‘I do hope we’re not too late,’ she was saying in her deep thrilling voice as she posted an angelic little boy in a sailor suit with a sailor hat on his dark curls into the ring. This must be Cosmo, Hermione and Bob’s ‘treasure’.

‘Hallo, darling, you only made it just in time. Let’s have a look at you.’ Crouching down beside him, Georgie nearly dropped the clipboard with her markings on. For, looking out of a tiny version of Hermione’s face, were the shiny black, deadly nightshade eyes of Rannaldini.

Next moment she gave a shriek as Cosmo kicked her sharply on the shin and then laid about Denis Thatcher with his telescope. This speedily concentrated Georgie’s mind. She put Marigold’s boys first, Desert Orchid a close second, Miss Muffet’s spider third, Cosmo nowhere.

‘Little Cosmo is very sensitive. He won’t like that decision,’ said Hermione ominously as she retrieved her bawling child.

‘You’re going to need that bullet-proof vest more than ever,’ whispered Bob.

‘Can we have all animals in the ring for the Best Pet shown by a child?’ shouted Guy.

‘Pity Rannaldini’s in Geneva or we could have entered him,’ said Meredith.

‘Judged by our very own Hermione Harefield,’ added Guy to loud cheers which temporarily assuaged Hermione’s ire.

‘I must have tubes of Smarties for everyone,’ she was now insisting. ‘I will not have any little one disappointed.’

‘Hermione’s so caring,’ said Joy Hillary.

Seeing Ferdie give Tiny a great kick, Miss Cricklade reported him to the RSPCA who had a tent by the exit. Numbly Georgie signed autographs, still dazed by the fact that little Cosmo was Rannaldini’s son. How did Bob and Kitty put up with such a constant public reminder? Finally, over the loud speaker, Guy announced that judging had finished in the flower-show tent and the public would be admitted shortly to see who’d won. Where the hell’s Lysander? thought Ferdie and Georgie in murderous unison.

The hero of Paradise after last Sunday’s cricket match had, in fact, fallen among thieves in The Pearly Gates. Everyone wanted to buy him drinks and, being Lysander, he promptly bought them back. Then Crooked Mouse, his hot tip for the 1.30, came in first and as he had told everyone to back her it was more drinks all round to celebrate, then at his suggestion they backed Georgie’s Day for obvious reasons in the 2.15 and it came last so they had loads more drinks to cheer themselves up. By two-thirty Lysander was out of his skull. Hazily remembering he had to meet Georgie somewhere he staggered out wearing his fox fur and eventually found himself behind the vicarage. Hearing noise, he shinned over the wall, landing in a guelder rose bush at the back of a large tent. Wriggling through a side flap, he stumbled upon the home-made wine section on a nearby table with all the bottles open after the judging.

The winner had once again been Miss Cricklade. Last year after a couple of glasses of her elderflower wine the Archangel Michael, who normally drank for England, had driven straight through The Apple Tree’s shop window after leaving her house.

Having finished the remaining half of this year’s winning bottle, Lysander, who hadn’t eaten since the previous evening and then only uncooked cake mixture, suddenly decided he was hungry and polished off an excellent spinach quiche and a plate of sausage rolls before starting on Miss Cricklade’s prizewinning elderberry red.

By now people were flooding into the tent, shaking him by the hand and congratulating him. Really, thought Lysander, this is the nicest wedding reception I’ve ever been to. He must have another drink.

Outside, the RSPCA inspector, who had rolled up to prosecute Ferdie, having been bitten sharply by Tiny, was tempted to prosecute the pony instead.

The shadow of the spire fell over the vicar’s garden as the sun started its descent. Disconsolate exhibitors were pouring out of the flower-tent. Rannaldini and Mr Brimscombe seemed to have won everything.

Having thrust cups of tea on willing stall holders and remembering that Hermione liked hers camomile and flavoured with honey, Guy led Marigold, who’d been up since six, off to the beer tent for something stronger. Now Georgie could see them laughing together. Traitor, thought Georgie, wishing someone would hurl a coconut at Guy.

Guy was less amused, as were Larry, the vicar and Meredith when they discovered that the still-absent Lysander had won first prize for his chocolate cake.

‘It had a lovely damp texture and a delicious flavour we can’t pin-point,’ was the judge’s comment.

It was time for Larry to run the auction and regain the ascendancy after not winning a single prize. He’d show who could drive a hard bargain and kicked off by getting eighty pounds for a signed copy of Rock Star.

Guy then impressed everyone by bidding an unheard of forty pounds for Hermione’s posy of wildflowers. Consisting of marjoram, thyme, scabious and light and dark purple bell-flowers, they had been picked and arranged by little Cosmo’s Nanny, Gretel. Hermione was in heaven.

