Miss Painswick, sitting next to a much recovered Pocock, was knitting a red hood with one eyehole for Mrs Wilkinson, singing ‘Roll out the Barrel’ and conducting with a sausage roll.
Maybe she could go back to work part time.
Euphoric to be forgiven by Valent, with a possibility of working next on Throstledown, Joey was snogging in the back with Chrissie.
‘My foxy lady,’ he murmured, ‘I want to see a lot of you.’
Alan, with Tilda on his knee, discovered she had a very slim and exciting body. Carrie was due back from Russia any moment. He’d better persuade Valent’s chauffeur to stop at the next service station so he could buy some placatory flowers.
‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo, only second to Mrs Wilkinson,’ intoned Seth and everyone fell about.
Nice, he thought, that he’d been mobbed today. Very few people had asked after Corinna.
Trixie was happily perched on Woody’s knee. Seth, with Phoebe on his knee, had positioned himself so he could look up Trixie’s rucked-up shocking-pink coat and shoot her the occasional white-hot glance to unsettle her. Trixie was sad Josh hadn’t texted her.
Niall, pretending to write a sermon on paper already covered in drink rings, sat on Woody’s inside, aware of Trixie on his knee. The only suitable text would be from the Song of Solomon. He could feel Woody’s beautiful arse against his thigh.
They were passing the Membury radio transmitter, red lights gleaming in the grey fog. Ahead stretched rows and rows of brake lights, saying stop, stop, slow down. Towards them came yellow headlights, saying caution, caution. Niall threw back his head. He mustn’t let his heart carry him away.
The Major, a nouveau texter, was sending messages to all his committee members, drawing their attention to Mrs Wilkinson’s victory.
Alban sat beside Etta.
‘Fritefly exciting day, splendid. Mick Fitzgerald said winning was better than sex, got something there. Not all sex of course,’ Alban whinnied with laughter. ‘Charming chap, Valent, asked me to lunch. Back on the wagon tomorrow.’ He tottered off to have a pee in the coffin-shaped loo.
Outside, Etta could see a beautiful full moon gliding out of cotton-wool clouds, the stars kept appearing and disappearing like jockeys. Next minute ‘Ode to Joy’ had flooded the bus.
Taking Alban’s place, Valent filled up Etta’s glass.
‘The drought is ended,’ said Etta tearfully. ‘One shouldn’t be ungrateful for huge mercies, but I wish she was still living at Badger’s Court.’
‘She can come back for her summer holidays,’ said Valent.
‘Oh, thank you.’ Etta gave him a kiss.
‘Excellent,’ murmured Dora approvingly, ‘much better for Etta than Alban, Pocock or the Major.’
‘Thank God I’ve paid off my gambling debts and my credit card bills,’ muttered Seth, shifting his legs under Phoebe.
‘Don’t think I’m going to get much material for my book on depression,’ muttered back Alan, resisting a temptation to slide a hand over Tilda’s breasts. He’d have a hard-on if she wasn’t sitting on it.
Reality was about to kick in. The syndicate reached Willowwood around nine, spilling out joyfully on to the village green. Debbie and Ione awaited them – extremely beady, particularly with the vicar. What would the Parochial Church Council say about seeing him on the telly, arm around Mrs Wilkinson, laughing like a jackass? Carrie had also come home from Moscow. She was livid to see Trixie sitting on Woody’s knee and Alan wrapped round that stupid Bugs Bunny teacher.
‘We won, Mum, we won,’ screamed Trixie, falling out of the bus. ‘Count Romeo came second. Mrs Wilkinson won, she’s no longer a maiden. I think Count Romeo is responsible.’
‘Here’s to you, Mrs Wilkinson,’ sang Niall. ‘She’s going to be a serioush horshe.’
‘And wear spectacles and read Proust,’ giggled Dora.
Next moment a furious, beautiful, instantly recognizable older woman came storming across the village green.
‘Seth, you little bastard,’ she roared. ‘Why the hell didn’t you meet us at Bristol? I left a message on the machine. Stefan got drunk on the plane, we had to break in, poor bloody Priceless has crapped all over the house and there’s no champagne in the fridge. Where the fuck have you been?’
