Jump!

by Jilly Cooper

  Martin swept Valent off for a drink at Harvest Home, giving him an uncharacteristically large brandy and proud to introduce Romy, his beautiful suntanned wife. He quickly briefed her on Etta’s transgression, with particular emphasis on the sullying of Dad’s duvet.

  ‘My only excuse,’ he turned to Valent, ‘is that Mother is like an old door, ha ha, unhinged by my father’s death. Dad kept Mother’s outlandish behaviour under control. She’s addicted to lame ducks – or rather horses,’ Martin crinkled his eyes, ‘in this case. Even worse, she’s involved my young niece Trixie in this deceit.’

  ‘The room is going to be gutted anyway.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I can’t apologize enough, Valent. We will of course pick up the bill for any damage. Mother is here to look after our children, not dead horses. I’m so sorry you lost your wife, Valent.’

  ‘I didn’t lose her,’ snapped Valent. ‘She was killed.’

  Not missing a beat, Martin launched into a pitch for the Sampson Bancroft Fund, during which a ping brought Valent a text message from Bonny.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was stressy, call me.’

  Mistressy, thought Valent, but felt happier.

  Romy meanwhile was studying Valent and decided that in a rough and ready way he was very attractive indeed. A determined chin, jawbones honed by chewing gum, nose broken by a punishing last-minute goal in a cup final, hard eyes the dark green of a Barbour, close-cropped hair more dark than grey, an athlete’s body that had thickened but not run to flab, and a tan even richer and darker than Martin’s. Here they were, major players, with their winter tans. Romy was going to enjoy working with Valent Edwards. She was sure he’d had a father or a grandfather who had died in pain. Badger’s Court would be ideal for functions. Willowwood Hall was obviously lost to compost.

  ‘I expect you knew my father, Sampson Bancroft,’ said Martin, pointing to the portrait.

  ‘I met him,’ replied Valent. An even more ruthless alpha male bully than himself, he remembered. He had disliked Sampson intensely. He disliked Martin even more – the pompous arse.

  ‘Thanks for the drink,’ he drained his brandy. Then, more to irritate Martin than anything else, he added, ‘You’ve talked me into it, the horse can stay for a bit.’

  Horrified, Martin stopped in his tracks.

  ‘No, no, the horse must go. Mother can’t afford to keep it anyway. You’re too kind, but we know that room’s due to be gutted. And you don’t want mountains of horse poo and late-night neighing.’

  ‘How’s Bonny?’ asked Romy, as she followed Valent to the front door, lingering under the hall light, so he could appreciate her eyes, even tan and lovely breasts. ‘I hope we’re going to have the pleasure and privilege of meeting her soon. I so admire her oeuvre.’

  Valent said nothing. He walked back up the lime avenue to Badger’s Court, crossed the grass, avoided falling down a badger sett and treading on the only snowdrops, to find Etta sobbing into Mrs Wilkinson’s shoulder.

  ‘We’ll save you, darling.’

  She jumped as Valent entered the room, frantically wiping tears from her cheekbones, her face red and blotchy like a bruised windfall. Mrs Wilkinson struggled to her feet and collapsed into the corner awaiting new torture, her panic-stricken eye darting round for escape. But as Valent moved forward and ran a big, name-braceleted hand over her shoulder, caressing it, she quivered for a moment and lay still.

  ‘There, there, good little girl,’ he murmured, kneeling down beside her. ‘You can keep her here for the time being,’ he said roughly, ‘until they start on this room, and when the weather picks up there’s an orchard behind the house with plenty of good grass.’ Then, as Etta mouthed in amazement and started to cry again, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, what’s the matter now?’

  ‘I’m not used to good luck,’ muttered Etta, ‘nor is she.’ Continuing to stroke the mare, Valent stopped Etta’s flood of thanks by asking why she was called Mrs Wilkinson.

  ‘There was an invitation on the mantelpiece, rather a smart one: “Mrs Hugo Wilkinson: At home. Drinks 6.30,” so we called her Mrs Wilkinson.’

  ‘Well, she is at home now,’ said Valent, giving her a last pat and getting to his feet. Then, with the first flicker of a smile lifting his face: ‘I’m so bluddy glad she wasn’t the ghost of Beau Regard.’

