Wilkinson kept up her desperate whinnying. The first time, three days later, she was taken out for a little gentle exercise, she bucked Rafiq off and clattered down the drive, reins and stirrups flying, back to Little Hollow, neighing her head off at the gate like Beau Regard.
A demented Etta rang up Tommy to alert her as to Mrs Wilkinson’s whereabouts.
‘Oh thank God,’ cried Tommy, ‘Rafiq was so worried. It’ll be a wonderful birthday present for him that she’s safe.’
Leading Mrs Wilkinson back to Throstledown and feeling like a traitor, Etta kept up a stream of apologies.
‘I’ve got to tough it out, Wilkie darling, because you’re not mine any more to do what I want with. I can’t give the syndicate back all their money.’ Most of hers had been handed over to Martin and Carrie to pay for Little Hollow.
Rafiq came down Marius’s drive to meet her.
‘She’ll settle soon,’ he said.
Thrusting Mrs Wilkinson’s reins into his hands, Etta fled down the drive, hands over her ears to blot out any more frantic whinnying.
‘Poor darling, I can’t do this to her. If only I wasn’t too old to sell my body.’
Back at Little Hollow, she spent the afternoon cooking, but before picking the children up from school she drove back to Throstledown, parking halfway down the drive. Crawling into the yard on her hands and knees so Mrs Wilkinson wouldn’t see her, she bumped slap into Rafiq’s ragged-jeaned legs.
Rafiq was not in carnival mood, having just suffered the racing yard’s birthday rituals of being chucked on the muck heap and drenched with a bucket of water. Nor did his temper improve when Etta thrust a white cardboard box at him, and whispered:
‘Happy birthday.’ Then, when he looked suspicious, she blurted out, ‘It’s not a bomb,’ at which Rafiq’s face darkened and his eyes blazed.
‘Sorry,’ jabbered Etta, ‘such a stupid thing to say. It’s a present actually.’
For a second she thought Rafiq was going to bolt, then he took the box, cautiously opened it and smiled broadly.
‘What a beautiful cake, thank you, thank you.’
‘I only put on one candle, it’s a bit twee, because I didn’t know how old you were.’
‘And you spelt Rafiq right. Thank you.’
‘Thank you for looking after Mrs Wilkinson.’ Etta winced as another despairing whinny rent the air.
‘I look after her. Once she settle, you can visit her more times.’ The pathetic cries followed her down the drive.
‘How is she?’ asked the builders, going home after at last starting work on Valent’s study.
Etta still couldn’t relax. She had given supper to Drummond and Poppy, who was gratifyingly upset at Mrs Wilkinson’s departure, and had them in their pyjamas at Harvest Home by the time their mother came home.
‘How’s Mrs Wilkinson getting on? Has she won the Derby yet?’ mocked Romy.
Etta wanted to punch her.
Poor Mrs Wilkinson, but at least she had Chisolm for company. Etta’s other concern was Seth Bainton, all on his own. I do hope he’s eating enough, thought Etta for the hundredth time.
There was nothing on telly on a Tuesday. The only way to assuage acute unhappiness was to do a good deed for another person, reasoned Etta.
After a quick bath, she splashed on the last drops of For Her and applied some make-up. Then, putting half the flapjacks she’d made for Valent’s builders in a tin, she set out for the Old Rectory.
The sun had left an orange glow along the horizon. The old house was smothered in yellow roses and honeysuckle growing up to the roof, entwining the gutter, clawing at the windows. Shaking uncontrollably, Etta rang the bell. Relieved there was no answer, she was about to dump the tin and run when Seth’s head appeared through the shaggy creepers out of an upstairs window.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said in gratifying relief, ‘I’ll come down.’
Answering the door clutching a large whisky, he immediately poured one for Etta. She was too embarrassed to say she never drank the stuff.
‘I thought you were another casserole,’ he said. ‘Talk about ignorant armies clashing by night.’
He led her into an incredibly messy drawing room, lifted a pile of scripts off one end of the sofa and chucked them on the floor for Etta to sit down.
Priceless the greyhound, inhabiting the remaining part of the sofa, gave her a toothy smile and flicked the white end of his tail in recognition. Etta yelped as her coccyx splintered something, but it was only a Bonio.
The room was more a shrine to Corinna than to Seth. Three portraits