Jump! (81 page)

‘Fucking hell, in this weather? Half the roads are closed, flooding everywhere.’

‘I know.’

It was raining even harder, coloured umbrellas going up like
psychedelic mushrooms. The syndicate waited hopefully. Plenty of time for Valent to buy them a quick drink to warm them up before the off, but he was straight on to his mobile, checking flood lines and traffic lines, his face growing grimmer. In the distance he was sure he could see a huge black cloud over Willowwood.

‘I’m so glad I didn’t have a bet,’ said Phoebe as Doggie, who was inspecting a flock of paddling seagulls, got badly left behind at the start. Not liking mud kicked in his face, he fell further and further behind as he ambled along, admiring stretches of water on both sides.

‘He’s going to be lapped by the front-runners,’ muttered an anguished Woody. The crowd rocked with laughter.

‘Come on, Doggie,’ yelled Trixie. ‘Dogs are supposed to be good at paddling.’

Doggie, however, was so far behind, he missed being caught up in a seven-horse pile-up at four out. Picking his way carefully over prostrate animals and their swearing riders, he was the only runner to complete the course, to deafening cheers. Rafiq, who hadn’t bothered to pick up his whip, was grinning from ear to ear. The £5,500 for the winner meant £2,200 each for Woody and Joey, and £750 for Marius and £750 for Rafiq to send home to his beleaguered family.

Tommy couldn’t stop laughing as she led Doggie into the winners enclosure and gave him a long drink of water which he didn’t deserve, having hardly broken sweat. Doggie looked both delighted and astounded to get so much patting.

‘He’ll get hooked on success and win again,’ said Trixie, who’d put on a fiver and won £1,250.

‘It’s because you blessed him, Rev,’ grinned Joey, who’d won twelve times that amount. ‘He’ll probably turn up at Evensong on Sunday to fank you. Let’s go and get legless.’

‘And Valent can buy us lots of lovely fizz,’ said Phoebe. ‘So nice, now Bump’s born, I can drink again.’

‘Worcester Racecourse provides winners with lovely hospitality anyway,’ snapped Alan.

Through the pounding rain, a jubilant Woody smiled at Niall, who next week was off to be a locum in Suffolk. Today was their last chance to be together and Woody had planned for them to steal off for a few hours to a secret woodland dell he had discovered and make love under the stars amid pale enchanter’s nightshade and the papery ghosts of bluebells. It might be a bit damp – but who cared.

They laughed as they passed Alban commiserating with the
beaten favourite’s owner, a rather glamorous blonde called Alex Winters. Alban was nodding so vigorously, he sent water gathered in his hat cascading down her cleavage, which involved a lot of mopping up with Alban’s red silk spotted handkerchief.

Woody was just about to take his first gulp of champagne and watch Doggie’s great victory in the hospitality room when Valent stalked in looking wintry.

‘Put that down,’ he barked at Woody. ‘We’re going back to Willowwood. They’ve had six hours of flash floods, Bolton’s moat and the River Fleet have both burst their banks. Sorry to ruin your celebrations,’ he told the disappointed syndicate, ‘but I think you should all hurry home and enter Willowwood from the north, Alban. Any approaches from the south have been closed.’

As Woody emptied his glass into Niall’s half-empty one, Niall murmured, ‘Many waters cannot quench love, nor can floods drown it. Ring me when you get a moment. Good luck.’

‘Sorry to drag you away from your boyfriend,’ Valent told a startled Woody as they sprinted towards the helicopter. ‘Don’t worry about your mother, top of the village is OK at the moment.’

Why the hell hadn’t he done something to stop Bolton’s moat?

Five miles south of Willowwood, Etta drove at a snail’s pace along the centre of the road. It was only twenty past six but as dark as night because the tree tunnel had been bowed down by the deluge. Ominously, there was no traffic coming in the other direction. Rain was machine-gunning the windows of the Polo, as puddles grew into ponds, streams into rivers and raindrops jumped like flying fish from the gutters.

She had to make it home. Priceless was safe with Miss Painswick, Mrs Wilkinson safe in a field on high ground at Throstledown, but she’d left Gwenny asleep on her cherry-red chair, and the rose she was grafting for Valent on a top shelf.

