Jump.

'Given up. Seventy-eight now, had to get off and widdle eighty times last time we were out.'

'That's the the Lady Crowe,' whispered Woody to Dora, 'who turned down Crowie.' Lady Crowe,' whispered Woody to Dora, 'who turned down Crowie.'

Ears sloping like a ba.s.set, eyes closed like an old crocodile, still plump from summer gra.s.s, his skimpy tail nearly chewed off by the cows with whom he'd summered, Not for Crowe could never be described as a picture, even less so when he hoovered up Ione's courgette and walnut tart and curled his lip back.

'She rejected Crowie?' raged Dora. 'She'll eat her words, the stupid b.i.t.c.h.'

A group of hunt saboteurs who'd crept in via the churchyard were of the same mind. As Lady Crowe approached them, their tattooed and dreadlocked leader shouted out, 'You f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h.'

'You are ent.i.tled to call me the latter,' shouted back Lady Crowe, 'but I haven't indulged in the former activity for twenty years.'

The crowd roared with laughter.

'Don't you insult our master, you cheeky b.u.g.g.e.r,' yelled Charlie Radcliffe as he thundered towards the saboteurs on his mighty blue roan.

'Look out, Brunhilda,' yelled the dreadlocked leader to a big girl in black.

Dora turned green. Brunhilda had been the leader on the goat raid. That night Dora's face had been hidden by a balaclava, but today's leader was now videoing the hunt. What would they think? Goat saviour one day, fox murderer the next. Dora and Mrs Wilkinson retreated behind a yew hedge.

Creeping out five minutes later, Dora retreated again as a smart silver car drove up and out jumped her eldest brother, Jupiter, who was not only MP for Larkminster and head of the New Reform Party but also a governor of Bagley Hall, who didn't approve of bunking off. Jupiter proceeded to announce, to loud cheers, that the New Reform Party would repeal the ban on hunting once they came to power, and shot back into his car again.

'It's going to be Crowie's year,' a returning Dora comforted Woody. 'If Marius is doing that badly, he'll really drop his prices and you'll be able to afford to send Doggie and Crowie to him.'

Woody admired the curves of Ione's limes. He'd done a good job there.

As she surrept.i.tiously snipped off another of Ione's roses and slipped it into her bag, Debbie called out disapprovingly, 'My goodness, here's Tilda Flood. Amazing how many people have taken the day off.'

Tilda had got into the habit of taking her cla.s.s on much enjoyed nature rambles. It had seemed a fun idea to bring them to see the hunt. With shrieks of joy, the children gathered round Mrs Wilkinson, whose picture was on their noticeboard. Soon she was shaking hooves with them.

Tilda meanwhile was looking round, desperate to catch a mid-week glimpse of s.h.a.gger in his red-coated glory.

'Where's Mrs Bancroft?' asked the children in disappointment.

'Looking after Chisolm and Cadbury,' said Dora.

Not all factions were so benign. Re-entering the garden, the saboteurs crept up on Tilda, berating her for encouraging blood sports in the young.

'You ought to be struck off, you buck-toothed cow.'

Tilda went crimson. Where was s.h.a.gger in her hour of need?

'Don't be rude to my teacher,' shouted little India Oakridge furiously. 'Hounds kill foxes in seconds. If they're shot, trapped or poisoned they spend days dying in agony. Foxes are murderers anyway.'

'You little pervert,' yelled Brunhilda, 'who brainwashed you?'

'At least her brain's washed,' shouted Alan. 'You lot don't look as though you've touched a bar of soap in days.'

As the crowd bellowed with laughter again, Tilda mouthed a 'thank you' to Alan.

Time to move off. Toby had laid his b.l.o.o.d.y trail through the faded bracken over a splendid array of hedges and walls.

'Good morning and welcome, ladies and gentlemen,' shouted Lady Crowe to a counterpoint of excited yelping and barking.

'I'm delighted to see so many of you here, supporting the hunt, spending precious petrol on such long distances. I'd like to thank Alban and Ione for their splendid hospitality and beautiful garden.'

