by Jilly Cooper
On a desk by the window was a large, dilapidated diary that listed which horses were running where, its pages torn and covered with muddy footprints where Mistletoe the lurcher had leapt up to see who was approaching the office. Now she shivered and swallowed in her basket, her light grey eyes filled with foreboding.
‘Poor old girl.’ Taking the chair next to her, Etta stroked her narrow striped head. Alan was gazing at a beautiful picture of Olivia, in a new pink hat at Cheltenham. Marius had poured himself another large whisky, and appeared singularly un-impressed when Etta showed him the video of Mrs Wilkinson winning her point-to-point, adding that Rupert’s great stallion Peppy Koala had been her sire.
‘She’s had a terrible time. We don’t know what unimaginable hell she went through but it never soured her,’ said Etta, thinking, react, you beast. ‘And she’s blind in one eye. Amber’s a wonderful jockey,’ she stumbled on. ‘I do hope you’ll consider using her, that’s if you felt like taking on Mrs Wilkinson. They’ve established a fantastic rapport.’
Outside, the hot high wind was scattering rose petals like confetti over the parched lawn.
‘She’s not great at loading,’ admitted Etta. ‘We had to hack her to the point-to-point, but she’s so kind she’d tow the lorry if you asked her.’
It was getting hotter, and Marius hadn’t even offered them a cup of tea. At first she thought he was so shattered he wasn’t taking anything in, but the next moment he’d got up, removed Mrs Wilkinson’s video, handed it back to Etta and switched back to At the Races to watch Don’t Interrupt running in the last race.
Damn cheek, thought Etta, then said, ‘Mrs Wilkinson is the sweetest horse you’ll ever meet.’
‘Presumably you want me to train the horse, not fall in love with it?’ said Marius rudely.
‘If it’s a problem,’ Etta was getting shirty, ‘we’ll leave it.’
What was the matter with Alan? He was being no help at all.
As Don’t Interrupt was beaten by an outsider, they could see the punters racing for the train home.
‘Mrs Wilkinson is a lovable and much loved horse,’ repeated Etta defiantly.
Next minute an anxious-looking Tommy pushed open the door with a tray containing cups of tea and shortbread.
‘I saw Mrs Wilkinson in the paper,’ she blurted out. ‘Such a sweet face, I love her long white eyelashes. Beauticians would probably suggest her appearance might be improved if she dyed them but I think she looks great.’
Marius put three spoonfuls of sugar in his tea and stirred it thoughtfully. ‘It won’t be easy,’ he mused. ‘As a left-eyed horse, she’ll need left-handed tracks so she can focus on the rails, and she can’t exactly walk to places like Cheltenham or Newbury.’
There was suddenly such a look of desolation on his face that Etta leapt to her feet, took his hand and put an arm round his shoulders.
‘I’m so sorry about Olivia. She can’t really love Shade. He’s such a beast. During the court case, someone told me he blacked his ex-wife’s eye.’
‘She wears so much make-up, I’m amazed anyone could tell,’ said Marius, and he reached for a cigarette. ‘Anyway, you still want to bring Mrs Wilkinson here?’
‘Yes we do,’ said Etta stoutly. ‘The syndicate want to come down and meet you, if that’s all right?’
‘Might be put off by the empty boxes,’ then, with a bitter half-smile: ‘I’ll have to borrow some horses from Rupert Campbell-Black.’
As they left, stable lads were skipping out horses, brushing them, feeding them nuts and hay and changing their water. Etta noticed handsome Josh deep in conversation with Tommy as he pretended to sweep the yard and made a thumbs-up sign to them, ‘See you very soon.’
As Alan drove down the drive, he nearly ran over a man with a camera and another talking into a tape recorder, who peered into the window and asked: ‘Marius Oakridge?’
‘He’s not here,’ said Alan quickly, ‘he’s at the races.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘York, I think he said.’
‘Bugger,’ said the photographer.
As they entered Willowwood, they turned away two more press, who gave Alan their cards.
‘Let us know if you hear anything.’
They were from the Scorpion.
‘Good thing Dora isn’t with us,’ murmured Alan, tearing up the cards the moment they rounded the corner.
