Most of the villagers were quite content to remain on the bus until the first race, or explore the downs, so Maddy and Fran, with Mr and Mrs Beckett and the Pughs, made their way to the tunnel that burrowed beneath the course.

Maddy’s dad, unable to resist anyone, bought lucky white heather and dead rosebuds from every passing gypsy, and Mrs Beckett bought a whole sheaf of race cards so that she could show Suzy’s name to everyone back home.

‘You’ll be OK here?’ Maddy asked her parents at the turnstile entrance to the Grandstand. ‘Bronwyn and Bernie will show you the ropes.’

‘We’re fine, Maddy, love.’ Mrs Beckett was bristling to get in and rub shoulders with the celebrities. She was dying to see Joan Collins in the flesh, and George Hamilton was always there, and usually Roger Moore. ‘We’ll see you later on, won’t we? For Suzy’s race?’

‘Of course.’ Maddy kissed her parents, and hoping that Bronwyn wouldn’t divulge too many details of her burgeoning and increasingly public relationship with Drew, linked arms with Fran and headed for the Queen’s Stand.

Fran looked at her watch. ‘Why don’t we have a bit of a mingle? We’ve got ages yet and Richard will be closeted with the Saratoga connections for most of the morning. Do you fancy soaking up the atmosphere, or are you breaking your neck to get at Drew?’

Maddy was, but she wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Of course not. Caroline is most probably anchored to his side. I’m not in any rush to make up a cosy threesome. So, what do you fancy?’

‘Oh, just looking.’ Once again Fran linked her arm through Maddy’s and turned sharply away from the grandstand area. ‘And candyfloss and brandy snaps.’

‘I’m not sure about the candyfloss,’ Maddy said, clamping Kimberley’s mother’s hat more firmly on her curls. ‘It’ll stick to the feathers.’

Giggling like teenagers, they stumbled up the scrubby incline and wobbled unsteadily across the dusty grass of the downs. The car and coach park was crammed to capacity, with people crowding round open boots unpacking crates of beer, boxes of wine, and every conceivable form of edible delicacy. Maddy’s mouth watered as she watched cloths being spread with cold chicken, trays of salad, pies, pastries, and glorious gooey puddings.

There were people everywhere: men dressed in morning suits and top hats, braying loudly to well-preserved women with geometric bobbed hair and Chanel suits; pub outings with both sexes sporting perms and vest tops; families with children and grandparents. Maddy soaked up the atmosphere.

‘You are not going on the dodgems,’ Fran grabbed Maddy’s arm. ‘Look what happens when you do?’