hasn’t got what it takes,’ said Shagger. ‘He’s so bloody stroppy. If you twist my arm I’ll have another Scotch,’ he shouted at Joey.
‘What’s the point of a syndicate with no action?’ Toby looked up from the Shooting Times.
Etta could see Alan, Seth and even Pocock wavering.
If Valent were here, she thought in panic, he’d never let this happen. It was Valent who’d accused her of betraying the judge when the syndicate was formed: ‘He gave her to you, Etta.’
‘Valent wouldn’t want to sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ she cried. ‘He loves her to bits, he’d never let her go.’
‘I beg your pardon, Etta,’ said Bonny icily, ‘I think I know what Valent “thinks”. You’ve clearly forgotten that Valent gave me the share in Mrs Wilkinson as a birthday present. It’s nothing to do with him if we sell her, or you,’ she added rudely.
‘Mind your manners, young lady,’ snapped Painswick.
‘Bravo,’ murmured Shagger, smiling across at Bonny and winking at Phoebe. ‘Let’s have a vote.’
Alan, Seth, Shagger, Bonny, Phoebe and Toby who counted as one vote, the Major and Debbie who counted as another, Bolton and Cindy who counted as two. That was eight votes, Etta worked out with trembling fingers. Joey for and Woody against cancelled each other out, as did Pocock and Painswick. Even if Alban and Trixie and Dora, who counted as one vote, came in on Wilkie’s side that was only two votes, three with Etta’s, to eight.
‘It mustn’t happen,’ Etta’s voice was rising, ‘we’re betraying her.’
Distraught, she clanged down the iron steps into the street, where she was asphyxiated by aftershave and nearly sent flying by Niall coming into the pub.
‘They’re going to sell Wilkie, please try and save her,’ she begged. Rustling through the leaves, conkers crunching like pebbles beneath her feet, she raced left up the high street then right, across the village green.
Up in the sky Pegasus was jumping over the church steeple. Surely a good omen. Reaching Ione’s iron gates, she was greeted by the red and crimson glow of acers, dogwood and parrotia.
The house was in darkness. Ione isn’t in, she thought in despair. But drawing close, she detected a slight gleam from low-energy bulbs. Ione, sitting in three jerseys at her desk near the window to catch the last of the light, had a deadline to meet for Compost magazine. She was writing on the back of recycled paper, teabag on its second innings in her mug.
Etta rang the bell furiously, a waft of icy air hitting her as Ione opened the door.
‘Please help,’ gasped Etta, ‘I need Alban’s mobile number. Bolton’s called a meeting in the Fox, they’re voting to sell Mrs Wilkinson because she costs too much, and they don’t believe she’s going to come right.’ She burst into tears.
‘Have a drink,’ said Ione.
‘No, no, there isn’t time. I just thought if I rang Alban, he might talk them round. He’s always seemed to love Wilkie.’
‘We all do,’ said Ione, and gathering up a vegetable marrow lying in the hall as a weapon of mass destruction, not bothering to close the door, she stormed out of the house across the village green and into the Fox.
Gaunt, beaky-nosed, dark eyes flashing, dark hair escaping from her bun, splendid eco-warrior, she stood in the doorway for a second, then, pummelling aside rugger players, made for the stairs.
‘We’ll have you in the second row, darlin’,’ called the captain, raising his beer mug, as she bounded up the stairs three steps at a time, bursting into the skittle alley just as the Major was gleefully counting a majority vote.
Pocock leapt behind Painswick.
‘Stop, stop,’ ordered Ione, brandishing her marrow. ‘You can’t sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ she added in a voice that had silenced Mothers’ Unions and army wives in far-flung posts of the Empire. ‘She’s not any old racehorse now. She’s the Village Horse, all the children at Greycoats love her, we all love her, and we’ll keep her as long as it takes.’
‘We’ve voted to sell her,’ squealed Cindy.
‘I don’t care!’ Snatching the voting papers from the Major, Ione ripped them up and threw them on the fire. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.’
The syndicate quailed. Next moment they all jumped at the sound of clapping. It was Painswick.
‘Thank you, Mrs Travis-Lock. Let me buy you a drink.’
‘I’ve got to rush, thank you, but I don’t want to hear any more nonsense, particularly from you, Toby, you earn enough in the City as it is.’ Then, glancing round the room: ‘Too many lights