Jump! Page 7

  Willowwood was such a lovely village that its inhabitants were as appalled by Etta’s bungalow as Etta herself.

  How the hell had Martin Bancroft got planning permission?

  People were entirely sympathetic towards Valent Edwards, who must have planted the mature conifer hedge so the lovely grey eyes of Bonny Richards didn’t have to gaze on such a monstrosity.

  On the Monday after Etta arrived, Romy and Martin set off on a fundraising course on how to entrap celebrities, leaving her in charge of Drummond and Poppy. Etta promptly goofed by putting chocolate, crisps and ham sandwiches made with white bread in Drummond’s lunch box, which turned him into more of a fiend than ever.

  Returning to the barn after school, Drummond had complained he’d seen a big rat in the potting shed, locked Etta in when she went to investigate, ate a box of chocolates she’d been sent as a moving-in present, and became so hyper he beat up his sister for letting Etta out.

  Returning to screaming chaos, Romy ticked Etta off roundly. Poppy then announced that Granny was going to get a puppy.

  ‘You are not getting a puppy, Mother,’ exploded Romy. ‘It would chew up everything and dirty our lovely barn. Drummond is allergic to dogs. And frankly, Etta, aren’t you a little too old? It’s rather selfish to take on a puppy that might outlive you. You’ll be kept quite busy enough getting to know your grandchildren.’

  The following morning, returning to the bungalow having dropped off Drummond and Poppy at their school, Etta began worrying about what she could give them for tea without poisoning them. And how the hell could she find a home for the towers of books on the floor, the clothes on her bed and the pictures propped against the walls before Romy bagged them for the Willowwood Autumn Fayre?

  Her despondency was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  Outside were a jaunty chocolate Labrador with a bunch of yellow roses in his mouth, and a very pretty teenager with a round pink face, blonde hair drawn back in a ponytail, large suspicious pale turquoise eyes fringed by thick blonde lashes, a tiny nose and a full, sweet but determined mouth. She was wearing a dark blue man’s sweater, which hung to the knees of her ripped jeans. Not as tall but older than Trixie, Etta thought, putting her at fifteen.

  Her manner was formal, her voice piercing, as she announced: ‘Welcome to Willowwood, Mrs Bancroft. My name is Dora Belvedon. This is Cadbury who has brought you some flowers.’

  But as the beaming Labrador proffered a fat paw, he reminded Etta so much of Bartlett’s last moment that she burst into tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ cried Dora, ‘you poor thing. After death and divorce they say moving house is the most stressful experience and you’ve had both.’

  Ushering Etta back into the bungalow, Dora handed her a piece of kitchen roll and made her a cup of coffee into which she tipped a large slug of Alan’s brandy, as Etta explained about Bartlett.

  ‘I miss her so much, she gave a paw like Cadbury. I wanted to get a puppy. There must be such lovely walks round here, but my grandson Drummond is allergic to dogs.’

  Forbearing to say that most of Willowwood was allergic to Drummond, Dora said Etta could walk Cadbury whenever she wanted.

  ‘Why don’t you come for a walk with us now to cheer you up? I’ll tell you who everyone is.’ Then, looking at the clock: ‘It’s at least an hour and a half before you pick up your grandchildren from school. You don’t really need a coat,’ Dora helped a submissive Etta into a Barbour and wrapped a blue and white striped scarf round her neck, ‘but people feel the cold at times of stress.’

  ‘You are kind. Where d’you live?’ asked Etta.

  ‘I’m staying with Joyce Painswick,’ said Dora. ‘She was school secretary at Bagley Hall, where Trixie your granddaughter and I go, but she’s recently retired to Ivy Cottage, just up the road. Perhaps you could go to the cinema together. She seems a dragon but she’s got a heart of gold. I can’t live at home at the moment. My mother’s very high maintenance and is on the hunt for a new backer.’

  Rather like Blanche, thought Etta with a shiver.

  Crossing the wooden bridge over the rushing stream, on reaching the road Dora turned right towards the village. Parked all along the verge were vehicles whose owners were working on Badger’s Court. Two lorries had stopped outside the gates for a gossip, blocking the road to the fury of a stout bald man with a bristling moustache who was driving a very clean Rover.

  When hysterical tooting failed, he leapt out and started shouting, only pausing to shake his fist at Cadbury, who was lifting his leg on a sign saying ‘Valent Edwards apologizes for any inconvenience caused during construction’.

