much quieter and bitchier when Corinna was around, reflected Etta. It must be difficult playing second fiddle to such a star.
The men had marked the racing pages and telephoned their bets, putting more than they could afford on Mrs Wilkinson. The bus was following the first signposts to Ludlow now.
‘Housman country,’ sighed Corinna.
‘“Oh, when I was in love with you,”’ began Seth in his infinitely deep, husky voice with the slight break in it that sent shivers down Etta’s spine, ‘“Then I was clean and brave,/And all around the wonder grew/How well did I behave.”’
‘“And now the fancy passes by,”’ mockingly, Corinna took up the refrain, ‘“And nothing will remain,/And miles around they’ll say that you”’ she nodded round at Seth, ‘“Are quite yourself again.”’
There was a silence. Alan filled up everyone’s glasses.
‘Where’s Joyce Painswick?’ asked Debbie.
‘I thought she and Hengist’s scarf were part of the fittings,’ said Phoebe bitchily, ‘getting her money’s worth.’
‘Joyce has got a job,’ said Etta.
‘Whatever as?’ asked Phoebe, then choked on her hot Ribena as Etta, with quiet satisfaction, said:
‘As Marius’s secretary.’
‘How ridiculous!’ exploded Debbie.
‘But she’s such a frump,’ raged Phoebe, ‘and she must be nearly seventy.’
‘Ah-hem,’ said Alan.
‘Well, some people are young at seventy,’ said Phoebe hastily, ‘but Painswick’s so spinny. She’ll never cope with Marius’s language.’
‘Whose idea was it?’ demanded Debbie.
‘Valent’s,’ said Alan in amusement. ‘He reckons Marius is in pieces. And if Painswick was able to control Hengist Brett-Taylor and six hundred hooligans at Bagley Hall, Throstledown will be a breeze. Didn’t you notice an improvement in today’s emails?’
‘Didn’t get certain people leaving on time,’ said Debbie sourly.
‘Damn, damn, damn,’ said Phoebe, filling up her Ribena glass with champagne. ‘We want to start a family and it would have been the perfect part-time job for me.’
‘Joyce won’t last long. Far too bossy for Marius, can’t see her appealing to the owners,’ sniffed Debbie.
‘Joyce is a darling,’ flared up Etta to everyone’s amazement, ‘such a kind heart and a lovely sense of humour. She’ll look after Marius and the horses and the lads.’
‘Hoity-toity,’ muttered Debbie to Phoebe, as Etta stomped off up the bus to talk to Alban and Toby, who were praising Araminta, whom Toby often took shooting.
‘I’ve been told to take at least a thousand cartridges to the Borders next weekend,’ Toby was saying excitedly. ‘Must go and have a pee.’
‘I had a wonderful tip for the two thirty,’ Alban turned round and smiled at Etta, ‘but alas, I’ve reached the age when if someone gives me a wonderful tip I’ve forgotten it in five minutes.’
59
‘“The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,”’ sang Amber as she swung Marius’s lorry into the Ludlow road. ‘Such a lovely song, one of my father’s favourites.’
She was eaten up with nerves. Unlike Newbury, where she’d been thrown up at the last moment, she’d had several days to fret.
‘The last line of the song’s so sad,’ she continued, rattling away to Tommy and Rafiq. ‘“The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.”
‘Housman’s a brilliant poet for jump racing,’ she went on. ‘He understood about camaraderie and bands of brothers, soldiers at the front heroically risking their lives day after day. Jockeys are the same, riding into the cannon’s mouth, never knowing if they or their horse will come home. Most jockeys are in constant pain from endless falls or stomach cramps from wasting.
‘Rogue says even the jockeys he most wants to beat, like Bluey Charteris, even an evil bastard like Killer O’Kagan, he misses when he’s not riding every day against them. He hates it when they have terrible falls.
‘“The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.”’ As Amber sang the line again, her voice broke. ‘I’m sorry to bang on, I guess I’m just wound up. I hoped my dad was going to make it and walk the course with me, but he’s not very well.’
‘You’ll do brilliant,’ said Tommy soothingly. ‘Must be awful living in a time of war when you’re constantly dreading all your friends and family being wiped out.’
‘I still am,’ said Rafiq chillingly. ‘In Afghanistan, in Iraq, in Pakistan. The Yanks bombed a funeral the other day and killed my uncle and aunt.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Tommy put an arm round his shoulders, feeling him tense up then tremble. ‘I wish you’d talk more about it.’
And you’d tell your policeman father, thought Rafiq darkly. He’d been up at five, praying for Amber and Mrs Wilkinson and that Marius would