‘Guy Seymour is the most generous man in Rutshire,’ she told everyone after kissing Guy several times full on the mouth.

Having only had the courage to open the joint bank statement that morning and seen the abyss of their overdraft, Georgie’s smile fell heavily among the bric-à-brac. She knew she ought to roll up her sleeves and help Marigold or Kitty, but somehow she felt paralysed in her high heels and too shy to talk to people who were too shy of her fame to talk to her. She found Ferdie sitting on a haybale eating a choc-ice. All his bounce had left him.

‘I’m sorry, Georgie. I’d go and look for him if he hadn’t lumbered me with this fucking pony. I thought I’d cured him of bunking off.’

The fortune-teller was hidden in a little white tent under the taller of the chestnut trees. As Georgie’s nails were clean after washing her hair and the queue had almost dried up, she decided to test her fate.

Outside, a sweet-faced woman with long dark hair was trying to quiet an adorable, but fretful, baby, and telling two pretty little red-headed girls, ‘Mummy won’t be long, then we’ll go back to Robinsgrove and swim in the pool.’

Next moment a red-headed girl stumbled out of the tent, tears pouring down her cheeks.

‘Oh Daisy, I can’t bear it,’ she wailed to the dark woman. ‘He’s not going to leave her.’

Georgie realized to her horror that it was Julia. There was no way of avoiding her. She was wearing a white shirt, blue schoolboy shorts and black pumps and the combination of tawny freckled skin and russet hair was absolutely stunning. She doesn’t need to Clinique out her varicose veins, thought Georgie wearily.

‘Oh Georgie — I’m so sorry. I tried to keep away today,’ sobbed Julia, ‘but I couldn’t help myself. He’s not going to leave you. You’re so lucky to have him.’

‘Come on, Julia.’ Daisy put an arm round her heaving shoulders. ‘Let’s go home. I’m so sorry,’ she turned to Georgie, ‘I do hope you’re OK.’

Georgie was not. Kicking off her beastly high heels she ran off to find Guy who was surrounded by eager helpers including Joy Hillary and Lady Chisleden, and having his photograph taken for the local paper as he pinned a tail on the donkey.

‘Got a tenner?’ he called out to Georgie.

‘No, I have not,’ hissed Georgie. ‘If you’re not worth a fortune, you’re certainly worth a fortune-teller. I’ve just bumped into Julia and Daisy France-Lynch.’

‘Julia and Daisy?’ Guy didn’t miss a beat. ‘How good of them to look in. Perhaps they could sell some of their paintings here next year, Joy, and give you a percentage. D’you know Daisy? She’s so sweet. There’s so much local talent.’ Then, turning to Lady Chisleden, ‘I think cocoa gives a better flavour actually, Gwendolyn. My mistake this year was to use drinking chocolate.’

‘I do not believe I am hearing this,’ said Georgie. ‘Guy, did you know Julia was coming?’

‘Of course not, I haven’t spoken to her for months. Settle down, Georgie.’ Guy drew her aside. ‘Think of other people rather than yourself for a change.’

‘Time for you to draw the raffle,’ interrupted Joy Hillary, whose eyes were on stalks.

‘I’ll make an announcement,’ said Guy striding off.

‘I do hope I win the Copenhagen dinner service,’ said Joy. ‘It’s so good of Hermione to donate it.’

‘Gives her another excuse not to invite anyone to dinner,’ muttered Meredith to an exhausted Kitty. ‘She’s already got three sets in the attic. She gets one every time she sings “Wonderful Copenhagen” as an encore in the Danish Opera House.’

Among other raffle presents were a basket of fruit from The Apple Tree, a set of crystal glass donated by the local antique shop, dinner for two from The Heavenly Host and an array of bottles from The Pearly Gates.

Georgie was mindlessly scuffling round in the drum praying that she wouldn’t pull out Julia’s ticket when everyone was distracted by a piercing shriek from the flower-tent. Ancient Miss Cricklade, who had only just left her post at the Nearly New Stall to check how many prizes she’d won, came scuttling up to Marigold.

‘All my wine’s been drunk,’ she screamed. ‘That’s three bottles and it’s him what’s done it.’

On cue out of the flower-tent, supported by Miss Paradise ’89 and ’90 with their crowns askew, came Lysander with his legs running away in every direction and his eyes crossing.

‘There is a green-fingered Hillary far away — whoops — without a city wall,’ sang Lysander waving a half-eaten rock bun in time. Georgie had never seen anyone so drunk. Suddenly Lysander turned his head with a superhuman effort.