Jump! (38 page)

Expectation, however, was wildly high.

Two days before, Jase the farrier put four light racing plates on Mrs Wilkinson’s little feet, ‘so she’ll no longer feel she’s running in gumboots’. Jase returned, as usual, full of gossip. The yard was going from bad to worse. Marius, drunk, had accused Collie of sleeping with Olivia. Collie was so enraged, everyone was terrified he was going to walk.

Collie, not Marius, would accompany Mrs Wilkinson to Worcester on Wednesday because Marius was running a new horse, Count Romeo, belonging to a rich new owner, Bertie Barraclough, at Rutminster. Marius had had great difficulty finding a race bad enough for Count Romeo to win.

Bertie had hired a box and invited his entire board to watch. Ruby Barraclough would also have gone ballistic if, in an attempt to persuade Count Romeo to concentrate, Marius had hidden his beauty behind blinkers.

Expectation was terrifyingly high here as well.

Race day dawned. Down at five thirty, as the constellation of the swan began her flight and Leo the lion sank into the west, Tommy loved to be first out to feed and water the horses. They were all so pleased to see her. Mrs Wilkinson, already banging her bowl, was very put out to be limited to reduced racehorse nuts, little water and no hay, so she wouldn’t be bloated before her race.

‘It’s your big day, darling,’ Tommy consoled her. ‘The honour of Throstledown is at stake.’

Yielding to her phobia of lorries, Marius allowed Tommy and Rafiq to take Mrs Wilkinson, whinnying continually for Chisolm, and History Painting, who was entered in the fourth race, to Worcester in the trailer.

Tommy drove past the great cathedral, through the town to the beautiful oval racecourse surrounded by trees and with the river running along the north side. She then felt a bit silly parking the little trailer beside huge lorries belonging to Isa Lovell, Harvey-Holden, Dermie O’Driscoll and Rupert Campbell-Black, all elaborately decorated with designs of horses jumping or loping past winning posts. Harry, the lorry park attendant, however, welcomed everyone with equal warmth.

Tommy liked to relax young horses by getting them to the course three hours before their race. Now she set about plaiting up Mrs Wilkinson.

As Mrs Wilkinson’s first race was taking place in November rather than January, the spanking new Ford Transit Chris was getting sprayed with the Willowwood colours wasn’t ready, so Alan, Etta, the Major and Debbie, Painswick, Joey, Woody and Chris piled into a hired minibus. A very subdued, dried-out Alban Travis-Lock, bossily directed by the Major, took the wheel. Etta, trying to cheer up Alban, took the seat behind them.

‘Isn’t this the most exciting day of our lives?’

If only she had something more glamorous to wear, but at least Seth wasn’t there to witness her dowdiness.

In deference to Alban, Chris was surreptitiously pouring Bloody Marys out of a thermos into paper cups and circulating them to everyone else in the bus. How proudly they read about Mrs Wilkinson in the
Racing Post
, which tipped her to win.

‘Probably because Marius has put up Rogue,’ said Woody.

‘He’s never ridden her before,’ protested Etta.

‘Marius believes horses need someone experienced on their backs in their first race,’ said Alan. ‘Rogue had a pony under his arse before he could walk.’

‘Got a pony under him today,’ guffawed Joey.

‘Ponies stop at fourteen two,’ said Etta indignantly. ‘Mrs Wilkinson’s fourteen three.’

It was a bitterly cold day, with the trees wrapping their remaining leaves round their bare limbs and a vicious east wind sweeping those they had shed across the course. But nothing could dim the syndicate’s expectations.

How proudly they collected their red owners’ badges at the gates to tie on to lapel or bag, how proudly they repaired to the Owners and Trainers bar, where Etta insisted on buying the first round. How proudly they took their places in the owners’ stand and watched Rogue Rogers win the 1.15 by ten lengths. He was also riding the favourite in the 1.45, so a win on Wilkie would mean a treble.

‘There’s a lot resting on your shoulders, kiddo,’ chided Tommy as she polished the pewter coat of Mrs Wilkinson, who was increasingly put out by the lack of food. An inch of water in a bucket was no substitute.

The syndicate were returning to the bar when Shagger, Toby and Phoebe arrived from London. Phoebe, looking enchanting in a little green wool suit and a fur hat, immediately cried:

‘Who’s going to buy us a drink?’

