her, until she dropped her off hind, caught the top of the second fence, somersaulted wildly and crashed down on to the rock-hard ground, throwing Amber ahead of her.
There was a stunned silence, then Etta wailed with horror and stumbled off down the hill towards them. She could see both the checkered flag and the orange flag frantically waving, summoning doctor and vet.
Willowwood was in uproar.
‘We might as well go home,’ said Alan, tearing up his betting slip. Phoebe and Tilda burst into tears. Below them Etta had nearly reached the course. Amber was lying on the ground nursing her hurt pride when Mrs Wilkinson scrambled to her feet, shook off the dust and nudged Amber in her ribs: ‘Buck up, we’ve got a race to win.’
Amber staggered up, remounted, they set off and magic occurred, as if Mrs Wilkinson had sprouted wings and flown over the trees. No one could believe what they were seeing.
Intoxicated by the rattle of her feet on the firm ground, enjoying a left-handed track where her good eye was able to focus on crowds lining the route, Mrs Wilkinson was soon skipping joyfully over the fences, a look of intense concentration on her white face, her tongue hanging out like a little girl writing an essay.
Gradually, as she cleared fence after fence and the gap narrowed between her and the rest of the field, the crowd started roaring.
‘I’m seeing things.’ Alan pressed his binoculars against his blond eyelashes.
‘Come on, Wilkie,’ screamed Miss Painswick. As Mrs Wilkinson flew past Family Dog and Not for Crowe, who’d both been pulled up, Woody and Joey gave a cheer. Clearing the big blackthorn hedge, she overtook Farmer Fred’s Marvellous and Jonathan Crowe’s Nixon, and drew level with Xav Campbell-Black on Toddler, who, as his long dappled legs devoured the course, was twice her size.
‘Still no time for that catch-up,’ yelled Amber as she left Xav behind. ‘Come on, you gorgeous little girl.’
Mrs Wilkinson flapped her long ears. Ahead Amber could see hulking bay and sleek dark brown quarters.
‘Come on, Wilkie.’ Amber drummed her heels even faster into Mrs Wilkinson’s ribs. Next minute, they had shot between Bafford Playboy and Judy’s Pet.
‘Three more to jump, we can do it, Wilkie.’
Then Playboy and Judy’s Pet both rallied, Olivia thundering up the inside and blocking off Mrs Wilkinson’s view of the crowd, Judy’s Pet closing in from the right. For a moment, Mrs Wilkinson panicked and faltered.
‘Good girl, Wilkie,’ yelled Amber, ‘you’re doing brilliant. Get out of my way,’ she screamed as Olivia bumped her, crossing the bridge. Sandwiched between the two horses as they jumped the last fence, Mrs Wilkinson stayed resolute, and although desperately tired, battled on until Judy’s Pet fell away and it was just her and Playboy, who’d bumped her once too often. Eyeballing him furiously, Mrs Wilkinson put on a phenomenal last spurt, shoving her head forward and winning by a whisker.
Ione Travis-Lock screamed her head off and was amazed to find herself hugging Direct Debbie. What did wind turbines matter?
‘Photograph, photograph,’ howled the punters, including Shagger, who’d backed Playboy, but there was no one to photograph finishes at point-to-points.
Fortunately the West Larks Hunt stewards were biased in Etta’s favour. Dora had kept them amused throughout the season, Amber had fought hunting’s corner by protesting against the ban and nobody liked Shade Murchieson, so they declared Mrs Wilkinson the rightful winner.
As Dora raced up to welcome Wilkie, covering her with kisses, Marius’s sulky red-headed lass clipped a lead-rope on Bafford Playboy and told Olivia Oakridge, ‘You ought to be on Police Five. You was robbed.’
Dare Catswood, who’d come third on Judy’s Pet, shook Amber’s hand.
‘Well done, offer for dinner’s still open any time.’
Etta meanwhile had struggled back up the hill to the overjoyed party from Willowwood.
‘I cannot believe this, I cannot believe this.’
‘Yes, you can,’ said Painswick. ‘I’ll look after Chisolm, run down and lead her in.’
‘Just a sec,’ said Ione, getting out a handkerchief and mopping up Etta’s tears.
‘Use my compact,’ said Debbie, turning Etta’s cheeks bright orange. ‘How about a bit of lippy?’ She applied a dash of scarlet.
‘There,’ she brushed some mud off Etta’s coat, ‘you look lovely.’
‘Like a less gaudy lipstick,’ whispered Phoebe.
‘Enjoy your moment,’ ordered Debbie, propelling a stunned Etta towards the finish to join an ecstatic Dora and Amber and fling her arms round a heaving, panting Mrs Wilkinson, who, however tired she was, still gave a faint whicker.
‘Well done indeed,’ said Lady Crowe as she led them in.