‘Poor, poor Marius,’ sighed Etta. ‘I loved Olivia when I met her but she has behaved horribly. I do hope Shade will be kind to those sweet terriers and the horses won’t miss that darling Tommy too much. Do you think the rest of the syndicate will mind if it’s a bit run-down and Shade’s taken away all his horses?’ she added anxiously.
‘Course not,’ lied Alan, drawing up outside Little Hollow. ‘Give him more time to concentrate on Mrs Wilkinson. Oh look, here’s my daughter.’
Trixie was sitting on the doorstep, smoking, reading the Racing Post and brandishing five beautiful bright pink roses.
‘Angela Rippon,’ said Etta in amazement. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘Josh and I are on again,’ said Trixie happily, ‘so he leaned over Direct Debbie’s wall when he was riding out this morning and picked them, then he came over in his break this afternoon to give me them and tell me the latest gossip. It’s all in the Post about Shade taking his horses away but they haven’t got the whole story.’
‘I should hope not, poor Marius,’ said Etta indignantly.
She put her key in the door to find Gwenny sitting on the red armchair, Chisolm, having jumped through the window, on the sofa and Mrs Wilkinson peering round the mature hedge, knuckering imperiously.
‘You can all wait,’ she pleaded, ‘just let me get everyone a drink.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Trixie, taking a bottle of white out of the fridge. ‘I know your priorities, Granny: Wilkie, Chisolm, Gwenny and no doubt Seth’s greyhound Priceless before long,’ she added, winking at her father, but he was too busy reading about Marius in the Post to notice.
‘How did you get on with Marius?’ she asked, as Etta began to cut up an apple.
‘Well, he’s agreed to take on Mrs Wilkinson, which is wonderful. Such a sweet man, he looked shell-shocked.’
‘Not that sweet,’ said Trixie, filling up three glasses. ‘Shade and Olivia have been having a relationship for ages. She evidently adored Shade’s jet, which is not just a fast plane with no people, it’s got chairs, leather sofas, a gambling table and beds in butter-scotch leather. Well, Olivia said she didn’t like the colour and Shade changed it to cream, so he must be keen.’
‘Golly,’ said Etta, handing a piece of apple to Chisolm and leaning out to hand another piece to Mrs Wilkinson, who was listening to every word.
‘Anyway,’ went on Trixie, ‘it emerges that Marius felt rejected by Olivia and boosted his ego by shagging a stable lass called Michelle, the little tart.’
‘Which one’s she?’ Alan looked up from the Racing Post.
‘The red-headed bitch nympho – Meesh-hell, they call her. When Marius tried to break it off, she promptly blabbed to Olivia. Michelle was fed up with shovelling shit, so she pretended she was pregnant. “I’m soooo sorry, Mrs Oakridge.”’
‘Olivia was madly jealous, apparently. I bet she never passed on Shade’s message to Marius, that I’d have liked a holiday job in the yard. Anyway, Marius when confronted said it hadn’t meant a thing.
‘“Maybe not to you,” snapped back Olivia, “but it meant a great deal to me and Michelle.” It was just the trigger Olivia needed.’
‘Golly,’ repeated Etta, opening a tin of sardines for Gwenny.
‘According to Josh,’ went on Trixie, ‘Olivia hasn’t had a holiday in yonks, and she’s fed up with making ends meet and exhausting herself. Shade’s probably great in bed in a revolting sort of way and he won’t have any difficulty paying school fees.’
‘The Fat Controller,’ said Alan bleakly. ‘He won’t like Olivia’s terrier
s scrabbling all over the leather in the jet.’
Back in the kitchen at Throstledown, Marius poured himself another glass of whisky and confronted his bleak future. Not only had he lost a wife to whom he had been unable to express his great love, but with her had gone his child, his beloved terriers and twenty horses, whom he’d taught to jump and had been nursing to perfection to ignite the forthcoming season. These included little Gifted Child, Stop Preston and Ilkley Hall, whom he’d particularly adored and who certainly would not get the same love and attention at Harvey-Holden’s.
Marius had also flogged his BMW last month and taken out a large mortgage on Throstledown in order to pay his dwindling staff and feed his horses, who’d soon be coming in from the fields and eating their heads off. He hadn’t been in the money since March, which meant no tips or bonuses for the lads, so morale was rock bottom. Cruellest of all, Shade had dropped him a line, saying he was no longer prepared to guarantee Marius’s crippling overdraft as he’d only kept his horses with Marius so long because of Olivia.
