pale green willow on an emerald green background.’ Etta was surprised by her own assertiveness. ‘It would suit Amber. I do hope Marius puts her up.’ Hark at herself, swinging into the jargon.
‘Rogue Rogers has lovely kingfisher-blue eyes,’ sighed Phoebe.
‘Rogue likes wearing silks with horizontal stripes to make his shoulders look bigger,’ said Trixie, ‘which wouldn’t work with our willow tree.’
‘Perhaps those clever children at your school could come up with a design,’ suggested Etta.
‘And you’ve forgotten your girlfriend’s glass, Shagger,’ said Alan pointedly, as he tipped the remains of his glass into Tilda’s. ‘We’re going to need more bottles, Chris,’ then, as Tilda threw him a smile of passionate gratitude, thought: she’d be pretty if she had those teeth fixed.
‘Our vicar,’ said Seth, who was admiring Trixie’s legs, ‘must come along whenever Mrs Wilkinson runs to administer the last rites.’ Then, seeing the horror on Etta’s face: ‘And bless her and pray for her safe return.’
‘I do hope she isn’t homesick,’ sighed Etta. ‘It’s like sending her off to boarding school with name tapes, a trunk and a fruit cake.’
‘And costs about the same,’ said Seth, then he put a hand on Etta’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’
Etta looked round the group who were all smiling sympathetically at her, and thought, nothing can go wrong for Mrs Wilkinson with all these sweet people rooting for her.
After the meeting dispersed, Alan and Seth, who were friends, both married to powerful women and led each other astray, stayed behind in the pub to get tanked up and discuss a trip to York.
Alan confessed the biography of Walter Scott he longed to write was hardly started. ‘I can’t get stuck into it. Walter wrote frantically to the end of his life to pay off debts incurred by his partner in a publishing firm. I identify with that aspect of his character. But I’m still wrestling with this bloody book on depression and really I need go no further than Willowwood.
‘I’m depressed about being Mr Carrie Bancroft. You’re pissed off playing second fiddle to Corinna. Alban’s about to slit his wrists missing whisky and the kudos of the embassy. Etta’s terrorized by ghastly Martin and my wife, missing her old house and her dog and, from next week, Mrs Wilkinson. Tilda’s gagging for a husband. Shagger’s a bastard to her, hardly surprising bearing in mind his hopeless passion for Toby. Painswick’s eating her heart out for Hengist. Niall’s terrified of being outed, and demoralized by his empty church. Chris and Chrissie can’t have children, unlikely when they’re working and drinking themselves insensible. There’s something wistful about the divine Woody. Joey seems pretty happy. Mop Idol’s frantically worried about money. Pocock is a poor widower, gagging for a shag. Poor Marius, with Olivia buggering off, is the saddest of them all, poor boy, and that stormy Rafiq’s obviously got a few problems. Hey presto, I can interview them all for my book on trips to the races.’
‘Trixie seems fine,’ said Seth idly.
‘She’d be better if her mother took a bit of notice of her,’ said Alan bitterly.
‘She’s utterly faint-makingly gorgeous, she’s just got to wait for things to happen to her,’ said Seth.
Outside, the constellation Pegasus galloped over Throstledown. Poor gorgeous Seth, on his own until Corinna gets back, thought the female members of the syndicate as they rustled home through the first fallen leaves, all alone in that big house.
45
Two weeks later Mrs Wilkinson moved to Throstledown, along with her football and ten pages of notes listing her likes – being sung to, Beethoven, Sir Walter Scott and bread and butter pudding – and her phobias, which included men with loud voices, pitchforks and shovels, cars backing towards her and people approaching unannounced on her blind side. Marius promptly tore up the notes and Tommy pieced them together again when he wasn’t looking.
‘Christ, it’s a Shetland,’ sneered Michelle, which didn’t endear her to Etta.
Marius then put Mrs Wilkinson into an isolation box thirty yards from the other boxes, so any infections or viruses could be identified. This return to a racing yard, evoking all the horrors of a former life, totally traumatized Mrs Wilkinson. Trembling violently, hurling herself against the walls, she refused to eat, pacing her box at one moment, standing in the corner, her head drooping, the next, as she cried and cried for Etta and Chisolm.
Even when Marius relented and allowed Chisolm, who’d been driving Etta and Valent’s builders equally crackers with her pathetic bleating, to move in, Mrs