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theLand-Rover stand,’ Nina confirmed. ‘I’ve been over there already for a new saddlecloth, mine was somewhat less than white.’
    Hobo sidled impatiently as Nina’s groom tightened his girth and then Linc was riding away at a swinging walk to put him through his paces. All around them competitors and their helpers were hurrying about their business; horses of all shapes and sizes were being warmed up, walked round or were waiting their turn to compete. Few independent spectators were in attendance, most being the friends, family and grooms of the competitors, and these were catered for by the provision of straw bales to sit on and numerous vans selling anything from jacket potatoes and hot dogs to crêpes Suzette and frozen yoghurt. The showjumping ring was bounded by metal posts and nylon tape, and the air resounded with commentary, via the PA system, which was repeated in a series of overlapping echoes across the acres of the cross-country course, in a way that was somehow peculiar to such events.
    In spite of the last-minute nature of things, or maybe because of it, the dressage test went surprisingly well. It was the phase of the competition which Linc was least confident about and this usually set off a vicious circle of nerves and tension which in turn disturbed the horse’s own composure. On this occasion he’d hardly had time for nerves to take a hold, and what Hobo’s performance may have lacked in accuracy, it more than made up for in flair and impulsion.
    â€˜Well done!’ Nina exclaimed as he rode out of the arena and dismounted. ‘That’s as good a test as he’s ever done.’
    â€˜Thanks. It’s all down to him, though. I can never get Noddy to take that much interest. He usually slops round looking half-asleep and swishing his tail every time I ask him to do anything. My score sheet always reads “Lack of impulsion. Tail swishing” all the way down.’
    Things were apparently running late in the showjumping ring and with time on his hands Linc went in search of Sandy Wilkes, the saddler.
    Sandy’s lorry was parked, as Nina had said, next to the Land-Rover stand. It was a horsebox which had been fitted out with racks, shelves and drawers to hold saddles, bridles and every kind of equine accessory that one could imagine, and then some. It was his proud boast that he had the largest collection of bits of anyone in England. Snaffles, pelhams, bridoons and kimblewicks; in fact anything that had ever been devised to go in a horse’s mouth, he had in stock. He had a workshop and extra storage in a business unit near his home in Shaftesbury but most of his business was conducted out of the back of the lorry, in which he could visit his customers on their own premises.
    Linc hadn’t seen much of Sandy over the last few years but had known him quite well way back, when as a teenager he’d spent happy hours in other people’s stableyards. Seven or eight years older than Linc, Sandy had just been starting out in business at that time and had made frequent calls to all the horsy premises that he could find, in order to drum up business. These days the riding fraternity called
him
and he was a popular figure at shows and events, a fact borne out by the numbers crowding under the awning at the side of his lorry.
    As Linc progressed through the queue of prospective customers waiting for a word with the saddler, he was impressed anew by Sandy’s unrivalled service and generosity. One harassed competitor, obviously finding himself short of the necessary, was told to drop a cheque in the post, and to another he said, ‘Well, look. You take the vulcanite pelham and try it for a week or two, then if he isn’t happy, bring it back and we’ll try something else. We’ll worry about the money later when we’ve got you settled. How about that?’
    His pretty, female customer apparently thought it very acceptable,