‘The vicar will be our fag ship, and bless your sweet horse. Alban’s a dote, vulnerable as a giraffe. I quite like the Major, but his wife’s a bossyboots.’
‘She made you a lovely Irish stew,’ said Etta reprovingly.
In agreement Priceless began chewing the wooden arm of the sofa.
‘So funny.’ Seth gave a shout of laughter. ‘You know how obsessed she is with dogs not crapping? Well, she’s now stuck up a large sign outside her garden saying “Please do not let your dog defect here”.’
‘Oh how lovely,’ giggled Etta. ‘Imagine all those illegal immigrant dogs being turned away.’
‘Ione is a bossyboots too,’ went on Seth. ‘She was livid last year because Corinna told her trick-or-treating grand-children to fuck orf. She’s always bullying us to tidy up our garden. She must be going through the climate change of life.’
Etta found she was laughing all the time now.
Seth was wearing the same black jeans and black shirt over a pale grey T-shirt, which complemented his sensual, smiling, sun-tanned face and his dark, tousled hair, which was just silvering at the temples. She could listen to his deep voice for ever and watch that firm but full-lipped mouth moving. And he was so confiding and indiscreet and mimicked everyone brilliantly, and was so interested in Wilkie.
‘She always squeals when I use the dandy brush on her,’ confided Etta. ‘If only you could tell animals you haven’t deserted them for ever. That Tommy’s so sweet.’
‘Worth a whole tonful of bricks,’ said Seth. ‘Shall we heat up some of your daughter-in-law’s coq au vin?’
When they had, they agreed that Romy’s coq had definitely been cooked by William’s Kitchen.
Finally, when Etta reluctantly tore herself away, Seth and Priceless walked her home.
‘I’ll never get elected to the Parish Council if anyone spots us,’ said Seth, tucking his arm through hers.
Priceless, once outside, was galvanized from utter torpor, tossing his head back, beckoning them onwards, seizing Seth’s hand gently in his mouth to lead him on, then bouncing off, rustling maniacally through dry fallen leaves.
‘What a heavenly dog,’ sighed Etta.
‘Isn’t he?’ said Seth. ‘If occasionally I can’t get back from the theatre, do you think Trixie might walk him for me?’
‘I’m sure she would,’ said Etta. ‘She loves dogs, and if she can’t, I will.’
When they reached Etta’s door, Seth kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I feel I’ve made a really lovely new friend. Here’s to you and Mrs Wilkinson.’
46
Across the valley that evening, Tommy, who had risen at five thirty to start work at six, retired to the grooms’ quarters over the tack room, which she shared with Rafiq. They were very primitive, with no carpets, erratic hot water and windows which banged in the wind. Here they had a tiny bathroom, kitchen and sitting room, and separate bedrooms. Sometimes Rafiq sleepwalked and he would be found next morning asleep in the tack room or by the fountain. Alternatively Tommy was roused by his screaming as he was racked by nightmares. She longed to go in and comfort him, but he had a barbed-wire hauteur which deterred her.
Falling into bed around nine, Tommy was so tired that not even Mrs Wilkinson’s anguished hollering could keep her from sleep. But waking at midnight and rising to go to the loo, she found Rafiq’s door, which was always firmly shut, wide open. Oh God, was he sleepwalking again? Racing downstairs, out into the yard, she was amazed not to hear Mrs Wilkinson neighing.
She could see a light on in Collie’s house. She knew he was unable to support a wife and children on the pittance Marius paid him. He kept disappearing up the hill to get a signal on his mobile, probably fixing interviews. All the owners loved Collie. He was approachable and knew, and was prepared to discuss, their horses, and he kept peace and order in the yard.
If Collie went, would Marius give his head lad’s job to Michelle, who was such a bitch?
‘Move your fat arse,’ she’d shouted at Tommy that very evening.
But as Tommy lurked in the tack-room doorway, a figure, wafting scent and with red hair turned green by the moonlight, stole across the yard and let herself in through Marius’s kitchen door.
Oh God, thought Tommy, Michelle wouldn’t be up to the job, she didn’t really like or understand horses. And if Marius went broke, all the remaining horses would go, and poor Mrs Wilkinson and Furious would become victims of a broken home.