‘Have a coffee to warm you up,’ said the Major, who was getting wily.

Shagger, still sulking at not being banker and getting his hands on a pot of money, had no intention of buying a round, so Alan ordered everyone except poor Alban a glass of red.

‘You look gorgeous, Debbie, that is a serious hat. You must lead Mrs Wilkinson in,’ raved Phoebe as the scarlet sombrero blew off for a third time and Woody scuttled away to retrieve it.

‘What a pity Trixie and Dora aren’t here to add a bit of glamour for the telly,’ continued Phoebe, who actually loved being the baby of the party, ‘but at least they won’t shout at me for wearing fur. You look stunning too, Miss Painswick. I couldn’t sleep a wink all night, I was so nervous.’

Etta, who hadn’t slept either, felt sick. The hurdles suddenly looked huge and she felt so responsible for all these friends who’d kept having even bigger bets.

Having cheered on Rogue to win his second race, they hurried down to the pre-parade ring, gathering round an open stall to watch Tommy and Rafiq tacking up Mrs Wilkinson, who gave a thunderous whicker of welcome when she saw Etta and her friends.

Before a race, to check the girths aren’t pinching, a horse’s forelegs have to be stretched out one at a time.

‘Aaaaaaah,’ went the syndicate, as Mrs Wilkinson, without any prompting, proffered each leg in turn to Rafiq.

Tommy meanwhile was sponging her face and mouth with water. ‘Because she’s not allowed to drink anything,’ she explained.

Like me, thought Alban wearily. He could murder a quadruple Bell’s.

Rafiq had his arm round Mrs Wilkinson’s neck, constantly stroking and calming her. Tommy, in a dark blue jacket and black trousers, her face red from exertion, her unruly dark hair restrained by a blue scarf, waited until she was about to lead Mrs Wilkinson up to the paddock before whipping off her tail bandage, undoing six little plaits and applying a squirt of mane-and-tail spray, so Mrs Wilkinson’s tail exploded in a crinkly white fountain. Even Shagger cheered.

‘She looks wonderful! Thank you, Tommy,’ cried Etta.

She looked wonderful in the paddock but very small, which elicited more jokes about Shetlands and ‘shrunk in the wash’. As she led Mrs Wilkinson round anti-clockwise, the public ringing the rails could see that Tommy had hung a black patch over her blind eye.

The favourite was a lovely bay mare called Heroine, who was trained by Harvey-Holden. H-H’s ferret-like face contorted with fury as he caught sight of Mrs Wilkinson, then turned into a sneer, his upper lip curling more than the brim of his brown felt hat.

‘What’s that pony’s handicap?’ asked Heroine’s owner.

‘Having Marius Oakridge as a trainer,’ snarled Harvey-Holden. ‘Her odds, for some unaccountable reason, are even shorter than her legs.’

On the bookies’ boards and on the big screen, Mrs Wilkinson was now second favourite at 5–1. Etta felt even sicker.

Tommy won the turnout.

‘Pity she can’t do something about her own appearance,’ said
Michelle, who was about to tack up History Painting for the next race.

The jockeys were flowing into the paddock.

‘Don’t our silks look lush on Rogue?’ sighed Phoebe, as in emerald green with a pale green weeping willow back and front he was waylaid by photographers and television presenters.

Etta noticed the contrast between the slim, emaciated jockeys with their ashen, often spotty faces and frequently cut lips, polite and formal as little corporals, and the fat, shiny-suited owners flushed from hospitality.

Rogue looked different. For a start he had a tan, his hands were as big as a prop forward’s, his shoulders huge and muscular. On his collar was printed the words ‘Venturer Television’, on his breeches it said ‘Bar Sinister’.

‘I’d like to sponsor Rogue’s thighs,’ giggled Phoebe, as he strutted towards them, speculative eyes turned turquoise by the Willowwood colours, slapping his whip against muddy boots, going for the treble.

‘Connections’, as owners, trainer and stable lad belonging to an individual horse are grandiosely known, hung on his every word, straining to hear, as if he were George Clooney or Prince William.

‘I’ve studied the video, she’s a decent hoss,’ lied Rogue. ‘I’ll settle her mid-division and hont her round.’

