‘Which is more than happened at Marius’s open day,’ grumbled Bolton. ‘I wasn’t introduced to anyone that mattered.’
‘I may be sticking my neck out,’ went on Phoebe, ‘but I think we should not only look for a new trainer but also sell Mrs Wilkinson.’
Etta gasped, feeling as though a huge ball had taken out all her skittles.
‘I’m sorry, Etta, but I’m giving up work and on one income a hundred and eighty-five pounds a month is too much to pay for a dud horse. If we went to Henry, he’d find us a decent replacement and make sure we had a ball. He’s so owner-friendly and there’s a confidential owners’ line you can ring for information any time.’
‘We can always ring Joyce,’ protested Etta.
‘Of course,’ Phoebe was all dimples, ‘but she’s not on call twenty-four hours a day. Also I think it would be fun for Wilkie to star in a blue movie.’
‘Who’s she going to shag? Count Romeo, Sir Cuthbert or Horace?’ Toby brayed with laughter.
‘I can’t see why she can’t,’ said Alan, thinking what a wonderful chapter it would make in her biography.
‘Nor can I,’ said Joey, who needed the money.
‘I’m all for dumping Marius,’ said Shagger.
‘Ay can’t say Ay’ve warmed to him,’ said Debbie. ‘He’s been so uncooperative with the Major, who’s trayed so hard.’
‘Marius is very shy,’ protested Etta.
‘And he’s been through a horrid marriage break-up,’ volunteered Painswick, alarmed she might soon be without a job. As it was, she was having great difficulty paying her monthly subscription.
‘We can’t sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Woody in outrage.
‘Even if she gets better, we don’t know if she’ll be any good,’ drawled Shagger.
‘And Marius implied there’s another thousand-pound vet’s bill coming up,’ huffed the Major.
‘Henry Ponsonby specializes in affinity marketing, which means arranging syndicates that really get on and enjoy each other’s company,’ said Phoebe.
‘We did at the beginning,’ said Debbie, glaring at Cindy. ‘We need a decent horse to unite us.’
They were interrupted by a burst of cheering from the rugger club and, clanking up the steel staircase, in walked Seth, a leading actor making an entrance.
Priceless lifted his tail. Etta leapt to her feet. Feeling her shaking as he kissed her, Seth said, ‘Darling, what’s up?’
‘Thank God you’re here,’ she whispered. ‘They want to ditch Marius and sell Mrs Wilkinson. Please help.’
Seth was about to reply when Bonny, flushed by pleasantries from the rugger club, appeared behind him.
‘Bonny, Bonny,’ everyone crowded around, ‘we thought you and Valent were abroad.’
Joey went green. He’d done none of the things Bonny had asked for at Badger’s Court.
‘I’ve been filming in London. Seth told me this was a key meeting and I’d better show up.’
Alan grinned at Etta and nodded knowingly. ‘What d’you both want to drink?’ he added, going towards the bar.
‘I’d like a large Scotch,’ called out Shagger.
‘What’s been going on?’ asked Seth.
‘Marius won’t let Wilkie star in
Lady Godiva,
’ giggled Phoebe. ‘Being a thesp, Bonny, you’ll know how disappointed she must feel.’
‘What you don’t realize,’ said Alan mock-seriously, ‘is that this movie is social commentary. The poor peasants were being taxed out of existence – there were no state benefits in those days. Lady Godiva rode out to save them, she was a heroine. It’s so topical. It would make such a wonderfully colourful chapter in her biography,’ he pleaded. ‘Not much else to fill it until January.’
‘You won’t have a book at all if you sell her,’ implored Etta.
‘Where are you staying in London?’ Phoebe asked Bonny.
‘Just off the Little Boltons.’
‘Wish those two were off there too,’ muttered Woody.
Etta, despite the danger, got the giggles.
Bolton cleared his throat.
‘Let’s get on with the meeting. As a majority shareholder,’ he reminded them ominously, ‘I’d like to donate a Mercedes Sprinter so we’ve got something decent to travel in. I also propose we sell Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘You can’t,’ cried Etta.
‘Let me finish, please. I propose to buy two babies. I’ve got my eye on a pretty filly I’d like to call Cindy Kate.’
‘Oh Lester,’ shrieked Cindy, looking up from Hello! ‘Do let’s buy some flat ‘orses, racing’s so much nicer in the summer. Then we can go into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.’
