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.’
57
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