think we’ll have a lot of fun with Mrs Wilkinson,’ and he planted a kiss only half a centimetre off her mouth, which was half open in surprise.
‘I’m pleased too,’ she stammered and scuttled into the house.
‘How can we possibly afford another horse,’ cried a despairing Mop Idol, when a drunk Joey finally got home, ‘with four children to feed and little Wayne’s christening to pay for? I can’t clean any more houses in Willowwood.’
Little Wayne’s christening took place the following Saturday afternoon at the parish church, with the ceremonious planting of a willow in the churchyard afterwards to mark the birth of a son. Lots of Ione’s compost was used to bed the tree in. Niall was thrilled for once to have a full church. Sir Francis Framlingham’s effigy in the church was garlanded with roses, a white ribbon was tied round the neck of the little whippet at his feet, and lilies and willow fronds placed on Beau Regard and Gwendolyn’s joint grave.
Tilda’s children, who had sung charmingly in church, now accompanied by their parents and other villagers, gathered round to watch the tree ceremony, performed by Ione Travis-Lock, before singing a final hymn and repairing for tea in the village hall.
Alas, Alban had had a hellish morning. In the post he had received a letter turning him down for yet another New Labour quango. He would therefore not be paid £250,000 a year to decide over the next two years whether a lack of playing fields leads to obesity in children.
As a result, he had been getting tanked up in the Fox, ending up putting a full glass to his cheek, so red wine spilled all over his check shirt. When he fell off the bar stool, comely Chrissie, in a miniskirt, low-cut T-shirt and pink boots, offered to help him back across the green, through the churchyard and in via the side door of Willowwood Hall. Unfortunately she had forgotten about the planting of the willow.
In the middle of ‘Gentle Jesus meek and mild,’ Alban tottered into view. ‘Q-U-N-G-O, Q-U-N-G-O, Q-U-N-G-O,’ he sang, ‘and his name was QUANGO, but it’s not quango for Alban,’ and he collapsed on top of Chrissie, rucking up her miniskirt to reveal a leopard-print thong between plump white buttocks. As they writhed around between the gravestones, grief and rage twisted Ione Travis-Lock’s face. She had seen this all before. Throwing down the spade, she hurdled over the gravestones, roaring, ‘Put my husband down,’ to Chrissie, and frogmarched Alban home.
Next day, he was shunted off to rehab and wouldn’t be joining any syndicate.
42
In late July, Etta and Alan – because he was a friend of Olivia’s – drove across the valley to meet Marius. It was a suffocatingly hot afternoon with fields yellowing and the ground cracking from lack of rain. Etta felt sick with apprehension. She was wearing a new off-white linen trouser suit, which Trixie had persuaded her to buy.
‘You’d better spend some of the money you’re going to get from Mrs Wilkinson, before Romy and Martin swipe the lot.’
As Alan drove past a sign saying ‘Horses’ and turned into Marius’s long drive, Etta hastily pulled down the mirror to check her face. ‘I don’t know how one should look as a prospective owner.’
‘Solvent and undemanding,’ replied Alan. ‘You look perfect.’
Since she’d met Seth, Etta had found herself taking more trouble with her appearance. She had lost five pounds, and Trixie had persuaded her to have her hair highlighted again and cut so it fell in soft tendrils over her forehead.
Etta tried not to talk about Seth all the time, but now found herself saying, ‘Such fun Seth’s joined the syndicate, Corinna must be quite a bit older than him.’
‘Lots, Seth’s a bit of a gerontophile,’ then glancing slyly at Etta, ‘so there’s hope for you, darling.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Etta went crimson and hastily changed the subject. ‘Oh, do look, there’s Willowwood from a completely different angle. There’s Badger’s Court and Wilkie and Chisolm under the trees, and Willowwood Hall, and the top of your barn. Thank goodness you can’t see Little Hollow for willows or Marius would reject us out of hand.’
Throstledown was a long, low eighteenth-century Cotswold house, tucked into the hillside with gallops soaring below it and fields, including an exercise ring, spreading over the valley down to the river. Looking across from Willowwood, you couldn’t see how run-down it was: tiles missing from the roof, drainpipes and gutters rusting, paint peeling on doors and window frames.