Looking out of the window, Valent could see Bonny slapping Seth’s face and was suddenly overwhelmed with relief.
Going into his octagonal office, he breathed in white hyacinths and poured himself a large Scotch. His hands were shaking so much it took him four goes before he managed to text Woody to tell him to dig up the conifer hedge that had guarded both Bonny’s privacy and her peccadilloes. Peccadillo, that’s a nice name for a horse, he thought.
What a pity Etta was away. He longed to know why she was still refusing to see him. Conversely, he might not have been able to resist telling her about Trixie.
When Etta reached home, which still stank of flood water, the following evening, she discovered moonlight pouring in through her kitchen, drawing-room and bedroom windows. Running outside, she realized the conifers had gone – poor things, she hoped they hadn’t been chucked on a rubbish heap – and had been replaced by a dark blue trellis supporting her roses, honeysuckles and clematis.
Next moment, Joyce Painswick, seeing a light on in the bungalow, rang in excitement.
‘Bonny’s gone, she’s moved out.’
‘Poor Valent, he must be devastated.’
‘Evidently not. According to Woody, he gave her the push. There’ll be dancing in the streets. Joey’s planning a party. Even though it’s winter, he wants to hire a bouncy castle.’
When Valent returned home a week later, he could see straight into Etta’s bungalow and hoped she wouldn’t be upset. Later he watched her coming home from putting Poppy and Drummond to bed, down the path with Priceless, clinging joyfully on to each rustic pole, trying to teach Priceless to bend in and out of them, like her Pony Club days, then Gwenny rushed forward to meet them, black furry tail aloft.
Excitement really kicked in the week before the festival. Television companies were flat out filming the most fancied Gold Cup horses. Channel 4 were due at Throstledown to meet Mrs Wilkinson, Chisolm, Furious and the syndicate, who were all dickering about what to wear. In church, Niall prayed for the rain to stay away, so the going would be quick enough for Mrs Wilkinson.
After twelve hours at the typewriter, keeping track of events, Alan needed some fresh air and set out round the village with a torch. Earlier he’d heard a blackbird singing, and every garden shone with daffodils. Seeing a light on in the bungalow now the mature hedge had gone, he toyed with the idea of taking a bottle down to his mother-in-law, who he hoped would go on seeing him after he’d split up from her daughter.
Reaching the top of the high street and turning right on to the village green, he flattened himself against a wall as a Mercedes with an SM1 number plate roared by and flashed its lights outside Cobblers’ wrought-iron gates. A minute or two later, the Major scuttled out and opened them. Strange bedfellows. Even more interestingly, a second later, Alan flattened himself against Ione’s yew hedge as Harvey-Holden, mufflered, trilby over his nose, stormed up and also turned his Land-Rover through Cobblers’ gates. What could the little snake be up to?
The coup de grâce, as Alan turned for home, was his brother-in-law Martin – jogging by in a black tracksuit and a balaclava, far too busy telling a mobile telephone that he adored it to realize he was being observed. Alan longed to say, ‘Boo.’ Next moment, Martin had turned right through the Major’s gates. What was this about?
Next day the Major emailed the syndicate, summoning them to an emergency meeting that very evening. A full house except for Seth and Corinna attended. The locals were amazed to see Martin roll up with Bonny, who looked stony-faced and blanked Etta.
‘Why does that infernal dog have to occupy the entire window seat?’ she said, glaring at Priceless.
Dora, who’d rushed down from London, was briefing everyone about the Channel 4 interview. ‘We must get Wilkie to do as many tricks as possible, particularly yawning when Harvey-Holden’s name is mentioned. Isn’t it exciting,’ she went on, ‘Chisolm’s diary in the
Daily Mirror
is pulling in ten times more readers than Rupert’s column in the
Racing Post
.’
The Wilkinson bar, where the meeting was held, had been entirely papered with Mrs Wilkinson’s cuttings. All one could see were backs as syndicate members read about themselves.
‘We really must smarten up Etta before the Gold Cup,’ Debbie was murmuring to Phoebe. ‘Should one wear one’s Gold Cup hat for the Channel 4 interview?’
Chris was just taking orders when the Major strode in. Rheumy eyes gleaming, bristling moustache in a state of arousal, he ordered champagne on the house. The syndicate looked alarmed, hoping they wouldn’t have to pay.