  Dora giggled and ushered Etta past the furore. ‘That’s Major Cunliffe who lives in the village. A recently retired bank manager who’s got himself on every committee. He’s known as Nosy Parking because he’s always making a fuss about cars parking in front of his gates or sticking out two inches into the high street.

  ‘Now Badger’s Court,’ Dora tucked her arm through Etta’s, ‘has been bought by Valent Edwards, Mr Attractive and Affordable. That stands for the cheap but nice-looking houses he sells in their millions to first-time buyers. He keeps inventing things. He’s working on a new fuel to replace gas and electricity and something else to abolish waste. He’s got a company called Small Print, which explains contracts and things far quicker and cheaper than any lawyer, and another one setting up care homes with people “of one’s own class”, as my mother would say. His wife died in the Cotchester train crash three years ago, but he’s just shacked up with Bonny Richards who’s half his age so all the men are drooling.

  ‘You’ll notice not a blade of grass on the verge, because of locals climbing up to gawp over the wall. Valent’s arrival has caused intense excitement in Willowwood.’

  As Dora and Etta peered in through the vast heraldic gates, the big house seemed to gaze out over the rubble with an air of expectancy, awaiting her new owners.

  ‘Cadbury adores the workmen.’ Dora let the dog off his lead so he went bounding towards the house. ‘We can retrieve him and have a good snoop. Valent’s putting in a heated swimming pool here, a tennis court, a gym and solarium, an underground cinema and a little theatre where Bonny can strut her stuff. Valent’s office in the old cockpit will be amazing, according to Joey East. Joey’s wonderful, I’ll introduce you, he can put his hand on anything – plumbers, sweeps, electricians, stone wallers – and do most of it himself. He’s just landed this plum job masterminding the complete gutting and rebuilding of Badger’s Court, which is a good thing as he has four children and he gambles.’

  Although there was no one in earshot, Dora lowered her voice dramatically, adding a wonderful air of mystery and conspiracy, then crying, ‘Cadbury, Cadbury,’ as she followed the dog over mountains of rubble, round piles of sand and craters full of black water.

  ‘Valent’s so mad for Bonny to move in, he’d buy her anything, even her own production company to make films for her to star in.’

  ‘Have you met her?’ asked a panting, fascinated Etta.

  ‘No – but Joey tipped me off last time she came down, so I climbed up that,’ Dora pointed to an ancient walnut tree, ‘and had a watch.

  ‘Bonny’s a bit subtle and still waters: crisp white shirts and grey linen trouser suits. It’s difficult to have a shag round here, you’d get rubble trouble, but she and Valent disappeared for yonks into an upstairs room, so I don’t think it’s platonic, and Bonny’s shirt didn’t look crisp and white when she came out.’

  ‘You do know a lot,’ said Etta in awe.

  ‘My mother’s stingy about pocket money so I tip off the press from time to time. They’re obsessed with Bonny Richards.

  ‘There’s so much rubble and bashing down of buildings in Willowwood,’ sighed Dora, ‘that if the Martians landed they’d probably think they were in the middle of a war. Now this little house on the left,’ she added as they moved on, ‘is Ivy Cottage, where I’m staying with Miss Painswick. And this house
, Catkin Cottage, belongs to Old Mrs Malmesbury, who keeps geese.

  ‘And this lovely but somewhat decrepit house,’ went on Dora as the road curved round to the right towards the top of the village, ‘is inappropriately called the Old Rectory and belongs to Corinna Waters and Seth Bainton. You can only see the very top windows like eyes looking out over the trees, so people can’t tell how badly they’re behaving.’

  ‘Not the Corinna Waters?’ squeaked Etta in excitement. ‘She’s marvellous. I loved her in The Cherry Orchard, and she and Seth were wonderful in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Seth was so sexy as Valmont.’

  ‘You’re quite a groupie, Mrs Bancroft,’ said Dora approvingly.

  ‘My son Martin and his wife are on a course, among other things, to get celebrities involved in raising money for charity,’ explained Etta. ‘Do you think Corinna, Seth and Bonny might …’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Dora shook her head until her ponytail whacked her ears. ‘The only charity Corinna and Seth would subscribe to is themselves.

