at Bagley Hall had exeats to hunt with the Beaufort, and received more letters from boys than anyone else. She was also a heroine, having broken into Parliament with Otis Ferry and scuffled with politicians over the hunting ban.
Amber, like her journalist mother, Janey, liked the fleshpots, and had consequently abandoned eventing as not commercially viable. Despite her famous father, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, who was an Olympic medallist, a BBC equine correspondent and a star on A Question of Sport, Amber was finding it hard to get rides, due to other trainers’ prejudice against women jockeys – although they were quick enough to offer her rides of a different kind.
Egged on by Painswick, who reasoned that if Amber rode in the point-to-point Amber’s ex-headmaster Hengist Brett-Taylor might turn up to cheer her on, Dora wrote to Amber offering her £100 to ride Mrs Wilkinson, ‘a fantastic novice mare’.
To Dora’s amazement, Amber accepted and came down in early March to school Mrs Wilkinson over some fences. These had been hastily assembled in Valent’s orchard by Joey’s builders, whose eyes were out on stalks because Amber was languid, blonde, very beautiful, and made Mrs Wilkinson look like a different horse.
Etta, who came to watch, was enchanted to see how well she was going and how wonderfully Amber rode her. With her blonde mane and long eyes the tawny gold of winter willow stems Amber could have been Gwendolyn on a white-faced Beau Regard.
It’s an omen, thought Etta in ecstasy, but was rather disappointed when Amber pulled up and, on being introduced to Etta, pronounced Mrs Wilkinson not bad but very green and small.
‘She can’t be fifteen hands. She also drops her off hind over fences.’ Amber turned to Dora: ‘You could try schooling her over a diagonal pole.’
You could be a bit more enthusiastic, thought Etta. She did hope Amber wouldn’t use her whip on Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Who’s she by?’ asked Amber, after Etta had rushed off to pick up Poppy from school.
‘We don’t know,’ said Dora.
‘And her dam?’
‘We don’t know that either.’
‘Christ, why hasn’t she been DNA’d?’
‘Etta doesn’t want to,’ confided Dora. ‘She’s terrified the right-ful owner might want her back, not that he’d have any right after the horrific way he treated her. Etta found her tied to a tree in the middle of winter.’
‘Well, that’s that then.’ Amber jumped off without even bothering to pat Mrs Wilkinson. ‘Didn’t you realize she can’t enter a point-to-point without a passport and a sire and dam?’
‘Oh God, we’ve registered her name with Weatherbys and got her some lovely silks, beech-leaf brown with purple stars, which will really suit you. And I’ve got a certificate from the Master to say she’s hunted six times.’ Then, as Mrs Wilkinson nosed around for Polos, ‘No one said anything about sires and dams. That’s shocking actually,’ exploded Dora, ‘like saying Paris can’t go to Cambridge because he doesn’t know who his natural parents are.’
Amber took off her hat, pulled off her toggle so her blonde hair swayed in the breeze like the willows around her and reached for a cigarette.
‘The only solution would be to enter her in a members’ race. This is limited to horses owned by local farmers or members or subscribers to the hunt. Then you could put “breeding unknown” under Mrs Wilkinson’s name in the race card. Is Mrs Bancroft a member of the hunt?’
‘Not exactly,’ sighed Dora.
‘Well, she better become one tout de suite, or there isn’t a hope in hell of Mrs Wilkinson running.’
Etta was digging her garden three days later when Dora rolled up with Cadbury, looking furtive.
‘Mrs B, I mean Etta, there’s something I must tell you. As Mrs Wilkinson’s owner, you have to become a member or a subscriber to the hunt in order that she can run.’ Then, at Etta’s look of horror: ‘It’s the only way we can swing it. The members’ race is the only one that allows horses without a passport.’
‘No,’ snapped Etta, shoving her trowel so furiously into the earth she punctured a lily bulb, ‘I’m not supporting the hunt.’
‘We don’t kill foxes any more. Oh perlease, Etta, you can’t deprive Mrs Wilkinson of a brilliant career. Amber thought her exceptional,’ lied Dora, ‘and drove all the way down here. We can’t let Amber down.’
‘I don’t care.’ Etta threw down her trowel. ‘I must go and collect Drummond.’
Fate, however, lent a hand. The following morning Dora popped in and found Etta making chocolate brownies.
‘Oh Etta, I’ve just bumped into Mrs Malmesbury in floods. A