all-night party the previous night. Debbie Cunliffe had just returned from a stroll round the trade stands. The Major was bellyaching about sloppy parking and how many more cars he’d have fitted in, and how there hadn’t been any rain in his rain gauge for ages. The Cunliffes were on non-speaks with the Travis-Locks because of Ione’s latest plan to have a wind turbine clanking away between their gardens.
Ione had only just forgiven Alban for overturning her wormery. The moment she pushed off to enquire into the possibility of a Green stall next year, Pocock, in brown suit and tweed cap, the vicar, still in his dog collar from Matins, and Alban got stuck into the red.
Tilda Flood was looking wistful because Shagger had pushed off to socialize with Toby, who seemed to know everyone. She was cheered up, however, by a large gin and tonic handed her by Alan. Painswick, who arrived white and shaking after a bumpy ride with Mrs Malmesbury, also opted for a G and T. Old Mrs M was already on her second Bull Shot.
No one was making inroads into Ione’s forced rhubarb crumble or butternut squash quiche, or even Chris and Chrissie’s sliced beef Wellington or Etta’s egg sandwiches, because they were all too nervous about Mrs Wilkinson, Family Dog and Not for Crowe.
‘Lucky Joey got our bets on first thing,’ murmured Alan to Alban. ‘Mrs Wilkinson’s shortened to 4–1.’
‘Wilkie’s so thirsty, can’t she have a little drink of water?’ pleaded Etta.
‘Not before the race. Just run a wet sponge round her mouth,’ insisted Dora as they resaddled up Mrs Wilkinson behind Joey’s lorry to avoid the vicious wind whistling through the bare trees.
Next door, in Marius’s lorry, a bounding Bafford Playboy was being saddled up by a sexy but very sulky Titian-haired stable lass called Michelle. Watching her were Shade and Olivia Oakridge, wearing a Puffa over Shade’s magenta and orange colours.
‘Rupert must know something to have tipped Mrs Wilkinson in the Post,’ said Olivia.
‘When has anything Rupert said ever had any credence,’ snarled Shade. ‘Only thing you’ve got to do is beat his arrogant little toad of a son, Xavier, and that scraggy old has-been Toddler.’
‘I’m sorry Marius has buggered off to Chepstow,’ sighed Olivia.
‘I’m not,’ said Shade, then to wind Olivia up, he added, ‘That’s a stunning girl,’ admiring Amber’s endless legs in white breeches and shiny brown-topped boots, as she loped towards Joey’s lorry. Michelle, the sulky red-headed stable lass, gave a smirk of satisfaction.
The firmness of the ground had reduced the runners to eight. Not for Crowe looked even more gloomy as he padded round the parade ring, Family Dog more cheerful. Joey, riding Crowie, had given up Etta’s cakes for two months and just made the weights.
‘What did you have for breakfast?’ shouted Chris, hanging over the rail.
‘A carrot,’ shouted back Joey.
The vicar’s heart twisted at how pale and thin Woody looked as he saddled up Family Dog.
There were cheers for Farmer Fred’s son, Harry, on a chestnut called Nixon, and for Nancy Crowe’s son, Jonathan, on a black cob called Marvellous. Jonathan had the same wizened face as his mother and looked almost as old.
Punters gazed approvingly at a very pretty dark brown mare called Judy’s Pet, trained by Harvey-Holden and one of the first horses in his fightback. She was owned by a Mrs Judy Tobias. Neither she nor Harvey-Holden was present but a dashing local amateur called Aberdare ‘Dare’ Catswood was riding the mare.
Quietly plodding round the paddock was Rupert Campbell-Black’s ancient warrior Toddler with a seen-it-all-before look on his kind white face.
A rumble of approval greeted Bafford Playboy, a lovely old-fashioned chaser, heavy in the quarters and rippling with muscle.
‘That’s the horse Shade bought from Harvey-Holden and gave to Marius to train,’ murmured Alan to Alban. ‘But not for much longer, they had an awful row in the car park. Lovely horse.’
Shagger stole off to have a bet.
The Willowwood contingent huddled together on the ropes for warmth. Etta stood among the owners in the centre of the parade ring, a forlorn figure in her old grey coat – if only she could have afforded that one in sea blue.
‘Poor little soul’s invested so much love in Mrs Wilkinson,’ observed Painswick, speaking for everyone. ‘It’ll break her heart if anything goes wrong.’
A great cheer went up when Mrs Wilkinson, still in a borrowed red rug which fell to her fetlocks, was finally led in by Dora.