completely one-track – “What war in Afghanistan?” – he never stops working, even hunting he’s always trying out young horses or schooling them.’
‘He’s gorgeous.’ Etta peered closer. Even surrounded by a laughing group, knocking back glasses of port and accepting pieces of fruit cake, Marius, on a sidling chestnut, looked isolated, his pale face guarded, still and thoughtful.
‘That’s his stunning wife, Olivia, on the grey,’ added Dora, ‘and that’s Claudia, the wife of Willowwood’s other trainer, Ralph Harvey-Holden. She left him last summer, because he’s so jealous and threatened to sell some horse she adored. And that hound’s called Oxford. He was walked as a puppy by Old Mrs Malmesbury, and often runs home to her at Catkin Cottage if the hunting gets boring.’
Etta felt terribly guilty. Sampson had thoroughly disapproved of her going into pubs. She was, however, so touched by Dora’s kindness, particularly when Dora immediately introduced her to Chris the landlord, who was fat and jolly, with a big smile, slicked-back dark hair and tired bloodshot eyes, which winked a lot.
‘Chris runs this place brilliantly,’ explained Dora, ‘particularly because he allows dogs in. This is Cadbury’s favourite pub.’
Cadbury thumped his tail expectantly.
‘Chris, this is Mrs Bancroft who’s just moved into Willowwood.’ Hearing the name, Chris’s smile dimmed then returned to full beam as Dora added, ‘Alan’s mother-in-law.’
Putting down the glass he was polishing, Chris pumped Etta’s hand. ‘Any friend of Alan’s, who incidentally has spoken very warmly of you, Mrs Bancroft. ’Ave one on the ’ouse.’
‘How incredibly kind, are you sure? I’d love a small glass of white wine. I’ve got to pick up my grandchildren later.’
‘And you don’t want to be drunk in charge of a monster,’ said Dora. ‘I’d like a Coke if that’s OK, Chris.’
‘We were hoping we might have some lunch?’ asked Etta. Somehow having food in a pub made it less decadent.
‘All up there.’ Chris pointed to a blackboard. ‘Fishcakes is nice. Pheasant’s tasty, so’s Irish stew.’
‘How lovely, fishcakes for me.’
Dora, thinking of a doggie bag for Cadbury, said she’d like steak and chips.
‘That’s an awfully big glass, thank you,’ gasped Etta. ‘So cosy and such a lovely fire and, even better, At the Races on television.’
‘Local Derby at one thirty,’ said Chris as Etta wandered towards the set. ‘Marius Oakridge and Harvey-Holden have both got horses running in the maiden hurdle at Stratford. Harvey-Holden’s maiden proved a bit of an ’urdle for him.’ Chris winked at Etta. ‘He named an ’orse Claudia Dearest after his missus, and she’s pushed off.’
‘Poor man,’ cried Etta, ‘how humiliating.’
‘He’s not very nice,’ said Dora. ‘He doesn’t feed his horses or pay his staff enough, and he works them much too hard, and he threw Claudia’s saddle out into the pouring rain.
‘I was going to take Mrs Bancroft round the church and tell her about the Willowwood legend,’ Dora added to Chris, ‘but Mrs T-L and not much C and Direct Debbie were about to have a punch-up.’ Then as Chris coughed and gave her a warning look, Dora swung round to find Alban Travis-Lock lurking in an alcove behind the racing pages of The Times.
‘Hello, Mr Travis-Lock,’ Dora changed legs briskly, ‘you haven’t met Mrs Bancroft.’
Alban leapt to his feet, nearly concussing himself on a low beam, and offered to buy Etta and Dora a drink as an excuse to fill his own glass.
‘That’s so kind, I’ve got one,’ said Etta.
‘Put one in for Dora and Mrs Bancroft, Chris,’ called out Alban. ‘Same again for me.’
Travis-Lockjaw, thought Etta, as Alban spoke through clenched teeth. He had receding hair, a domed forehead, big mournful turned-down eyes, a snub nose above a long upper lip and a big mouth. Not unlike an elder-statesman orang-utan campaigning for the preservation of the species.
Cadbury, hopeful of pork scratchings, put his head on Alban’s brown corduroy thigh.
‘Cadbury is deeply in love with Mr Travis-Lock’s Lab, Araminta,’ said Dora.
Noticing Alban had a most charming smile, showing large but well-tended teeth, Etta said: ‘Dora tells me you were a wonderful ambassador.’
Alban blushed. ‘One did one’s best, thank you, Dora,’ and noticed that now Mrs Bancroft had taken off her Barbour, her ancient and shrunk navy-blue jersey showed off her pretty breasts and eyes.
‘Have you had a bet?’ asked Dora.
‘Well, Jase the farrier was in yesterday and said he’d put on Claudia Dearest’s racing plates, and she was an absolute cert, so I think most of Willowwood’s backed her.’
‘Alan was going to back Stop Preston,’ volunteered Etta, wondering if he’d remembered to put something