‘Hardly think she’d get in,’ murmured Bonny.
Cindy and Bolton had powerful allies: Shagger, Phoebe, Toby, Major Cunliffe and Direct Debbie, who’d give anything to dump Cindy but liked the thought of the Portuguese villa.
Chrissie polished glasses and edged closer to hear what Woody and Joey were arguing about. Joey, who had terrible gambling debts and had spent too much money on Chrissie, was reluctantly in support of the motion.
‘Marius doesn’t do flat horses,’ said Shagger. ‘And I’m sure we’d do better with Harvey-Holden – Ilkley Hall won again yesterday – or Rupert Campbell-Black.’
‘
We
would.’ Cindy, Bonny and Phoebe licked their lips.
‘Isa Lovell’s set up on his own,’ said Joey, ‘and Cosmo Rannaldini’s got all his horses with him. Dermie O’Driscoll’s taken a yard in North Gloucestershire, which should be a riot.’
‘Marius is really working to get Mrs Wilkinson fit again,’ cried a frantic Etta. ‘He feels sure she’ll be back in the New Year. He’s so grateful you’ve been so patient.’
‘Funny way of showing it,’ snapped the Major. ‘There’s no guarantee she’ll win again. We could all go on pouring money into her for ever.’
‘I think we should vote,’ persisted Bolton.
‘What are the rules, Major?’ asked Bonny.
‘Members must abide by a majority decision,’ intoned the Major, ‘and we must hold a syndicate vote before any horse is allowed to run in a selling plate.’
‘Mrs Wilkinson can’t run at all at the moment,’ said Woody.
‘Then she must go to the sales,’ said Shagger.
‘She’d fetch nothing,’ said Joey.
‘She would as a brood mare,’ said Seth. ‘Father’s Peppy Koala, mother’s Little Star.’
‘She must go through the ring then. I’m sure she’d find a good home,’ said Phoebe.
‘Rubbish,’ said Painswick. In her fury she dropped three stitches. ‘You know no such thing. We couldn’t possibly sell the dear little soul like that.’
‘Let’s follow the democratic process and have a vote,’ urged Shagger.
‘We can’t,’ gasped Etta. ‘Alban isn’t here, can’t we try him on his mobile? He wouldn’t want to sell Wilkie, nor would Dora and Trixie, let me try and ring them.’
‘Alban doesn’t have a mobile,’ said Alan.
Neither Dora nor Trixie answered theirs.
‘They’ve got better things to do. Bagley’s got a dance with Marlborough this evening.’ Alan didn’t meet Etta’s eyes.
‘If Wilkie goes, you won’t have a book to write,’ a distraught Etta told him.
Bonny, talking to Seth, looked round.
‘If her career’s over, he won’t have one anyway.’
‘Joey and Woody,’ pleaded Etta, ‘you were in at the start.’
‘Sorry, Ett, but it’s a lot of money to fork out each monf, particularly along with Crowie and Doggie,’ said Joey.
‘I don’t want to sell her,’ insisted Woody, ‘or leave Marius. He’ll get her right.’
Bolton glared at Woody. ‘I thought you liked working for me,’ he hissed.
‘You two only have one vote between you, Woody. You and Joey cancel each other out anyway,’ pointed out the Major.
‘What about Tilda, she’s got a half-share with Shagger.’
‘Tilda’ll do what I choose,’ boomed Shagger, looking at Etta. ‘She’s not Wilkie’s greatest fan after the way she was humiliated at your party, Etta.’
‘No, I understand, I’m sorry.’
Pocock was dickering. He loved Etta and Miss Painswick. He was very fond of Wilkie. But he didn’t like Seth or the Major or Bolton, he hadn’t been able to go racing very often because of
work and the presence of Alban in the syndicate intimidated him.
Joey went over to Chrissie and the bar because he felt a traitor and wanted to fill his glass.
‘Marius hasn’t got what it takes,’ said Shagger. ‘He’s so bloody stroppy. If you twist my arm I’ll have another Scotch,’ he shouted at Joey.
‘What’s the point of a syndicate with no action?’ Toby looked up from the
Shooting Times
.
Etta could see Alan, Seth and even Pocock wavering.
If Valent were here, she thought in panic, he’d never let this happen. It was Valent who’d accused her of betraying the judge when the syndicate was formed: ‘He gave her to you, Etta.’
