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