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‘That’s Robinsgrove, Ricky France-Lynch’s place. His wife Daisy did a lovely oil of Araminta.

‘That’s Valhalla,’ he announced ten minutes later, ‘where the late Roberto Rannaldini lived. Absolute shit but brilliant musician.’

As he turned up the wireless to drown the Major’s directions, the bus was flooded with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

‘Rannaldini’s son Wolfgang married Tabitha Campbell-Black. I was at school with both of them,’ piped up Phoebe, who’d come without Toby because she’d got a crush on Seth. He looked even more gorgeous in that black pea jacket with those bags under his naughty eyes.

Phoebe was not over-pleased when Trixie, playing truant from yet another school, flagged down the bus thirty miles outside Willowwood, disappeared into the upended-coffin-shaped loo
and emerged in black boots and tights, a groin-level shocking-pink coat and a black trilby decorated with a pink rose.

‘You’ll run out of schools to get expelled from soon,’ reproved Alan.

‘Fat chance,’ sighed Trixie, taking a swig from her father’s bottle. ‘With Mummy standing by to offer to build them a new science block, I’ll get in anywhere.’ She smiled at Seth.

Alan knew he should send her back to school, but he was so proud Seth thought she was pretty. Trixie, however, fancied Woody and took a large drink and the seat next to him.

Down the bus, Dora, also playing truant, had three mobiles to her ears and was reading the
Racing Post
.

‘What does it say about Mrs Wilkinson?’ asked Woody, who had rather nervously taken another day off from the big job of clearing Lester Bolton’s wood.

‘It says,’ giggled Dora, ‘connections have decided to persevere with Mrs Wilkinson because of her very promising homework. More than can be said for Trixie and me.’

‘What do they say about Count Romeo?’ Marius had entered him in the same race.

‘“At least Mrs Wilkinson won’t come last,”’ read Dora. ‘“That place is reserved for that dreadful lazy pig Count Romeo.”’

‘Goodness,’ gasped Etta, ‘I hope Bertie and Ruby Barraclough don’t read that. They’re threatening to ask for their fifty thousand back.’

‘That’s Rupert Campbell-Black’s place,’ shouted Alban, pointing to a beautiful golden house against a background of beech trees. The bus nearly keeled over as everyone rushed to the right to have a look. ‘Declan O’Hara lives in the Priory across the valley,’ added Alban.

‘Declan’s daughter Taggie, who married Rupert, cooked break-fast for us the day we met Marius,’ called out Phoebe.

Guiltiest of all syndicate members was Tilda Flood. Yesterday, with lowered eyes, she had asked for the day off for ‘personal reasons’ and not elaborated. Whereupon the head, Mrs Hammond, aware how often and how uncomplainingly Tilda covered for staff members when their children were ill, had urged her to go. Tilda rolled up in a new dark crimson suit and medium-heeled brown boots bought especially to impress Shagger, only to learn when they were halfway to Newbury that he’d ratted without telling her.

Aware that she’d risked her job with a lie, Tilda burst into tears.

‘Don’t worry,’ Seth hugged her, ‘you’ll have much more fun without him and it’ll give us blokes a chance. Come and sit here beside
Alan.’ This gave him the opportunity to move nearer to Trixie.

Alan poured Tilda a large drink and soon decided she was much less skittish and silly when Shagger wasn’t around.

‘Mrs Wilkinson’s the first horse I’m not frightened of,’ she confided. ‘I like petting them and feeding them carrots, but with a fence between us.’

‘D’you feel that way with men?’ teased Alan. ‘That’s a very pretty suit.’

‘Bit too bright for the races,’ stage-whispered Phoebe to Miss Painswick. ‘You should wear brown and greens, camouflagey things that blend into the countryside. Trixie’s pink coat is completely OTT.’

Phoebe then launched into hostess mode.

‘You should be sitting next to Niall, Tilda, singletons together. Nice seeing Etta next to Pocock, both lonely people.’

‘Alban, Pocock and the Major all have crushes on Granny,’ snapped Trixie, who was painting her nails purple.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ hissed Phoebe. ‘Etta’s quite the wrong class for Uncle Alban.’ Then, raising her voice: ‘Sure you’re going to be warm enough in that thin suit, Mrs Bancroft? You should invest in a thick coat. I saw such a lovely snuff-brown one in Larkminster with a big bow, it’d really suit you.’

