Jump! (42 page)

‘Well done, Mrs Wilkinson,’ he said, taking her face in his huge goalkeeper’s hands and kissing her on the forehead. ‘Well done, you little beauty.’

And the photographers, realizing who he was and that they had a picture, went berserk. All the trainers too were licking their lips and, knowing they’d have to get on with the next race, wondering how they could wangle an introduction.

‘What’s your connection with Mrs Wilkinson?’ asked the Sun.

‘She stayed at my place for eighteen months. I’ve got a very soft spot for my equine lodger,’ said Valentine and kissed her again.

‘Lucky thing,’ murmured Tilda to Etta. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? Oh Etta, Greycoats are so thrilled, do you think Mrs Wilkinson could make a guest appearance?’

‘Horses away, horses away,’ shouted the Clerk of the Scales, who needed room for the next race.

‘You better get her out of here, Rafiq,’ ordered Marius, ‘or she’ll be going up to collect her own cup.’

Mrs Wilkinson didn’t want to go at all. She was enjoying her friends and her moment of glory far too much, and Count Romeo, whose face was covered in Ruby’s red lipstick kisses, refused to go without her.

Next moment, Valent had turned to Rafiq and shoved a great fistful of greenbacks into his pocket.

‘Well done, lad, she looks tremendous.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said an ecstatic Rafiq, as, able to take Amber out for an entire crate of champagne now, he set out with Mrs Wilkinson for the stables.

Michelle, leading back Count Romeo, was livid. Bertie wasn’t into tipping. She must get Marius to wise him up.

‘I must go with them,’ cried Etta, who had been quite unable to meet Valent’s eyes.

‘You can’t.’ Seth took her arm firmly. ‘We’re all going up to the Royal Box for a glass of champagne and to watch the race.’

‘Doesn’t happen very often,’ grinned a returning Joey, clutching even more fistfuls of winnings. Then he went pale as he caught sight of Valent, who asked, ‘Are those this month’s wages?’ and decided to forgive him.

‘Can Rafiq come up to the Royal Box?’ begged Etta.

‘No he can’t, he’s the groom,’ said Phoebe scornfully. ‘You wouldn’t expect Mop Idol to sit on Uncle Alban’s right at a dinner party. Oh, whoops,’ she added, realizing Joey was just behind her, fortunately too preoccupied with Chrissie.

After the syndicate had been photographed collecting Mrs Wilkinson’s cup and Marius had been awarded a framed cartoon, Rafiq a photo frame and Amber, as winning rider, a glass tankard, they floated through a solid oak door into the building containing the Royal Box. Etta thought she had gone to heaven. The walls were papered in her favourite sea blue and crowded with wonderful photographs of the Queen in a flowered print dress and the Queen Mother in crimson.

‘Hardly wearing camouflage to blend into the countryside,’ hissed Dora.

Up the stairs they found more photographs of George V and Queen Mary and the Duke of Edinburgh at the races, of Best Mate and Galway Bay winning the Hennessy, and some adorable Shetland ponies with their tails trailing on the ground.

‘Do you think Horace should grow his hair?’ giggled Trixie.

‘Oh God, this is bliss,’ sighed Etta, as they reached a room with more leaping horses, and a gilt looking glass and a tariff from the olden days, when whisky was ten old pennies a tot.

‘We wouldn’t pay the rent on that,’ laughed Chrissie, clutching Joey’s arm.

As they were handed the most delicious glass of champagne in the world and watched the video of the race, all they could think was that Mrs Wilkinson, their beloved village horse, had come good.

‘Look at the way she stands orf, looks at the fence and really picks up her feet,’ said Alban, accepting a glass, feeling he couldn’t not on such an occasion.

Everyone cheered as Pocock, looking pale, and Painswick, looking pink after receiving a congratulatory text message from
Hengist which she would never wipe, returned from Casualty. They were also persuaded to have a restorative glass. Everyone cheered even more when Amber arrived.

‘Not just a pretty arse,’ said Seth, hugging her.

‘I’ve had text messages from Rupert and Taggie, Dad and Mum and my old headmaster, Hengist Brett-Taylor. He sent love to you, Miss Painswick, and to Rafiq,’ crowed Amber.

Etta, in a daze of happiness and confusion – she still hadn’t spoken to Valent – wandered across the room and up on to a little platform where Royalty must have stood so often to watch a race through a huge window.

