Jump! (27 page)

It was as though the north wind had blown in from the Arctic as Rupert looked through Shade and, nodding bleakly at Olivia, asked her, ‘Who’s your fat friend?’

Shade went purple.

Rupert then caught sight of Dora. ‘I want a word with you.’

‘Later,’ said Dora, quailing inside, ‘I’m just getting Mrs Wilkinson sorted.’

‘So this is Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Rupert softly. ‘Brilliant novice indeed. Did they cover a donkey with a woodlouse?’

‘Don’t be horrible,’ flared up Etta. ‘You wait till the race is over.’ For years she’d dreamed of meeting Rupert, and now her idol had an entire body of clay.

‘Here’s Amber and her father,’ cried Dora in relief.

The crowd was in heaven. Rupert, and now Billy Lloyd-Foxe, the darling of the racing world. A couple of punters who’d been in the bar started singing the
Question of Sport
theme tune.

Billy was also a bit drunk. There were no buttons on his over-coat, not many on his shirt, but his smile warmed the day.

‘What a darling horse.’ He patted Mrs Wilkinson. ‘Isn’t she sweet?’ Then, turning to Etta: ‘Thank you so much for giving Amber the ride. I had a small horse once called the Bull. God, he could jump and he tried so hard.’ Turning back to Amber: ‘Just put her to sleep in the back, darling. Keep out of trouble and move up slowly.’

‘You won’t use your whip,’ begged Etta, noticing Amber was carrying one.

‘Only to whack off Xav and Dare Catswood,’ said Billy.

‘Hi, Amber,’ shouted Xavier, riding past on Toddler. ‘Let’s catch up on the way round.’

‘Hi, Amber,’ called out the handsome Dare Catswood on Judy’s Pet. ‘How about dinner tonight?’

Shade gave Amber a smouldering glance as she set off.

‘Safe journey,’ he murmured. Good thing to keep Olivia on her toes. Sod Rupert! He couldn’t wait for Bafford Playboy to win by ten lengths.

Nancy Crowe and a huntsman in red, both mounted, arrived to take the jockeys down.

The Willowwood gang retired to a little hill where they could see the whole oblong course round which the horses had to gallop twice and jump sixteen fences. Amid the wintry bleakness of the day, there were signs of spring, blossom foaming on the blackthorn and blurs of crimson, violet and ruby where the buds on the trees were bursting through. Down at the start, marked by two rugger posts without an adjoining bar, Mrs Wilkinson, trembling violently and already hepped up, was further upset when Bafford Playboy bashed into her, half a ton of snorting muscle, sending her flying. Olivia, who didn’t like Shade ogling blondes, didn’t even apologize.

The other jockeys were discussing tactics.

‘Mine likes to make all.’

‘Mine idles when she gets in front.’

‘I’m going to hold mine up,’ drawled Dare Catswood.

‘I’m going to try and stay on,’ quavered Woody.

Chisolm took advantage of everyone’s preoccupation to eat a Bakewell tart, half a bunch of grapes and a blue woollen glove.

Etta felt sick. God would smite her down for supporting the hunt. She had stupidly put her old age pension for this month on Mrs Wilkinson, but was far more distraught that she might lose her darling horse as she had lost Bartlett.

‘It’s all right,’ whispered Alban, squeezing her hand. ‘She carried me all day out hunting, this’ll be a doddle.’

‘May God bless our little village horse,’ cried Niall. ‘And bring her safely home, and Not for Crowe and Family Dog as well.’

‘Have another Bull Shot, Mrs Malmesbury.’ Alan waved a thermos.

‘Not too many,’ said Painswick nervously. Chisolm ate another Bakewell tart.

The huntsman’s horn rang thrillingly round the valley and they were off. Mrs Wilkinson was so hidden by the larger horses that no one could see her, until she dropped her off hind, caught the top of the second fence, somersaulted wildly and crashed down on to the rock-hard ground, throwing Amber ahead of her.

There was a stunned silence, then Etta wailed with horror and stumbled off down the hill towards them. She could see both the checkered flag and the orange flag frantically waving, summoning doctor and vet.

Willowwood was in uproar.

‘We might as well go home,’ said Alan, tearing up his betting slip. Phoebe and Tilda burst into tears. Below them Etta had nearly reached the course. Amber was lying on the ground nursing her hurt pride when Mrs Wilkinson scrambled to her feet, shook off the dust and nudged Amber in her ribs: ‘Buck up, we’ve got a race to win.’