  28

  Martin and Romy were outraged Valent had given sanctuary to Mrs Wilkinson, but reluctant to antagonize a rich and powerful neighbour. They felt they could no longer force Etta to give her up.

  ‘How can you possibly afford to keep a horse, Mother? Who is going to pick up all the feed and vet’s bills?’

  Etta had been wondering the same thing. But quickly the village came to her rescue. Joey and Woody were so grateful to Etta for not shopping them to Valent that they offered free hay, feed and shavings until summer came. Jase pitched in, offering shoeing and to pick up any vet’s bills. (Charlie Radcliffe owed him.) Tilda the village schoolmistress, learning from Drummond about his grandmother’s poor horse, suggested the children make her a patchwork rug. Miss Painswick, the out-of-work dragon, grew devoted to the ‘dear little soul’ and popped in with carrots every day.

  Ione Travis-Lock, on her eco-warrior kick, aware that manure was a capital activator for compost, offered to pay for any of Mrs Wilkinson’s droppings. Alban and Alan, who were mad about racing and had surreptitious bets most days, took to looking in with a packet of Polos after the Fox closed in the afternoon, and after a good win at Stratford bought Mrs Wilkinson a smart new head collar and grooming kit. Chris and Chrissie were so delighted by Mrs Wilkinson’s continued devotion to bread and butter pudding that they put a tin on the bar entitled ‘Mrs Wilkinson’s Fund’.

  Even the Cunliffes contributed their old wheelbarrow, after the Major gave Debbie a smart new one for Christmas. And Toby and Phoebe gave her a salt lick as a late birthday present.

  ‘Make her drink more, not something that’s needed in your case,’ mocked Shagger.

  Most excited of all was Dora, when she popped in in late January.

  ‘Mrs Wilkinson’s got a long back and she’s long over the loins, great for a jumper,’ she cried in ecstasy. ‘You may have a serious horse here.’

  Gradually Mrs Wilkinson recovered, her dull brown coat turned a glossy steel grey and her confidence grew. Big ears waggling, she began greeting her regular visitors with delight, searching for treats in their pockets with her pale pink nose, gently nudging and head-butting, or laying her head on their shoulders and going to sleep.

  To Joey’s horror, Woody sawed in half the oak door leading to Mrs Wilkinson’s stable, so she could look out into Valent’s building site of a garden and see her admirers approaching.

  ‘That door was a beauty, Valent’ll do his nut.’

  Etta pondered and pondered on what she could give Valent to repay him for his kindness. Miss Painswick, who was a great reader of The Times’s social pages, reminiscing about the Great and Good she’d met while working for Hengist Brett-Taylor, came rushing in on Valentine’s Day, brandishing a list of the day’s birthdays. It included a picture of Valent, who was sixty-six, and a little piece listing his achievements.

  ‘So he’s really called Valentine,’ sighed Etta. ‘How romantic.’

  ‘Why don’t you send him a Valentine email from Mrs Wilkinson?’

  ‘I expect he gets cards by the sackful,’ said Etta, but she drew a picture of Mrs Wilkinson asleep in her wood shavings and underneath wrote:

  The rose is red, the violet’s blue,

  I’m snug in bed, all thanks to you.

  ‘I’m going to buy him an almond tree,’ Etta told Miss Painswick, ‘which will flower and brighten the dark days of winter. I’d like to create a rose and name it after him: dark red shot with black, with a heavenly smell.’

  ‘Steady on,’ reproved Miss Painswick.

  Speculation was endless about how Mrs Wilkinson had come to be so horrifically treated and what had actually happened to her.

 
One afternoon, when Dora was gossiping to Etta, Pocock rolled up to collect some manure for Mrs Travis-Lock’s garden, brandishing a shovel. Mrs Wilkinson, who’d been peering out nosily, screamed in panic, stood back on her hocks, cleared the half-door and shot across the grass over a six-foot hedge, just missing a pile of rubble on the other side. Only after careering round Badger’s Court, narrowly avoiding skips, JCBs and Portakabins, did she allow herself to be caught.

  ‘Blimey,’ Pocock whistled through his remaining teeth, ‘that is some horse.’