A photographer from the Larkminster Echo Larkminster Echo was snapping away. Having taken a nice shot of Lady Crowe, he turned his attention to the group of admirers around Mrs Wilkinson and Not for Crowe. Anxious to get in the picture, Debbie shoved her bulk between the two horses, whereupon the eternally greedy Not for Crowe, mistaking her jute sack for a nosebag, delved inside, drawing out a rainbow riot of cuttings, including several Hermione Harefields. was snapping away. Having taken a nice shot of Lady Crowe, he turned his attention to the group of admirers around Mrs Wilkinson and Not for Crowe. Anxious to get in the picture, Debbie shoved her bulk between the two horses, whereupon the eternally greedy Not for Crowe, mistaking her jute sack for a nosebag, delved inside, drawing out a rainbow riot of cuttings, including several Hermione Harefields.

'Stop it, you brute,' squawked Debbie, whacking Not for Crowe on his ginger nose with her scarlet fold-up umbrella and frantically shoving cuttings back into the bag.

'Don't hit Crowie or I'll report you to the RSPCA, you great bully,' shouted Dora.

Oblivious to the uproar, Lady Crowe wished everyone a good day. Then, with a triumphant blast on the horn, she cried out, 'And I would like to reaffirm that the West Larks will continue to hunt within the law.'

'Unlike Mrs Cunliffe,' raged Poc.o.c.k, furiously eyeballing Debbie.

'Don't make a fuss, Mr Poc.o.c.k,' whispered Painswick. 'It's Mrs Wilkinson's day. Good luck, Dora,' she cried.

'Good luck, Mrs Wilkinson,' chorused the children. 'You won't hit her with that whip, will you?'

'No, that's to open gates,' explained Dora, who was in her element. 'Thank you all for coming,' she cried graciously and, leaping on to Mrs Wilkinson, clattered off down the drive to much clapping and cheering.

'Don't know that mare, looks well,' called out Lady Crowe.

'Thank you, Master. I'm qualifying her for the point-to-point.'

'Going to ride her?'

'I'd like to,' said Dora proudly.

'She yours?'

'No, she belongs to Etta Bancroft.'

'So this is the famous Mrs Wilkinson?'

Dora nearly burst with pride. Off they went with a manic jangle and rattle of hooves, fifty riders, pursued through the village by a convoy of cars and motorbikes.

Held up by traffic, Dora, realizing she'd tipped her saddle too far forward, dismounted and undid Mrs Wilkinson's girths to adjust it. Just at that moment, Harvey-Holden trotted past on his spectacular new horse and Mrs Malmesbury, who was parked just ahead and gave way to no one, remembered she'd forgotten to pick up the Telegraph Telegraph from the village shop. Without a glance in her rear mirror, she backed straight into Mrs

'You f.u.c.king stupid old bag,' howled Harvey-Holden. Next moment, Mrs Wilkinson had swung round and bolted down the hill, not stopping until she reached Little Hollow, leaving behind Dora holding the saddle and screaming expletives.

Etta had spent an utterly miserable morning. The thick white cobwebs woven into the conifer hedge reminded her of Bartlett's moulting fur. To comfort a lonely and agitated Chisolm, she'd let her out of her box, whereupon Chisolm had taken off down the road and joined a convoy of ramblers.

Etta had just grabbed her car keys and was setting off to retrieve her when she heard a rattle of hooves and met Mrs Wilkinson at the gate, reins flapping, saddle and Dora missing. She was in a dreadful state, eyes rolling, shuddering in terror. Etta was just trying to calm her when Dora rolled up, raging with humiliation.

'b.l.o.o.d.y Wilkie, making me look such an idiot, b.l.o.o.d.y Mrs Malmesbury. I've got to take her back.' She was about to slap on the saddle.

'You will not,' said Etta firmly. 'Something terrified the life out of her. Chisolm's pushed off, I was just going to look for her.'

'Chisolm will come back, she's got a disc,' said Dora sulkily. 'I can't give in to Wilkie.'

'You d.a.m.n well can. What happened?'

'Well, we know she's spooked by shovels and cars backing into her,' said Etta, when Dora had cooled down and finished telling her the story. 'I wonder if that's how she got those terrible scars on her legs. I'd better go and find Chisolm, I've got to pick up Poppy at one.'

