Jump!

by Jilly Cooper

  Inside the church, the candles burnt on.

  Outside in the churchyard, Niall praised the limes Woody had pollarded so beautifully, like women in tight dresses spilling out at the knee because the leaves shoot like mad round the base. Piling into the stump-grinding van, they rolled back to the Salix Estate.

  ‘I’ll tell everyone you’ve come to talk to me about Mum,’ said Woody, locking the front door and leading Niall straight upstairs, where light filtered through already drawn curtains on to an unmade bed. The shelves were filled with books on trees, the walls adorned with photographs of more trees including one of the Willowwood Chestnut in spring, its candles driven crooked by the rough winds of May.

  There was no more time to look. Niall was shivering like a poplar, but didn’t resist as Woody pulled off his surplice and black shirt, and slowly kissed him on each shoulder.

  ‘You’ve got a great body.’

  ‘I must sound more of a wuss than ever,’ muttered Niall through desperately chattering teeth, ‘but I’m a virgin.’

  ‘Very right and proper,’ said Woody, ‘I don’t like slags. I can break you in as I like.’

  Niall’s trousers fell to the floor as Woody pulled off Niall’s shoes and socks. His spectacles were the last thing to go.

  ‘You’re so beautiful, Woody.’

  ‘You’re certainly not a beast, Niall, you just need building up physically and spiritually, and that is a great penis.’

  Dropping to his knees, Woody put his beautiful lips over Niall’s cock, sucking and licking, then gently parting his buttocks and probing and jabbing with his right hand, until Niall gasped and gave a sob and shot into Woody’s mouth.

  This was the only breakfast Woody had until four o’clock in the afternoon, when he cooked bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and black pudding for himself and Niall.

  Niall, his eyes drowsy with love, wearing Woody’s red and black dressing gown, a present from Etta, said, ‘Do you think what we’ve done is terribly wrong?’

  ‘Terribly right,’ said Woody, pouring himself another cup of dark brown tea, ‘because we love each other.’

  Niall had to dress very fast and pretend he was just making a social call on Woody’s mum, when her carer brought her back.

  Woody insisted on walking Niall home.

  ‘You oughtn’t to go out without your dog collar,’ were his parting words. ‘I’m going to microchip you, so I never lose you. I love you, Mr Forbes.’

  77

  Term came to an end at Greycoats, bringing home not only Drummond and Poppy but also a beautiful patchwork rug made for Mrs Wilkinson by the children of Willowwood. It was snugly lined with felt and had a weeping willow embroidered by Tilda on each side.

  The presentation was made to Mrs Wilkinson as she hung over the dark blue half-door of Valent’s former office. Chisolm was presented with a straw hat which she promptly ate, reducing the children to helpless laughter. Both Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm consumed so many treats, it was surprising their good and bad legs still held them up.

  ‘When’s she going to run again?’ the children pleaded.

  Poor Tilda looked very tired, thought Etta, who hoped she would get a break now, then remembered that she had to organize Shagger’s holiday lets during their busiest time, which meant five or six lots of sheets a week, and seeing the house was clean and tidy. Judging by the wilting balloons on the gate of Shagger’s cottage and empties which included a case of Jacob’s Creek, twelve bottles of champagne and three bottles of vodka, a hen party had taken place over the weekend.

  ‘They were all asking where Seth Bainton lived,’ winked Chris, as Etta walked Priceless past the pub.

  Poor Tilda, it seemed so ironic that, when she had a long break and could go to the races, Mrs Wilkinson was out of action. And with the monthly payments eating up her salary, she could no longer afford to take a nice hot holiday.

  Meanwhile Etta’s crush on Seth, although not over-encouraged, raged on. Priceless was living with her almost full time and greeted his master, when he dropped in, with toothy smiles and head snakings along Seth’s increasingly lean hips, but showed no sign of following him when he left.

  After a holiday in Ibiza, Trixie was also staying in Willowwood, mostly at her grandmother’s, where she retreated to Etta’s bed-room to text. She was glued to her laptop or Etta’s portable television, sharing the bed with Priceless, her legs longer and browner than ever, her hair longer and messier. She was moodier and more abstracted and irritated by Poppy and Drummond, at whom she kept shouting, so Etta was doubly delighted one evening when Seth dropped in armed with The Merchant of Venice and a DVD of himself in Much Ado.

