Sampson glaring down on her from on high, Etta was still having the occasional bet, comparing runners over coffee and cake every morning with Ruthie and Hinton, who she was delighted the young couple were taking on.
She was still too shocked to bother much about curtains and carpets for the bungalow. Romy had taken some measurements for her, so some of the prettier Bluebell Hill curtains could be turned up. Romy, Carrie and Martin all pooh-poohed any panic Etta might have about downsizing, as she packed up her cherished pictures, china and furniture:
‘Don’t worry, Mother. Anything you can’t find room for, we’ll accommodate in our barns.’
Sampson had left various much too good pictures to his mistresses. And, alas, he hadn’t shredded the letter promising Blanche £50,000 a year.
But Etta was still overwhelmed by indecision, chilled to the marrow as ridiculous tears swept over her. How could she throw out her cigarette cards of all the Grand National winners and horse breeds? How could she discard her volumes of poetry and her pony books, Moorland Mousie , National Velvet and all the Pullein-Thompsons, or her father’s favourite books, Dornford Yates, Sapper and John Buchan, or her records. There was no room in the bungalow for the cabinets of sheet music or the Steinway, which was going to Romy and Martin. Perhaps later she might be able to squeeze in a little upright. Music and reading had sustained her through so many long nights when Sampson was away.
Romy was also being horribly bossy about the clothes Etta kept putting into different piles.
‘If you haven’t worn something for a year, give it away.’
So Etta dispatched two carfuls to the local charity shop. Then, out shopping the day before she left, she saw two of her dresses, one black velvet, one pale blue denim, hanging disconsolately in the window and felt so sorry for them she rushed in and bought them back.
The week she left, Hinton and Ruthie gave a little party for her, inviting several of the locals, and presenting her with some beautiful white and pale pink roses for her new garden.
‘If you want any plants from here, give us a ring and we’ll bring them over,’ said Hinton.
‘We’re going to miss you so much,’ said Ruthie.
Suddenly Etta was hit by the realization of the sweet people and the beautiful house and garden she was leaving. Who would feed the birds every morning and the carp in the pond and the badgers and foxes at night? Who would rescue plants that were being smothered by other plants? Who would take carrots to the bay mare and the skewbald Shetland down the valley? Who would find the first coltsfoot and cry with joy over the first violets?
10
Etta arrived in Willowwood on a warm October afternoon. Sunlight was breaking through shaggy grey clouds and lighting up yellowing willows and drifting blue spirals of bonfires. Ruthie and Hinton’s pink and white roses obscured any view in her rear mirror, telling her she must look forward, not back. Her heart lifted at a large sign saying ‘Go slow, racehorses’, and another saying ‘You are entering the Little Valley of the Racehorse’.
As she drove past pretty grey-gold cottages, Etta hoped they might house potential buddies. She wished she were better at bridge. Bridge and dogs were supposed to be the best way for widows to make friends.
Her bungalow, Little Hollow, had been built at the bottom end of the village. As she dropped down a dark green tree tunnel, she was greeted by a frightful din of drilling and hammering issuing from Badger’s Court. As she turned left over the stream, Martin and Romy awaited her at the gate smiling and waving, with Drummond and Poppy holding a banner saying ‘Welcome to Granny Dorset’.
‘How kind,’ gasped Etta, then her delight turned to horror as she caught sight of her bungalow. It had been clad in fearful marzipan-yellow stone, without a single creeper or shrub to soften it.
Even worse, where on previous visits her
She was still too shocked to bother much about curtains and carpets for the bungalow. Romy had taken some measurements for her, so some of the prettier Bluebell Hill curtains could be turned up. Romy, Carrie and Martin all pooh-poohed any panic Etta might have about downsizing, as she packed up her cherished pictures, china and furniture:
‘Don’t worry, Mother. Anything you can’t find room for, we’ll accommodate in our barns.’
Sampson had left various much too good pictures to his mistresses. And, alas, he hadn’t shredded the letter promising Blanche £50,000 a year.
But Etta was still overwhelmed by indecision, chilled to the marrow as ridiculous tears swept over her. How could she throw out her cigarette cards of all the Grand National winners and horse breeds? How could she discard her volumes of poetry and her pony books, Moorland Mousie , National Velvet and all the Pullein-Thompsons, or her father’s favourite books, Dornford Yates, Sapper and John Buchan, or her records. There was no room in the bungalow for the cabinets of sheet music or the Steinway, which was going to Romy and Martin. Perhaps later she might be able to squeeze in a little upright. Music and reading had sustained her through so many long nights when Sampson was away.
Romy was also being horribly bossy about the clothes Etta kept putting into different piles.
‘If you haven’t worn something for a year, give it away.’
So Etta dispatched two carfuls to the local charity shop. Then, out shopping the day before she left, she saw two of her dresses, one black velvet, one pale blue denim, hanging disconsolately in the window and felt so sorry for them she rushed in and bought them back.
The week she left, Hinton and Ruthie gave a little party for her, inviting several of the locals, and presenting her with some beautiful white and pale pink roses for her new garden.
‘If you want any plants from here, give us a ring and we’ll bring them over,’ said Hinton.
‘We’re going to miss you so much,’ said Ruthie.
Suddenly Etta was hit by the realization of the sweet people and the beautiful house and garden she was leaving. Who would feed the birds every morning and the carp in the pond and the badgers and foxes at night? Who would rescue plants that were being smothered by other plants? Who would take carrots to the bay mare and the skewbald Shetland down the valley? Who would find the first coltsfoot and cry with joy over the first violets?
10
Etta arrived in Willowwood on a warm October afternoon. Sunlight was breaking through shaggy grey clouds and lighting up yellowing willows and drifting blue spirals of bonfires. Ruthie and Hinton’s pink and white roses obscured any view in her rear mirror, telling her she must look forward, not back. Her heart lifted at a large sign saying ‘Go slow, racehorses’, and another saying ‘You are entering the Little Valley of the Racehorse’.
As she drove past pretty grey-gold cottages, Etta hoped they might house potential buddies. She wished she were better at bridge. Bridge and dogs were supposed to be the best way for widows to make friends.
Her bungalow, Little Hollow, had been built at the bottom end of the village. As she dropped down a dark green tree tunnel, she was greeted by a frightful din of drilling and hammering issuing from Badger’s Court. As she turned left over the stream, Martin and Romy awaited her at the gate smiling and waving, with Drummond and Poppy holding a banner saying ‘Welcome to Granny Dorset’.
‘How kind,’ gasped Etta, then her delight turned to horror as she caught sight of her bungalow. It had been clad in fearful marzipan-yellow stone, without a single creeper or shrub to soften it.
Even worse, where on previous visits her
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