  ‘They come here to relax from prying eyes, or pretend they do. Corinna gets cross if she isn’t recognized. Seth is seriously naughty. Corinna likes the privacy to sunbathe in the nude – body’s a bit past its best, think she’s about ten or fifteen years older than Seth. Major Cunliffe, the one leaning on his horn just now, pretends to be birdwatching, but he’s looking through his binoculars at Corinna. You can see the Cunliffes’ garden from here, blazing with colour on the other side of the village green.

  ‘I wouldn’t think,’ mused Dora, ‘that there’s a huge amount of love lost between Bonny Richards and Corinna. Both regard themselves as serious actresses, although everyone, including my mother, wants to get off with Valent Edwards. I don’t know why, he’s quite rude and seriously old, at least sixty-five.

  ‘Seth Bainton is well fit for an older man,’ acknowledged Dora. ‘He’s a great friend of your son-in-law Alan, Mrs Bancroft. I think he and Corinna are a bit into wife-swapping, or partner-swapping as they’re not married. Seth is known as Mr Bulging Crotchester,’ giggled Dora as they set off up the road, ‘and he’s mad about your granddaughter Trixie, but then all the men are. She’s the hottest girl at Bagley Hall except for my friend Bianca Campbell-Black.’

  ‘Rupert’s daughter?’ sighed Etta. ‘Rupert really is gorgeous.’

  ‘My mother adores Rupert too, even though he’s extremely rude to her, sensible man. She doesn’t approve of Seth Bainton but she fancies him rotten. Seth has an excellent greyhound called Priceless, who he refuses to castrate so he’s always jumping on other people’s dogs and crapping in the high street. Debbie Cunliffe, she’s the bossyboots with the brilliantly coloured garden, married to the major, would like both Seth and Priceless castrated. She organized a meeting recently to discuss ways Willowwood could be improved. Seth suggested a casino, a betting shop, a massage parlour, and Debbie and the Major going back to Surrey. Debbie was furious.’

  ‘Seth’s awfully attractive,’ said Etta, accepting a toffee from Dora, hoping it wouldn’t pull her bridge out.

  Reaching the top of the village, they passed a lovely eighteenth-century house covered in scaffolding, iron bars and platforms on all levels.

  ‘Awful,’ spluttered Dora. ‘Like some woman with curlers, braces on her teeth and having every inch of her body lifted. This house, believe it or not, was called Primrose Cottage. It’s been bought by a dreadful porn billionaire called Lester Bolton, known as Bolton Wandering because he’s such a groper. He paid two mil for Primrose Cottage, has renamed it Primrose Mansions, and is chucking another four mil at it, and not moving in for a year or two either. He can’t cock it up too much because English Heritage is breathing down his neck.’

  Etta couldn’t stop laughing and patting Cadbury.

  ‘Bolton,’ went on Dora, ‘has a child-bride second wife called Cindy, the most frightful giggling chav who calls herself an actress and stars in all his porn films.’

  12

  After providing and receiving so much information, Dora and Etta had a rest on a bench on the edge of the village green, admiring the houses clustering around it. ‘Such a sweet village,’ cried Etta, then, catching sight of the church clock rising above the ring of golding willows: ‘I mustn’t be late.’

  ‘You’ve got at least forty minutes.’

  But Etta had been distracted by the most beautiful Elizabethan house. Set back from the village green, it peered out of narrowed windows, was partly hidden by venerable trees and had a magic garden, all soft colours merging like a rainbow. How could anyone get delphiniums flowering in October and such a pastel profusion of roses?

  ‘Willowwood Hall,’ explained Dora. ‘Alban and Ione Travis-Lock live there. They’ve just come back from some Arab country where Alban was ambassador, with masses of servants and body-guards following his every movement. He’s seriously clever and speaks loads of languages. But the moment he retired, there wasn’t even a car to meet him at Heathrow. So unkind.

  ‘Everyone kowtows to his wife Ione, because she was a Framlingham before she married. Framlinghams have lived in Willowwood Hall for ever. Ione looks like one of Auden’s Dowagers with Roman noses. Oh look, there she blows.’ Dora leapt behind a telephone box that said ‘no coins allowed’ as a terrifying woman, not unlike the witch in The Wizard of Oz, hurtled past on a bicycle. ‘That’s Ione off to set up her stall outside Tesco’s and bellow at customers for not recycling their packaging. She’s terribly Green. Alban, her husband, will be straight into the pub to have a large whisky and a bet.

