They had lunch together near the television. Etta found herself perched on a stool shaped like a fox’s head. Her crab fishcakes were utterly delicious and she noticed Alban wolfed up his Irish stew with similar relish. Dora gave most of her steak to Cadbury.
Alban glanced wistfully up at a photograph of a lawn meet outside Willowwood Hall.
‘That’s your gorgeous garden,’ exclaimed Etta, ‘and that’s you in a topper.’
‘Nineteen ninety-five,’ said Alban, ‘back on leave before the posting to Cairo. The one thing I looked forward to in my retirement was buying an ex-chaser and going out three or four days a week. Now it’s banned.’
‘I’ve had some excellent runs this season,’ Dora assured him. ‘The hunt meets at the pub in the second week in November,’ she added to Etta. ‘Hounds charged the bar last time, Oxford’s sister led the stampede. You’ll have to come and cheer us on.’
Etta took a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t approve of hunting – poor fox.’
‘Poor fox killed Old Mrs Malmesbury’s gander last week in broad daylight,’ said Dora sternly. ‘He plucked him then ate him, there were feathers everywhere.’
‘I know, I know.’ Etta shook her head.
Seeing the distress on her face, Dora changed the subject.
‘This pub is where Joey, Jase the farrier and Woody meet to discuss their syndicate every Wednesday. Their dream is to put Not for Crowe and Family Dog in training with Marius, but I don’t think he’d take them, sweet as they are.’
‘Doggie’s a Shetland,’ mocked a pretty girl with long red hair wearing a tight white skirt through which could be seen a leopardskin thong. She had come over to take their plates away. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Delicious,’ sighed Etta.
‘That’s Chris’s wife,’ whispered Dora. ‘Her name’s Chrissie, which confuses things. Joey fancies her like mad even though he has a very pretty wife, known as Mop Idol, who cleans for Mrs Travis-Lock.’
‘She does,’ said Alban happily.
‘Because they’re always producing children,’ giggled Dora, ‘Joey’s known as “Go Home for Lunge”.’
Alban choked on his drink.
‘And talk of the devil, here come Joey and Woody to watch the local derby,’ crowed Dora.
Joey had an all-weather face, foxy, knowing and sensual, a chunky body and the air of one at ease with his fellow men. A gold pen was tucked into his black woolly hat.
Now that she could see his face, Etta appreciated Woody was indeed a beauty, with wonderful broad shoulders, a lean long-legged body, thick blond curls flecked with sawdust, a smooth forehead, high cheekbones, kind, darkly shadowed, greeny-blue eyes and a beautifully soft mouth.
Dora, in her element, was about to introduce Etta but the two men just nodded and didn’t come over.
‘See your boss has been down to Badger’s Court enjoying empty bedrooms ’ere with his lady friend, Joey,’ shouted Chris, waving the Daily Mail.
‘Didn’t tell me,’ snapped Joey, who’d signed a confidentiality agreement not to spread any gossip about Valent and Bonny, and much regretted tipping off Dora, in a moment of weakness, about last week’s visit. Not wanting her to thank him in public, he kept his distance.
Woody, who had been responsible for planting the mature conifers round Etta’s garden, was also looking sheepish.
The runners for the one thirty were circling the parade ring.
‘There’s Stop Preston,’ said Dora, going towards the television.
‘We saw him in the flesh,’ squeaked Etta.
‘Mrs Bancroft’s moved into the bungalow next to Valent’s,’ Dora told an approaching Joey. ‘She needs bookshelves and her pictures hanging. She’s mad about horses. What are you two on?’
‘Claudia Dearest. Jase said she’d walk it. And an each way on Asbo Andy.’
‘Claudia looks a bit peaky to me,’ said Dora.
‘Harvey-Holden paid five grand for that mare,’ said Chris disapprovingly. ‘But when his missus, Claudia, pushed off, he sold her to that syndicate for fifty grand.’
Harvey-Holden, a little man in a flat check cap, could hardly be seen for the syndicate – thick-necked hoods bulging out of their brown shiny suits – that surrounded him.
‘Look at them hanging on his every dishonest word,’ said Joey.
‘You had a bet?’ asked Woody, looking Etta in the eye for the first time.
‘I’m not sure. Alan, my son-in-law, fancied Stop Preston.’
‘Looks bloody well,’ said Joey, as the gleaming bay bounded round, shoving his stable lass into the rails. ‘Dubious who’s leading who. Here’s Marius.’
‘Gloomy as ever,’ said Chris.
‘Gets very strung up,’ said Chrissie.
‘Shade will string him up if Stop Preston doesn’t win,’ observed Woody.
Etta felt so sorry for Marius as he was joined by Shade, who was wearing a belted