their syndicate and handing over the December money to sustain it, which meant an excuse for a piss-up. Not for Crowe had run out in a hunter chase that afternoon. They had to save enough to put him into training.
‘Horrible day’s racing,’ sighed Joey. ‘Harvey-Holden ran an unfit horse. Jockey thrashed it over the second last and it fell and broke its neck. Denny Forrester, H-H’s head lad, was already plastered. Heard him and H-H shouting at each other in the lorry. Bloody disgrace.’
Joey then produced the latest photographs of Family Dog to show Etta. She was the sort of person people showed things to, reflected Woody, because she was always so interested and enthusiastic. He thrust a second Foxy Lady into her hand.
‘Such a sweet horse,’ cried Etta.
‘He is,’ agreed Joey. ‘Ilkley Hall cost a hundred and fifty grand. Doggie cost two grand. It’s what’s inside that counts.’
‘I could run faster than Doggie,’ mocked Chris.
‘I like your pink shirt,’ said Etta.
‘Men in pink, make the girls wink,’ guffawed Chris.
‘This is a delicious drink. How soft is it?’ asked Etta.
‘The Driver’s Friend,’ said Chris piously.
‘You need another to sustain you on the walk home,’ said Joey. ‘Snow’s forecast.’
‘You might see that Beau Regard in your woods,’ warned Chris. ‘Rumoured only to appear in the snow. Loses hisself against the white background, so you can only see the blood and the gashes.’
‘Old wives’ tale,’ snapped Woody, not wanting Etta to be frightened.
‘Craig Green saw a great white thing in the woods last year,’ said Jase.
‘Probably his mother-in-law,’ said Woody.
‘That Romy’s lucky to have you as a mother-in-law, Etta,’ said Joey.
‘Oh heavens,’ said Etta in horror. ‘I forgot I must get back. Thanks for the lovely drinks.’ She fled towards the door.
‘I’ll walk you back,’ said Woody.
‘Good King Wenceslas looked out,’ sang the radio.
King Wenceslas and the vicar, who, seeing Etta and Woody emerging from the Fox, rushed out and invited them in for a cup of coffee.
‘I must go,’ squeaked Etta, and fled.
Returning beaming and hiccuping to Harvest Home, Etta had forgotten the beer, which didn’t matter as Valent Edwards hadn’t turned up. But alas, she had forgotten the potatoes roasting in cream and chutney in the top of the Aga, which had charred and blackened like volcanic waste, and was bawled out by Romy.
‘Chill, Aunt Romy,’ reproved Trixie, who was waitressing and had been at the vodka. ‘You can always enter it for the Turner Prize.’
Later Etta dropped and smashed one of her own gold-leaf-patterned plates when she was serving out the chocolate torte. Martin couldn’t shatter his caring image by yelling at his mother in front of his amused guests, but once they had gone, only writing cheques for a collective £350, he and Romy weighed in.
‘You’ve let us down again, Mother, after all we’ve done to make you welcome. You’re simply not pulling your weight. Not only are we supporting you but we’re also putting so much work into the Sampson Bancroft Memorial Fund because we know how much it means to you.’ Martin glanced up at his father’s portrait, brushing away a tear. ‘You’re letting Dad down too.’
‘Father Christmas, Father Christmas, he got stuck,’ intoned Drummond, who was peering down the stairwell. ‘Coming down the chimney, what bad luck, what bad luck.’
Thank God the whole family were off in the morning, thought Etta, but Romy was bound to leave the dinner-party washing-up and a host of instructions about ironing and cooking.
Lighting her torch, fighting back the tears, Etta wearily set out down the icy path, through the wood to her bungalow. Despite her sadness, her heart lifted at the beauty of snowflakes falling on the bowed willows. This would be a night for the ghost of Beau Regard to appear.
As she dropped downhill, Badger’s Court to her left was in darkness. She could no longer see any lights in the village and shivered. Even ancient, crippled Bartlett and incapacitated Sampson had been a comfort in the old days. If only she still had Bartlett.
She was so exhausted she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, only to be roused by a cannonade of exploding fireworks – perhaps someone was having a party on the Salix Estate. Then she heard screaming and neighing. Was it the ghost of Beau Regard calling her? She pulled her sodden pillow over her head.
Next morning, heaving a sigh of relief to hear cheerful banging and the whine of machinery from Badger’s Court, and happy that she didn’t have to run