She patted the steering wheel, her dear Polo wouldn’t let her down, but she was driving through a foot of water now.

She was terribly hot because as a suck-up gesture she had put on a wool shirt in a particularly unbecoming red which Granny Playbridge had given her several Christmases ago and which she’d never worn.

‘I love it,’ she had gushed on arrival, ‘I’ve worn it loads,’ where-upon a tight-lipped Granny Playbridge had removed the price tag.

Etta was still blushing, and sweating up worse than Furious, as she splashed past Marius’s gates. Thank God Throstledown was high up, but as she dropped down and the water rose to meet her, she realized that the lazily idling River Fleet had turned into a raging torrent and the willows were tossing their weeping branches in an orgiastic dance of death.

Then, as the water surged over her bonnet, she gave a scream of horror. For there in the field beside the footbridge was Mrs Wilkinson. She must have tried to run home to Etta. Now, with a
terrified Gwenny perched on her back, eyes rolling, neighing in desperation, she was marooned on a sliver of island which, as the raging, rising waters thrashed around it, was getting smaller and smaller.

Frantically Etta pushed at her car door, but as the water rose the pressure was so strong she couldn’t open it.

‘It’s all right, Wilkie, I’m coming,’ she screamed, as she managed to wriggle out of a back window.

Clambering over the wall, splashing down the field, she reached the river bank. If she waded through the torrent to the island she could grab hold of a now piteously mewing Gwenny and lead Wilkie to safety.

‘Just stay there, darlings.’

But as she stepped into the river, she realized it was at least five foot deep and she couldn’t withstand the currents. She’d better call for help. As she unearthed her mobile from her breast pocket, the force of the water swept it away.

With a despairing sob, wading downstream, she tried to swim to the island. Next minute the racing river had sucked her under. Choking on thick muddy water, she tried to regain her foothold, but the level was rising too fast. When she pushed out her arms to swim, the current again defeated her and swept her fifty yards downstream until she crashed into an overhanging willow and grabbed a branch, which cracked and gave way.

She grabbed another one, the long green leaves slipping away. Somehow she clung on and, edging upwards, caught hold of a larger branch. Digging her fingers into its mossy grooves, she gained a purchase. She couldn’t drown, she’d got to save Wilkie and Gwenny. Dragging herself upwards until the raging waters were below her, she emerged through the canopy of leaves to reach the top of the tree, to be greeted by torrential rain.

You couldn’t be wetter, Etta.

But looking upriver, she gave a wail of horror. Wilkie was still screaming shrilly as she paced up and down her piece of land, but Gwenny had vanished. She’d never survive in this torrent.

‘Cling on, Wilkie,’ sobbed Etta.

Then suddenly hope flared, as a police helicopter chugged over her head, searching for casualties.

‘Help, help, help,’ screamed Etta, but the thunder of the waters drowned her cries, and it chugged on.

After an eternity, by which time she had frozen solid and grown hoarse from shouting for help and reassurance to Wilkie, she heard the relentless purring rattle of another helicopter. Frantically tearing off her red shirt, she waved it round and
round, nearly losing her grip and plunging into the river, clinging on and croaking, ‘Please God, help us.’

Could it be red and grey? Then, like a huge insect of mercy, the heavenly ’copter hovered overhead. Was it moving on? No it wasn’t.

Suddenly Etta and her old greying bra and grey pacing Wilkie were flooded with dazzlingly bright light. As the helicopter descended, the downdraught blasted into the willow, flattening and spreading its branches, so Etta nearly lost her balance, and only prevented a plunge into the river by clutching more leaves with numb fingers.

But as the canopy spread, a god descended harnessed to a steel cable.

‘I’ve come to tack you up,’ shouted the god in a strong Larkshire accent.

‘Oh Woody,’ sobbed Etta, ‘oh thank goodness.’

‘We’re here, you’re safe. Good old
Salix babylonica
saved you.’

Swinging towards her, he rested his foot on a horizontal branch, then, slipping a harness under her arms, pulled her towards him.

‘Don’t cry, this is the way we do it.’

Pressing her head against his chest, wrapping his legs tightly round her bent-up legs, ‘God, you’re cold,’ he said and made a thumbs-up sign to the pilot above.

