“They’re coming to the show, too. Colonel Carter is bringing a lot of soldiers and guns to do a display after the open jumping. He and Mummy and Tory are going to lunch up at the Hall. Mummy bought a new blue dress specially; it’s lovely, but Tory said it was jolly expensive, so I don’t expect she’ll be able to afford to buy me a pony yet; anyway she says Tory being a deb is costing a fortune.”

“Shampoo and set, darling,” she said to Dandelion twenty minutes later as she stuck the pony’s tail in a bucket of hot, soapy water. “Oh, look, Africa’s making faces; isn’t she sweet?” The next moment Dandelion had whisked his tail at a fly, sending soapy water all over Fen, Africa’s rug, and the stable cat, who retreated in high dudgeon.

“For God’s sake, concentrate,” snapped Jake.

“Mummy’s picture’s in The Tatler again this week,” said Fen. “She gets in much more often than poor Tory. She says Tory’s got to go on a diet next week, so she’ll be thin for her drinks’ party next month. Oh cave, Mrs. Wilton’s drawing back the kitchen curtains.”

Hastily Jake replaced Africa’s rug and came out of her box.

Inside the kitchen, beneath the ramparts of honeysuckle, he could see Mrs. Wilton, her brick red face flushed from the previous night’s drinking, dropping Alka-Seltzer into a glass of water. Christ, he hoped she’d get a move on to Brighton and wouldn’t hang around. Picking up the brush and the curry comb he started on one of the ponies.

Mrs. Wilton came out of the house, followed by her arthritic yellow labrador, who lifted his leg stiffly on the mounting block, then as a formality bounded after the stable cat.

Mrs. Wilton was never known to have been on a horse in her life. Stocky, with a face squashed in like a bulldog, she had short pepper and salt hair, a blotchy complexion like salami, and a deep bass voice. All the same, she had had more success with the opposite sex than her masculine appearance would suggest.