a pre-National get-together on the Thursday before the race. He’d have liked to hold it at Badger’s Court, but to swell Chris and Chrissie’s depleted takings he chose the Wilkinson Arms.
Etta was terribly torn. Her tears had watered the Valent Edwards rose, which was about to bloom. She so longed to see him, yet so passionately disapproved of the action he had taken.
All in an April evening, hummed Etta, going out into the soft twilight. Now the conifer hedge had gone, she was able to see a little gold crescent moon. As galaxies of primroses and daffodils twinkled all over Valent’s garden, Orion and his dog star, Arcturus, Capella and the Great Bear glittered overhead. Was it global warming that made them so bright?
The willows were at their fluffiest, little green leaves, tiny yellow catkins at roguish right angles to their gold stems. Earlier she’d noticed the ground cracking, which meant good going for Wilkie. It was such a magic evening, she couldn’t bear to stay away. She was comforted by the way Valent’s face lit up as she entered the pub.
‘Oh Etta, so pleased you’ve come.’ He shoved a glass of champagne into her hand.
‘Wilkie’s really well,’ he told her by way of mitigation, ‘and cheered up. She’s so happy to have Amber on her back. Tommy’s fussing over her, and Tommy, Chisolm and Furious have driven up today with a nice Irish lad of Rupert’s called Michael Meagan. They’re staying tonight and tomorrow in some quiet yard owned by friends of Rupert about fifteen miles from Liverpool, so she won’t be subjected to all the madness and boostle till Saturday morning.’
The rest of the syndicate waved but were too busy playing with cuddly Wilkinsons and Chisolms, who were bleating so loudly it sounded like market day in Larkminster.
As Valent wandered off to welcome Alban and Ione, Phoebe joined Etta. ‘How are you, stranger? Aren’t they adorable?’ she cried, winding up a Chisolm. ‘I’m going to pinch a pair for Bump, who’s walking now.’ Then, at Etta’s expression of disapproval, ‘Valent can spare one, he’s making a fortune, the only reason he insisted Wilkie run in the National was to boost sales.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ protested Etta, taking such a slug of champagne it spilled over her face. Debbie then came up to ask if Etta had heard from Rafiq. ‘I was shocked Rupert jocked him off, but I suppose it stands to reason, Rupert wants the mount for his precious grandson,’ she sniffed.
‘Eddie’s a very good rider,’ said Trixie sharply.
‘Bit mean to sack Rafiq as well,’ said Phoebe.
‘He what?’ asked Etta incredulously.
‘Sacked him,’ said Shagger, joining the group. ‘According to Painswick, Rafiq never even bothered to collect his stuff from Throstledown. He’s utterly deranged evidently, I hope he doesn’t start blowing people up.’
Seeing the outrage on Etta’s face, alarmed she might bolt, Valent was checking everyone had full glasses.
‘When’s little Bonny travelling up?’ asked Shagger fondly and to wind up Etta.
‘On Saturday,’ said Phoebe happily. ‘She’s coming straight to Aintree.’
Valent banged the table, welcomed everyone and said he was looking forward to seeing them all at the Grand National, and hoping to fly up as many of them as possible the following evening to stay at the Radisson Hotel.
‘Can we each have a couple of owners’ badges?’ asked Shagger.
‘Not sure there’ll be room in the parade ring, it might be a bit of a croosh, but we can certainly watch from the Owners and Trainers.’ Valent cleared his throat, blushing slightly.
‘I’d also like to say none of us would be here today if it weren’t for Etta Bancroft, who found and rescued Wilkie in the first place and saved her life,’ he raised his glass to a furiously scowling Etta, ‘and I’d like to make a presentation.
‘My factory in Kowloon needed guidance on how to recreate a realistic cooddly Mrs Wilkinson. Knowing her aversion to aeroplanes and long journeys, it wasn’t possible to fly Wilkie to China, so I commissioned this portrait of her by Dora’s brother Jonathan Belvedon …’
‘Must have cost him,’ muttered Shagger.
‘It did,’ beamed Dora.
‘… for them to work from,’ went on Valent, ‘and I’d now like to give the portrait to Etta as a token of all our esteem.’
The picture was propped against the wall. Dora turned it round and proudly carried it to the table:
‘Isn’t it great, Etta?’
‘That’s beautiful,’ cried Tilda.
‘Wilkie to a T, dear little soul,’ sighed Painswick.
‘Jonathan painted her left side, so you see her good eye and her sweet