they tacked up their gleaming charges, and little Angel, the baby of the yard.
‘Do you use Pledge on them?’ joked Debbie.
The Major, who’d invested in a panama with a British Legion hatband, felt dashing and frisky. There were some jolly pretty fillies around. He smoothed his moustache. Woody was more interested in the yellow leaves already flecking the willows, and the coral keys on the sycamore. There were a lot of trees down in Marius’s copses which could be cut up and sold off to help his bank balance. The price of timber had gone sky-high.
Alan had justified skiving by giving a lift to Etta, Trixie and Dora, just back from three weeks in Greece with her boyfriend Paris.
‘We saw rather too many ruins,’ confessed Dora. ‘And remembering how Penelope’s suitors neglected poor Argus, I shouldn’t have been surprised how foul the Greeks are to dogs. I nearly brought back the sweetest little stray for you, Etta, as a present for looking after Cadbury.’
Now home and broke, Dora was anxious to sell more stories.
‘Don’t tell her too much,’ Etta pleaded to Trixie and Alan, ‘or Shagger will have ammunition and Debbie will be so shocked she might persuade the others to try another trainer.’
‘Where the hell’s Marius?’ grumbled Alan as they toured the boxes for a second time.
‘I never know what to say when people show me horses,’ whispered Tilda.
‘“Who’s he by?” is a good one,’ whispered back Alan, ‘or “Great ribcage” or “Wasn’t her grandmother Desert Orchid’s dam?”’
‘What’s a throstle?’ asked Phoebe.
‘A poetic name for a thrush,’ explained Tilda. ‘You can see a gold one on the weathercock.’
‘Don’t you want to throstle Phoebe?’ whispered Alan.
‘Always,’ whispered back a surprised but delighted Tilda.
‘That Tilda Flood’s as boring as the Electricity Board in Monopoly,’ Trixie muttered to Dora. ‘I think she fancies my dad.’
‘Après lui, le déluge,’ giggled Dora.
They were now welcomed by Collie, the head lad, who had a kind face, mousy hair and spectacles like a chemistry master at a prep school. He said Marius was still doing his declarations (two actually) but would be out soon.
Josh, Rafiq, Tresa, Michelle, Tommy and Angel, all in jeans, T-shirts and bobble hats, were legged up on to their horses and set out, splashing through the puddles.
Etta, Alan, Trixie, Dora and Painswick then piled into Collie’s absolutely filthy Land-Rover and bounded, bumped, skidded and swayed over the fields after them. The others, to the Major’s horror, were expected to take their own cars, which were soon splattered with mud. Halfway up the hill, they parked on the edge of the gallops and watched the horses snorting round the exercise ring. Then, led by the dark brown History Painting, who fought Michelle for his head all the way, they thundered thrillingly up the gallops, Sir Cuthbert, the veteran, brought up the rear.
‘Aren’t they beautiful,’ sighed Etta.
‘Imagine Mrs Wilkinson leading them,’ said Dora happily.
‘She’d soon see off History Painting and that custard-haired slag,’ said Trixie irritably, as blonde Tresa finally managed to tug the big chaser to a halt and turned, laughing, to Josh as he drew level. Trixie wouldn’t admit how pleased she felt when Josh surreptitiously blew her a kiss as he rode back down the hill.
The party from Willowwood was distracted by another string of prettier horses, and even prettier stable lasses, who all smiled and said, ‘Good morning,’ as they crossed the gallops.
‘That looks suspiciously like Rupert Campbell-Black’s Coppelia,’ murmured Alan.
‘It is Coppelia,’ hissed back Trixie. ‘Josh told me Rupert went ballistic when he heard Granny was forming a syndicate rather than selling him Mrs Wilkinson, but he hates Shade and Harvey-Holden even more.
‘Josh heard Rupert and Marius having a terrible row last night. Rupert saying the place was a tip and Marius should drag himself out of the Dark Ages. Marius saying if you can’t get a horse fit with good hay and oats, you might as well shoot it. But Rupert still sent his horses and lads over this morning to swell the ranks, and Taggie, his wife, is making breakfast for us all when we get back.’
‘Who’s that redhead?’ asked Painswick.
‘That’s Michelle – Meesh-hell, the little tart who’s been – ouch,’ as Etta kicked her ankle, Trixie changed tack, ‘such a bitch to Tommy, always calling her Fatty and pointing out her builder’s bum.’
‘Michelle’s the one who was shagging Marius,’ piped up Dora. ‘Everyone hoped he’d sack her when she dumped to Olivia, but she’s too good in bed.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Etta. ‘You won’t tell the press,