Amber staggered up, remounted, they set off and magic occurred, as if Mrs Wilkinson had sprouted wings and flown over the trees. No one could believe what they were seeing.

Intoxicated by the rattle of her feet on the firm ground, enjoying a left-handed track where her good eye was able to focus on crowds lining the route, Mrs Wilkinson was soon skipping joyfully over the fences, a look of intense concentration on her white face, her tongue hanging out like a little girl writing an essay.

Gradually, as she cleared fence after fence and the gap narrowed between her and the rest of the field, the crowd started roaring.

‘I’m seeing things.’ Alan pressed his binoculars against his blond eyelashes.

‘Come on, Wilkie,’ screamed Miss Painswick. As Mrs Wilkinson flew past Family Dog and Not for Crowe, who’d both been pulled up, Woody and Joey gave a cheer. Clearing the big blackthorn hedge, she overtook Farmer Fred’s Marvellous and Jonathan Crowe’s Nixon, and drew level with Xav Campbell-Black on Toddler, who, as his long dappled legs devoured the course, was twice her size.

‘Still no time for that catch-up,’ yelled Amber as she left Xav behind. ‘Come on, you gorgeous little girl.’

Mrs Wilkinson flapped her long ears. Ahead Amber could see hulking bay and sleek dark brown quarters.

‘Come on, Wilkie.’ Amber drummed her heels even faster into Mrs Wilkinson’s ribs. Next minute, they had shot between Bafford Playboy and Judy’s Pet.

‘Three more to jump, we can do it, Wilkie.’

Then Playboy and Judy’s Pet both rallied, Olivia thundering up the inside and blocking off Mrs Wilkinson’s view of the crowd, Judy’s Pet closing in from the right. For a moment, Mrs Wilkinson panicked and faltered.

‘Good girl, Wilkie,’ yelled Amber, ‘you’re doing brilliant. Get out of my way,’ she screamed as Olivia bumped her, crossing the bridge. Sandwiched between the two horses as they jumped the last fence, Mrs Wilkinson stayed resolute, and although desperately tired, battled on until Judy’s Pet fell away and it was just her and Playboy, who’d bumped her once too often. Eyeballing him furiously, Mrs Wilkinson put on a phenomenal last spurt, shoving her head forward and winning by a whisker.

Ione Travis-Lock screamed her head off and was amazed to find herself hugging Direct Debbie. What did wind turbines matter?

‘Photograph, photograph,’ howled the punters, including Shagger, who’d backed Playboy, but there was no one to photograph finishes at point-to-points.

Fortunately the West Larks Hunt stewards were biased in Etta’s favour. Dora had kept them amused throughout the season, Amber had fought hunting’s corner by protesting against the ban and nobody liked Shade Murchieson, so they declared Mrs Wilkinson the rightful winner.

As Dora raced up to welcome Wilkie, covering her with kisses, Marius’s sulky red-headed lass clipped a lead-rope on Bafford Playboy and told Olivia Oakridge, ‘You ought to be on
Police Five
. You was robbed.’

Dare Catswood, who’d come third on Judy’s Pet, shook Amber’s hand.

‘Well done, offer for dinner’s still open any time.’

Etta meanwhile had struggled back up the hill to the overjoyed party from Willowwood.

‘I cannot believe this, I cannot believe this.’

‘Yes, you can,’ said Painswick. ‘I’ll look after Chisolm, run down and lead her in.’

‘Just a sec,’ said Ione, getting out a handkerchief and mopping up Etta’s tears.

‘Use my compact,’ said Debbie, turning Etta’s cheeks bright orange. ‘How about a bit of lippy?’ She applied a dash of scarlet.

‘There,’ she brushed some mud off Etta’s coat, ‘you look lovely.’

‘Like a less gaudy lipstick,’ whispered Phoebe.

‘Enjoy your moment,’ ordered Debbie, propelling a stunned Etta towards the finish to join an ecstatic Dora and Amber and fling her arms round a heaving, panting Mrs Wilkinson, who, however tired she was, still gave a faint whicker.

‘Well done indeed,’ said Lady Crowe as she led them in.

Next moment they were joined by an escaped Chisolm trailing her lead.

‘Punch the air with your fist, Etta,’ exhorted Dora.

