he adored it to realize he was being observed. Alan longed to say, ‘Boo.’ Next moment, Martin had turned right through the Major’s gates. What was this about?
Next day the Major emailed the syndicate, summoning them to an emergency meeting that very evening. A full house except for Seth and Corinna attended. The locals were amazed to see Martin roll up with Bonny, who looked stony-faced and blanked Etta.
‘Why does that infernal dog have to occupy the entire window seat?’ she said, glaring at Priceless.
Dora, who’d rushed down from London, was briefing everyone about the Channel 4 interview. ‘We must get Wilkie to do as many tricks as possible, particularly yawning when Harvey-Holden’s name is mentioned. Isn’t it exciting,’ she went on, ‘Chisolm’s diary in the Daily Mirror is pulling in ten times more readers than Rupert’s column in the Racing Post.’
The Wilkinson bar, where the meeting was held, had been entirely papered with Mrs Wilkinson’s cuttings. All one could see were backs as syndicate members read about themselves.
‘We really must smarten up Etta before the Gold Cup,’ Debbie was murmuring to Phoebe. ‘Should one wear one’s Gold Cup hat for the Channel 4 interview?’
Chris was just taking orders when the Major strode in. Rheumy eyes gleaming, bristling moustache in a state of arousal, he ordered champagne on the house. The syndicate looked alarmed, hoping they wouldn’t have to pay.
Mrs Wilkinson hadn’t brought in any winnings since the beginning of February. Many of the syndicate had been wiped out by Ireland. The houses of others were still wrecked by the floods. Woody, after a bad fall, was off work and having to pay for his mother in an old people’s home. Phoebe, to people’s amazement, was pregnant again. Shagger wanted cash; Alan wanted to run off with Tilda; Joey was worried he might have made Chrissie pregnant. The Major and Debbie had their ruby wedding coming up and, now they’d moved up a rung socially, their grandchildren’s school fees to pay. Corinna and Seth were always short. Painswick and Pocock wanted capital for their teashop. Trixie, slumped in a corner, sipping Perrier and reading Horse and Hound, had her own money troubles. The vicar needed a new spire; Bonny wanted a new squire; Etta’s Polo had failed its MOT.
As Alan got out his notebook, the Major cleared his throat:
‘I bring you glad tidings of great joy. We’ve had a most extraordinary offer from a secret buyer for Mrs Wilkinson. I was approached yesterday. This would mean over fifty thousand for every member of the syndicate and twenty-five thousand for those with half-shares.’
Etta stopped shoving photographs of Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm into envelopes. ‘We can’t,’ she gasped, ‘we can’t sell Wilkie.’
‘I think we can,’ said Bonny rudely. ‘What we can’t do is turn down an offer like this.’
‘Certainly not,’ agreed a salivating Shagger. What a shame he and Tilda only had a half-share each. ‘We must accept immediately. Dermie O’Driscoll was telling me he turned down two hundred grand for a horse last year, which sold for only seven grand six months later.’
‘How dreadful,’ shivered Phoebe. With the rate of inflation, £100,000 would probably just cover Bump’s first term’s prep school fees. ‘We must accept at once.’
‘It’s my horse, thank you,’ snapped Bonny. ‘Valent gifted me a share.’
‘At least let’s sleep on it.’
‘Won’t get much sleep worrying the vendor might change his mind,’ said Debbie.
‘Why the hurry?’ asked Alan, who was frantically trying to work out the implications.
‘They need to know straight away because they want to run her in the Gold Cup,’ said the Major.
‘What about Alan’s book? It’s centred round the village and Wilkie being part of it,’ protested Tilda angrily. ‘What about Hengist’s film?’
‘Add to the drama of the plot,’ said Shagger, draining his glass and refilling it. ‘It’s only a horse. With that kind of money, we can buy a couple more and keep the syndicate going.’
Etta lost her temper. ‘How dare you!’ she shouted at Shagger. ‘After all Wilkie’s done for you and Willowwood.’
‘We can’t possibly sell her, it would break her heart,’ said Dora. ‘Who’s the buyer anyway?’
‘My lips are sealed,’ said the Major primly. Dora imagined him being kissed by a great seal.
‘It would be treacherous to sell her,’ cried Trixie, roused out of her apathy. ‘We can’t do it.’
‘You’ve got a rich mother,’ hissed Bonny, who hadn’t forgiven Trixie for shopping her to Valent. ‘Lucky for some.’