Jump! by Jilly Cooper

’urdle for him.’ Chris winked at Etta. ‘He named an ’orse Claudia Dearest after his missus, and she’s pushed off.’
    ‘Poor man,’ cried Etta, ‘how humiliating.’
    ‘He’s not very nice,’ said Dora. ‘He doesn’t feed his horses or pay his staff enough, and he works them much too hard, and he threw Claudia’s saddle out into the pouring rain.
    ‘I was going to take Mrs Bancroft round the church and tell her about the Willowwood legend,’ Dora added to Chris, ‘but Mrs T-L and not much C and Direct Debbie were about to have a punch-up.’ Then as Chris coughed and gave her a warning look, Dora swung round to find Alban Travis-Lock lurking in an alcove behind the racing pages of The Times .
    ‘Hello, Mr Travis-Lock,’ Dora changed legs briskly, ‘you haven’t met Mrs Bancroft.’
    Alban leapt to his feet, nearly concussing himself on a low beam, and offered to buy Etta and Dora a drink as an excuse to fill his own glass.
    ‘That’s so kind, I’ve got one,’ said Etta.
    ‘Put one in for Dora and Mrs Bancroft, Chris,’ called out Alban. ‘Same again for me.’
    Travis-Lockjaw, thought Etta, as Alban spoke through clenched teeth. He had receding hair, a domed forehead, big mournful turned-down eyes, a snub nose above a long upper lip and a big mouth. Not unlike an elder-statesman orang-utan campaigning for the preservation of the species.
    Cadbury, hopeful of pork scratchings, put his head on Alban’s brown corduroy thigh.
    ‘Cadbury is deeply in love with Mr Travis-Lock’s Lab, Araminta,’ said Dora.
    Noticing Alban had a most charming smile, showing large but well-tended teeth, Etta said: ‘Dora tells me you were a wonderful ambassador.’
    Alban blushed. ‘One did one’s best, thank you, Dora,’ and noticed that now Mrs Bancroft had taken off her Barbour, her ancient and shrunk navy-blue jersey showed off her pretty breasts and eyes.
    ‘Have you had a bet?’ asked Dora.
    ‘Well, Jase the farrier was in yesterday and said he’d put on Claudia Dearest’s racing plates, and she was an absolute cert, so I think most of Willowwood’s backed her.’
    ‘Alan was going to back Stop Preston,’ volunteered Etta, wondering if he’d remembered to put something on for her.
    They had lunch together near the television. Etta found herself perched on a stool shaped like a fox’s head. Her crab fishcakes were utterly delicious and she noticed Alban wolfed up his Irish stew with similar relish. Dora gave most of her steak to Cadbury.
    Alban glanced wistfully up at a photograph of a lawn meet outside Willowwood Hall.
    ‘That’s your gorgeous garden,’ exclaimed Etta, ‘and that’s you in a topper.’
    ‘Nineteen ninety-five,’ said Alban, ‘back on leave before the posting to Cairo. The one thing I looked forward to in my retirement was buying an ex-chaser and going out three or four days a week. Now it’s banned.’
    ‘I’ve had some excellent runs this season,’ Dora assured him. ‘The hunt meets at the pub in the second week in November,’ she added to Etta. ‘Hounds charged the bar last time, Oxford’s sister led the stampede. You’ll have to come and cheer us on.’
    Etta took a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t approve of hunting – poor fox.’
    ‘Poor fox killed Old Mrs Malmesbury’s gander last week inbroad daylight,’ said Dora sternly. ‘He plucked him then ate him, there were feathers everywhere.’
    ‘I know, I know.’ Etta shook her head.
    Seeing the distress on her face, Dora changed the subject.
    ‘This pub is where Joey, Jase the farrier and Woody meet to discuss their syndicate every Wednesday. Their dream is to put Not for Crowe and Family Dog in training with Marius, but I don’t think he’d take them, sweet as they are.’
    ‘Doggie’s a Shetland,’ mocked a pretty girl with long red hair wearing a tight white skirt through which could be seen a leopardskin thong. She had come over to take their plates away. ‘Everything