stable lads, who exited quicker than any three-year-old out of the starting stalls.
Buttoning up her shirt, diverting any reproach, Trixie said:
‘Dad’s just texted me saying: “Great dress, Granny was the belle of the ball.” He and Mum have joined Lester, Shade and Ralph Harvey-Holden for dinner.’
22
Etta’s thank-you letter crossed Ione’s, saying how nice it had been to meet Etta at last and how she looked forward to receiving Etta’s cheque. Etta sighed. For the same reason, she was dreading Christmas and all the money she would have to spend on presents, not just for the family but for Drummond and Poppy’s teachers and for every time they were invited to a children’s party. Romy always conveniently forgot to reimburse her. But at least Etta needn’t bother with fairy lights and a tree this year because both her children were going skiing: Romy and Martin to Courchevel, Alan and Carrie off to the Rockies.
Both sides apologized to Etta for abandoning her the first Christmas after Sampson’s death.
‘Anniversaries are always painful,’ pointed out Romy. ‘It’s as hard for Martin as for you, Mother. He needs to get away to achieve closure.’
Etta reassured everyone she’d be fine. In fact she was passionately relieved at a chance to catch up on sleep and get Little Hollow into some kind of order.
As Christmas approached, she had the added hassle of Trixie home for the holidays. With Carrie flat out at the office and Alan pretending to work on his book, Trixie was left her to her own devices and vices: smoking, drinking, slamming doors, coming in late, and hanging a NO ENTRY sign outside her bedroom.
Poppy and Drummond were revving up for their nativity plays. Poppy made an adorable angel, but screwed up by ignoring her parents and yelling, ‘Hello, Granny,’ when she caught sight of Etta in the audience.
‘When Santa got stuck in the chimney, he began to shout,’ chanted Drummond. ‘You girls and boys won’t get any toys unless you pull me out.’
They wouldn’t get any anyway, reflected Etta. Romy and Martin had announced they weren’t giving presents this year, just making a contribution to charity: their own. Sampson Bankable, as Alan called it.
To counteract Ione’s compost push, Martin and Romy gave a fundraising Christmas party at Harvest Home to which they asked Valent and Bonny and Seth and Corinna, who again hadn’t replied. Etta, who’d done all the cooking, couldn’t help feeling resentful that it was her and Sampson’s splendid oak table that she was laying with her own glasses and lovely silver candlesticks, a wedding present from her godmother. Sampson’s portrait by John Ward, not remotely daunted by the soaring barn wall, glowered down, daring her to make a fuss.
Martin was practising his after-dinner pitch just before the guests arrived, when he dispatched Etta to the Fox to get beer for Valent in case he turned up. He was, said Martin, ‘the kind of rough and ready chap who’d drink that sort of thing’.
‘Joseph was a carpenter, bang, bang, bang,’ shouted Drummond.
Outside it was bitterly cold and starless with a yellowish tinge to the sky. Shagger’s cottage, Phoebe and Toby’s cottage and the village shop were in darkness, but Etta could see Niall at his computer, probably wrestling with all the Christmas sermons. She wondered if the blue spotted mug beside him contained sherry.
Aware of a shiny face, an old brown jersey and seated trousers, Etta crept into the Fox. She was immediately hailed by Chris the landlord, wearing a too-tight pink shirt and a Father Christmas hat.
‘Long time no see, Etta. Have one on the ’ouse.’ He held up a jug of lurid reddy-orange liquid. ‘Foxy Lady, our Xmas special, first one on the ’ouse for a pretty lady.’
‘Oh goodness,’ squeaked Etta, ‘it does look delicious.’ Noticing branches of holly topping the hunting pictures, and paper chains and tinsel round the necks of hounds and foxes, she added, ‘Doesn’t the place look festive? Oh, I really shouldn’t,’ as Chris thrust a large glass into her hand. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Secret,’ said Chris. ‘Orange and cranberry juice and a bit of et cetera.’
‘Wow,’ gasped Etta, taking a gulp. ‘I mustn’t stop, I came to get some beer.’
‘Bitter or lager?’
‘I don’t know. How stupid of me. It’s for Valent Edwards in case he turns up at my son’s party.’
‘He won’t,’ said a voice. ‘He and Bonny are in the Maldives. So you can relax.’ And a great furry kiss was planted on her cheek.
It was Joey, who with Jase and Woody was discussing