‘I’m not great in brown. It’d look lovely on you.’

‘Oh no, it’d be much too mature for me.’

‘I’d invest in a pair of earplugs first,’ muttered Dora. ‘Yes, Seth Bainton, he’s just done a stint in
Holby City
,’ she added into her mobile.

Joey’s arm along the back seat had drifted down to stroke Chrissie’s white neck.

Etta was aware of Pocock’s bony body pressing against hers each time he leant across to make disparaging remarks about everyone’s gardens as they passed. She tried to chat cheerfully to hide how devastated she’d been by Valent’s harsh words after the Worcester disaster. She’d never dreamt he’d be so bothered over Mrs Wilkinson. Horrified he thought her ungrateful, she had written a crawling letter of apology, wondering which of his six houses to send it to, and planted a lot more bulbs and shrubs in his garden, where Joey’s men had finished. She couldn’t stop fretting and felt so guilty about the sweet judge who’d given her the horse.

Oh, please let Wilkie redeem herself today.

Looking up, she saw they were overtaking two lorries with WILKINSON on their sides, promoting Wilkinson’s shops. Everyone was delighted by such a good-luck sign and giggled that Mrs Wilkinson must be branching out.

After they accelerated on to the motorway, Niall called for a two-minute silence to pray for the safety of Mrs Wilkinson. It was a bit difficult as Beethoven’s Ninth had just reached the third movement, with the incessant drumroll sounding like the thunder of horses’ hooves.

‘Turn it down,’ barked the Major.

Noticing what fun Woody seemed to be having with Trixie, Dora and Seth, Niall prayed to be delivered of his hopeless passion. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on writing his sermon yesterday, with Woody swinging his lean body round in his harness as he pollarded the church limes.

Flashing orange balls on either side of the road warned of fog. Hoar frost silvered the tops of trees and the ploughed fields. Would the going be too firm for Mrs Wilkinson?

As they entered the outskirts of Newbury, singing along to the ‘Ode to Joy’, the traffic slowed to a crawl. They passed a ghostly church hidden in the trees, with a canal beside which people were walking their dogs or sitting together on benches. How lovely, Etta mused, to sit with Seth and hear his deep voice quoting poetry: ‘“So well I love thee as without thee/I Love nothing.”’

On a roundabout a racy metal sculpture reared up of a woman with high, pointed breasts playfighting with a man with a dangling willy.

Probably the effect I’d have on Seth, thought Etta.

‘Why hasn’t he got a hard-on?’ asked Seth.

‘Probably gay,’ said Trixie.

Crossing the river with its willows, swans and fleet of coloured barges lifting the grey day like jockeys’ silks, they reached a sign saying ‘Welcome to historic Newbury’.

‘Will be ’istoric if we get there on time,’ grumbled Joey.

They were driving across a common, down a road flanked with leafless poplars as though a flock of witches had parked their broomsticks in a hurry and rushed off to cheer on Mrs Wilkinson.

‘Come on,’ groaned Trixie.

Ahead at last was the great red-brick stand with its flags, glass doors, little triangular turrets and gold-numbered clock over the weighing room. The roofs of the hospitality-stand rose like egg white whipped into points.

‘Tommy’ll be walking her around the parade ring by now,’ fumed Dora. ‘We won’t even see Mrs Wilkinson saddled up and I’ve alerted all the press to look out for Seth’s first appearance as part of the syndicate.’

Thank God Tommy’s there, nothing can go far wrong, thought Etta.

Much earlier in the day, Tommy had been woken by Mrs Wilkinson irritably banging her food bowl against the stable wall. Running downstairs, she found kind Sir Cuthbert shoving hay to her through the hole in the wall.

‘She mustn’t eat on race days.’

Count Romeo was still asleep, looking so sweet, his handsome head tucked between his curled-up forelegs.

‘You mustn’t let me down, Wilkie,’ begged Tommy. ‘Or you, Romeo, or you’ll get sold despite your good looks.’

Alas, Michelle had been getting at Marius for not making her head lad, so in a weak and last moment he told her she could go to Newbury instead of Tommy, and lead up Mrs Wilkinson and later History Painting. The easy-going Tommy, protective as a lioness over her horses, had flipped.

