Jump! by Jilly Cooper

you’ve got no money except your old age pension,’ said Romy bullyingly. Her plan was that while she and Martin set up the Sampson Bancroft Fund and took on other charities, her mother-in-law could look after Poppy and Drummond.
    ‘I’ve looked after my children single-handed,’ she went on sanctimoniously. ‘I need some me-time.’
    Etta looked round the pretty primrose-yellow-walled room and out at the white blossom of the blackthorn exploding all over the valley.
    ‘I don’t want to go,’ she whispered.
    ‘Blanche was saying how stressed Dad was on Sunday; how he hated being left alone,’ said Carrie brutally. ‘If he’d lived another year, none of this would have happened. If you move to Willowwood, you can ferry Trixie back from Bagley Hall during exeats and keep an eye on her in the holidays. That will free me up to travel and Alan to get on with his book.’
    Etta could have so done with Alan as an ally, but unable to face his mother-in-law’s crucifixion he had sloped off to London. She stumbled to the downstairs cloakroom, where, surrounded by the photographs of Sampson’s sporting achievements, she threw up her breakfast cup of Earl Grey. As she rinsed her mouth from the tap, she noticed drawing-room ornaments – the sleeping wooden lion, a Staffordshire dog and a Rockingham Dalmatian removed from Poppy and Drummond’s ravening fingers – sidelined but resigned on one of Sampson’s filing cabinets.
    Had she killed Sampson? Weighing herself, she discovered she’d lost ten pounds, glancing down at new greenish veins rising on the backs of her hands she felt so guilty she agreed to everything.
    There now seemed to be so much to do, so many hundreds of letters to answer, direct debits to cancel, clubs writing for subscriptions, charities hoping Sampson would give them a donation, hospitals reminding her Sampson was due for a check-up and sending her pamphlets telling her how well they were doing, pension policies to unravel, endless forms to be filled in, bills and funeral expenses to be paid, people ringing up. Carrie and Martin had refused to take Sampson’s booming voice off the answering machine, so lots of people assumed he was still alive.
    Leaving Etta to pick up the funeral bills, Carrie was still wrangling over expenses for flying back from Hong Kong.
    ‘I’ve always called Etta “Mother” and kept her in the loopbecause I didn’t want her to be jealous of Martin’s and my closeness,’ Romy told everyone, insisting that Etta come to Willowwood for Easter.
    ‘So you can suss out the area and see what a fun village you’ll be living in.’
    Then Romy spoilt it by banning Bartlett.
    ‘Harvest Home is not a Bartlett house, I’m afraid. Drummond’s asthma has been awful since we’ve been staying here.’
    ‘Then I can’t come,’ stammered Etta. ‘I need Bartlett.’
    ‘Ruthie can look after her for a weekend.’
    Bartlett took matters into her big blonde paws by being desperately sick in the night. An X-ray revealed a large tumour.
    ‘I don’t want her to suffer,’ whispered Etta.
    ‘Well, she is suffering, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Hollis, the vet, who came out to Bluebell Hill the next day.
    Bartlett, unlike most dogs, loved the vets, particularly Mr Hollis. Wagging her feathery gold tail, she staggered out to meet him, gathering up a Bonio as a present, before her back legs collapsed.
    ‘Couldn’t she last a bit longer?’ begged Etta. ‘Not sure I can go on without her.’
    ‘She’s in a lot of pain, Etta,’ said Mr Hollis, tapping the bubbles out of the pink liquid in his syringe.
    Most poignantly of all, Bartlett held out her paw to Mr Hollis for the fatal injection. Then, as Etta held her close, Bartlett turned and smiled reassuringly at her mistress as if to say good-bye. Etta choked back a sob and hugged her but a second later, as Bartlett keeled over like a rag doll, was unable to suppress a great howl of anguish.
    ‘Are you sure she’s dead?’ she sobbed,