white, their amber eyes darting, they leapt to snatch a passing sausage, jumped up lovingly on anyone who stroked them, or rolled joyfully in the grass and piles of leaves.
If only Etta could see how adorable hounds were, thought Dora, she couldn’t have stayed away.
‘Oh, do shut up, Wilkie,’ she snapped, as Mrs Wilkinson jumped all over the place, screaming for Chisolm.
‘Come over here,’ shouted Woody, looking as beautiful in the formality of hunting kit as the ginger Not for Crowe, who was hoovering up Ione’s veggie snacks, looked ugly.
Beside them, skiving from Badger’s Court, talking into two mobiles and marking the Racing Post, was Joey, who was mounted on the other syndicate horse, Family Dog, or Doggie, whose white face looked remarkably cheerful, despite his belly ruffling the fallen leaves as he buckled under Joey’s fifteen stone.
Seeing her two horse friends, Mrs Wilkinson calmed down a bit and blew in their nostrils.
‘Where’s Etta?’ asked Woody.
‘Not coming,’ said Dora sadly. ‘Thinks hunting’s cruel.’
‘I like people who stick to their principles,’ said Painswick, who’d brought a dashing green trilby to match the green and blue scarf Hengist Brett-Taylor had given her for Christmas. She immediately presented Mrs Wilkinson with a Polo, which she rejected with a tossing head.
‘My, we are off our food,’ said Painswick, giving the Polo to Family Dog. Immediately Not for Crowe heard crunching, he had to have one too.
‘You do look splendid, Wilkie,’ added Painswick, ‘and so do you, Dora dear.’
They were joined by a beady Direct Debbie in a ginger trouser suit.
‘You exactly match Crowie,’ giggled Dora. Direct Debbie’s bright red lips tightened.
‘How did you get the day off, young lady? Half-term’s long gone.’
‘Amber Lloyd-Foxe always has exeats from Bagley to hunt with the Beaufort,’ protested Dora.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Painswick, ‘Amber ran the beagle pack at Bagley. Her father, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, was one of our nicest parents.’
‘Anyway this is research,’ answered Dora. ‘Hunting comes in our GCSE set book, Pride and Prejudice, with Young Lucas saying, “If I were as rich as Mr Darcy I would keep a pack of hounds and drink a bottle of wine a day.” Sensible guy.’ Defiantly Dora reached over and grabbed a glass of port from Phoebe’s tray.
Phoebe, as pretty as the day but ever on the scrounge, was trying to persuade Woody to lop the beech hedge that grew between Wild Rose Cottage and Cobblers, in return for an unlimited supply of Bramleys.
‘You know how your old mum loves stewed apple, Woody.’
‘Hello, Debbie.’ Turning, Phoebe pecked Debbie on her mastiff jaw, ‘Woody’s going to trim our beech hedge so you’ll get your sun back.’
‘Tree loader,’ snarled Dora.
Hunting was anathema to the Cunliffes. How could the Major’s traffic-calming plans operate with people unloading their horses and leaving filthy Land-Rovers and lorries so arrogantly all over the village? The Major was having a seizure because Marius Oakridge’s trailer was blocking his drive.
‘Oh, is Marius here?’ asked Phoebe in excitement.
To enrage Debbie, dogs had relieved themselves all over the verges, village green and no doubt her lawn, from which she’d hoovered up every leaf that morning. And now the foot followers were photographing Ione’s garden and letting out their terriers without a pooper scooper in sight.
Having hidden a pair of secateurs and trowel in the jute bag handed out at Ione’s Christmas drinks, Debbie intended to nick or dig out as many cuttings and plants as possible. She was also determined, if she could escape Pocock’s bird-of-prey eye, to annex Dame Hermione Harefield, a glorious gold rose, which would feel so at home at Cobblers beside Angela Rippon, Anna Ford and Cliff Richard.
Pocock himself was not happy. That morning he had been forced to rake up thousands of leaves before mowing the lawns and now they were strewn with leaves again. This time of year, he dreamed of leaves and more recently of Etta Bancroft, such a lovely lady.
Even sadder that Etta hadn’t shown up was Alban Travis-Lock, who was walking round filling people’s glasses from a big jug. He had longed to hunt once he retired, but last autumn had mounted one of Marius’s chasers and it had carted him across country almost to the motorway, and he’d completely lost his nerve.
He pretended he’d backed off because the ban had made hunting so tame. Now he longed to surge off into the falling leaves with the rest of the field. If only he could have poured his heart out to Etta and gazed into her kindly blue eyes … Instead he poured