her one, she added to Painswick, ‘Wouldn’t you like a round too, Joyce?’
‘How dare she,’ exploded Dora to Trixie. ‘There’s masses left in the picnic basket for the journey home, bloody pig.’
Noticing Joey and Chrissie outside smoking a very long cigarette, Valent asked Chrissie on her return whether the smoking ban had affected takings at the Fox.
‘It hasn’t been great,’ she began, but was halted by Dora and Trixie approaching Valent with a large brandy.
‘Lots of men hate champagne,’ said Dora, ‘so Trixie and I wanted to buy you a proper drink for being so kind to us all.’
‘Why thank you, Dora,’ said Valent, unable to hide how touched he was.
‘Why don’t you join us on the bus home, Mr Edwards?’ suggested Trixie. ‘It’ll be a riot. I can sit on Woody’s knee, he’s so fit. Tilda can sit on Daddy’s knee, from behind you can’t see her teeth. Alban’s off the drink, or at least he was until Mrs Wilkinson won.’ Looking across, they watched a beaming Alban downing yet another glass. ‘Perhaps your chauffeur could drive us home? Oh, wasn’t Amber cool?’
The Major was very happy. Valent had asked him lots of questions about the finances of the syndicate. Glancing up at a sepia photograph on the wall of racegoers in top hats, he decided he must get out his topper.
Hours later they set out for home. Valent’s driver, delighted to see his boss enjoying himself so much, had taken the wheel of the Ford Transit. On its side Trixie had written ‘Well done, Mrs Wilkinson’ in lipstick, watched by a giggling Etta, who was joyfully clutching Mrs Wilkinson’s cup, revelling in the fact that Seth had told her she’d made him the happiest man in the world.
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