Mrs Wilkinson hadn’t brought in any winnings since the beginning of February. Many of the syndicate had been wiped out by Ireland. The houses of others were still wrecked by the floods. Woody, after a bad fall, was off work and having to pay for his mother in an old people’s home. Phoebe, to people’s amazement, was pregnant again. Shagger wanted cash; Alan wanted to run off with Tilda; Joey was worried he might have made Chrissie pregnant. The Major and Debbie had their ruby wedding coming up and, now they’d moved up a rung socially, their grandchildren’s school fees to pay. Corinna and Seth were always short. Painswick and Pocock wanted capital for their teashop. Trixie, slumped in a corner, sipping Perrier and reading
Horse and Hound,
had her own money troubles. The vicar needed a new spire; Bonny wanted a new squire; Etta’s Polo had failed its MOT.
As Alan got out his notebook, the Major cleared his throat:
‘I bring you glad tidings of great joy. We’ve had a most extraordinary offer from a secret buyer for Mrs Wilkinson. I was approached yesterday. This would mean over fifty thousand for every member of the syndicate and twenty-five thousand for those with half-shares.’
Etta stopped shoving photographs of Mrs Wilkinson and
Chisolm into envelopes. ‘We can’t,’ she gasped, ‘we can’t sell Wilkie.’
‘I think we can,’ said Bonny rudely. ‘What we can’t do is turn down an offer like this.’
‘Certainly not,’ agreed a salivating Shagger. What a shame he and Tilda only had a half-share each. ‘We must accept immediately. Dermie O’Driscoll was telling me he turned down two hundred grand for a horse last year, which sold for only seven grand six months later.’
‘How dreadful,’ shivered Phoebe. With the rate of inflation, £100,000 would probably just cover Bump’s first term’s prep school fees. ‘We must accept at once.’
‘We can’t sell Wilkie,’ repeated an ashen Etta. ‘Valent wouldn’t allow it.’
‘It’s my horse, thank you,’ snapped Bonny. ‘Valent gifted me a share.’
‘At least let’s sleep on it.’
‘Won’t get much sleep worrying the vendor might change his mind,’ said Debbie.
‘Why the hurry?’ asked Alan, who was frantically trying to work out the implications.
‘They need to know straight away because they want to run her in the Gold Cup,’ said the Major.
‘What about Alan’s book? It’s centred round the village and Wilkie being part of it,’ protested Tilda angrily. ‘What about Hengist’s film?’
‘Add to the drama of the plot,’ said Shagger, draining his glass and refilling it. ‘It’s only a horse. With that kind of money, we can buy a couple more and keep the syndicate going.’
Etta lost her temper. ‘How dare you!’ she shouted at Shagger. ‘After all Wilkie’s done for you and Willowwood.’
‘We can’t possibly sell her, it would break her heart,’ said Dora. ‘Who’s the buyer anyway?’
‘My lips are sealed,’ said the Major primly. Dora imagined him being kissed by a great seal.
‘It would be treacherous to sell her,’ cried Trixie, roused out of her apathy. ‘We can’t do it.’
‘You’ve got a rich mother,’ hissed Bonny, who hadn’t forgiven Trixie for shopping her to Valent. ‘Lucky for some.’
‘We must be told who wants to buy her,’ said Etta hysterically.
‘Oh, pull yourself together, Mother,’ chided Martin. ‘What does it matter? Think of the money you owe us on the bungalow, and you need a new car to take the kids to school,’ he whispered furiously.
‘What a thoroughly unpleasant man you are,’ drawled Alan. ‘I know exactly who’s trying to buy her,’ he added, glancing round the astounded room. ‘Shade Murchieson has wangled a box near the winning post at Cheltenham and plans to use it to entertain five hundred of his grubby clients during the festival. All his grubby clients want is to meet Mrs Wilkinson. Shade absolutely detests Marius and Valent and so does Harvey-Holden, so does my egregious brother-in-law,’ he nodded at Martin. ‘So they’ve hatched a vile plot to snatch Wilkie from under our noses on the eve of the Gold Cup. Shade has sold so many bombs and weapons he’s just paid himself a fifty million bonus and he wants to go shopping.’