Enter Corinna Waters and Stefan, the Polish houseboy.
‘I’ve been trying to persuade Valent to join the syndicate, Mum, he’s so nice,’ Trixie told an outraged Carrie.
Joey had left Mop Idol with baby Wayne, who was teething. Mop Idol was seething, particularly because Joey, utterly euphoric at having a winner at Newbury, had passed out in the back of the bus and had to be carried out and deposited on the grass. Pocock had lost his teeth, and later found them in Painswick’s knitting bag.
Bonny Richards was so livid not to be able to contact Valent, she had filled up his message box with abuse.
Nor did Alan’s service station flowers have the right effect.
‘You know I can’t stand chrysanthemums,’ screamed Carrie, chucking them back at him.
Grabbing them, Alan rushed back to the Fox. Much later, on the way home, seeing a light on at School Cottage, he posted the chrysanthemums through Tilda’s letter box, adding on a page torn out of his diary: ‘Thanks for a lovely day.’
Mrs Wilkinson, observed Seth, was probably the only thing to come out of Newbury Races without a black eye or a hangover. She was not pleased on her return to Throstledown. Not only did a furiously jealous Sir Cuthbert give her a hard time, but Tommy had borne a disconsolate Chisolm off to a packed-out Fox.
Here Chisolm had a ball, eating crisps and licking up quantities of spilled alcohol. As the landlady had returned home plastered, and the landlord had been celebrating Mrs Wilkinson’s victory since lunchtime, customers had begun helping themselves.
Fighting her way in late to retrieve Alan and Trixie, Carrie was bawling out her mother for leading them both astray, when an inebriated Chisolm jumped to Etta’s defence and butted Carrie out into the street, to roars of applause.
‘Little darling, I’ll give you a job any night at closing time,’ said Chris, as Chisolm nudged him for another alcopop.
Romy and Martin had been as incensed as Carrie to see an over-joyed, tearful, hatless Etta on television hugging everyone. Learning from a sneaking Phoebe of their mother’s winnings, Martin next day tried to persuade her to hand them over to the Sampson Bancroft Fund. And why hadn’t she persuaded Valent and all the rich people she’d met to chip in as well?
Drummond and Poppy, on the other hand, thought it dead cool. All their friends at Greycoats had been blown away to see their grandmother and Mrs Wilkinson on television and by the fact that Amber had been the only jockey not to whack her poor horse.
Fortunately Etta had already handed her winnings over to the Major to pay for her next six months’ subscription.
Meanwhile, over at the yard, Michelle was still nagging Rafiq to give her half of Valent’s massive tip, But in a surge of revolt and egged on by Tommy, Rafiq had blued the lot on a second-hand mechanical horse known as an Equicizer.
‘Much cheaper to have ridden me,’ said Amber mockingly.
But everyone was delighted that Mrs Wilkinson came really well out of her race, eating up all her food. Next morning she trotted up sound and, still fresh, ran round squealing and bucking when she was turned out. By contrast, Count Romeo was very stiff and needed physio.
‘Typical male,’ said Amber.
Chisolm had a hangover and despite a packet of frozen peas dripping on her forehead kept emitting pathetic bleats. Marius was feeling even sorrier for himself. Despite yesterday’s victories, no one had texted or rung to congratulate him. Rafiq had just brought him a cup of tea, which he was trying to keep down, and the
Racing Post
, which irritated him because of the photograph of Amber, Seth Bainton and Mrs Wilkinson – and not him – on the front. Knowing her master was in an eruptive mood, Mistletoe, one eye open, quivered in her basket, yesterday’s dinner untouched.
Marius had to get tomorrow’s declarations or declaration in before ten o’clock. Hearing the second lot clattering into the yard, he glanced up and froze, for hanging from the peeling flag-post, writhing against a soft wind, was the sapphire and crimson Throstledown flag. He’d burnt it in fury and despair, the first time Alan and Etta visited the yard. Running to the window, sending a pile of unpaid bills flying, he gazed in disbelief. The old flag had been ripped and patched and chewed by puppies. This one was new and beautifully sewn, its jewel colours glowing.
Fighting back both expletives and tears, Marius stumbled out into the yard.