  ‘Isn’t she?’ beamed Dora. ‘And we must remember she doesn’t like shovels. We better start a syndicate: you, Mr Pocock, Jase, Joey, Woody, Etta and Painswick. She’ll need this year to get her strength back,’ she went on in excitement. ‘Then next spring she can go point-to-pointing. I’ll start taking her hunting in the autumn. I know you think hunting’s cruel,’ she added to Etta, who was comforting a shuddering Mrs Wilkinson, ‘but it’s very kind to horses. They love it and it’s the best way to get Mrs Wilkinson going. My pony, Loofah, used to blow out after a mile, but a season’s hunting got her fit. They don’t account for many foxes these days. The stupid bird of prey who’s supposed to finish off the fox was gobbled up by hounds the other day.

  ‘I’m going to be Mrs Wilkinson’s press officer,’ she added.

  As spring turned into summer, Charlie Radcliffe recommended Mrs Wilkinson be turned out for a few hours each day. ‘As long as she’s well rugged up, I’m a great believer in Dr Greengrass.’

  It wasn’t a success.

  ‘Dear little soul needs some company,’ Painswick confided to Dora as they watched Mrs Wilkinson shivering, despite the warmth of the day, magenta rug up to her ears, which twitched constantly, checking for danger, one eye rolling and searching for Etta. Eternally pacing, she walked off any weight gain as she wore down the perimeter of Valent’s orchard.

  ‘Etta doesn’t want to abuse Valent Edwards’s kindness.’

  ‘Hum,’ mused Dora, ‘we’ll see about that.’

  ‘How’s young Paris?’ asked Painswick fondly.

  ‘Awesome,’ sighed Dora. ‘He’s got a part in The Seagull in the summer holidays, and he’s bang in the middle of his ‘A’ levels. So am I, GCSEs actually, not that you’d know it. On top of this Paris is so cool, he passed his driving test first time before a history paper yesterday. As soon as exams are over, I’ll bring him to see you, Miss Painswick. D’you know we’ve been seeing each other for eighteen months?’ Dora added proudly.

  29

  Paris Alvaston thought it a measure of his great and abiding love for Dora Belvedon that he was driving his father’s illicitly borrowed Rover and towing his mother’s equally illicitly borrowed trailer down to Hampshire on the eve of a crucial Greek ‘A’ level in order to rescue a goat from a research laboratory.

  The moon was setting. The constellation Hercules, symbolizing resource and bravery, was straddling the heavens with his customary swagger. A heady scent of newly mown hay and honeysuckle wafted in through the open window. White flocks of daisies cowered on the verge as the trailer crashed from side to side in the narrow lanes as Paris, used to an automatic, ground the gears and tried to control the added weight behind him.

  Matters were not helped by guests driving home from dinner parties or the pub. A Mercedes which seemed to fill the road was on his tail now, shining powerful lights straight into his rear mirror.

  ‘The goats are being tortured in decompression experiments,’ Dora was telling him in her shrill and indignant voice. ‘They’re coaxed with food into a big steel chamber, then imprisoned for twenty-four hours to recreate the conditions on board a submarine.

  ‘Have you ever heard of anything crueller? Goats have the same sized lungs as humans. For really fat people, they test on poor pigs. The air pressure is decreased and quickly brought back to normal to simulate a quick escape from a submarine. This makes bubbles of air form throughout the body, causing brain damage and agonizing pain around the joints. Poor, poor goats, can you imagine anything worse than being trapped in an iron lung for twenty-four hours?’

  ‘Very easily,’ muttered Paris as the trailer lurched back and forth like a drunken hippo, just missing an approaching Bentley.

  ‘Shockingly, any findings have already been proved, and these experiments are just repeats. Enlightened countries like France now use computers, but the bloody MoD keep on testing.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up, Dora,’ hissed Paris, as Rover and trailer mounted the verge to let through a large lorry.

  ‘Only about ten miles to go.’ Dora examined the map with the torch she had borrowed from Etta. ‘The laboratory flanks the golf course and the goats are turned out in a little field. The Animal Rights people have been climbing over the fence throughout the week so the goats won’t be scared when we smuggle them out tonight.

  ‘Nuala, my contact, is so lovely, really slim and pretty with rhubarb-pink hair. She and her boyfriend have moved house to be nearer the laboratory so they can step up the campaign to stop the tests. The results were no use when the Brits were called in to help after some Russian submarine disaster. All the trapped sailors died anyway. Nuala’s got homes for eight of the goats, and I’ve offered another one.