  While Etta heard him as Bassanio, eyes on the text, quivering at the beauty of the language and his voice, Seth gazed lazily at Trixie, who appeared far more interested in Hello! and Cosmopolitan.

  ‘Merchant’s a difficult play to stage,’ said Seth, as he paused to refill everyone’s drinks. ‘If you make Shylock too much of a villain, you’re being anti-Semitic. If you make Antonio too much of a shit, you’re being homophobic.’

  ‘Bassanio’s a wuss,’ said Trixie scornfully. ‘He’s a gold-digger, and I loathe Portia. I hate teasing, playful women like Aunt Romy.’

  ‘“In Belmont,”’ said Seth huskily, ‘“‘is a lady richly left;/And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,/Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes/I did receive fair speechless messages.”’

  He smiled wickedly at Trixie.

  ‘I still hate her as a character. “Richly left” sounds like Harriet Harman.’

  ‘Seth’s doing Antony in the spring,’ said Etta, sensing tension, ‘and Corinna’s playing Cleopatra. Isn’t that exciting?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ said Trixie, ‘Antony and Cleopatra is sooo boring. Antony’s going through the male menopause like my dad and Uncle Martin, and Cleopatra’s a silly old tart like Dora Belvedon’s mother. Dora won the Most Embarrassing Mother competition at Bagley on Speech Day, she laced her mother’s breakfast orange juice with neat vodka. All the Lower Sixths went to sleep during a production of Antony and Cleopatra at the National.’

  ‘That would never happen if Seth was on stage,’ said Etta warmly.

  ‘The boys only woke up when Cleopatra bared her breasts to plug in the asp,’ added Trixie.

  ‘Plenty of asps living in Mrs Travis-Lockjaw’s compost heap, according to Pocock,’ said Seth.

  ‘Yuck,’ said Trixie, ‘Mrs T-L pees on it every night.’

  ‘Compissed heap,’ murmured Seth.

  Trixie’s mouth lifted a quarter of a centimetre at one corner. ‘Josh took a photograph of her which they refused to print in the parish mag. She’ll probably get stung on the bum.’

  ‘Bolton’s got a crush on her,’ said Seth. ‘He roves around Willowwood with a camera at the dead of night. Better draw your curtains, Etta, he likes pretty ladies.’

  Etta blushed.

  Gwenny came in mewing. Trixie got up – her dark hair so long it reached the top of her legs – and gave Gwenny some cat sweets.

  Seth picked up the packet.

  ‘They always tell you to provide drinking water. Ought to insist you provide drinking water and whisky.’ He drained his glass.

  Unable to bear him going, Etta suggested she pop up to the pub and get another bottle.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Trixie.

  ‘I’ll see you home,’ said Seth. ‘Come on, Priceless.’

  Priceless raised his tail a centimetre off the sofa, but showed no inclination, unlike Etta, to follow his master.

  It was very hot outside, the sky crowded with stars, the air heavy with the scent of honeysuckle. The stream gleamed silver in the moonlight.

  ‘“The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,” ‘ said Seth. ‘Let’s take a detour through Valent’s garden, they’re both away.’

  ‘How do we get out of the locked gates on the other side?’

  ‘I’ll lift you over the wall.’

&n
bsp; Her face was expressionless.

  ‘How’s Josh?’ he asked.

  ‘“He doth nothing but talk of his horse,”’ said Trixie lightly.

  ‘Good girl, you’ve read the play,’ said Seth approvingly.

  Valent’s house reared sombre in front of them. With satisfaction, they admired their two black shadows, hers so willowy, his broad of shoulder, svelte of hip. Seth, who seemed to know all the paths, took her arm. She froze for a second but didn’t shake him off.

  ‘“In such a night/Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,” ‘ murmured Seth. ‘Ker-ist!’ He leapt behind Trixie as a great white face loomed over the half-door. ‘It’s the ghost of Beau Regard.’

  ‘It’s darling Wilkie.’ Showing tenderness and animation for the first time, Trixie rushed up and patted her.

  ‘Oh lucky horse to bear the weight of Trixie,’ sighed Seth.

  To her surprise, given he had such a terrible reputation, Seth didn’t try to kiss her.

  Once home, she texted Dora. ‘Granny’s got a thumping great crush on Mr Bulging Crotchester.’