‘Mrs Wilkinson’s only just got used to loading. She trusts me, so does Romeo. She’ll be traumatized by Rogue riding her again and she needs me to calm her down. Michelle doesn’t know anything about Mrs Wilkinson, she doesn’t care about horses,’ she shouted at Marius, who shouted back at her not to be so fucking insolent and spoilt.

‘You think you’re bloody God around horses. You went last time, it’s Michelle’s turn today.’

So Tommy handed in her notice.

It was arguable who was more distraught, Tommy as she led a trusting Mrs Wilkinson up the ramp and then abandoned her, or Sir Cuthbert, left behind with a bleating Chisolm, as his lady love set out with his rival Count Romeo.

‘Rafiq and I’ll keep an eye on Wilkie, don’t worry,’ Amber told Tommy as they rumbled off down the drive.

Amber was driving because Rafiq, with his police record, was having difficulty getting a licence. Michelle, who had taken the seat by the window, was pleased to be leading up Mrs Wilkinson. She had a crush on Rogue. Marius, who was foul-tempered and talked in his sleep about Olivia, wasn’t proving a satisfactory lover. Although he refused to put Amber or Rafiq up on Count Romeo or Mrs Wilkinson, Michelle was jealous of Amber. The way Rogue constantly mobbed her up and Marius was so hard on her were disturbingly indicative that neither man felt neutral towards her.

Rafiq certainly didn’t either. The haughty crosspatch was always doing things for Amber, skipping out, haying and watering her horses. She noticed his thigh was four inches from her own but comfortably rested against Amber’s.

Both of them were furious that Tommy had been left behind. Rafiq had wanted to take her part against Marius, but was terrified of losing his job.

‘Tommy really loves her horses and invests everything in them,’ said Amber, for once shaken out of her normal languor.

‘And I don’t?’ snapped Michelle.

‘I didn’t say that. It’s just Marius being bloody-minded.’ Amber groped for a cigarette, which Rafiq lit for her. ‘By forcing Tommy into handing in her notice, he doesn’t have to pay her redundancy money. And why the hell’s he put Rogue on Mrs Wilkinson? She won’t go for him.’

‘Rogue can ride anything.’ Michelle took out a make-up bag and started doing her face so the punters could admire her when she led up Mrs Wilkinson.

Amber was almost more fed up with Marius giving the ride on Count Romeo to the famously thick jockey Andrew Wells, known as ‘Awesome’.

Awesome’s claim to fame was some years ago when while working his way up as a conditional jockey he had forgotten to load one of Marius’s horses, entered in the second race at Wincanton. He had therefore saddled up the young Ilkley Hall, which had been destined for the third race but won the second easily. Terrified of Marius’s wrath, putting Ilkley Hall in blinkers to hide his distinctive white zigzag blaze, Awesome saddled him up again for the third race, which he also won without breaking sweat.

When Marius discovered the truth, that he’d acquired a brilliant staying chaser for next to nothing, he forgot to be angry and because Awesome was such a natural and sympathetic rider, used him when he needed a second jockey.

‘Bloody stupid, putting him on Count Romeo,’ fumed Amber. ‘Village idiot squared.’

Michelle’s freckles were now covered with base and blusher, her mean green eyes enlarged by shadow, her thin mouth by coral gloss. She was darkening her pale lashes and swore as she nearly rammed the mascara wand into her eye when Amber jammed on the brakes.

‘Sorry,’ murmured Amber, ‘thought that deer was going to jump out.’

Rafiq smirked, and as Mrs Wilkinson’s stamping grew more panic-stricken, he launched into the Pakistani lullaby that had soothed her before. Immediately the stamping stopped.

The moment he finished, as they turned off the motorway, Amber took over. ‘“Early one morning/Just as the sun was rising/I heard a maid singing/In the valley below.”’ She looked at Rafiq under her lashes.

Michelle was angrily reading the
Daily Express
.

‘Another suicide bomb, expect you lot were responsible.’

‘Shut up, Michelle,’ said Amber furiously.

‘I can say what I like, it’s a free country.’

‘Not any more it ain’t. Here’s a song from the Crusades,’ Amber told Rafiq.

‘Gaily the troubadour touched his guitar,’ she sang, in her pure, clear treble: