little kitchen, drawing room and even littler bedroom had looked out on to Badger’s Court, its orchard and lovely park, a vast dark hedge of mature conifers had been newly planted, totally blocking her view and casting her tiny garden into shade.
‘Those trees weren’t there last time,’ said Etta faintly.
‘No,’ Martin laughed heartily, ‘Valent Edwards, who’s boughtthe place, is having a relationship with Bonny Richards, the actress, who’s pathological about her privacy, so Valent doesn’t want anyone looking in.’
‘But what about my view and my light? Nothing will grow there.’
Worse was to come. Crossing her bedroom to a second window, she was confronted by a cement mixer. Even Martin was looking sheepish that the rest of Etta’s garden, to the north, which led to a rough track up through the woods to Carrie and Martin’s barns, had just been concreted over to provide parking space for his and Carrie’s second cars.
‘With Larkshire weather, one must have a four-wheel drive,’ explained Martin.
‘We’re a five-car family now,’ said Romy roguishly, ‘although …’ She looked doubtfully at Etta’s ancient white Polo, green with moss and still coated with Bartlett’s blonde hairs.
‘I’m not being picked up from school in that tip,’ grumbled Drummond, sticking his tongue out at his grandmother and chucking Poppy’s Barbie into the cement mixer.
Etta took another horrified look at the mature conifers, asking over the hammering and drilling: ‘Might Next Door thin out those trees?’
‘Unlikely,’ said Martin. ‘Valent Edwards is a distinct addition to the village, not to mention Bonny Richards. I’m sure they’ll contribute significantly to Dad’s fund and Badger’s Court would be the ideal venue for fundraising events. Romy and I have lots of plans. Their relationship is very new. He and Bonny need their space. I don’t want to antagonize them.’
‘You can still see your beloved horses across the valley from the kitchen window,’ teased Romy, ‘even better when all the leaves come off the trees.’
‘But I’ve only got that patch of shade under the conifers to put my new roses.’
Suddenly the empty bungalow seemed claustrophobically crammed with bullying, square-faced Sampson replicas. She must try to stand up for herself.
‘Plant them in our garden.’ Romy appeared to be bestowing a huge favour – let’s humour the old biddy. ‘Just as you can enjoy your pictures on our walls, your furniture in our barn.’ She smiled warmly at Etta. ‘We want you to treat our home as your home and live as family.’
‘And as a fucking unpaid nanny,’ drawled Alan, sauntering in carrying a plate piled high with smoked salmon sandwiches, a magnum of Veuve Clicquot under one arm and a bottle of brandyunder the other. Plonking them down on the window ledge, he hugged Etta.
‘Angel, how are you? So lovely to see you. Christ, it’s dark in here.’ He switched on the lights. ‘Who on earth planted Birnam Wood and put that ghastly parking lot outside?’
‘Been in the P-U-B,’ mouthed Romy to Martin, who snapped, ‘Don’t be negative, Alan. You know perfectly well the aggro it causes in Willowwood, cars blocking the road.’
‘If you live in a community, you must think of other people,’ said Romy sanctimoniously.
‘So you’ve deprived poor darling Etta of any garden so you could dump your Chelsea tractors here.’ Alan glanced round the room. ‘And where’s that bath you promised her?’
‘Stop stirring it, Al.’ Carrie stalked in, having just arrived from London in yet another Savile Row suit. ‘Martin and I came to the conscious decision that baths use up too much water, which would push up Mother’s bills. Showers are better for the environment. Hello, Mother.’ Carrie turned to Etta. ‘Hope you like your new home.’
‘It’s a fucking abomination,’ said Alan furiously.
‘Please don’t swear in front of the kids,’ cried Romy.
Right on
‘Those trees weren’t there last time,’ said Etta faintly.
‘No,’ Martin laughed heartily, ‘Valent Edwards, who’s boughtthe place, is having a relationship with Bonny Richards, the actress, who’s pathological about her privacy, so Valent doesn’t want anyone looking in.’
‘But what about my view and my light? Nothing will grow there.’
Worse was to come. Crossing her bedroom to a second window, she was confronted by a cement mixer. Even Martin was looking sheepish that the rest of Etta’s garden, to the north, which led to a rough track up through the woods to Carrie and Martin’s barns, had just been concreted over to provide parking space for his and Carrie’s second cars.
‘With Larkshire weather, one must have a four-wheel drive,’ explained Martin.
‘We’re a five-car family now,’ said Romy roguishly, ‘although …’ She looked doubtfully at Etta’s ancient white Polo, green with moss and still coated with Bartlett’s blonde hairs.
‘I’m not being picked up from school in that tip,’ grumbled Drummond, sticking his tongue out at his grandmother and chucking Poppy’s Barbie into the cement mixer.
Etta took another horrified look at the mature conifers, asking over the hammering and drilling: ‘Might Next Door thin out those trees?’
‘Unlikely,’ said Martin. ‘Valent Edwards is a distinct addition to the village, not to mention Bonny Richards. I’m sure they’ll contribute significantly to Dad’s fund and Badger’s Court would be the ideal venue for fundraising events. Romy and I have lots of plans. Their relationship is very new. He and Bonny need their space. I don’t want to antagonize them.’
‘You can still see your beloved horses across the valley from the kitchen window,’ teased Romy, ‘even better when all the leaves come off the trees.’
‘But I’ve only got that patch of shade under the conifers to put my new roses.’
Suddenly the empty bungalow seemed claustrophobically crammed with bullying, square-faced Sampson replicas. She must try to stand up for herself.
‘Plant them in our garden.’ Romy appeared to be bestowing a huge favour – let’s humour the old biddy. ‘Just as you can enjoy your pictures on our walls, your furniture in our barn.’ She smiled warmly at Etta. ‘We want you to treat our home as your home and live as family.’
‘And as a fucking unpaid nanny,’ drawled Alan, sauntering in carrying a plate piled high with smoked salmon sandwiches, a magnum of Veuve Clicquot under one arm and a bottle of brandyunder the other. Plonking them down on the window ledge, he hugged Etta.
‘Angel, how are you? So lovely to see you. Christ, it’s dark in here.’ He switched on the lights. ‘Who on earth planted Birnam Wood and put that ghastly parking lot outside?’
‘Been in the P-U-B,’ mouthed Romy to Martin, who snapped, ‘Don’t be negative, Alan. You know perfectly well the aggro it causes in Willowwood, cars blocking the road.’
‘If you live in a community, you must think of other people,’ said Romy sanctimoniously.
‘So you’ve deprived poor darling Etta of any garden so you could dump your Chelsea tractors here.’ Alan glanced round the room. ‘And where’s that bath you promised her?’
‘Stop stirring it, Al.’ Carrie stalked in, having just arrived from London in yet another Savile Row suit. ‘Martin and I came to the conscious decision that baths use up too much water, which would push up Mother’s bills. Showers are better for the environment. Hello, Mother.’ Carrie turned to Etta. ‘Hope you like your new home.’
‘It’s a fucking abomination,’ said Alan furiously.
‘Please don’t swear in front of the kids,’ cried Romy.
Right on
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