Wandering into the hall, Marius was confronted by a lovely family portrait in a field in summer which had included Ilkley Hall and Preston. He remembered how long Alizarin Belvedon had taken to paint the picture, how absolutely fed up he, his daughter, dogs and horses had got standing about and how only Olivia had kept the peace.
‘Oh dear God,’ he moaned, ‘please bring her back.’
Driven mad by Horace’s incessant whinnying, he was tempted to turn his shotgun on himself. Instead he picked up the photographs Etta had left him of Mrs Wilkinson, whom Harvey-Holden had gone to court with the finest lawyers to repossess.
She looked as though she’d been rescued from a donkey sanctuary, but she had beaten Bafford Playboy and Marius knew how good a horse he was. The only revenge would be to turn her into a world-beater.
It was the same old story. When training was going well, it was great, when badly, it was crucifying. Even though you got up at five and were seldom in bed until after the ten o’clock news, you still had sleepless nights. And you had to smile for the troops.
He reached down and stroked a shuddering Mistletoe. Tomorrow he must screw up the courage to ask Rupert to take Shade’s place in guaranteeing his overdraft for a few months.
As he switched on his mobile, it rang immediately. Hope flared but instead of Olivia’s voice it was the velvety soft, Irish mist brogue of Rogue Rogers.
‘You poor darling boy. She’ll come back. I’ll come down and school the horses next week.’
43
Early in September, the syndicate visited Throstledown, lured by an invitation to watch the horses on the gallops followed by breakfast. Everyone turned out except Seth, who was doing a voiceover in London, Shagger, who had a board meeting, and Toby, who was slaughtering wildlife in Scotland.
Tommy, who welcomed them, explained away so many empty boxes by pretending most of the horses were turned out in a distant field, which in fact only contained Furious, because he bit people, and his sheep friend Dilys. Tommy smiled and smiled. Rafiq scowled and looked beautiful.
A week of incessant rain had painted the valley green again and closed up the cracks in the ground. Mist curled upwards from the river like steam off a Derby winner. Cobwebs, silver with raindrops, stretched from blades of bleached grass like fairies’ dartboards. The fountain in the centre of the yard was flowing again. Everything sparkled in the sunshine, giving a feeling of optimism.
Once again the visitors were fascinated to gaze at their houses across the valley, their chimneys rising out of the turning trees like children’s hands put up in class.
Direct Debbie, wearing a scarlet straw hat to keep the sun off her fat neck, admired the blaze of dahlias and chrysanths in Cobblers’ garden, but bristled to see how close to their adjoining fence Joey had pushed the trampoline on which his children had bounced noisily all summer. Debbie had also had several words with Joey and Mop Idol about washing on the climbing frame, loud music and raucous drinking sessions, and was not looking forward to being in a syndicate with such riff-raff.
‘Are you ever going to get Badger’s Court finished?’ she asked Joey sourly.
‘Look,’ Phoebe put her arm through Debbie’s, ‘there’s Wild Rose Cottage. You will come and help me with my indoor bulbs, won’t you?’ Then, smiling accusingly at Tilda: ‘After your long, long holiday you must be looking forward to a new term.’
‘Not so much as Granny, who’s been looking after Drummond and Poppy all summer,’ drawled Trixie. She was tossing newly washed hair and rolling the shortest shorts even shorter at the prospect of seeing Josh again.
Tilda in fact was just as exhausted as Etta. Having spent her holidays cleaning Lark Cottage, washing and changing sheets and providing loo paper for Shagger’s holiday lets, she was now hiding her bitter disappointment that he hadn’t turned up this morning. Miss Painswick was also in a melancholy mood. The smell of mouldering leaves and wet earth reminded her of the start of the school year and no Hengist Brett-Taylor to get things shipshape for.
The solar panelling glittered on the roof of Willowwood Hall. Pocock furtively tugged down his cap in case Ione picked up her binoculars and saw he wasn’t at the dentist. Joey, taking photographs of Badger’s Court to show Valent, and Chris, who didn’t need to be back at the Fox until opening time, were eyeing up the more lissom stable lasses, Tresa, a soft-eyed blonde and all smiles, and Michelle, the pouting, sulky redhead, as they tacked up their gleaming charges, and little Angel, the baby of the yard.