Miss Painswick ended up in the Fox with Alan, Alban and Poc.o.c.k, enjoying Chrissie's moussaka and having a good laugh over Debbie's plant raid.

'Very cutting edge,' quipped Alan.

It was such a lovely day, Miss Painswick had left her sitting-room window open. On her return, she thought she was hallucinating when she saw Chisolm stretched out asleep on her newly upholstered pale blue sofa under a half-eaten copy of The Times The Times.

'Chisolm is a distinct addition to our little circle,' announced Painswick as she handed her back to Etta. 'At least she left me the social and television pages. How about scrambled eggs and The Bill The Bill this evening?' this evening?'

33.

Gradually Mrs Wilkinson grew in confidence and, despite having only one eye, gave Dora some wonderful days out. Working without realizing it, the little mare was learning her trade, discovering how to take the shortest route and to jump all kinds of fences at the gallop. She was loving every minute of it, mixing with other horses, dogs and humans and finding it both steadying and exciting.

To qualify for a point-to-point, she had to hunt six times. On the sixth occasion Dora caught flu, so a heroic Alban Travis-Lock took out Mrs Wilkinson instead. With a flask of brandy in every pocket to steel his nerves, he could hardly shrug into his riding coat. Long legs nearly meeting under Mrs Wilkinson's belly enabled him to cling on.

Cheered on by Alan, who joined the foot followers, Alban gave Mrs Wilkinson her head and had a marvellous afternoon.

'He ended up absolutely rat-a.r.s.ed,' Alan told Etta later, 'sobbing, "Thank you for giving me back my nerve," into Mrs Wilkinson's shoulder. Must be tough living with Ione, she hasn't forgiven him for knocking over her wormery the day hounds met at the Hall. Wilkie must be incredibly strong to carry him all day.'

The West Larks point-to-point to be held on 21 March, the first day of spring, was drawing near. Who would ride Mrs Wilkinson? Dora longed to. She had enraged Farmer Fred and the secretary of the golf club galloping all over their land. She had spent ages teaching Mrs Wilkinson to jump. She was the perfect weight for a jockey, but only sixteen and totally inexperienced. In addition, Paris, who loved her, considered it far too dangerous.

Visiting her friend Bianca Campbell-Black, Dora sought the advice of Bianca's father Rupert, who was watching racing all over the world on half a dozen monitors and gazing gloomily at a laptop. Despite having daughters who were brilliant event riders and polo players, Rupert thoroughly disapproved of women jockeys.

'Paris is right. And National Hunt's far more dangerous than flat. It's like going off to the Front. Need to be half-mad to do it. Jump jockeys average a fall every thirteen rides not the place for a girl. They're not strong enough to hold horses up.'

As Dora's face fell, Rupert suggested she try his G.o.d-daughter, Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who had ambitions to become a jump jockey. Rupert felt guilty because he'd refused to give her any rides.

Then, seeing Dora was still despondent, Rupert confided that he was having trouble writing his incredibly opinionated and inflammatory column in the Racing Post Racing Post. If he told her what to say, would she be able to ghost it for him occasionally?

'Certainly,' replied Dora, perking up, 'as long as we can split the fee and write nice things about Mrs Wilkinson.'

Dora had had a terrific pash on Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who when she was at Bagley Hall had exeats to hunt with the Beaufort, and received more letters from boys than anyone else. She was also a heroine, having broken into Parliament with Otis Ferry and scuffled with politicians over the hunting ban.

Amber, like her journalist mother, Janey, liked the fleshpots, and had consequently abandoned eventing as not commercially viable. Despite her famous father, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, who was an Olympic medallist, a BBC equine correspondent and a star on A Question of Sport A Question of Sport, Amber was finding it hard to get rides, due to other trainers' prejudice against women jockeys although they were quick enough to offer her rides of a different kind.

Egged on by Painswick, who reasoned that if Amber rode in the point-to-point Amber's ex-headmaster Hengist Brett-Taylor might turn up to cheer her on, Dora wrote to Amber offering her 100 to ride Mrs Wilkinson, 'a fantastic novice mare'.

