cathedral.
Niall was revving up to help the bishop take the service. Major Cunliffe was organizing parking and a video of Mrs Wilkinson’s finest hours – so many of them. Ione would do the flowers with Direct Debbie, draping the cathedral with willow branches and never a splash of colour. Chris and Chrissie and Mop Idol were organizing food for the syndicate and friends afterwards. Seth and Corinna were doing readings but all the syndicate wanted to say a word, except Etta. She looked at Mrs Wilkinson’s betting slips and then at the coloured pieces of string, like a child’s ball, which had attached her owner’s badges to her handbag. She knew she was being wet but she also knew that she was incapable of paying tribute to Mrs Wilkinson without breaking down. Day and night she longed for her deep-throated whicker.
Mrs Wilkinson’s portrait had brought the worst luck in the world, but at least if Etta hadn’t hurled it back at Valent she would have had a reminder of how sweet Wilkie had been and how Valent had tried so hard to please her. He and Alban had completely disappeared. And his last memory would be of Etta screaming at him to leave her alone.
She was comforted by Poppy and Drummond.
‘Are you sixty, Granny?’ asked Poppy.
‘No, nearly seventy, alas.’
‘So you’ll go to heaven like Mrs Wilkinson soon.’ Then, when Etta looked really sad, ‘Don’t worry, Granny, you’ll die soon anyway.’
‘If you can’t sleep, Granny,’ Drummond put an arm round her, ‘you wake me and we’ll talk.’
‘I think they’d better have counselling,’ said Romy.
Amber was also crippled with guilt that her photograph had been found in Rafiq’s room. ‘I didn’t realize he still cared. Rafiq would never have blown up Mrs Wilkinson if I hadn’t jilted him and, far, far worse, brought down Furious. He had a double motive.’
As he tried to comfort her, Rogue reflected it was a pity they couldn’t hold Billy’s memorial service on the same day. Amber’s mother, Janey, was making such a meal of it.
Shagger wondered if they’d get insurance.
‘Does this count as an Act of God?’
‘Whose god?’ said Alan bleakly. ‘We’d only get 1 per cent anyway.’
On the morning of the memorial service, which coincided with a heatwave, Seth had the temerity to roll up at Etta’s and ask her to hear his reading. Now he’d shaved off his beard and moustache to play a rather old Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, she realized what a weak, self-indulgent face he had compared with Valent’s. She was tempted to tell him to go away, but let him in because she was so desperate for news of Valent. Priceless greeted his old master with much flashing of teeth, but showed no desire to get off the sofa.
Seth had no news to report, except what hell Bonny was to rehearse with. ‘She’s insisting on reading a passage from The Journey of Bonny this evening.’
Through the open window Etta could hear Pocock practising ‘Here’s To You, Mrs Wilkinson’ on the church bells.
‘Bonny won’t be pleased,’ Seth went on. ‘It doesn’t look as though Valent’s going to make the service. I guess he’s lost interest in Willowwood. Badger’s Court’s on the market for six mil. Can you just bear to hear this, darling?’ He handed over a poetry book.
‘“Brightness falls from the air,”’ read Etta. ‘“Queens have died young and fair,/Dust hath closed Helen’s eye.”’
The words made her cry and she certainly couldn’t face the memorial service now. No one would want a sobbing, emotional grandmother.
As soon as Seth had gone, disappointed she hadn’t offered him a drink, Etta threw Priceless into the back of the Polo and drove south-west towards her old house. She had forgotten how ravishing Dorset was, particularly in early May, with wild cherry blossom and cow parsley decking out the countryside, like the young bride she had been when she and Sampson moved to Bluebell Hill.
She went first to Sampson’s grave in the churchyard and was just leaving a bunch of white roses when she noticed a small posy of crimson-flecked geraniums. Attached to them was a little note: ‘Darling Sampy,