There was an appalled silence, followed by an explosion from the Major. ‘How dare you. You couldn’t be more wrong.’
‘Oh, there’ll be a nice cut for you, Major, probably another villa in the Portuguese sun above a nudist beach,’ said Alan, now taking flashy shorthand notes.
‘That is offensive.’
‘And true,’ smiled Alan.
Overhead they could hear the droning rattle of an approaching helicopter.
‘As Bonny so rightly points out,’ said Martin, ‘it’s only a horse.’
‘She is not,’ sobbed Etta. Then, turning furiously on the Major, ‘You bloody little man, we can’t let her go back to Harvey-Holden, he’s a sadist, he tortures his horses. Look what he did to darling Bullydozer.’
‘Who would probably still be alive if H-H had him in training and that cack-handed Rafiq hadn’t been put up on him,’ said Shagger bitchily. ‘I say sell. Let’s have some more fizz, Major.’
‘No, no, we can’t betray Marius either.’ Etta leapt forward, hammering Shagger’s great chest with her fists.
‘Well done, Granny,’ shouted Trixie.
‘Pull yourself together, Mother,’ said a shaken Martin, wondering if he ought to slap Etta’s face.
Next moment, all the pub windows rattled as a red and grey helicopter landed on the village green, scattering daffodils.
‘It can’t park there,’ yelled the Major.
‘Hurrah,’ cried Dora, looking out of the window, ‘the US Cavalry have arrived,’ as sprinting up the high street came Valent. Alerted by Alan earlier, he’d been on holiday in Dubai with Ryan and the children and had just come off the beach. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, shorts and espadrilles. As he stormed into the room, Etta ran to him.
‘Thank God, thank God, Harvey-Holden and Shade have
made a massive offer for Wilkie and everyone wants to accept it.’
Valent was so angry at first, he couldn’t speak, then he roared:
‘Bloody, bloody traitors, bloody turncoats. After all that little mare has done for you. Raced her heart out, put this pub back in business, saved you all, saved Willowwood, and you’ve just got bloody greedy. I know times are tough, but do you honestly want to go down in history as the traitors who sold the People’s Pony down the river to the most evil thugs in the world? And Alan will record every word if you do.’
As he scowled round at them, most of the syndicate decided they didn’t.
‘If Wilkie wins, she’ll be worth even more of a fortune as a brood mare. Wait until after the race and I’ll top Shade’s offer.’ He unpinned a photograph of Wilkie and Chisolm from the wall and put it in his pocket.
‘That’s over fifty thousand,’ hissed Phoebe.
‘Examine your consciences,’ Valent said sternly. ‘Can you honestly let her go?’
‘Where are
you
going?’ squawked Bonny as he went towards the door.
‘Back to Dubai.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ gasped Etta, running after him into the street.
For a second they gazed at each other.
‘I’m so sorry about Bullydozer,’ she stammered, ‘such a lovely horse. It was so incredibly kind of you to come back.’
To her utter astonishment, he touched her cheek.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said roughly. ‘You’ll find a present outside your bungalow,’ and he was gone.
A shell-shocked Etta went back into the pub, where reluctantly the syndicate were deciding to wait. If Valent was going to up the offer it was worth taking a gamble. But there were some very angry people and Shade and Harvey-Holden would obviously be even more determined to take Mrs Wilkinson out in the race.
Etta was too bemused to hang around. Bonny was looking daggers; Martin was clearly dying to lecture her, so she switched on her torch and walked home. Valent had come all the way back for Wilkie and said he’d missed her. She wanted to skip like the lambs already in the fields. The stream was shaking the first primroses. The palest green willow leaves were breaking out of their buds.
Clinging on to Valent’s poles, she ran down the last four steps because a snow-white Polo was parked outside her house. Then
she froze: the number plate was still the same, inside was still the same, all the stickers still on the windows.
A card was attached to the windscreen.
‘Dear Etta,’ she read in amazement, ‘I’m not sure what went wrong but I’d like to rebuild our friendship, so for a start I’ve rebuilt your car. Love Valent.’
Inside was a new CD player. As she switched it on, out poured Mahler’s First Symphony, causing Gwenny and Priceless to jump out of their skins.