  ‘Oh, look again!’ Dora grabbed Cadbury as horses came clattering by, doing road work for the coming season. ‘That’s Sir Cuthbert, the oldest horse in the yard, and History Painting, the yard star, and Stop Preston, who’s seriously naughty, and Oh My Goodness, isn’t that a cool name? She’s the one showing a lot of white eye, making her look permanently surprised.’ Dora beamed and waved at all the riders.

  ‘They’re Marius Oakridge’s horses,’ she went on. ‘His yard’s that way.’ She pointed south. ‘Ralph Harvey-Holden’s to the north and twenty miles up the road is Rupert Campbell-Black’s yard at Penscombe.’

  ‘How thrilling,’ said Etta, then, terrified of being late: ‘I must go.’

  ‘We’ve got half an hour,’ said Dora airily. ‘Since Alban Travis-Lock retired Ione has returned to reclaim her rightful place as lady of the manor, but she’s got competition from pretenders like Debbie Cunliffe and Romy Bancroft, who is another cow and so smug. Romy insisted on doing the flowers last Easter and brought branches of may blossom into the church. Ione nearly had a heart attack – may’s so unlucky. Romy doesn’t know anything about the country,’ went on Dora furiously. ‘Oh whoops. So sorry, Mrs Bancroft, I quite forgot Romy was your daughter-in-law. She’s seriously beautiful and a much better mother than mine will ever be.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Etta was ashamed at how enormously comforted she felt.

  ‘Trixie’s great, as I’ve said,’ Dora went on hastily. ‘And Alan, your son-in-law, is really nice, he bought me a gin and tonic in the pub last week and a packet of pork scratchings for Cadbury. He’s always buying rounds. He’s really popular and a very good journalist when he writes. I’m going to be a journalist when I leave school.’

  ‘And be a wonderful one,’ said Etta warmly. Moving down the village green they reached a sweet little house covered in red vine with a lovely but untended garden.

  ‘That’s Wild Rose Cottage,’ said Dora. ‘Toby and Phoebe Weatherall live there at weekends. Toby’s Ione Travis-Lock’s nephew. He earns quite a lot in the City working for your daughter Carrie.’

  ‘Really?’ squeaked Etta. ‘Does he like her?’

  ‘I think he’s a bit scared of her. He’s rather a wimp.’

  As they passed a duck pond on the right, with Cadbury straining on his lead to put up the ducks, Dora hissed: ‘Quick, put on a pair of dark glasses,’ as they reached a square house with a front garden crammed with fran
tically clashing dahlias and chrysanthemums. ‘This is Debbie Cunliffe’s splash of colour. She’s always having rows with Ione Travis-Lock, who thinks Debbie’s flower arrangements in the church are too gaudy.

  ‘Her husband, the Nosy Parking Major, is always bellyaching about people driving or riding too fast through Willowwood – all jockeys drive too fast and overtake on the inside. Debbie is frightfully tactless, she’s known as Direct Debbie. Their house is called Cobblers, says it all really.’ Dora grinned.

  ‘Now this pretty hideous modern house next door belongs to Joey East, Valent’s site manager, I told you about him. Joey built it himself,’ confided Dora, ‘and got away with murder because he knows all the planners, so he didn’t have to bribe anyone. The Major and Debbie loathe having Joey next door because of the loud music and his four children bouncing around on the trampoline.

  ‘The only other ugly house in the heart of the village is built straight on to the high street opposite the pub.’ Dora lowered her voice. ‘Niall Forbes, the vicar, lives in it. Seth and Corinna riot around in the Old Rectory and Niall – who’s as gay as a daffodil, incidentally – is fobbed off with the New Rectory, a horror with no front garden so everyone can peer in to see what he’s up to.

  ‘Next time I’ll include a tour of the high street, the church and the school, and tell you the legend of Willowwood. It’s so romantic,’ promised Dora.

  In the distance Etta could hear children shouting in the school playground and disloyally wondered who Drummond was murdering. They had walked almost in a circle to reach fields stretching away on the eastern side of the village. Above woods of willows flowing down to the river stood two imposing but adjacent barns, Harvest Home and Russet House.

  ‘You don’t need to be told anything about the people who live there,’ said Dora, ‘although I’ve probably said far too much about Romy.’