  Feeling rather flat, Etta made herself a cup of tomato soup and a piece of toast and decided to watch Much Ado, but she couldn’t find the DVD anywhere. Perhaps Priceless had stolen it.

  Aware of Seth’s lethal charm, Alan didn’t want his mother-in-law to get hurt. The following evening, glad to have an excuse to stop writing, he gathered up a couple of bottles and wandered down to the bungalow. Here he found a shattered Etta trying to referee a squawking match between Drummond and Poppy on whether they should watch Shrek or Harry Potter.

  ‘You stupid bumhole,’ yelled Drummond, hurling a green glass paperweight at his sister.

  ‘Out!’ roared Alan, ‘O-U-T.’ Then, getting four pound coins out of his pocket: ‘You can each have two of these if you bugger off until I tell you to come in.’

  ‘Go and see Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Etta, giving them her last two carrots.

  Outside the back door, she had been sorting out her indoor bulbs, seven white ones in one blue bowl, pink in another, dark blue, pale blue and more white in others. Like making sloe gin, it was one of the rituals of late summer to ward off the cold and darkness of the coming winter. Pocock had very kindly given her the bulbs for looking after Gwenny, but she was not sure she’d be able to afford the gin to go with the sloes.

  After pouring two large glasses of red, Alan handed Etta some cuttings. ‘Your boyfriend’s all over the newspapers today.’

  Etta went crimson, had she been rumbled? Then, glancing at them, her face softened. ‘Oh Valent, how lovely.’

  Valent had been very busy launching a robot made in his Chinese factory called the Iron Man, which ironed everything from shirts to sheets and would forever transform the lives of women.

  ‘And men too,’ said Alan, perching on the tenth of the sofa not occupied by Priceless. ‘My wife, your daughter, has never liked ironing.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Eruptive. When both the women in my family are at the wrong time of the month, I make myself scarce.’

  ‘How’s Depression going?’

  ‘Nearly finished,’ lied Alan. ‘I wish Mrs Wilkinson would get off her arse so I could get on with her life story.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Etta guiltily. Across the valley, she could see Marius’s horses relishing the sun on their backs, lying flat out on the grass with just the occasional flick of their tails. When the sun went down they would all gallop round – to show how much horses enjoy racing each other.

  ‘I’m sure Wilkie will be fit soon. Gosh, these cuttings are lovely. The interviewers really like him.’

  Previously the press had emphasized Valent’s ruthlessness and killer instinct, dubbing him the ‘Tin Man without a Heart’.

  ‘Of course he’s got a heart,’ protested Etta. ‘No matter how busy he is he sends postcards from all over the world asking after Wilkie. More than Bonny does. Do you know Seth can’t stand Bonny?’ she couldn’t resist saying. ‘I thought he adored her.’

  So did Alan, but he didn’t say so.

  ‘He doesn’t like Valent either.’

  ‘Seth doesn’t like competition. Valent’s a heavyweight.’

  Alan was full of gossip:

  ‘Lester, another would-be heavyweight, is due to start filming any moment. He’s determined to use Furious, so Amber is booked as a stand-in for Cindy in the riding scenes. Cindy told me, “Amber’s boobs aren’t as good as mine, but on an ’orse, her ’air will cover them.” Lester’s still interviewing Peeping Toms, the queue went round the village this morning. He even asked Trixie to play Godiva’s handmaiden.’

  Etta shuddered. ‘Loathsome little man, I hope she refused.’

  ‘She did, but only because the money was lousy. As Mrs Wilkinson is off games, Bolton wants his horse, Furious, led up by Michelle, natch, to give pony rides at the fête.’

  ‘He’s mad,’ cried Etta in horror. ‘Furious would savage all the children.’

  ‘Then Drummond must have the first ride.’

  ‘Hush,’ smiled Etta, ‘Drummond can be a sweetheart.’

  As they heard a crash from outside, Etta ran to the window.

  ‘You little beast,’ she screamed.

  Drummond had tipped all her bulbs on to the tarmac, mixing and scattering pink, white, dark blue, light blue and dark red underneath his father’s Range Rover.

  ‘Such a sweetheart,’ said Alan.

  78

  Desperate for events to hold the syndicate together, Etta was relieved so many members were going to meet at the village fête and flower show held in Farmer Fred’s big field next to the cricket pitch at the end of August.

