I can drop in one evening for a chat about the Sampson Bancroft Memorial Fund.’
‘How pretty your mother is,’ said Ione, who’d been un-impressed by Sampson’s huge carbon footprint, and whose ability to cut across others wouldn’t have disgraced the champion jockey Rogue Rogers. ‘I must go and talk to her.
‘You must come to tea one afternoon,’ she told Etta. ‘It’s a friendly village. Pity so many of the big houses are empty, so much building going on. I’ve written to Valent Edwards several times about solar panelling and insulation, so much cheaper if you install them at this stage.
‘Joining things is the best way to meet people,’ she went on. ‘The Theatre Club’s excellent and the Willowwood Players put on super things at Christmas. I cannot get Corinna and Seth involved, though you’d think being actors …’
Etta, at least three glasses of cider up, found herself liking Ione, who resembled the school lacrosse captain you’d had a crush on. She remembered Dora’s description of ‘Dowagers with Roman noses …’
Britannia, eco-warrior, tall and commanding, Ione had a strong face not enhanced by anything except conviction. Her greying, raven-black hair was drawn back into a bun, and her eyebrows bristled above fine dark eyes that must have enchanted Alban some forty years ago.
‘Such a lovely party,’ sighed Etta.
‘Joyce Painswick tells me you’re a keen gardener and might help out with the church flowers.’
Ione was fed up with Debbie’s splash of colour and last week had been forced to yank out several catsick-yellow chrysanthemums.
‘Oh lovely,’ her voice softened, ‘Olivia’s come after all. Have you met Craig Green, Etta?’ she added. ‘He’s so knowledgeable about compost. Do introduce yourself.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ hissed Dora, filling up Etta’s drink. ‘He’s got avocado dip all over his beard. And gets up to the allotments before anyone else and pinches all the water. Pocock hates him.’ As Ione swept off to greet Olivia, she was waylaid by Romy, radiant in red velvet.
‘So good of you to take time to talk to Mother, Ione. She’s going to help me and Martin with fundraising and in the summer she’ll be doing cricket teas.’
The eyes of a hovering Major gleamed. Perhaps he and Etta could address Tory party envelopes together?
‘Frankly, Ione,’ Romy drew closer, ‘Mother is used to a life of dedication looking after Martin’s father. She needs to be kept busy.’
‘I would have thought she was kept quite busy enough looking after your children,’ said Ione sharply.
‘Oh, Mother’s so enjoying Poppy and Drummond. I hope you’re settling back into Willowwood life, Ione. If you need any help with finding plumbers or builders …’ Then, unaware that Joey was in the kitchen, ‘Do you know Joey East, a mine of information?’
‘Joey’s family have been working for us for generations,’ said Ione icily.
‘And if Alban’s ever at a loose end,’ steamrollered Romy, ‘Martin says the Cricket Club’s always needing umpires.’
‘Darling child!’ Escaping, Ione kissed Olivia on both cheeks. ‘How charming you look.’
Olivia did. She wore a shirt of stiff white satin, open at the neck to show off the smooth tan of outdoor life and stopping short above a floating pair of black silk trousers which emphasized her slenderness. A diamond butterfly nestled in her newly washed russet curls.
Hoping at last to meet Marius, Etta was disappointed when Olivia said, ‘Marius is still at the races. I’ve brought Shade Murchieson, one of our owners. He’s just parking his juggernaut. I hope that’s OK? Shade needs cheering up. One of his horses was killed at Worcester this afternoon. Marius is so gutted, he couldn’t face a party. Awesome Wells, who was riding her, is distraught.’
‘Not Ilkley Hall?’ asked Ione in horror.
As Olivia shook her head, wafting Eau d’Issey, the butterfly glittered. ‘No, a lovely, really progressive five-year-old mare called Snowball’s Chance, who came from Rupert Campbell-Black. So Marius was desperate for her to run well. She was in the lead then had a massive haemorrhage in the air.’
‘I’m so sorry, you need a drink.’
‘Bloody bad luck,’ agreed a small man with curiously dead snake-like eyes in a ratty little face, prematurely wrinkled from so much wasting. Etta immediately recognized him as Ralph Harvey-Holden. Having followed Olivia into the room, he reached up to kiss Ione on the cheek. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Ralph had a maddeningly good afternoon,’ said Olivia. ‘He’s been getting drunk with ecstatic victorious owners ever since.’
As Harvey-Holden laughed, the snake-like eyes shifted round the room to check if anyone was rich enough to buy horses. He’d hoped to do a number