stroking Bartlett’s silken gold ears.
‘Quite sure.’ Mr Hollis put a hand on Etta’s heaving shoulders. ‘I know how much she meant to you. I’ll carry her outside.’
Hinton, Etta’s great friend – they had pondered so many plantings and colour schemes together – had dug a grave in the orchard and planted a hastily knocked-up wooden cross beside it. Bartlett was buried in her tartan rug, with her favourite rubber snowman and a tin of Butcher’s Tripe. Etta left on her collar and disc.
‘So perhaps Sampson might find her in the underworld.’
‘Bartlett’s more likely to go to heaven,’ said Hinton, blowing his nose.
‘Might make it less easy to sell the house if the dog’s buriedthere,’ observed a beady Romy, who was still hanging around ear-marking loot for their barn and who was watching from the kitchen window.
‘Etta’s far more upset over the death of a smelly old dog than over Sampson,’ she added disapprovingly.
‘Good for her to cry, poor soul,’ said Ruthie furiously. ‘She was wonderful to Mr Bancroft.’
Etta had a hundred things to do but she wandered sobbing round the wood finding bluebells for Bartlett’s grave.
Trixie rang her from boarding school that evening.
‘So sorry to hear about Bartlett. No dog could have had a nicer home. Did you know that when you arrive in heaven all the dogs you’ve had come racing across a sunlit lawn to meet you? I know Bartlett will be leading the pack.’
9
Country Life had long been Etta’s favourite magazine. She always enjoyed fantasizing about the houses advertised in the opening pages. Now, to her horror, Bluebell Hill was in it, and sold terrifyingly quickly to a young couple who’d made a fortune in Hong Kong, had one child, were planning more, and who promised not to dig up Bartlett.
‘We love animals,’ said Ariella, the pretty wife. ‘We’ve got an ancient ginger tom who survived the flight back from Hong Kong, so he’ll probably soon be joining Bartlett in the orchard.’
Etta was hardly allowed to meet them in case she was too generous in the negotiations over furniture and fittings. Ariella had loved the big Prussian-blue sofa in the drawing room, but Romy had earmarked that for the barn.
Martin, fulminating as he went through the Book of Remembrance over the people who hadn’t sent a donation to the Sampson Bancroft Fund, was busy cancelling Etta’s direct debits.
‘Now you haven’t got a dog, you’ll be able to drop Battersea, the Blue Cross and Dogs Trust, and cancel that covenant with the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra.’
It was now early May and the young couple wanted to move in in five months. As a result Etta was frantically busy clearing up and had only a couple of opportunities to visit Willowwood while her bungalow was being built.
At least it had space for a pretty garden nestled in a wood of weeping willows, and had a stream running by. To the south, across the river, was a valley of fields full of sleek racehorses, gallops and flights of hurdles and fences. To the east was the orchard of a ravishing Georgian house surrounded by parkland. To the north up the road was the village of Willowwood. TheGeorgian house, Badger’s Court, had just been bought by a billionaire, a widower called Valent Edwards, who Martin claimed ‘had known and admired Dad’.
‘So he’ll be a nice neighbour for you, Mother, when he moves in, which probably won’t be for a year or two. The house needs so much throwing at it.’
‘Probably ripe tomatoes,’ quipped Alan. ‘So many of his builders’ lorries keep blocking the road.’
Etta felt slightly lifted from her despair, particularly when she was driving away and a string of racehorses clattered past, their laughing riders, several on their mobiles, raising their hands to acknowledge her decreased speed.
There were evidently two trainers in the area, Marius Oakridge and Ralph Harvey-Holden. She wondered whose horses these were.
Though ever conscious of
‘Quite sure.’ Mr Hollis put a hand on Etta’s heaving shoulders. ‘I know how much she meant to you. I’ll carry her outside.’
Hinton, Etta’s great friend – they had pondered so many plantings and colour schemes together – had dug a grave in the orchard and planted a hastily knocked-up wooden cross beside it. Bartlett was buried in her tartan rug, with her favourite rubber snowman and a tin of Butcher’s Tripe. Etta left on her collar and disc.
‘So perhaps Sampson might find her in the underworld.’
‘Bartlett’s more likely to go to heaven,’ said Hinton, blowing his nose.
‘Might make it less easy to sell the house if the dog’s buriedthere,’ observed a beady Romy, who was still hanging around ear-marking loot for their barn and who was watching from the kitchen window.
‘Etta’s far more upset over the death of a smelly old dog than over Sampson,’ she added disapprovingly.
‘Good for her to cry, poor soul,’ said Ruthie furiously. ‘She was wonderful to Mr Bancroft.’
Etta had a hundred things to do but she wandered sobbing round the wood finding bluebells for Bartlett’s grave.
Trixie rang her from boarding school that evening.
‘So sorry to hear about Bartlett. No dog could have had a nicer home. Did you know that when you arrive in heaven all the dogs you’ve had come racing across a sunlit lawn to meet you? I know Bartlett will be leading the pack.’
9
Country Life had long been Etta’s favourite magazine. She always enjoyed fantasizing about the houses advertised in the opening pages. Now, to her horror, Bluebell Hill was in it, and sold terrifyingly quickly to a young couple who’d made a fortune in Hong Kong, had one child, were planning more, and who promised not to dig up Bartlett.
‘We love animals,’ said Ariella, the pretty wife. ‘We’ve got an ancient ginger tom who survived the flight back from Hong Kong, so he’ll probably soon be joining Bartlett in the orchard.’
Etta was hardly allowed to meet them in case she was too generous in the negotiations over furniture and fittings. Ariella had loved the big Prussian-blue sofa in the drawing room, but Romy had earmarked that for the barn.
Martin, fulminating as he went through the Book of Remembrance over the people who hadn’t sent a donation to the Sampson Bancroft Fund, was busy cancelling Etta’s direct debits.
‘Now you haven’t got a dog, you’ll be able to drop Battersea, the Blue Cross and Dogs Trust, and cancel that covenant with the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra.’
It was now early May and the young couple wanted to move in in five months. As a result Etta was frantically busy clearing up and had only a couple of opportunities to visit Willowwood while her bungalow was being built.
At least it had space for a pretty garden nestled in a wood of weeping willows, and had a stream running by. To the south, across the river, was a valley of fields full of sleek racehorses, gallops and flights of hurdles and fences. To the east was the orchard of a ravishing Georgian house surrounded by parkland. To the north up the road was the village of Willowwood. TheGeorgian house, Badger’s Court, had just been bought by a billionaire, a widower called Valent Edwards, who Martin claimed ‘had known and admired Dad’.
‘So he’ll be a nice neighbour for you, Mother, when he moves in, which probably won’t be for a year or two. The house needs so much throwing at it.’
‘Probably ripe tomatoes,’ quipped Alan. ‘So many of his builders’ lorries keep blocking the road.’
Etta felt slightly lifted from her despair, particularly when she was driving away and a string of racehorses clattered past, their laughing riders, several on their mobiles, raising their hands to acknowledge her decreased speed.
There were evidently two trainers in the area, Marius Oakridge and Ralph Harvey-Holden. She wondered whose horses these were.
Though ever conscious of
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