was more likely later to sell him Mrs Wilkinson. He had therefore instructed his friend Marti Gluckstein QC, who’d got him out of numerous scrapes over the years, to look after Etta.
Willowwood, devastated at the prospect of losing Mrs Wilkinson, also vowed to chip in if Etta needed help. A shell-shocked Etta was overwhelmed with gratitude but she knew that honour demanded she pay back her benefactors.
38
The court case opened at Larkminster Magistrates’ Court, during a heatwave on a Tuesday in late June. Etta, Alan, Alban, the Major, Debbie and Painswick, whispering as though they were in church, sat in a waiting room flipping through old magazines. Painswick was excited to find a picture of Valent and Bonny Richards in Hello!
‘He’ll be moving in soon. Surely they ought to be working on Badger’s Court,’ observed Debbie, nodding disapprovingly through the window at a smoking Joey and Woody. Alan should have been working too, but as no one could be more depressed than Etta, he could justify this as research.
Miss Painswick had now discovered a glamorous picture of Seth and Corinna, who were also rumoured to be returning to Willowwood in a week or two. Pocock, who did their garden as well as Ione’s, hadn’t therefore felt justified in taking the day off. The vicar had.
‘Surely he ought to be visiting the sick,’ chuntered Debbie.
Tilda was heartbroken not to be present but couldn’t desert her children. She had, however, instructed her class to draw a poster of a grey horse appearing through willows, with a large caption, ‘Mrs Wilkinson belongs to Willowwood’. Joey and Woody, alerted by Dora, were brandishing it for the press outside the court. Shagger, Toby and Phoebe, who’d sent a good luck card, were all in London.
Etta, who was valiantly trying to be cheerful, had thanked everyone a hundred times. She sat mindlessly gazing at a sign which said ‘Usher’, beneath which were three yellow arrows pointing downwards as if he’d passed out on the carpet. The receptionist, who’d kicked off her shoes, Alan noticed, had nice ankles.
Small claims courts are usually presided over by a magistrate, but in more complicated cases a judge is called in. On this occasion, Judge Stanford Wilkes, a sometime barrister who would understand the complications, sat in the courtroom at one end of a long table, surrounded by books and files, making notes with a green malachite fountain pen. The judge had small but amused eyes, thick grey hair with a five-eighths parting, and a grey and black beard and moustache which emphasized a kind, firm mouth.
‘Rather attractive,’ murmured Etta, feeling slightly comforted as they filed into court.
‘Wearing a wedding ring,’ murmured back Painswick, wondering if she would be too much like a tricoteuse if she got out her knitting.
‘Think we can take our jackets off?’ asked a sweating Major. ‘The court is very small for so many people.’
‘That’s why it’s a small claims court,’ said Alan.
Bright blue curtains blended into the cloudless blue outside. On the white wall was a very dull etching of Regent Street, Swindon, and a surprisingly undull print of lots of naked nymphs and warriors in helmets enjoying an orgy.
‘Looks like one of Seth and Corinna’s parties,’ whispered Alan.
On the judge’s right was Marti Gluckstein, who looked like a leather eagle, watching everything, poised to swoop on any lapse. Next to him sat Etta, gazing at the photograph of Mrs Wilkinson lying entwined with Chisolm, which Dora had put on her mobile. After today, would she be gone? She must not cry.
Yesterday, when it had been chilly, Dora and Trixie had frog-marched her into Larkminster to buy a periwinkle-blue cotton jersey suit.
‘I can’t afford it,’ Etta had protested.
‘If you’re going to be broke,’ said Dora, ‘you might as well be really broke.’
‘And if you look pretty, the judge will rule in your favour,’ said Trixie.
Alas, today the cotton jersey was too hot. Etta rammed her arms together to cover the damp patches. Unable to sleep last night, she had got up and found Mrs Wilkinson lying down in the orchard and, sitting on her plump grey quarters, had chatted to her and Chisolm as the sun rose, praying that they’d still be together in the evening.
She was unable to look Harvey-Holden in the eye in case he had really done those terrible things to Mrs Wilkinson. In a sharp new cream suit, he was reading about his proposed new super-yard in Horse and Hound, but his hands clenched and unclenched on the magazine.