The jockeys for the next race were going down to post, idly chatting to each other. It seemed like midnight. The huge course which Mrs Wilkinson had conquered stretched below. The witches who parked their broomsticks had put a good spell on her.

Aware of a footstep on the carpet, she turned, then started. It was Valent, who had been in Darwin mining ore to sell to the Chinese at massive profit but was far more excited by Mrs Wilkinson’s victory.

‘I’m sorry, Etta, I was so rude to you, I’m bluddy ashamed of myself. I was bluddy out of order,’ he added, blushing all over his square suntanned face. ‘I just lost it. I’d grown very fond of Mrs Wilkinson. I wanted to be part of her future.’

‘I only sold her to the syndicate because I couldn’t afford to keep her on my own,’ stammered Etta.

‘Should have come to me.’

‘I didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t want to abuse your colossal generosity.’

Valent led Etta back into the room where the Royal Box, impressed by such an illustrious guest, had been persuaded to show the video again.

‘Look at her little legs in a blur,’ said Valent ecstatically. ‘Look at the way her ears are pricked the moment she passes the post.’

Marius was also watching the video.

‘Why did you do that?’ he accused Amber. ‘Why didn’t you look round? You nearly let Johnnie up the inner.’

‘Oh shut up, Marius,’ called out Alan. ‘Don’t be so bloody ungracious. She rode a dream race. Have a drink, darling.’

‘She’s got to drive the lorry home,’ snapped Marius and bore Amber off.

‘Bloody paranoid,’ said Seth. ‘He’s so snarled up and suspicious about his staff getting close to owners, terrified they’ll
take them away to other yards, when they only leave because he’s so tricky.’

‘I like Marius,’ reproved Phoebe. ‘Must remember his wife’s just left him, poor chap.’

‘Oh shut up,’ muttered Trixie.

‘And two fingers to Shagger and Toby for not bothering to come,’ said Dora.

‘Let’s party,’ said Valent, bearing everyone off to the Owners and Trainers bar for more champagne. Here owners, trainers and jockeys sat round tables on wicker chairs conducting past-the-post mortems, watching the races on two screens and gazing hungrily at Valent, who had to be good for at least a hundred horses.

Even the big punters, Joey, Alan, Seth and Alban, had only to cross the room to a kind of mahogany witness box, manned by a moustached stalwart, who was taking bets for the tote.

Euphoria nearly took the roof off when History Painting beat Ilkley Hall in the next race.

Valent switched off his BlackBerry, and Etta remembered how glued to theirs the alpha males had been at Sampson’s funeral. She watched him working the syndicate, asking questions like a football manager determined to discover the special excellence of each of his players.

Learning Miss Painswick was an out-of-work dragon who’d organized a great public school almost single-handed, he suggested the one thing Marius needed was a decent local secretary.

Pocock supplied the information that Etta was sorting out Marius’s garden.

‘Perhaps she’ll do mine when it emerges from the Blitz.’

‘And then Joey could build a few more boxes and repair those already there, which are in a shocking state,’ said Painswick.

‘Sir Cuthbert can feed hay to Mrs Wilkinson through the hole in their common wall,’ giggled Trixie, ‘and she and Chisolm eat blackberries growing through the roof.’

‘Chisolm ought to come to the races with Mrs Wilkinson,’
suggested Dora. ‘It’d be good for Wilkie’s image, make the public remember her.’

‘The stable lads need better quarters,’ said Trixie. ‘Josh and particularly Rafiq and Tommy live in a tip.’

‘Need planning permission,’ said Valent, filling up everyone’s glasses. ‘Throstledown’s in an area of outstanding natural beauty.’

‘That’s where the Major comes in, he’s good with planners,’ said Painswick.

‘So’s Joey, brilliant,’ said Alan.

‘Must be,’ giggled Phoebe, holding out her glass. ‘Or how else did he get permission for that hideous house in Willowwood?’

Valent frowned and glanced round. He was relieved to see that Joey and the Major were over by the tote collecting their winnings and, in a rare moment of concord, agreeing not to tell Mop Idol or Debbie how much they’d won.

Valent then sought out Alban, questioning him about an on-going problem he was having with a Saudi oil company. He arranged to have lunch with Alban in London.