  Although Pocock, Craig Green, Ione and Debbie were expected to win most of the cups, the morning of the fête saw many Willowwood residents sloping off to the local farm shop to buy vegetables, fruit and flowers to pass off as their own in the various classes. The Major, as president of the fête, was very much in command, and finding no water in his rain gauge, had rightly forecast a fine sunny day.

  Lester Bolton had donated half a dozen of Cindy’s steamiest DVDs to the tombola. The Major had hastily confiscated them and was looking forward to a good watch in his den later. His most exciting duty of the day, however, was to look after Corinna, who had returned briefly from a triumphant tour in The Deep Blue C-word (as Seth called it) to open the fête and remind everyone how beautiful she was.

  Wearing a huge, shocking-pink picture hat and a scarlet suit, which showed off her splendid bosom and the still slender legs that had captivated audiences in the stalls for so many years, she allowed the Major gallantly to lead her on to the platform and urge the big crowds and stallholders to ‘gather round’.

  Corinna’s speech, written by Seth and Alan, was meant to be a witty take-off of an Oscars acceptance speech, in order to make the inevitable list of thank-yous less tedious.

  Corinna’s voice could carry to Larkminster but had to compete with a screeching, ear-splittingly loud loudspeaker and the local brass band tuning up. She also made the mistake of ending by quoting lengthily from ‘The Land’ by Vita Sackville-West, from ‘The country habit has me by the heart’, to its lovely last line: ‘only here/Lies peace after uneasy truancy.’ She then ruined the peace by screaming at the band to ‘bloody well SHUT UP!’

  ‘She didn’t thank anyone,’ stormed Debbie, ‘or exhort everyone to spend, spend, spend and dig deep in their pockets.’

  ‘She completely forgot to say that it costs ninety-five pounds a day for the upkeep of St James’s, that’s thirty-five thousand a year,’ snorted Ione.

  ‘We first asked darling Bonny Richards to open the fête,’ Romy was telling everyone, ‘but tragically she’s filming.’

  Fortunately the Larkminster Echo, which had got stuck behind one of Farmer Fred’s combines, arrived after Corinna had finished and were terribly grateful when she gave them the original typescript.

  ‘Keep it, my dear, I always write a new sp
eech.’

  ‘How are you enjoying being a member of the Willowwood syndicate?’ asked the reporter.

  ‘Alas, I’m hardly ever able to see Mrs Wilkinson run because I’m always working. I so envy Bonny Richards, who’s been free to lead her in several times.’

  The Major was hovering. ‘Are you ready to do a tour of the stalls? Your public awaits you.’

  What a beautiful setting, thought Etta, the trees dark, dark green against the parched, cracked yellow of the grass, the pale green leaves of the willows already turning gold, blending in with their gold stems, curling black and yellow leaves already littering the ground. Children shrieked with joy on the bouncy castle, steam engines chooed, and Chris and Chrissie from the Fox were doing a roaring trade in Pimm’s laced with cucumber and strawberries.

  Mrs Wilkinson was still confined to barracks, but Chisolm, like a carer freed for the afternoon, left an even longer trail of shrieking children as she slyly nicked one ice cream or candy floss after another. She was now eyeing up the fancy cake stall.

  ‘I’ve seen Seth Bainton, I’ve seen Corinna, I haven’t seen Bonny,’ cried the crowd.

  Etta, so broke she had no money to spend, was helping Alban on the plant stall, which gave him the excuse to touch her hand and exchange meaningful glances over the delphiniums.

  Etta sidled off, however, to watch the dog show judged by Corinna and Charlie Radcliffe. Drummond had shown no interest in walking Priceless, who had been bathed, polished and buffed to gleaming ebony by Tommy and Etta, and who so sweetly matched his steps to Poppy’s that the judges had absolutely no doubt about awarding them Best in Show. There was a box of Smarties for Poppy and a huge red rosette and Bonios for Priceless – whereupon Drummond erupted into the ring to punch his sister and kick Priceless’s long, delicate legs.

  ‘Stop it, you little bugger,’ screamed Etta, dragging him off and shaking him. ‘Don’t you dare hurt Poppy and Priceless,’ and was awarded the biggest round of applause of the day.

  Thank God Drummond’s parents had been temporarily hijacked by Ione, manning the Green stall, who urged them to share a bath every night, wash their clothes in the water and syphon it off afterwards to use on their plants.