demanded Old Mrs Malmesbury, who as well as keeping geese and walking hound puppies, always got the wrong end of the stick.
‘No, Shagger’s staying at Lark Cottage this weekend,’ Alan reassured her, then lowering his voice to Etta, ‘Desperate to sniff out the whisky,’ as a big man with a huge nose and lank straight hair emerged from the kitchen, looking frustrated.
‘That’s Michael Simmons, known as Shagger,’ explained Alan. ‘Took over Lark Cottage from Rogue Rogers last year, but mostly lets it and leaves poor Tilda Flood, who’s unaccountably crazy about him, to look after the place.’
Etta recognized Tilda Flood, who had sticking-out teeth on which you could land a helicopter and who taught at Greycoats, but whom Etta had never spoken to because she took a higher class than Drummond’s.
Etta was amazed therefore when Tilda came over and introduced herself, saying how much she was looking forward to teaching Drummond in a year or two’s time.
‘I gather he’s a very bright little boy,’ she added. ‘His behaviour has been so much less challenging this term, it must be your influence.’
Etta wanted to hug her.
Tilda had the blonde, cropped, easy-to-wash hair and flat sing-song accustomed-to-being-listened-to voice of a female cabinet minister. If only she had those teeth fixed, thought Etta, one could appreciate her lovely figure and pretty hazel eyes, which constantly flickered in the direction of Shagger Simmons. He was now greeting Toby Weatherall, Ione’s chinless nephew, with a flurry of ‘Who won the three thirty at Newton Abbot?’, ‘What odds did you get?’, ‘What’s happened to Dominic?’ and ‘What’s Jasper up to?’
‘Things any better at work?’ asked Shagger finally.
Toby shook his head. ‘Bloody tough. Hardly been shooting this year. Bloody boss expects one to work weekends.’
‘Toby, you must meet Etta,’ interrupted an embarrassed Tilda.
Toby looked blank. Shagger, to save his friend, thrust out a big red hand and squeezed Etta’s, which was harbouring pieces of lentil bake and butternut squash tart, which went squish. An appalled Shagger shot off to wash his hands. Tilda handed Etta a paper napkin.
To prevent further indiscretion, Etta said, ‘I think you work for my daughter Carrie.’
The penny and Toby’s jaw dropped and his delicate pink and white face was suffused with red. ‘Good heavens, yes, quite forgot. She’s great to work for, inspirational, press always ringing up for interviews, brilliant woman, brilliant.’
‘I still don’t understand hedge funds,’ confessed Etta.
‘Not sure I do,’ Toby giggled nervously. ‘Shagger and I used to share an office, got so bored we’d telephone each other all afternoon. Bit different now, feel you’re at the hub of things.’
‘Your wife and your cottage are both so enchantingly pretty,’ said Etta.
‘Christ, Ione’s got a can of worms in the bog,’ grumbled a returning Shagger, who had a loud, ugly carrying voice. ‘What’s this about Bolton buying a chunk of wood from H-H? He’ll need cover, better have a word.’
Turning, he went slap into Direct Debbie.
‘Hello, Shagger.’ She spoke without affection. Shagger’s holiday lets, often binge-drinking hen parties, kept her and the Major awake. ‘Hello, Tilda,’ she added. ‘You and Shagger engaged yet? Never know the score with you. Ought to buck up or you’ll miss the boat.’
Noticing Tilda’s stricken face, Etta squeezed her hand and said, ‘Fiancée’s such a dreadful word.’
‘Better than spinster,’ said Tilda bitterly.
‘Better go and chat up Bolton.’ Shagger sidled off.
‘Aren’t Mrs Travis-Lock’s gardenias amazing?’ cried Etta, desperate to change the subject.
‘Ione’s an old hypocrite.’ Debbie hardly lowered her voice. ‘Must have her greenhouse blazing all year round to produce blooms like that, and she ticks Normie off for washing the car every day and using a patio heater.’
Lester Bolton was finally managing to have a word with his hostess.
‘I am a big art person, Ione,’ he was telling her, ‘but I prefer a contemporary look. That piece out there is more to my taste.’ He was peering out of the window across the lawn.
‘That’s a cider press,’ said Ione briskly, ‘responsible for your drink tonight – although we added ale from a local brewery. I hope you’re using local suppliers?’
The rooms were so full, it was easy to miss people. Martin Bancroft, who had grown a beard to give himself a more caring aspect, was on the rampage, pressing the flesh. He had no time to waste on his mother, who was showing too much bosom. He was now doing a number on his hostess.
‘I am determined to get Valent, Bonny, Corinna and Seth’ (none of whom he knew) ‘on side, Ione, love your hairdo. Hope