torch and walked home. Valent had come all the way back for Wilkie and said he’d missed her. She wanted to skip like the lambs already in the fields. The stream was shaking the first primroses. The palest green willow leaves were breaking out of their buds.
Clinging on to Valent’s poles, she ran down the last four steps because a snow-white Polo was parked outside her house. Then she froze: the number plate was still the same, inside was still the same, all the stickers still on the windows.
A card was attached to the windscreen.
‘Dear Etta,’ she read in amazement, ‘I’m not sure what went wrong but I’d like to rebuild our friendship, so for a start I’ve rebuilt your car. Love Valent.’
Inside was a new CD player. As she switched it on, out poured Mahler’s First Symphony, causing Gwenny and Priceless to jump out of their skins.
‘Come on,’ cried Etta. ‘Let’s do a lap of honour,’ and they all piled into the Polo and drove round and round the village.
124
The whole world seemed to have descended on Willowwood on Gold Cup morning, persuading most of the syndicate they had been right to hang on to Mrs Wilkinson. A vast crowd of camera crews, journalists, photographers and well-wishers outside Throstledown’s gates had cheered her and Furious off to Cheltenham. Despite being besieged by customers, Chris and Chrissie saved the Wilkinson bar for syndicate members to line their stomachs with a massive fry-up and kedgeree made from a salmon caught by Alban.
Those attempting to pace themselves drank Buck’s Fizz rather than champagne, as Dora, looking enchanting in a new short scabious-blue coat with ‘I love Wilkie’ and ‘I love Furious’ badges pinned to each lapel, handed out emerald and willow green rosettes.
‘If we’d accepted Shade’s offer,’ Corinna looked beadily at Dora’s coat, ‘I too could have afforded something new from dear Amanda Wakeley.’
Neither Tilda nor Painswick had been able to afford anything new, but Alan and Pocock respectively thought how lovely they looked.
‘Wilkie has received more than a thousand good luck cards,’ Dora announced proudly, ‘and Furious twenty-two, most of these admittedly from Trixie, his heroic new stable lass.
‘If anyone didn’t see the hilarious Channel 4 film,’ Dora went on, ‘Derek Thompson sportingly mounted Wilkie, whose legs immediately buckled like a camel and, as the camera rolled, so did Wilkie, depositing Tommo on the deck to be butted by Chisolm, after which Wilkie wandered over and sweetly nudged him better.
‘The Easy Lay has already taken thirty thousand on Wilkie this morning and been subjected to an Animal Rights demo.’ So as not to upset Etta, Dora didn’t add that members of the demo had been shocked rigid by Drummond Bancroft’s language when they tried to stop him having a bet on his way to school.
‘The media coverage has been awesome,’ reported Dora modestly, ‘with enough cuttings to repaper the entire Wilkinson Arms. The only person to receive as much fan mail as Wilkie is Woody. “Why can’t they have tree surgeons in Holby City?” says Fame magazine, but in case Niall gets jealous, we’re incredibly grateful he’s given up a Friday in Lent to bless Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘She’ll need it,’ sighed Joey. ‘Last mare to win the Gold Cup was Dawn Run.’
‘I had the runs at dawn this morning.’ Toby neighed with laughter. ‘Couldn’t sleep a wink.’
‘When I can’t sleep I count past lovers,’ announced Corinna. ‘I always fall asleep before I get to treble figures.’
Etta felt too sick to eat any kedgeree. It had rained heavily in the night. Walking Priceless early, she’d slipped and fallen twice in the mud. How could poor Wilkie stay upright over thirty huge fences and three and three-quarter miles?
She also banked fences when she was tired. As a dreadful omen, the rising red sun had crashed through Valent’s trees, scraping its tummy on the spiky twigs. Etta hadn’t seen Valent since the night he had yet again saved Wilkie and delivered her rejuvenated Polo. She had written him an ecstatic thank-you letter, but so wished her Valent Edwards had flowered in time for her to present him with his own dark red rose for his buttonhole.
Last night Valent had left a gruff message on her machine. He was aware she’d be watching the Gold Cup with the syndicate, but he hoped she’d pop into his box for a drink to meet Ryan, Diane and the grandchildren.
If only Bonny wasn’t insisting on joining the syndicate when they reached Cheltenham, so she could ‘engage with her public’.