To Dora's amazement, Amber accepted and came down in early March to school Mrs Wilkinson over some fences. These had been hastily a.s.sembled in Valent's orchard by Joey's builders, whose eyes were out on stalks because Amber was languid, blonde, very beautiful, and made Mrs Wilkinson look like a different horse.

Etta, who came to watch, was enchanted to see how well she was going and how wonderfully Amber rode her. With her blonde mane and long eyes the tawny gold of winter willow stems Amber could have been Gwendolyn on a white-faced Beau Regard.

It's an omen, thought Etta in ecstasy, but was rather disappointed when Amber pulled up and, on being introduced to Etta, p.r.o.nounced Mrs Wilkinson not bad but very green and small.

'She can't be fifteen hands. She also drops her off hind over fences.' Amber turned to Dora: 'You could try schooling her over a diagonal pole.'

You could be a bit more enthusiastic, thought Etta. She did hope Amber wouldn't use her whip on Mrs Wilkinson.

'Who's she by?' asked Amber, after Etta had rushed off to pick up Poppy from school.

'We don't know,' said Dora.

'And her dam?'

'We don't know that either.'

'Christ, why hasn't she been DNA'd?'

'Etta doesn't want to,' confided Dora. 'She's terrified the right-ful owner might want her back, not that he'd have any right after the horrific way he treated her. Etta found her tied to a tree in the middle of winter.'

'Well, that's that then.' Amber jumped off without even bothering to pat Mrs Wilkinson. 'Didn't you realize she can't enter a point-to-point without a pa.s.sport and a sire and dam?'

'Oh G.o.d, we've registered her name with Weatherbys and got her some lovely silks, beech-leaf brown with purple stars, which will really suit you. And I've got a certificate from the Master to say she's hunted six times.' Then, as Mrs Wilkinson nosed around for Polos, 'No one said anything about sires and dams. That's shocking actually,' exploded Dora, 'like saying Paris can't go to Cambridge because he doesn't know who his natural parents are.'

Amber took off her hat, pulled off her toggle so her blonde hair swayed in the breeze like the willows around her and reached for a cigarette.

'The only solution would be to enter her in a members' race. This is limited to horses owned by local farmers or members or subscribers to the hunt. Then you could put "breeding unknown" under Mrs Wilkinson's name in the race card. Is Mrs Bancroft a member of the hunt?'

'Not exactly,' sighed Dora.

'Well, she better become one tout de suite, or there isn't a hope in h.e.l.l of Mrs Wilkinson running.'

Etta was digging her garden three days later when Dora rolled up with Cadbury, looking furtive.

'Mrs B, I mean Etta, there's something I must tell you. As Mrs Wilkinson's owner, you have to become a member or a subscriber to the hunt in order that she can run.' Then, at Etta's look of horror: 'It's the only way we can swing it. The members' race is the only one that allows horses without a pa.s.sport.'

'No,' snapped Etta, shoving her trowel so furiously into the earth she punctured a lily bulb, 'I'm not supporting the hunt.'

'We don't kill foxes any more. Oh perlease, Etta, you can't deprive Mrs Wilkinson of a brilliant career. Amber thought her exceptional,' lied Dora, 'and drove all the way down here. We can't let Amber down.'

'I don't care.' Etta threw down her trowel. 'I must go and collect Drummond.'

Fate, however, lent a hand. The following morning Dora popped in and found Etta making chocolate brownies.

'Oh Etta, I've just b.u.mped into Mrs Malmesbury in floods. A horrible fox got her goose yesterday in the lunch hour (when she'd just slipped down to Tesco's) and plucked the poor goose alive then killed her. Feathers everywhere. Geese mate for life and her poor blind gander is absolutely heartbroken and keeps calling for her, "Ee-ee-ee-ee," and b.u.mping into things, "Ee-ee-ee." Foxes kill for the h.e.l.l of it.' Seeing Etta's eyes fill with tears, Dora pressed home her advantage. 'Just imagine the poor old boy going sadly to bed tonight, "Ee-ee-ee," without his wife. Foxes are b.a.s.t.a.r.ds "ee-ee-ee." Please, please join the hunt.'

'Oh, all right, but only for this season. How much is it?'