her panic-stricken eye darting round for escape. But as Valent moved forward and ran a big, name-braceleted hand over her shoulder, caressing it, she quivered for a moment and lay still.
‘There, there, good little girl,’ he murmured, kneeling down beside her. ‘You can keep her here for the time being,’ he said roughly, ‘until they start on this room, and when the weather picks up there’s an orchard behind the house with plenty of good grass.’ Then, as Etta mouthed in amazement and started to cry again, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, what’s the matter now?’
‘I’m not used to good luck,’ muttered Etta, ‘nor is she.’ Continuing to stroke the mare, Valent stopped Etta’s flood of thanks by asking why she was called Mrs Wilkinson.
‘There was an invitation on the mantelpiece, rather a smart one: “Mrs Hugo Wilkinson: At home. Drinks 6.30,” so we called her Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘Well, she is at home now,’ said Valent, giving her a last pat and getting to his feet. Then, with the first flicker of a smile lifting his face: ‘I’m so bluddy glad she wasn’t the ghost of Beau Regard.’
28
Martin and Romy were outraged Valent had given sanctuary to Mrs Wilkinson, but reluctant to antagonize a rich and powerful neighbour. They felt they could no longer force Etta to give her up.
‘How can you possibly afford to keep a horse, Mother? Who is going to pick up all the feed and vet’s bills?’
Etta had been wondering the same thing. But quickly the village came to her rescue. Joey and Woody were so grateful to Etta for not shopping them to Valent that they offered free hay, feed and shavings until summer came. Jase pitched in, offering shoeing and to pick up any vet’s bills. (Charlie Radcliffe owed him.) Tilda the village schoolmistress, learning from Drummond about his grandmother’s poor horse, suggested the children make her a patchwork rug. Miss Painswick, the out-of-work dragon, grew devoted to the ‘dear little soul’ and popped in with carrots every day.
Ione Travis-Lock, on her eco-warrior kick, aware that manure was a capital activator for compost, offered to pay for any of Mrs Wilkinson’s droppings. Alban and Alan, who were mad about racing and had surreptitious bets most days, took to looking in with a packet of Polos after the Fox closed in the afternoon, and after a good win at Stratford bought Mrs Wilkinson a smart new head collar and grooming kit. Chris and Chrissie were so delighted by Mrs Wilkinson’s continued devotion to bread and butter pudding that they put a tin on the bar entitled ‘Mrs Wilkinson’s Fund’.
Even the Cunliffes contributed their old wheelbarrow, after the Major gave Debbie a smart new one for Christmas. And Toby and Phoebe gave her a salt lick as a late birthday present.
‘Make her drink more, not something that’s needed in your case,’ mocked Shagger.
Most excited of all was Dora, when she popped in in late January.
‘Mrs Wilkinson’s got a long back and she’s long over the loins, great for a jumper,’ she cried in ecstasy. ‘You may have a serious horse here.’
Gradually Mrs Wilkinson recovered, her dull brown coat turned a glossy steel grey and her confidence grew. Big ears waggling, she began greeting her regular visitors with delight, searching for treats in their pockets with her pale pink nose, gently nudging and head-butting, or laying her head on their shoulders and going to sleep.
To Joey’s horror, Woody sawed in half the oak door leading to Mrs Wilkinson’s stable, so she could look out into Valent’s building site of a garden and see her admirers approaching.
‘That door was a beauty, Valent’ll do his nut.’
Etta pondered and pondered on what she could give Valent to repay him for his kindness. Miss Painswick, who was a great reader of The Times’s social pages, reminiscing about the Great and Good she’d met while working for Hengist Brett-Taylor, came rushing in on Valentine’s Day, brandishing a list of the day’s birthdays. It included a picture of Valent, who was sixty-six, and a little piece listing his achievements.
‘So he’s really called Valentine,’ sighed Etta. ‘How romantic.’
‘Why don’t you send him a Valentine email from Mrs Wilkinson?’
‘I expect he gets cards by the sackful,’ said Etta, but she drew a picture of Mrs Wilkinson asleep in her wood shavings and underneath wrote:
The rose is red, the violet’s blue,
I’m snug in bed, all thanks to you.
‘I’m going to buy him an almond tree,’ Etta told Miss Painswick, ‘which will flower and brighten the dark days of