her car keys and was setting off to retrieve her when she heard a rattle of hooves and met Mrs Wilkinson at the gate, reins flapping, saddle and Dora missing. She was in a dreadful state, eyes rolling, shuddering in terror. Etta was just trying to calm her when Dora rolled up, raging with humiliation.
‘Bloody Wilkie, making me look such an idiot, bloody Mrs Malmesbury. I’ve got to take her back.’ She was about to slap on the saddle.
‘You will not,’ said Etta firmly. ‘Something terrified the life out of her. Chisolm’s pushed off, I was just going to look for her.’
‘Chisolm will come back, she’s got a disc,’ said Dora sulkily. ‘I can’t give in to Wilkie.’
‘You damn well can. What happened?’
‘Well, we know she’s spooked by shovels and cars backing into her,’ said Etta, when Dora had cooled down and finished telling her the story. ‘I wonder if that’s how she got those terrible scars on her legs. I’d better go and find Chisolm, I’ve got to pick up Poppy at one.’
*
Miss Painswick ended up in the Fox with Alan, Alban and Pocock, enjoying Chrissie’s moussaka and having a good laugh over Debbie’s plant raid.
‘Very cutting edge,’ quipped Alan.
It was such a lovely day, Miss Painswick had left her sitting-room window open. On her return, she thought she was hallucinating when she saw Chisolm stretched out asleep on her newly upholstered pale blue sofa under a half-eaten copy of The Times.
‘Chisolm is a distinct addition to our little circle,’ announced Painswick as she handed her back to Etta. ‘At least she left me the social and television pages. How about scrambled eggs and The Bill this evening?’
33
Gradually Mrs Wilkinson grew in confidence and, despite having only one eye, gave Dora some wonderful days out. Working without realizing it, the little mare was learning her trade, discovering how to take the shortest route and to jump all kinds of fences at the gallop. She was loving every minute of it, mixing with other horses, dogs and humans and finding it both steadying and exciting.
To qualify for a point-to-point, she had to hunt six times. On the sixth occasion Dora caught flu, so a heroic Alban Travis-Lock took out Mrs Wilkinson instead. With a flask of brandy in every pocket to steel his nerves, he could hardly shrug into his riding coat. Long legs nearly meeting under Mrs Wilkinson’s belly enabled him to cling on.
Cheered on by Alan, who joined the foot followers, Alban gave Mrs Wilkinson her head and had a marvellous afternoon.
‘He ended up absolutely rat-arsed,’ Alan told Etta later, ‘sobbing, “Thank you for giving me back my nerve,” into Mrs Wilkinson’s shoulder. Must be tough living with Ione, she hasn’t forgiven him for knocking over her wormery the day hounds met at the Hall. Wilkie must be incredibly strong to carry him all day.’
The West Larks point-to-point – to be held on 21 March, the first day of spring, was drawing near. Who would ride Mrs Wilkinson? Dora longed to. She had enraged Farmer Fred and the secretary of the golf club galloping all over their land. She had spent ages teaching Mrs Wilkinson to jump. She was the perfect weight for a jockey, but only sixteen and totally inexperienced. In addition, Paris, who loved her, considered it far too dangerous.
Visiting her friend Bianca Campbell-Black, Dora sought the advice of Bianca’s father Rupert, who was watching racing all over the world on half a dozen monitors and gazing gloomily at a laptop. Despite having daughters who were brilliant event riders and polo players, Rupert thoroughly disapproved of women jockeys.
‘Paris is right. And National Hunt’s far more dangerous than flat. It’s like going off to the Front. Need to be half-mad to do it. Jump jockeys average a fall every thirteen rides – not the place for a girl. They’re not strong enough to hold horses up.’
As Dora’s face fell, Rupert suggested she try his god-daughter, Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who had ambitions to become a jump jockey. Rupert felt guilty because he’d refused to give her any rides.
Then, seeing Dora was still despondent, Rupert confided that he was having trouble writing his incredibly opinionated and inflammatory column in the Racing Post. If he told her what to say, would she be able to ghost it for him occasionally?
‘Certainly,’ replied Dora, perking up, ‘as long as we can split the fee and write nice things about Mrs Wilkinson.’
Dora had had a terrific pash on Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who when she was