Jump!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘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 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 of her, one, Etta recognized, by John Bratby, graced the walls, photographs of her and Seth in plays were everywhere, and Polaroids, from photographic sessions, adorned the mantelpiece. As in Marius’s house, every surface was covered by trophies, BAFTAs, Oliviers, even an Oscar.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Etta stroked Priceless, then to Seth, she added humbly, ‘I thought you might like something to snack on, and brought you some flapjacks.’

  ‘How brilliant.’ Seth opened the tin and took one out. He broke off half for Priceless. ‘God, these are wonderful. I’m rather over-casseroled. I am a casserole model,’ he grinned. ‘In fact a boeuf bourguignon was in collision with a coq au vin by the war memorial last night. Come and look.’

  He led her off to an even messier kitchen and opened the fridge. Inside were four full casserole dishes topped by cling-film.

  ‘Irish stew from Direct Debbie, Lancashire hot pot from Miss Painswick, shepherd’s pie from Mop Idol, coq au vin from your daughter-in-law, Romy, “by my own fair hand,” she said. Alan told me you did all her cooking for her.’

  Etta felt a surge of irritation. ‘I didn’t make that. She must have got it from William’s Kitchen.’

  Seth roared with laughter. ‘I’ll be too fat to play Trigorin soon. She’s very up herself, that Romy. Conversation always comes back to her: “That reminds me of a time when I …”’

  Etta tried not to laugh. He had caught Romy’s deep, patronizing tones to perfection.

  ‘Martin’s up himself too. I know he’s your son, but the first time I met him, not knowing they were married, I told him I wouldn’t mind giving Romy one. And he chortled himself insensible, then said, “Actually, old boy, I do that every night. I’m her husband.” Yuck, as the divine Trixie would say.’

  ‘Romy is very pretty,’ protested Etta.

  ‘Pretty ghastly. Priceless loves Direct Debbie’s Irish stew, but then he’s Irish.’

  As they wandered back, stepping over clothes and books, Etta noticed a copy of Antony and Cleopatra spine side up.

  ‘Bloody long part,’ sighed Seth.

  ‘Would you like me to hear your lines?’ Etta was shocked to hear herself asking.

  Seth grinned. ‘Romy, Direct Debbie, Ione and Phoebe (no casserole from her, you notice, the little sponger) have each offered an ear, but they’d all start questioning my interpretation and my pronunciation. I’d much rather you heard me. I’ll drop in if I may when I’m further down the line, or lines. After The Seagull Corinna’s touring in Macbeth – in America, thank God, as she always becomes the part she’s playing. I wish she was doing the Duchess of Malfi and I Bosola, so I could smother her,’ Seth half laughed.

  ‘You’ll adore Corinna,’ he went on in mitigation. ‘She’s very exacting, but she’s
fun and wonderful at pulling down the mighty from their country seats. She’ll annihilate Romy and Direct Debbie and she’ll be a riot on the syndicate bus.’

  ‘She was Sampson’s favourite actress,’ sighed Etta. ‘He’d have so loved to have met her.’

  Seth topped up his glass and helped himself to another flap-jack. ‘These are bloody good. Do you miss him?’

  ‘Yes … no,’ said Etta. ‘I miss what he expected. I feel guilty about reading in the bath, eating between meals and putting on weight.’ She squeezed a spare tyre. ‘He’d have hated that, he used to weigh me every week. When I’m alone I talk to him. He doesn’t answer,’ she gave a shrug, ‘but he didn’t much when he was alive.’

  Then she gave a cry of anguish. ‘I didn’t mean to be disloyal. I’m sorry. I just feel so utterly miserable about Mrs Wilkinson going into training.’

  ‘The heart is a muscle like any other, and must be exercised,’ said Seth gently. ‘Let’s discuss the syndicate, who are all so excited about her future.’ He topped up her glass. ‘I adore your son-in-law, Alan, and Trixie’s enchanting. Tilda’s a kind old rabbit and Woody, Jase and Joey are great and I like old Painswick. Beneath that heaving mono-bosom is a heart of lust and passion craving for Hengist Brett-Taylor.’