‘Yes, she was Valent Edwards’s house guest, lived in his office for weeks,’ Dora was telling the
Daily Mail
. ‘He came back specially to see her race.’

Switching off her mobile, she beamed at Valent and was soon telling him about Paris.

‘He’s such a brilliant actor.’ She flashed a picture of Paris and Cadbury. ‘He’s dogsitting as we speak. He’s just back from Cambridge, he’s terribly clever.’

‘He must meet Bonny, there might be something in her next film,’ said Valent. ‘Beautiful-looking boy.’

‘Isn’t he, but he isn’t spoilt. He needs masses of love because he was brought up in a children’s home, but please don’t tell anyone.’

‘I won’t,’ said Valent gravely.

Alan was talking to Tilda, thinking again how pretty she’d be if only her teeth were fixed.

‘My father’s a wonderful writer,’ Trixie’s tongue, loosened by champagne, was telling Valent, ‘but he doesn’t have much incentive because Mummy makes so much money. But she’s so busy she doesn’t have a lot of time for us. She’s in Russia chatting up some Russian oligarch.’

‘What do you want to be in life?’

‘I would love infinitely and be loved,’ sighed Trixie.

‘Lucky you’ve got your nan.’

‘Oh, Mum and Uncle Martin are foul to Granny.’ Trixie
lowered her voice. ‘She’s so sweet, look at her talking for hours to the vicar in case he feels left out. His church is so empty, Granny says we’ve all got to go at Christmas.’

Phoebe was chatting up Seth, who had positioned himself so he could gaze at Trixie. Christ, he wanted her, that untamed mane of hair, that wonderful coltish body.

That’s dangerous, thought Valent, clocking the expression on Seth’s face. That man was so handsome he could get anyone. He had noticed how Etta’s face softened when she looked at Seth.

Moving on, he filled up Phoebe and Seth’s glasses.

Bonny hated the idea of the country, he reflected, but if Corinna and Seth were down here she might find it more exciting.

Phoebe was in heaven, two alpha males fighting over her.

‘When are you and Bonny going to move in, Valent? We’re all agog. I was just saying to Seth it must be difficult being Mr Corinna Waters, and I suppose if you marry Bonny, Valent, you’ll be Mr Bonny Richards.’

‘Hardly,’ said Seth, raising his glass. ‘Here’s to Mrs Wilkinson, God bless her.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Valent.

‘I was so nervous, I couldn’t eat a thing earlier,’ simpered Phoebe. ‘I’d absolutely adore a smoked salmon sandwich. Would that be OK, Valent? All this fizz is getting me quite tiddly.’

When Valent ordered her one, she added to Painswick, ‘Wouldn’t you like a round too, Joyce?’

‘How dare she,’ exploded Dora to Trixie. ‘There’s masses left in the picnic basket for the journey home, bloody pig.’

Noticing Joey and Chrissie outside smoking a very long cigarette, Valent asked Chrissie on her return whether the smoking ban had affected takings at the Fox.

‘It hasn’t been great,’ she began, but was halted by Dora and Trixie approaching Valent with a large brandy.

‘Lots of men hate champagne,’ said Dora, ‘so Trixie and I wanted to buy you a proper drink for being so kind to us all.’

‘Why thank you, Dora,’ said Valent, unable to hide how touched he was.

‘Why don’t you join us on the bus home, Mr Edwards?’ suggested Trixie. ‘It’ll be a riot. I can sit on Woody’s knee, he’s so fit. Tilda can sit on Daddy’s knee, from behind you can’t see her teeth. Alban’s off the drink, or at least he was until Mrs Wilkinson won.’ Looking across, they watched a beaming Alban downing yet another glass. ‘Perhaps your chauffeur could drive us home? Oh, wasn’t Amber cool?’

The Major was very happy. Valent had asked him lots of questions about the finances of the syndicate. Glancing up at a sepia photograph on the wall of racegoers in top hats, he decided he must get out his topper.

Hours later they set out for home. Valent’s driver, delighted to see his boss enjoying himself so much, had taken the wheel of the Ford Transit. On its side Trixie had written ‘Well done, Mrs Wilkinson’ in lipstick, watched by a giggling Etta, who was joyfully clutching Mrs Wilkinson’s cup, revelling in the fact that Seth had told her she’d made him the happiest man in the world.