  ‘How d’you know this friend of yours, Etta, will accept a goat?’

  ‘She’s got such a kind heart, she’d rescue an elephant. You’re driving beautifully. No wonder you passed first time.’

  Dora’s blonde curls and round pink face were concealed by a black balaclava. She loved adventures. Paris only just stopped her slapping a ‘www.thegoats.com This company sponsors torture’ sticker on the windscreen of the Rover.

  He ought to be back at school with a wet towel round his head, washing down uppers with black coffee and mugging up Homer. Paris had to get an ‘A’ in memory of his late classics master, Theo Graham, whom he had loved so much, who’d instilled in him a love of the ancient world and left him all his money. Places at Cambridge, Oxford and RADA were dependent on ‘A’ level grades.

  ‘You’ll walk it,’ said Dora.

  ‘Not if I end up in prison for goat-napping.’

  ‘Here’s the golf course,’ crowed Dora. ‘I’ve got a collar and lead for our goat. I’ll have a disc printed as soon as we get her back to Willowwood.’

  The volunteers, all slim, all dressed in black, their features hidden by balaclavas, welcomed them in lowered voices. Nuala, Dora’s friend, introduced them to the leader, Brunhilda, who had a very firm handshake and thanked them for coming.

  The moon had set, the car doors of the last departing golfer had slammed, the last light was off in the clubhouse. A dog barked. A van, filled with straw and food to entice the goats, had been parked under the trees on the fairway.

  ‘We’re aiming to rescue kids of about six months, who may not have been tested on yet,’ said Nuala, as she drove Paris and Dora over the golf course towards the field. ‘But we’ve all fallen in love with one older goat, a real character, much naughtier than the others. She keeps trying to eat our clothes and refuses to share apples with any of the other goats. I think she’d be the right sort to cheer up and protect your poor, nervous mare.’

  ‘We’ve got a collar and lead,’ whispered Dora. ‘She’ll have a lovely home. Etta, the mare’s owner, is bats about goats.’

  Arcturus, brightest star of the constellation of Bootes the Shepherd, shone down on them. Hercules brandished his sword and cudgel, egging them on. Dora, trying to still her chattering teeth, slid her hand into Paris’s, as under the trees on the fairway, eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, they watched Brunhilda run forward to get to work with her wire cutters.

  As half a dozen black-clad figures crept stealthily through the hole she’d made, a flock of goats like silver ghosts ran bleating excitedly towards them.

  ‘Aren’t they adorable?’ whispered Dora, wriggling through the hole, forgetting to be frightened.

  ‘This is Chisolm,’ whispered Nuala, ‘leading the
stampede.’

  Pure white Chisolm gleamed in the starlight like a unicorn. White-bearded, high as Paris’s waist, she accepted a Granny Smith and tried to eat Paris’s black sweatshirt as he buckled on her new blue collar and attached a lead.

  ‘Isn’t she good,’ sighed Dora, giving her a piece of melon as they led her towards the hole in the fence.

  ‘We’ll come and get you next time,’ she called back to the thirty-odd goats who’d been unlucky.

  ‘Not bloody likely.’ Paris jumped as an icy hand clawed his face, but it was only the wet leaves of an overhanging ash tree.

  ‘Couldn’t we take another?’ pleaded Dora. ‘I’m sure your mum …’

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ snarled Paris, who, having spent the first fifteen years of his life in a children’s home, had a profound distrust of the police and flinched every time he saw headlights on the road below. He was already drenched in sweat.

  ‘It’s so biblical,’ sighed Dora as they followed the other volunteers, one leading three little goats, the rest leading two. ‘And Chisolm already walks to heel.’

  Once out on the golf course, however, the goats, intoxicated by this brave new world, took off in all directions, tearing leaves off trees and hedges, not sharing any of the urgency of the volunteers who were risking prison to save them. The language was fruitier than over any missed drive or putt as the goats tugged their rescuers into bunkers and across fairways in the darkness.

  ‘Come back, you fucking animal,’ hissed Paris, falling down the ninth hole as Chisolm towed him across the green, rearing up on her hind legs and attacking a field maple. ‘Come bloody here, or you’ll be back in that compression chamber and we’ll be in the nick.’

  ‘We are not giving up,’ whispered Dora furiously. ‘And don’t swear at Chisolm or they won’t let us have her.’