‘Where the hell did that flag come from?’ he roared. ‘You had no right.’
Immediately human and horse heads appeared over the half-doors.
‘That was a good day yesterday,’ stammered Tommy. ‘The Throstledown flag flies for winners.’
‘Only if I say so. Where did it come from?’
‘Please don’t shout,’ begged Amber, ‘we’re all a bit fragile.’ Then, as another anguished bleat rent the air: ‘Particularly Chisolm.’
‘Don’t be fucking lippy, who’s bloody responsible?’ Marius glared round.
‘I think it was Alan’s idea,’ volunteered Josh.
‘Etta bought the stuff,’ said Tresa.
‘Painswick made it, she’s brilliant at sewing,’ added Tommy. Perhaps Marius wasn’t going to fire them all after all, as he fingered the flag for a moment, unable to speak.
‘I still should have been consulted.’
His staff, who’d been used and abused by him for so many months, realized once again what strain he’d been under.
‘Where’s Michelle?’ he snapped.
‘In bed and even more fragile than us,’ said Amber sarcastically.
Mrs Wilkinson was banging her food bowl against the wall. Chisolm winced and decided to eat the melted peas.
‘It was a good day yesterday,’ repeated Amber. ‘I’ve had more than fifty text messages, most of them,’ she looked at Marius under her eyelashes, ‘wanting to know when I’m next going to ride Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘Don’t push it,’ snapped Marius.
Amber, about to snap back, was saved by Pavarotti singing ‘None shall sleep’ on Tommy’s mobile.
‘It’s Etta,’ said Tommy. ‘Valent Edwards has been trying to get in touch with you, Marius, can you ring him a.s.a.p.’
Only when Marius tried did he realize his telephone had been cut off for non-payment and his mobile was not topped up. No wonder no one had rung to congratulate him.
Looking round at the chaos of unpaid bills, old
Racing Posts
, a racing calendar covered with drink rings, entry books, directories piled up and not put back on the shelves, empty bottles, cups, glasses, overflowing ashtrays and, most disgraceful, little Mistletoe’s dinner uneaten, Marius winced.
He looked up at the flag. To go to all that trouble, they must have thought he’d have winners again. He better start looking for a secretary.
Valent, who rolled up later in the day, was of the same opinion.
‘Need someone to organize things, answer the telephones, keep owners up to date and at bay, pay the staff who are working longer and longer hours as there are less of them.’
‘Got someone in mind?’ snarled Marius.
‘Yes,’ said Valent.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ exploded Marius, ‘she doesn’t know anything about horses and she’s a nosey old frump. I need someone with charm and their wits about them.’
Marius was thinking of Olivia, who all the owners had loved. One of the reasons, apart from cost, he hadn’t employed a secretary was the faint hope Olivia might come back.
He slumped on the sofa. Mistletoe edged up tentatively and licked his hand.
‘Painswick’ll free you up for what you’re good at – training horses,’ said Valent gently. ‘You’ve got a cracker with Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘Little horse, got to keep her handicap down, can’t have her carrying too much weight.’ Ten minutes later, Marius stopped talking about Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Nice touch that flag,’ he admitted, ‘kind of Etta too.’
‘Etta’s smashing,’ said Valent. ‘Want to talk to you about Amber, Rafiq and Furious.’
Tilda Flood put her mauve chrysanthemums in a square glass vase in her bedroom. She’d never liked the smell before, but thought what a lovely day she had had and how nice Alan was.
Dora achieved such widespread national and local coverage over the next few days, what with Marius’s comeback, Valent’s ‘horse guest’ and
Holby City’s
latest heart-throb bopping with ecstatic vicars, that the rest of the syndicate decided to come to the races in future either to keep an eye on errant other halves or, in Corinna’s case, to cash in on the publicity and have a crack at Valent.
The Major was euphoric at getting his name and photograph in the
Telegraph
beside Valent Edwards. He had played the video of the race, freezing on himself in the winners enclosure so many times the tape had scrambled. He was also thoroughly over-excited that Corinna was back and he could spy on her opulent curves through the trees with his powerful new racing binoculars. What a shame that Valent’s conifers shielded Etta.
Debbie, flipping through her husband’s photographs of the Royal Box, burst into tears.