candles. Woody was particularly excited that he and Valent were getting close to a cure for chestnut fungus and might save the great chestnut avenue of Rupert, who, for the past hour, had been nose to nose discussing horses with Marius. Trainers didn’t change, their wives, Taggie and Olivia, were fondly agreeing.
Alan the incredible journalist was dictating an even more exciting ending into a tape recorder. Dora was on her mobile to the Daily Mail: ‘Mrs Wilkinson is to become a mother, Mr Dacre,’ she was shouting over Robbie Williams. ‘I can confirm Penscombe Love Rat is the father, rather an exciting mating.’
Martin, also on his mobile, was desperately calling his bank to find out if Harvey-Holden’s cheque had gone through.
Alban, ringed by admiring journalists, was explaining how his numerous languages had enabled him to track down Rafiq and Mrs Wilkinson. He was delighted to have another quango: £300,000 a year for one day a month to find out if immigrants mostly come from abroad.
Toby was dancing round with Bump in his arms, making the gorgeous blond little boy scream so much with laughter that the photographers competed to take their picture. Then Phoebe, determined to get in on the act, snatched Bump away and started dancing with him, whereupon Bump bawled his head off and, to loud cheers, uttered his very first words: ‘Want to go back to Daddy.’
Painswick and Pocock sat hand in hand outside the pub, planning their teashop. Seth and Corinna were enjoying posing for photographers and plugging work in progress. Seth was keeping one eye on Romy, who was getting bored with comforting Jude, and the other eye wistfully on Trixie, who was sitting on the edge of the duck pond, cooling her swollen feet and talking to Eddie Alderton.
‘You mustn’t feel guilty about Furious,’ she was saying. ‘He was glorious but mad, one day he’d have done something dreadful.’
‘And you mustn’t worry about the baby,’ said Eddie. ‘My mom was illegitimate and she’s done good. Let’s have dinner tomorrow.’
Whenever the disco stopped, the Greycoats children sang their song about Mrs Wilkinson, but were somewhat distracted to notice their favourite teacher snogging Mr Macbeth.
A big screen was showing the Major’s film of Mrs Wilkinson’s finest moments.
‘Pity it didn’t include her stolen service with Love Rat,’ giggled Dora.
Hanging around for Seth, Martin or Valent, Bonny noticed a beautiful youth with white-blond hair jumping out of a badly parked car and cried, ‘Who is that most appealing young man?’
‘My boyfriend,’ snapped Dora, briskly dictating Chisolm’s diary to the Daily Mirror, ‘and he’s taken.’
Chris and Chrissie, having made sure there was enough food and drink on the trestle tables, joined the party, deliriously happy that at last Chrissie was pregnant.
‘I do hope the baby doesn’t come out in a woolly hat, waving a betting slip,’ murmured Woody to Niall.
Oxford, Priceless, Cadbury, Araminta, Mistletoe and half a dozen of Olivia’s terriers, aware that the minds of their owners were on other things, had just emerged from the pub kitchen licking their lips.
On a bench beneath a cherry tree dropping white petals on to them like confetti, Amber and Rogue were locked in each other’s arms. As they broke off, Amber caressed Rogue’s face with a hand on the third finger of which glowed a beautiful sapphire.
‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I was so vile in the past, I love you so much and I take back everything I said about jockeys being rubbish in bed. And I adore the idea of Dad and Furious bonding in heaven. Dad was always great with difficult horses.’
‘If you’re denifitely going to hire Rafiq Khan as your stable jockey next season,’ Rupert was saying to Marius as they helped themselves to another mahogany whisky, ‘I’d better have Rogue back to make sure of beating you.’ Over Marius’s shoulder, Rupert raised his glass to his goddaughter.
The press were frantic to talk to Rafiq, but he had escaped to Penscombe with Tommy. They were both shell-shocked, clinging together in case the other vanished.
‘I was so terrified you were dead,’ said Tommy.
‘I was so terrified they’d kill you if I made contact,’ said Rafiq.
Overhead the moon hung like a little gilded banana.
‘Imagine Wilkie peeling it,’ said Tommy. ‘Thank you ever so much for saving her.’
As they breathed in a smell of wild garlic tempered by a faint sweet scent of bluebells, they could hear the idle stamping and neighing of Rupert’s horses. But Tommy led Rafiq on, past the tennis court to the animals’ graveyard.