when her buddy Chisolm bounded up the ramp, Mrs Wilkinson flatly refused to load, going into a quaking, rolling-eyed, rearing and plunging panic. It took all Dora, Woody, Joey and Etta’s strength to stop her hurtling off across Valent’s orchard.
Coaxing with nuts had no effect, nor did Dora trying to ride her into the lorry, and when everyone including Painswick tried to hoist her up the ramp, she went crazy, kicking, striking out with her foreleg crashing to the ground, and flailing in panic.
‘Stop it,’ yelled Etta, flinging her arms round Mrs Wilkinson, trying to still her violently trembling body. ‘You can’t make her go. She was just like this when I found her, only she was too weak to struggle. This could set her back permanently. She’s not going to run.’
‘Then I’ll hack her there,’ cried Dora, rushing past a stable door covered in good luck cards to fetch her tack. ‘It’s only five miles to Ashcombe.’
‘She’ll be far too tired to run.’
‘We’ve gotta declare in half an hour,’ said Joey, who was fast losing his temper. ‘I’ve put everyone’s money on. Half Willowwood has had a punt. Let Dora ride her.’
‘No,’ wailed Etta.
‘I do think you are being rather selfish, dear,’ said Painswick, wiping Mrs Wilkinson’s froth off her coat.
‘Am I?’ Etta straightened one of Dora’s lovingly executed plaits.
‘Yes,’ said Joey, ‘she’ll be fine. She’s kept going all day out hunting.’
‘We can’t let Amber down,’ said Dora, sliding a bridle over Mrs Wilkinson’s head. With Joey’s help she was tacked up in a trice.
‘Go across country,’ advised Woody, giving Dora a leg up. ‘Lester Bolton’s got the road up winching in a new cinema to show off his wife’s horrible films.’
‘I don’t want Wilkie to go,’ cried Etta. ‘She’s my horse, and what I say …’
But Mrs Wilkinson had taken matters into her own newly shod hooves. Frantic to put as much distance between herself and the lorry, she set off down the drive while Dora shouted back, ‘Can you ring Amber and tell her we’re on our way? And don’t forget the silks. She’ll be fine, trust me, Etta.’
As Woody put an arm round Etta’s heaving shoulders, Chisolm, unmoved by such events, was polishing off Painswick’s last tomato sandwich.
35
Amber Lloyd-Foxe had arrived at Ashcombe unusually early. Believing Mrs Wilkinson hadn’t a hope in hell, she had last night gone to a party, met a gorgeous man and ended up in bed with him. Now she was fighting a hangover and remorse for being so unprofessional. To clear her head she had twice walked the course, which unwound over two fields bleached khaki from lack of rain and lying at the bottom of a valley. The valley itself was divided by a nearly dried-up stream which the runners would cross by a water jump and a grassed-over bridge.
Huddled in her Golf in the car park, Amber lit another cigarette. Hoping it was the man from last night, she was disappointed when Etta rang to say Dora was hacking over and hoped to make the declaration.
Trust Dora to cock it up, thought Amber crossly. She should never have accepted the ride. She’d tried to stop her father driving down, but he’d switched off his mobile.
There was a far smarter and larger crowd of all ages than she’d expected, mostly in khaki camouflage. The racing fraternity, who Amber always thought of as the Check Republic because they always dressed in check tweeds, the men in check tweed caps, were out in force. Loads of Sloanes and Aggies from the Royal Agricultural College, with lurchers, Labradors and little terriers on leads, clustered round the boots of Land-Rovers for warmth and sustenance.
Studying the race card, Amber found her name, and Mrs Wilkinson, described as ‘a first season youngster, unraced over fences or the flat’.
Next moment she heard raised voices, and looking up recognized Shade Murchieson, olive-skinned, black-browed, his handsome sensual face contorted with rage. A pale fawn cashmere coat, thick leather gloves and a dark brown Homburg set him exotically apart from the other racegoers, but he’d look foreign if wrapped in a Union Jack. He was also a big owner. Amber lowered her window.
Shade was shouting at a man with his back to Amber, who, although as tall and broad-shouldered, was far more slightly built. His thick dark brown curls spilled over the high neck of an ancient bottle-green check coat. Amber could just see even thicker dark eyelashes and the edge of a beautiful jawline. His ears were red with