  ‘Really?’ giggled Etta. ‘Is he nice?’

  ‘Gorgeous. Shagger’s hell, “a bitter heart that bides its time and bites”, and Toby’s a drip. Phoebe’s a professional poppet, a raging snob, flings herself on to people’s knees, “Any room for a little one?”’

  ‘You don’t fancy her then? She’s so pretty.’

  ‘Absolutely not. Chris and Chrissie are on the make, affection beaming out of one eye, calculation out of the other. They aim to do very well with the Fox as the established syndicate meeting place.’

  ‘She’s terribly sad about babies,’ protested Etta.

  ‘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.

  The trees and boxes cast ebony shadows, while the little weather throstle gleamed silver. Beneath it was Josh’s flat. Through roughly drawn curtains, Tommy could see Tresa’s bottom rising and falling much more energetically than it ever did on the gallops. Poor little Trixie, so mad about Josh, thought Tommy, but she was so stunning she’d soon find someone better.

  Where was Rafiq? She was amazed by the silence. Tiptoeing across the cobbles, trying not to wake the horses, she passed a snoring Furious wrapped round Dilys, his sheep, then from the isolation box she heard music. Creeping up, trying not to rustle the leaves, she found Rafiq singing some beautiful Pakistani lullaby in Mrs Wilkinson’s furry grey ear. Arms round her neck, he was stroking her continually. Her head was hooked over his shoulder, her eye drooping. She was nearly asleep.

  Tommy melted. Lucky, lucky Mrs Wilkinson. As she crept across the yard, she heard a dull knucker. A bored History Painting was in need of conversation and a Polo. Glancing across the valley, through the thinning willows Tommy could see a light in Etta’s bungalow.

  On the tack-room landline, she punched out Etta’s number.

  ‘Yes? Who’s that?’ Etta’s voice was breathy with panic.

  ‘Sorry to bother you. It’s Tommy, I thought you’d like to know, Mrs Wilkinson’s fine. Rafiq’s taking a particular interest in her and he’s in her box, singing her to sleep.’

  47

  Rafiq Khan was a twenty-five-year-old Muslim of great beauty, with thick black curls, palest tawny skin the colour of milk chocolate and lightish grey eyes, which set him apart from his countrymen. A few of his family had settled near Birmingham. The majority lived in Pakistan, on the Afghan borde
r.

  Rafiq had always been a firebrand, and hero-worshipped his charismatic and militant cousin Ibrahim. Endowed with an exquisite voice, Rafiq had dreamed of becoming a pop star, but his family had steered him firmly into reading science at a higher education college in the Midlands. Here he was recruited to the militant cause and got caught up in terrorist activities. His fervour had been fanned to fanaticism by an American bomb attack on a wedding in Afghanistan which killed several cousins and a girl he loved.

  He had, however, chickened out of a plan to blow up a football match – a plan that was actually foiled – because he didn’t want to die or kill people and, just before, had heard his potential victims chattering away in familiar accents.

  When subversive literature, videos of other American bomb attacks on Muslim people and a poster saying ‘Allah loves those who fight for him’ were found in his college room, Rafiq was arrested. He refused to reveal any sources and was given three years, several months of which he spent in gaol before being transferred to an open prison near Larkminster.

  Here he met Hengist Brett-Taylor, Miss Painswick’s adored exboss. The former headmaster of Bagley Hall, Hengist had been gaoled for three months for cheating on behalf of Dora’s boyfriend Paris Alvaston, by rewriting his GCSE history paper.

  Rafiq, with his arrogance, beauty, colour and terrorist sympathies, was targeted by many of the rougher Islamophobic prisoners, who mocked him for expecting to be rewarded with scores of virgins in paradise, and who either wanted to beat him up or bugger him insensible.

  At first Rafiq detested Hengist Brett-Taylor, who was just the sort of authoritarian, empire-building bastard who had raped and split up India. Rafiq could imagine Hengist, having occupied some Raj palace, sitting with his booted feet up on a jewelled marble table and yelling instructions in a booming voice.