horrible fox got her goose yesterday in the lunch hour (when she’d just slipped down to Tesco’s) and plucked the poor goose alive then killed her. Feathers everywhere. Geese mate for life and her poor blind gander is absolutely heartbroken and keeps calling for her, “Ee-ee-ee-ee,” and bumping into things, “Ee-ee-ee.” Foxes kill for the hell of it.’ Seeing Etta’s eyes fill with tears, Dora pressed home her advantage. ‘Just imagine the poor old boy going sadly to bed tonight, “Ee-ee-ee,” without his wife. Foxes are bastards – “ee-ee-ee.” Please, please join the hunt.’
‘Oh, all right, but only for this season. How much is it?’
‘Only about four hundred pounds.’ Then, as Etta gasped: ‘But it’s already been paid for.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’ve had a whip-round. Alban, Alan, even the Major coughed up (but don’t tell Debbie), even Debbie (but don’t tell the Major) – Chris and Chrissie, the Terrible Trio, of course, Tilda, Painswick and Pocock. They all chipped in. Phoebe promised but I expect she’ll conveniently forget.’
‘They can’t,’ protested Etta. ‘I shouldn’t support the hunt and I can’t allow other people to pay for me to do so, they can’t afford it.’
‘We can,’ said Dora stoutly. ‘We all love Mrs Wilkinson, we’re so proud of the way you’ve brought her back from the dead. We all feel we’ve got a stake in her. She’s the village horse.’
‘I must contribute something,’ squeaked Etta, sadly bidding farewell to the lovely sea-blue suit in the Blue Cross shop she’d hoped to wear on the day.
‘You can pay the entry fee and Amber’s cap if you insist,’ said Dora kindly. ‘God, these brownies are yum. That’s only a hundred pounds.’
And the dashing blue stetson as well, thought Etta.
After she’d given the children their tea, Etta rang Alan, who’d contributed more than a hundred pounds to her membership fee. ‘Oh Alan, Sampson so disapproved of racing, he’d have died at the thought of my being an owner. And I’m so anti-blood sports I feel I’m going to pieces in every way.’
‘Paris is worth a mass,’ said Alan reassuringly. ‘And Willowwood’s so excited. Mrs Wilkinson’s given us all an interest.’
34
Race day dawned cold and breezy but still without rain.
‘We’re going to win the turnout prize if nothing else,’ vowed Dora to Etta as she plaited up Mrs Wilkinson. ‘That mane and tail conditioner made her mane so thick and shiny. No, darling,’ she added as Mrs Wilkinson irritably thrust out a foreleg for a snack, ‘you’ve got to hoist yourself over those fences. And I mustn’t forget to take water away an hour before the race.’
Mrs Wilkinson gave a whicker of welcome and Chisolm bleated in excitement as Painswick bustled in with the Racing Post.
‘Look, you’re all in the paper. Here we are,’ she said as the pages blew around. ‘“Number 13, Mrs Wilkinson, grey mare”, dear little soul. “Owned by Mrs Etta Bancroft, trained by Miss Dora Belvedon.”’
‘Well, someone had to,’ mumbled Dora, going rather pink and concentrating on the last plait.
Oh goodness, what would Romy and Martin say if they saw the race card? Etta turned pale. Thank God they’d taken Poppy and Drummond away for the weekend.
As Painswick got an apple out of her bag, Mrs Wilkinson brightened, but Chisolm rushed forward and grabbed it.
‘Afraid she mustn’t eat before the race,’ said Dora. ‘What are the odds?’
‘Fifty to one. Doesn’t she look lovely?’
‘So do you,’ said Etta.
Painswick was looking very flash in a dashing blue hat with a feather, to pick up the blue in Hengist’s scarf.
‘I just dropped in to say I won’t be needing a lift,’ she said smugly. ‘I thought poor Old Mrs Malmesbury needed taking out of herself after the wicked fox killed her poor goose,’ Painswick looked straight at Etta, daring her to try to chicken out, ‘so I invited her to join us at the races. She’s driving me.’
‘God help you,’ muttered Dora.
‘I’ve brought some supplies for the picnic.’ Painswick waved a carrier bag which Chisolm eyed with interest as she edged forward to be petted.
‘Who else is in Wilkie’s race?’ asked Dora.
‘Family Dog and Crowie, of course,’ said Painswick fondly.
‘And Rupert Campbell-Black’s son Xavier, who was at Bagley with Amber, riding an old soldier called Toddler. Harvey-Holden’s got Judy’s Pet, and Bafford Playboy ridden by Olivia Oakridge.’
‘That’ll win,’ said Dora.
‘Don’t be defeatist,’ reproved Painswick. ‘I’m sure Amber will ride Mrs Wilkinson to victory.’
Mrs Wilkinson, however, had other ideas. When Joey and Woody rumbled up in the lorry already containing Not for Crowe and Family Dog, even