his favourite fish pie for supper and sidled off to talk to his friend Toby.
Harvey-Holden was about to renew his attack on Lester when he was pre-empted by Martin: ‘I’d love a chinwag with you about my father’s fund, Lester.’
‘Who’s that talking to Shade and Harvey-Holden?’ asked Lester.
‘That’s Olivia Oakridge, a most attractive lady,’ said Martin.
‘Needs her boobs enhancing and her teeth veneering,’ said Cindy dismissively. ‘Do you know they’ve got creepy-crawlies in the toilet here and Ione’s planted pansies in her hubby’s shoes?’
‘Anyone we know?’ said Alan, who was drunk.
‘I ought to go.’ Etta, also feeling drunk, got to her feet.
‘Don’t,’ called out Olivia. ‘Come and talk to us.’
‘Ilkley Hall’s so beautiful,’ Etta told Shade, ‘and so macho.’
‘Like his master,’ purred Shade.
Seeing her mother-in-law laughing rather too loudly with Shade and Olivia, Romy tried to catch her eye to tell her to leave, but she was too late. The last descendant of Sir Francis Framlingham had clapped hands that had never seen a manicure. Summoning as many guests as possible into the drawing room, Ione exhorted them to join the Compost Club for the benefit of global cooling, recycling, and the beauty and fecundity of their gardens.
Etta glanced at Alban leaning against the wall, listening so politely and patiently, as he must have had to do all his career, to potentates and difficult heads of state, smoothing paths, but now centre stage no longer. Glancing round, he caught Etta looking at him and gave her a smile of such sweetness.
‘We all have holes in our lives,’ Ione’s voice was rising, ‘so why not refill your hole with compost?’
‘I’ll fill your hole with something much more exciting,’ murmured Shade into Olivia’s hair.
Olivia laughed and wriggled against him.
Mrs Travis-Lock then drew attention to her wormery, urging guests to get one of their own.
‘Pooh,’ said Cindy, at which Jase the farrier started snaking his hand along, opening and closing his fingers and thumb like a devouring worm. Everyone fought the giggles – even more so when Ione paused for breath and Mrs Malmesbury could be heard haranguing Farmer Fred from a nearby room: ‘Cows with TB defecate near badger setts.’
‘Hope they use forest-friendly loo paper,’ whispered Dora.
Ione, however, carried on unfazed: ‘And with Christmas not too far away, I implore you to buy Christmas trees with roots which can be replanted, to take your Christmas cards to the recycling banks afterwards, and to leave sellotape off your parcels so the wrapping paper can be used again.’
‘Then the dung beetle lays eggs in the cowpat and badger comes along searching for grubs and beetles under the cowpat and catches TB, poor fellow,’ yelled Mrs Malmesbury.
‘Oh shut up, Mrs M,’ called out Ione. ‘Tonight I hope you’re all biking or walking home, but first I want you to join the Compost Club.’
Such was the force of her personality and her audience’s desire for her to also shut up that most people signed up, promising a subscription of £20 per annum.
‘I’m going to sort out our garden,’ vowed Phoebe, who had managed not to join. Then, smiling at Etta: ‘We haven’t met, Mrs Bancroft, but I hear your garden in Dorset was lovely. Will you come to tea and advise me?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ hissed Dora and Alan simultaneously.
‘I haven’t really got a garden here,’ said Etta.
‘You can always put creepers in tubs up your walls,’ said Ione briskly. ‘I’ll earmark some speedy growers. They’ll need some compost. Come on, Etta, join the Compost Club.’
‘Bungalow-ho-ho,’ whispered a grinning Alan, then, as Lester Bolton wrote out a large cheque and handed it to Mrs T-L: ‘The little creep ought to spread it on himself. He might grow a few inches.’
Martin meanwhile was hopping. All these people could have contributed to the Sampson Bancroft Fund.
‘I hope we may receive you at Primrose Mansions when it’s finished,’ Cindy was telling Jase. ‘It’s so cool to be an equine podiatrist.’
Woody, who was shy and had hidden in the kitchen talking to Pocock and cider-brewing Joey, appeared beside Etta and said, ‘I tell people I’m an arborist at parties.’
‘Cindy probably thinks that’s something to do with boats. Sorry, that was bitchy.’
‘You been OK?’ asked Woody. ‘I’ll take you home when you want. This drink’s disgusting but it seems to be doing the trick,’ he added, as Mrs Malmesbury nearly fell off the arm of the sofa. ‘She’s a good old girl, still does her own shopping at Tesco’s, goes wide round the bends but she’s OK coming up on the straight.’