‘Valent wouldn’t want to sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ she cried. ‘He loves her to bits, he’d never let her go.’
‘I beg your pardon, Etta,’ said Bonny icily, ‘I think I know what Valent “thinks”. You’ve clearly forgotten that Valent gave me the share in Mrs Wilkinson as a birthday present. It’s nothing to do with him if we sell her, or you,’ she added rudely.
‘Mind your manners, young lady,’ snapped Painswick.
‘Bravo,’ murmured Shagger, smiling across at Bonny and winking at Phoebe. ‘Let’s have a vote.’
Alan, Seth, Shagger, Bonny, Phoebe and Toby who counted as one vote, the Major and Debbie who counted as another, Bolton and Cindy who counted as two. That was eight votes, Etta worked out with trembling fingers. Joey for and Woody against cancelled each other out, as did Pocock and Painswick. Even if Alban and Trixie and Dora, who counted as one vote, came in on Wilkie’s side that was only two votes, three with Etta’s, to eight.
‘It mustn’t happen,’ Etta’s voice was rising, ‘we’re betraying her.’
Distraught, she clanged down the iron steps into the street, where she was asphyxiated by aftershave and nearly sent flying by Niall coming into the pub.
‘They’re going to sell Wilkie, please try and save her,’ she begged. Rustling through the leaves, conkers crunching like pebbles beneath her feet, she raced left up the high street then right, across the village green.
Up in the sky Pegasus was jumping over the church steeple. Surely a good omen. Reaching Ione’s iron gates, she was greeted by the red and crimson glow of acers, dogwood and parrotia.
The house was in darkness. Ione isn’t in, she thought in despair. But drawing close, she detected a slight gleam from low-energy bulbs. Ione, sitting in three jerseys at her desk near the window to catch the last of the light, had a deadline to meet for
Compost
magazine. She was writing on the back of recycled paper, teabag on its second innings in her mug.
Etta rang the bell furiously, a waft of icy air hitting her as Ione opened the door.
‘Please help,’ gasped Etta, ‘I need Alban’s mobile number. Bolton’s called a meeting in the Fox, they’re voting to sell Mrs Wilkinson because she costs too much, and they don’t believe she’s going to come right.’ She burst into tears.
‘Have a drink,’ said Ione.
‘No, no, there isn’t time. I just thought if I rang Alban, he might talk them round. He’s always seemed to love Wilkie.’
‘We all do,’ said Ione, and gathering up a vegetable marrow lying in the hall as a weapon of mass destruction, not bothering to close the door, she stormed out of the house across the village green and into the Fox.
Gaunt, beaky-nosed, dark eyes flashing, dark hair escaping from her bun, splendid eco-warrior, she stood in the doorway for a second, then, pummelling aside rugger players, made for the stairs.
‘We’ll have you in the second row, darlin’,’ called the captain, raising his beer mug, as she bounded up the stairs three steps at a time, bursting into the skittle alley just as the Major was gleefully counting a majority vote.
Pocock leapt behind Painswick.
‘Stop, stop,’ ordered Ione, brandishing her marrow. ‘You can’t sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ she added in a voice that had silenced Mothers’ Unions and army wives in far-flung posts of the Empire. ‘She’s not any old racehorse now. She’s the Village Horse, all the children at Greycoats love her, we all love her, and we’ll keep her as long as it takes.’
‘We’ve voted to sell her,’ squealed Cindy.
‘I don’t care!’ Snatching the voting papers from the Major, Ione ripped them up and threw them on the fire. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.’
The syndicate quailed. Next moment they all jumped at the sound of clapping. It was Painswick.
‘Thank you, Mrs Travis-Lock. Let me buy you a drink.’
‘I’ve got to rush, thank you, but I don’t want to hear any more nonsense, particularly from you, Toby, you earn enough in the City as it is.’ Then, glancing round the room: ‘Too many lights on, Chrissie, and you’re not using low energy,’ and she was gone.
‘My only recourse is to resign,’ announced Bolton. ‘I doubt if you’ll find anyone to take my share, but that’s your problem, Major. Come, Cindy.’
‘I’m going to send that piccie of her widdlin’ on her compost heap to the
News of the World,
’ stormed Cindy. ‘Bossy old cow.’