‘Please don’t hit her with that whip,’ Etta couldn’t help saying.

‘Shhhhhh,’ hissed the horrified syndicate as though Etta had farted in church.

‘Rogue needs his whip to guide her,’ snapped Alan.

‘We mustn’t wish you good luck, it’s unlucky, so break a leg,’ called out Debbie heartily.

On their way to watch the race, Etta bumped into Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who was riding in a later ladies’ race and looked very upset.

‘I should be riding her,’ she pleaded to Etta, ‘please put in a good word.’

Up in the Owners and Trainers, aware that owners invariably hug each other if their horses win, Shagger placed himself next to Woody. Etta was shivering so uncontrollably, Alban put his greatcoat round her shoulders so it fell to her ankles, like Mrs Wilkinson’s rug. God, she’s sweet, he thought wistfully.

Everyone had their mobiles poised to report victory.

Back in Willowwood, the whole of Greycoats was now watching on the school television. Dora and Trixie were watching at Bagley Hall. Joey rushed downstairs to put on another hundred for
himself and Woody. If she won at 5–1, that would pay the mortgage and the gas bill.

Through his binoculars, far down the course on the left, the Major could see the jockeys circling. For once the piss-taking Rogue was the butt of their humour, as they patted him on the head from the superior height of their horses.

‘Oh Daddy,’ said Debbie, taking the Major’s hands, ‘this is a dream come true.’

‘Good thing to have a grey,’ Alban told Etta, ‘always identify them.’

Through her shaking binoculars, Etta could see only that Mrs Wilkinson wasn’t happy, her coat white with lather as she gazed longingly in the direction of the stables and the lorry park.

‘I can’t look.’ Phoebe put her hands over her eyes. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

‘Are you ready, jockeys?’ called the starter. ‘OK, then off you go,’ and encouraged by a steward cracking a whip behind them, off they went.

Except for Mrs Wilkinson. Feeling her hanging back, Rogue gave her a couple of hefty whacks. Next moment, she’d veered left, ducking under the rails, scraping him off as, with lightning reflexes, he kicked his feet out of his irons, and depositing him on the grass before scorching off to the lorry park.

‘Hurrah,’ yelled an overjoyed Harvey-Holden from behind the stunned syndicate, ‘that’s one less horse to beat.’

‘I can’t look,’ cried Phoebe. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Bugger all,’ said Chris as the rest of the runners thundered by on the first circuit.

Harry, the lorry park attendant, grabbed Mrs Wilkinson as she hurtled towards him. By the time Tommy caught up with her, the race had been won by Heroine and a gloating Harvey-Holden.

Collapse of stout syndicate.

Everyone was flattened with disappointment.

Etta was in tears. ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry.’ Alan and Miss Painswick gave her their handkerchiefs.

Alan tried to comfort her. ‘Lots of owners never get a winner.’

‘We should have brought Niall with us,’ said Woody. ‘He’d have prayed us into the frame.’

Everyone, to Etta’s white, horrified face, was very sympathetic.

‘I must go to her.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Rogue shouldn’t have hit her. Why didn’t Marius tell him?’

‘Jockeys are paid to use their crops,’ spluttered the Major the moment Etta ran off down the steps. ‘Rogue’s had two wins
already. Proof of the pudding. This has cost us three thousand plus a hundred and eighty-five pounds a month.’

‘I wasted a day’s holiday,’ pouted Phoebe.

‘We came back from Lanzarote,’ grumbled Debbie.

‘I’m sure she’ll win next time,’ protested Painswick. ‘I expect something frightened the poor little soul.’

‘All trainers go through lousy seasons,’ said Shagger contemptuously, ‘but Marius is having a lousy decade. We should have gone to Harvey-Holden,’ he added. Looking down, they watched a returning Heroine being clapped back to the winners enclosure.

At least I won’t have to fork out for the champagne and I’ll have lots of people to interview about depression, thought Alan.

‘What happened to Mrs Wilkinson?’ cried the children at Greycoats.

Major Cunliffe’s committee, who’d stopped proceedings to watch the race, had a good laugh to see ‘a most familiar face’ looking absolutely livid.

Rogue returned from the race with only his pride hurt. Temporarily denied his treble, he needed to collect his saddle and pull himself together for the big race on History Painting. On his way he bumped into a jubilant Amber.