‘Do you use Pledge on them?’ joked Debbie.
The Major, who’d invested in a panama with a British Legion hatband, felt dashing and frisky. There were some jolly pretty fillies around. He smoothed his moustache. Woody was more interested in the yellow leaves already flecking the willows, and the coral keys on the sycamore. There were a lot of trees down in Marius’s copses which could be cut up and sold off to help his bank balance. The price of timber had gone sky-high.
Alan had justified skiving by giving a lift to Etta, Trixie and Dora, just back from three weeks in Greece with her boyfriend Paris.
‘We saw rather too many ruins,’ confessed Dora. ‘And remembering how Penelope’s suitors neglected poor Argus, I shouldn’t have been surprised how foul the Greeks are to dogs. I nearly brought back the sweetest little stray for you, Etta, as a present for looking after Cadbury.’
Now home and broke, Dora was anxious to sell more stories.
‘Don’t tell her too much,’ Etta pleaded to Trixie and Alan, ‘or Shagger will have ammunition and Debbie will be so shocked she might persuade the others to try another trainer.’
‘Where the hell’s Marius?’ grumbled Alan as they toured the boxes for a second time.
‘I never know what to say when people show me horses,’ whispered Tilda.
‘“Who’s he by?” is a good one,’ whispered back Alan, ‘or “Great ribcage” or “Wasn’t her grandmother Desert Orchid’s dam?”’
‘What’s a throstle?’ asked Phoebe.
‘A poetic name for a thrush,’ explained Tilda. ‘You can see a gold one on the weathercock.’
‘Don’t you want to throstle Phoebe?’ whispered Alan.
‘Always,’ whispered back a surprised but delighted Tilda.
‘That Tilda Flood’s as boring as the Electricity Board in Monopoly,’ Trixie muttered to Dora. ‘I think she fancies my dad.’
‘Après lui, le déluge,’ giggled Dora.
They were now welcomed by Collie, the head lad, who had a kind face, mousy hair and spectacles like a chemistry master at a prep school. He said Marius was still doing his declarations (two actually) but would be out soon.
Josh, Rafiq, Tresa, Michelle, Tommy and Angel, all in jeans, T-shirts and bobble hats, were legged up on to their horses and set out, splashing through the puddles.
Etta, Alan, Trixie, Dora and Painswick then piled into Collie’s absolutely filthy Land-Rover and bounded, bumped, skidded and swayed over the fields
after them. The others, to the Major’s horror, were expected to take their own cars, which were soon splattered with mud. Halfway up the hill, they parked on the edge of the gallops and watched the horses snorting round the exercise ring. Then, led by the dark brown History Painting, who fought Michelle for his head all the way, they thundered thrillingly up the gallops, Sir Cuthbert, the veteran, brought up the rear.
‘Aren’t they beautiful,’ sighed Etta.
‘Imagine Mrs Wilkinson leading them,’ said Dora happily.
‘She’d soon see off History Painting and that custard-haired slag,’ said Trixie irritably, as blonde Tresa finally managed to tug the big chaser to a halt and turned, laughing, to Josh as he drew level. Trixie wouldn’t admit how pleased she felt when Josh surreptitiously blew her a kiss as he rode back down the hill.
The party from Willowwood was distracted by another string of prettier horses, and even prettier stable lasses, who all smiled and said, ‘Good morning,’ as they crossed the gallops.
‘That looks suspiciously like Rupert Campbell-Black’s Coppelia,’ murmured Alan.
‘It is Coppelia,’ hissed back Trixie. ‘Josh told me Rupert went ballistic when he heard Granny was forming a syndicate rather than selling him Mrs Wilkinson, but he hates Shade and Harvey-Holden even more.
‘Josh heard Rupert and Marius having a terrible row last night. Rupert saying the place was a tip and Marius should drag himself out of the Dark Ages. Marius saying if you can’t get a horse fit with good hay and oats, you might as well shoot it. But Rupert still sent his horses and lads over this morning to swell the ranks, and Taggie, his wife, is making breakfast for us all when we get back.’
‘Who’s that redhead?’ asked Painswick.
‘That’s Michelle – Meesh-hell, the little tart who’s been – ouch,’ as Etta kicked her ankle, Trixie changed tack, ‘such a bitch to Tommy, always calling her Fatty and pointing out her builder’s bum.’