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carrier-bag and a large and superior suitcase which seemed to be unconscionably heavy.
    ‘Hullo,’ Ricky said. ‘Are you moving into the Hotel Montjoy, with your grand suitcase?’
    ‘Why the hell would I do that?’
    ‘All right, all right, let it pass. Sorry.’
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t fall about at upper-middle-class humour.’
    ‘My mistake,’ said Ricky. ‘I do better in the evenings.’
    ‘I haven’t noticed it.’
    ‘You may be right. Here comes Bill. Where are you going to put your case? On the roof with my upper-middle-class bike?’
    ‘In front. Shift your feet. Watch it.’
    He heaved the case up, obviously with an effort, pushed it along the floor under Ricky’s legs and climbed up. Bill Prentice, redolent of fish, mounted the driver’s seat, Syd nursed his paintbox and Ricky was crammed in between them.
    It was a sparkling morning. The truck rattled up the steep lane, they came out into sunshine at the top and banged along the main road to Montjoy. Ricky was in good spirits.
    They passed the entry into Leathers with its signboard: ‘Riding Stables. Hacks and Ponies for hire. Qualified Instructors.’ He wondered if Miss Harkness was up and about. He shouted above the engine to Syd: ‘You don’t go there every day, do you?’
    ‘Definitely bloody not,’ Syd shouted back. It was the first time Ricky had heard him raise his voice.
    The road made a blind turn round a dense copse. Bill took it on the wrong side at forty miles an hour.
    The windscreen was filled with Miss Harkness on a plunging bay horse, all teeth and eyes and flying hooves. An underbelly and straining girth reared into sight. The brakes shrieked, the truck skidded, the world turned sideways, and the passenger’s door flew open. Syd Jones, his paintbox and his suitcase shot out. The van rocked and sickeningly righted itself on the verge in a cloud of dust. The horse could be seen struggling on the ground and its rider on her feet with the reins still in her hands. The engine had stopped and the air was shattered by imprecations – a three-part disharmony from Bill, Syd and, predominantly, Miss Harkness.
    Bill turned off the ignition, dragged his hand-brake on, got out and approached Miss Harkness, who told him with oaths to keep off. Without a pause in her stream of abuse she encouraged her mount to clamber to its feet, checked its impulse to bolt and began gently to examine it; her great horny hand passed with infinite delicacy down its trembling legs and heaving barrel. It was, Ricky saw, a wall-eyed horse.
    ‘Keep the hell out of it,’ she said softly. ‘You’ll hear about this.’
    She led the horse along the far side of the road and past the truck. It snorted and plunged but she calmed it. When they had gone somedistance, she mounted. The sound of its hooves, walking, diminished. Bill began to swear again.
    Ricky slid out of the truck on the passenger’s side. The paintbox had burst open and its contents were scattered about the grass. The catches on the suitcase had been sprung and the lid had flown back. Ricky saw that it was full of unopened cartons of Jerome et Cie’s paints. Syd Jones squatted on the verge, collecting tubes and fitting them back into their compartments.
    Ricky stooped to help him.
    ‘Cut that out!’ he snarled.
    ‘Very well, you dear little man,’ Ricky said, with a strong inclination to throw one at his head. He took a step backwards, felt something give under his heel and looked down. He had trodden on a large tube of vermilion and burst the end open. Paint had spurted over his shoe.
    ‘Oh damn, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m most awfully sorry.’
    He reached for the depleted tube. It was snatched from under his hand. Syd, on his knees, the tube in his grasp and his fingers reddened, mouthed at him. What he said was short and unprintable.
    ‘Look,’ Ricky said. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the paint and if you feel like a fight you’ve only to say so and we’ll shape