heart quickens and rejoices, thought Alan, observing the rapture on Woody’s, Tilda’s, Etta’s, Pocock’s, even Painswick’s faces.
So Marius it was.
The syndicate then gathered round a table, with Priceless the greyhound flashing his teeth like a Colgate ad as he rushed in from the kitchen, making the numbers up to fourteen by stretching out on a nearby sofa. First drinks were on the house as the rules were hammered out. Only people who lived in Willowwood could join. The majority vote would prevail on all occasions. Payment of vet’s bills, insurance, proportion of winnings dependent on size of stake and allocation of owners’ badges at race meetings were all thrashed out. Anyone who backed out, or defaulted for three months on payment, would lose their stake unless they could get someone approved by a majority syndicate vote to take it over.
Major Cunliffe had been mugging up on syndicates and, as an ex-bank manager, he was appointed treasurer. When he suggested that ‘Cash sums can be handed over in this pub on the twenty-fifth of every month, but I’d prefer people to pay by Direct Debit,’ no one dared look at one another.
‘And anyone who defaults will be spanked by the Major,’ yelled Alan, getting up to buy the next round of drinks.
Direct Debbie looked very disapproving.
‘Debbie will be in charge of good behaviour,’ said Seth, feeding crisps to Priceless.
‘We must think of a name for the syndicate,’ said Etta hastily.
Toby, who’d flown down straight off the grouse moors and looking a prat in knickerbockers, interrupted her, announcing that Shagger, ‘a whizz-kid in the City’, should be the syndicate’s banker.
Alan, however, had observed Shagger’s trick of asking for a fiver from everyone to buy some white and red, then, having acquired three or four bottles for much less, pocketing the rest. Equally, Shagger would sidle into a group, bury his fat lips in the cheek of one of the women, buy her a half, slide back into the group and be the beneficiary of succeeding rounds.
Only a couple of days ago, Shagger had edged up to him in the pub to reiterate that if he, Shagger, secured a favourable insurance deal for Mrs Wilkinson, perhaps the syndicate might waive his fee. Remembering how Shagger, with the aid of a vicious Health and Safety inspector, had once ripped off Woody, Alan had snapped that it was most unlikely.
Shagger’s methods were entirely opposite to the generous open-ended way Alan operated, aided admittedly by a rich wife, so Alan now suggested it would be better if Major Cunliffe was also their banker. He was more experienced, more local and therefore more available. Everyone except Shagger and Toby agreed. Major Cunliffe went puce with pleasure.
‘Ask a busy person,’ said Debbie smugly. ‘Daddy always finds the time.’
‘We still haven’t got a name,’ said Etta, making notes.
‘What about Affordable Horsing?’ suggested Seth.
Everyone giggled.
‘Why not the Willowwood Legend,’ said Trixie.
Everyone liked that, it sounded so romantic.
‘Except Beau Regard died,’ said Painswick.
‘Let’s just call ourselves Willowwood,’ said Woody, seeing Etta’s face falter and moving his thigh away from Shagger’s.
‘How are we going to get to the races?’ asked Joey. ‘When Mrs Wilkinson starts winning we’ll want to celebrate on the way home.’
Chris the landlord then announced he’d got wind of a second-hand Ford Transit bus that took ten.
‘Don’t ’spect everyone’ll go every time she races,’ said Joey.
‘Some of us work,’ quipped Chris.
‘And people can sit on people’s knees,’ said Phoebe, looking up at Seth from under her pale brown eyelashes.
‘We’ll provide the picnic,’ said Chris, thinking of a fat profit.
‘We can all make things,’ said Etta.
‘And drink ourselves insensible,’ said Seth, draining his glass.
‘We’ll have to find someone sober to drive us,’ said Alan. ‘How about Alban? Poor sod’s just returned from rehab utterly demoralized, off the drink, for ever, if Ione has her way. Desperately needs something to do.’
‘He’s a seriously slow driver,’ protested Toby.
‘Better to be safe than sorry,’ said Miss Painswick, getting another skein of wool out of her bag.
‘Will you approach Alban?’ the Major asked Alan pompously. ‘I was thinking of asking him to address Rotary on his take on the Arab world.’
‘We must paint the bus our colours,’ said Tilda in excitement.
‘What are our colours going to be?’ asked Shagger, filling up his pint mug from one of the bottles of red on the bar.
‘Why not a dark green willow on the palest green background?’ suggested Phoebe, who worked in an art gallery. ‘We must have something that shows up on grey, foggy days.’