and champagne, just a glass, and lots of interesting teas, which he and Romy had discovered on a visit to China. Then they wouldn’t have to provide people with lunch.
Determined to ensure a working funeral to launch his new career as a fundraiser, he had seized Sampson’s address book and files and bought a book of remembrance, so every celeb and captain of industry could sign their name and be tapped for donations or personal appearances later.
What a tragedy, observed Martin and Carrie, that Dad had bought a shredder advertised in the Daily Telegraph and spent so much time at the end destroying letters from illustrious mistresses and business acquaintances.
‘Family flowers only,’ said the announcement in both The Times and the Telegraph. Sampson would have been delighted that there were enough spring flowers to be found in the garden to decorate both the church and the house, so no one would have to fork out for florists.
‘Such a pity cow parsley isn’t out,’ sighed Romy, ‘so pretty and so cheap.’
The only thing Martin needed was for his literary brother-in-law Alan to dig out a few poems so they could get the service sheet printed, but he was still ostensibly interviewing monks up north.
‘I’m sure I saw him at Cheltenham on the news just now,’ said Romy beadily.
Once the children were in bed, Martin and Romy riffled through the albums to find a suitable photograph of Sampson to put on the service sheet.
‘What a handsome chap he was,’ sighed Romy. ‘And who’s that?’ She peered at a curling print. ‘My goodness, it’s you, Etta. You were glam in those days. I can’t believe it’s you. And who’s that gorgeous woman with Sampson? Heavens, it’s Blanche – wasn’t she lovely?’
‘Lovely now,’ said Martin warmly. ‘Blanche is an awfully sweet person, and quite inconsolable. I talked to her again today.’
At supper of chicken Marengo that had Carrie reaching for the salt and tabasco, Romy tried to shake Etta out of her blank-eyed grief.
‘You must talk to Mummy, she’s handled widowhood so splendidly. Mind you, she’s got so many friends who adore her and keep asking her to stay, she never has a moment to herself. Of course, she can’t get enough of Poppy and Drummond.’ Then, as Etta gave the rest of her chicken to Bartlett, ‘Are you taking anything in, Etta?’
‘Yes, you’re very kind,’ muttered Etta.
‘It’s good to talk,’ said Romy smugly.
‘Can you possibly wash a couple of white shirts for me, Mother?’ asked Carrie.
Romy was gratified to find a disc of ancient dog sick under the spare-room bed. Martin was gratified that in bed that night, at the prospect of never seeing his father again, he cried his eyes out and buried his face in his wife’s splendid breasts, which led to them having very noisy sex.
‘Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!’
Etta, in the next bedroom, put her pillow over her head. On the other side, Carrie’s rage redoubled that Alan still hadn’t arrived. She suspected he was at Cheltenham.
5
Blond, slight and delicate-featured, Alan Macbeth was a very good writer. He was also a drinker and gambler, whose thirst for winners was only equalled by his fondness for alcohol. Carrie, who liked to project an image of a two-career family, wanted Alan to write more successfully and constantly nagged him to work harder.
In fact Alan had spent a large proportion of his married life as a househusband, enabling his wife’s career to soar. Currently writing a book on depression, Alan most enjoyed carousing with his friends and chatting up the crumpet outside the school gates so assiduously that he had been nicknamed ‘Mother Fucker’.
Those blond, delicate looks, soft voice and languid manner misled women and more often their husbands into thinking that Alan was gay. Women felt safe with him, until it was too late.
‘Being married to a workaholic,’ Alan was fond of saying, ‘gives you a lot of days off.’
Despite leaving him so frequently to his own devices, Carrie had inherited her father’s insanely jealous nature and kept her husband very short.
Alan’s arrival at Bluebell Hill the following afternoon coincided with the end of the Cheltenham Festival. Having had a good win on the Gold Cup, he brought for Etta, to whom he was devoted, a tube of Berocca, a bottle of vodka, a huge bunch of freesias and a white cashmere scarf to relieve the black of her funeral outfit.
‘Poor old darling,’ he said, hugging her.
‘I can’t get used to the quiet and him not calling for me,’ mumbled Etta.