curves of Ione’s limes. He’d done a good job there.
As she surreptitiously snipped off another of Ione’s roses and slipped it into her bag, Debbie called out disapprovingly, ‘My goodness, here’s Tilda Flood. Amazing how many people have taken the day off.’
Tilda had got into the habit of taking her class on much enjoyed nature rambles. It had seemed a fun idea to bring them to see the hunt. With shrieks of joy, the children gathered round Mrs Wilkinson, whose picture was on their noticeboard. Soon she was shaking hooves with them.
Tilda meanwhile was looking round, desperate to catch a mid-week glimpse of Shagger in his red-coated glory.
‘Where’s Mrs Bancroft?’ asked the children in disappointment.
‘Looking after Chisolm and Cadbury,’ said Dora.
Not all factions were so benign. Re-entering the garden, the saboteurs crept up on Tilda, berating her for encouraging blood sports in the young.
‘You ought to be struck off, you buck-toothed cow.’
Tilda went crimson. Where was Shagger in her hour of need?
‘Don’t be rude to my teacher,’ shouted little India Oakridge furiously. ‘Hounds kill foxes in seconds. If they’re shot, trapped or poisoned they spend days dying in agony. Foxes are murderers anyway.’
‘You little pervert,’ yelled Brunhilda, ‘who brainwashed you?’
‘At least her brain’s washed,’ shouted Alan. ‘You lot don’t look as though you’ve touched a bar of soap in days.’
As the crowd bellowed with laughter again, Tilda mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Alan.
Time to move off. Toby had laid his bloody trail through the faded bracken over a splendid array of hedges and walls.
‘Good morning and welcome, ladies and gentlemen,’ shouted Lady Crowe to a counterpoint of excited yelping and barking.
‘I’m delighted to see so many of you here, supporting the hunt, spending precious petrol on such long distances. I’d like to thank Alban and Ione for their splendid hospitality and beautiful garden.’
A photographer from the Larkminster Echo was snapping away. Having taken a nice shot of Lady Crowe, he turned his attention to the group of admirers around Mrs Wilkinson and Not for Crowe. Anxious to get in the picture, Debbie shoved her bulk between the two horses, whereupon the eternally greedy Not for Crowe, mistaking her jute sack for a nosebag, delved inside, drawing out a rainbow riot of cuttings, including several Hermione Harefields.
‘Stop it, you brute,’ squawked Debbie, whacking Not for Crowe on his ginger nose with her scarlet fold-up umbrella and frantically shoving cuttings back into the bag.
‘Don’t hit Crowie or I’ll report you to the RSPCA, you great bully,’ shouted Dora.
Oblivious to the uproar, Lady Crowe wished everyone a good day. Then, with a triumphant blast on the horn, she cried out, ‘And I would like to reaffirm that the West Larks will continue to hunt within the law.’
‘Don’t make a fuss, Mr Pocock,’ whispered Painswick. ‘It’s Mrs Wilkinson’s day. Good luck, Dora,’ she cried.
‘Good luck, Mrs Wilkinson,’ chorused the children. ‘You won’t hit her with that whip, will you?’
‘No, that’s to open gates,’ explained Dora, who was in her element. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ she cried graciously and, leaping on to Mrs Wilkinson, clattered off down the drive to much clapping and cheering.
‘Don’t know that mare, looks well,’ called out Lady Crowe.
‘Thank you, Master. I’m qualifying her for the point-to-point.’
‘Going to ride her?’
‘I’d like to,’ said Dora proudly.
‘She yours?’
‘No, she belongs to Etta Bancroft.’
‘So this is the famous Mrs Wilkinson?’
Dora nearly burst with pride. Off they went with a manic jangle and rattle of hooves, fifty riders, pursued through the village by a convoy of cars and motorbikes.
Held up by traffic, Dora, realizing she’d tipped her saddle too far forward, dismounted and undid Mrs Wilkinson’s girths to adjust it. Just at that moment, Harvey-Holden trotted past on his spectacular new horse and Mrs Malmesbury, who was parked just ahead and gave way to no one, remembered she’d forgotten to pick up the Telegraph from the village shop. Without a glance in her rear mirror, she backed straight into Mrs Wilkinson.
‘You fucking stupid old bag,’ howled Harvey-Holden. Next moment, Mrs Wilkinson had swung round and bolted down the hill, not stopping until she reached Little Hollow, leaving behind Dora holding the saddle and screaming expletives.
Etta had spent an utterly miserable morning. The thick white cobwebs woven into the conifer hedge reminded her of Bartlett’s moulting fur. To comfort a lonely and agitated Chisolm, she’d let her out of her box, whereupon Chisolm had taken off down the road and joined a convoy of ramblers.