Amber was too cool to betray her elation. Think of winning like this every day.

‘Good horse,’ she drawled to Etta. ‘I’d like to ride her again.’ Carefully Tilda pieced together Alan’s betting slip and handed it back to him. Shagger was livid.

‘Why didn’t you tell me she had a chance?’

Rupert’s irritation with Dora, on the other hand, evaporated as ecstatic punters mobbed him, thanking him for tipping the winner.

‘We must get another horse,’ said Joey as he and Woody led back Crowie and Doggie.

Etta received £100 as the winning owner, which she split with her jockey and her trainer, then spent her share on champagne, which was drunk in the Fox that evening out of Mrs Wilkinson’s splendid silver cup. She was also presented with a video of the race, which when shown on the pub’s big screen flabbergasted everyone. Most horses slow up to jump but Mrs Wilkinson, once she got going, made up a length with every fence, skimming them like a swallow to land running and carry on.

They also noticed how beautifully Amber rode, not bobbing about like many women but crouched down over Mrs Wilkinson like a man, like her father Billy, knowing exactly how to take her weight off a horse in the air.

Everyone in Willowwood except an outraged Shagger seemed to have backed her. Etta had made £1,800, Woody £600. Joey, who’d perilously risked half Valent’s workmen’s wages, had pulled in enough to buy another horse, although he wasn’t telling Mop Idol.

Alan and Alban had also bet heavily and were thrilled to pay off their credit card bills. Direct Debbie and the Major had both made £300 but weren’t telling each other. The vicar’s street cred had rocketed because his prayers for Mrs Wilkinson had been answered. Old Mrs Malmesbury had put on a fiver, which would enable her to buy a new goose for her poor blind gander.

‘What’s this about an Indian in a turban living at the bottom of your garden?’ she asked Ione and Debbie.

‘Not an Indian turban, a wind turbine,’ explained Ione.

‘Turban, turbine, all the same thing. Too many foreigners.’ Ione’s eyes met Debbie’s and they managed not to laugh, happy to be friends.

Toby and Phoebe, who’d borrowed a fiver off Tilda which she’d never repay, were peeved because they’d only got their money on at 4–1.

As a result of Dora’s publicity skills, Rupert’s tipping an outsider, Amber’s glamour and famous name, and Mrs Wilkinson’s romantic rescue in the snow, the story made most of the papers.

Martin Bancroft was not pleased:

‘At least donate your winnings to the Sampson Bancroft Fund, Mother, we’ve got lots of bills to pay. So insensitive to call yourself Mrs Etta rather than Mrs Sampson Bancroft in the race card. Dad would have been so hurt and we need all the publicity we can get.’

‘And the pushiest of them all is charity,’ observed Alan.

The rest of Willowwood, on the other hand, were enraptured. A move was definitely afoot to form a syndicate.

Etta, however, was feeling so depressed she was grateful to be invited by Painswick, flush from her £150 win, to share a celebratory drink the following evening.

Painswick was particularly excited because Hengist Brett-Taylor had rung, asking her to pass on his congratulations. Etta once more admired handsome Hengist and his greyhound, Elaine, in the framed school photograph on the wall. Dora, Paris, Amber, Xavier Campbell-Black and right at the back a youth with rumpled dark curls who was blatantly smoking a cigarette were also pointed out to her.

‘That’s Cosmo Rannaldini, the late Sir Roberto and Dame Hermione Harefield’s son, so naughty but such a charmer. He owns several racehorses.’

After a second glass of champagne, Etta unbuttoned not just about Martin’s bullying but how worried sick she was. If Wilkie went into training, she’d have to have a DNA test to find who her sire and dam were.

‘She must have some excellent blood,’ said Painswick, who was now knitting Mrs Wilkinson a warm red hood for next autumn.

‘Her owners might claim her back,’ said Etta despairingly, ‘and what trainer shall we use? Harvey-Holden wrote me such a nice
letter and he’s rebuilding his yard. Wilkie might do better with just a few horses and Marius just looks so cross. Oh Joyce,’ she took a gulp of champagne, ‘Wilkie looked so sweet lying down in her stable last night. She was so tired after hacking home yet so happy at all the patting and praising. I know I’ve got to give her the chance to go into training, but it’ll be like sending Martin off to prep school.’

‘No bad thing if he went back,’ said Painswick with a sniff. ‘Might knock off a few rough corners.’