‘We can’t leave Wilkie, and Gwenny’s in the water,’ wailed Etta as they were hauled upwards.

‘Valent’s ringing for an RAF helicopter which’ll bring slings so we can winch Wilkie to safety,’ yelled Woody.

‘Thank you, thank you for rescuing me,’ gasped Etta through desperately chattering teeth, as Valent, looking more threatening than the black clouds massed overhead, reached out and tugged her and Woody into the helicopter. Then, as with frozen fingers she frantically tried to tug on her sopping wet shirt to cover herself, he roared, ‘Don’t put that stupid thing back on, give her my coat, Woody,’ then, completely losing his temper, ‘You stupid woman, risking your life to rescue a bluddy horse.’

‘She’s not a bloody horse,’ shouted Etta over the roar of the blades. ‘She’s the Village Horse and we’ve got to rescue her.’

Then, peering down out of the still open door, she gave a scream of despair, for Mrs Wilkinson, unnerved by the helicopter and the water swirling round her hocks, deserted by Gwenny and her mistress, had plunged into the raging torrent. For a harrowing half-minute, she disappeared under the water, then the strong little frame, stout legs and even stouter heart, which had
propelled her over huge fences and down the straight to snatch victory from her rivals, did not desert her.

Her white face could be seen above the frenziedly tossing white horses as she battled to safety. She was nearly defeated, disappearing beneath the water again, as she tried to find a foothold on the sodden collapsing bank. But after a heroic lurch, she found firm ground beneath a clump of bulrushes and managed to tug her feet out of the quicksand. Next moment, Tresa, who with Painswick had been manning the yard, and Priceless came racing down the hill to lead her to safety.

‘“And even the ranks of Tooscany,”’ Valent squeezed Etta’s hand for a second, ‘“could scarce forbear to cheer.” Sorry I chewed you out, luv, I was worried.’

As he turned the helicopter round, Woody put an arm round Etta.

‘Good thing you weren’t wearing a jacket, water in your pockets would have pulled you under.’

‘Thank you again for rescuing me,’ mumbled Etta. ‘If you could just drop me off—’ Looking down, she realized she couldn’t see Little Hollow. It had disappeared beneath the water. ‘Oh my God.’

‘You’re coming home,’ said Valent firmly.

Mop Idol had lit a fire in a spare bedroom. Valent had buzzed off to Throstledown to reassure himself and Etta that Wilkie was all right. He returned with Priceless, who, having done nothing but eat Painswick’s shortbread all afternoon and run down the hill to Wilkie, had collapsed exhausted on the bed. Valent had unaccountably disappeared again.

Etta, slowly coming to the realization how near death she had been, was distraught about Gwenny.

‘I must go and look for her.’

Mop Idol, who hadn’t been to the races, persuaded her not to. ‘We don’t want you to suffer from hypothermia, you’re exhausted. Mr Edwards insisted you rest and it’s more than my part-time job’s worth. Cats have nine lives, Gwenny’ll turn up.’

‘She’ll die like the first Gwendolyn,’ wept Etta.

After a boiling bath, she found a beautiful pale pink silk short nightie and dressing gown laid out.

‘That’s Bonny’s,’ cried Etta in embarrassment.

‘Doesn’t matter. She’s got too many clothes. Mr Edwards insisted you put them on and got this down you,’ said Mop Idol, marching in with a bowl of game soup and a very large brandy.

‘You are kind.’

Etta had nearly cried herself to sleep when a dripping Valent, his hair falling in wet black tendrils over his forehead, marched in and dropped an exhausted Gwenny on her pillow.

Dried off, her black fur flattened, Gwenny looked half her normal size but was purring twice as loudly.

‘Oh thank you, thank you, how did you find her?’ mumbled Etta. ‘You must get out of those wet things.’

Was she dreaming or did Valent really take her hand, muttering, ‘Oh Etta, thank God you’re safe. I lost Pauline. I couldn’t have borne it if I’d lost you.’

Then, dropping a kiss on her forehead, he was gone.

Etta was woken by Priceless squeaking to go out and Mop Idol bearing a cup of tea and full of gossip. Mr Edwards had flown to London to avoid the press, the ones who got through the flood, who were hanging around outside.