by Jilly Cooper
‘Michelle’s the one who was shagging Marius,’ piped up Dora. ‘Everyone hoped he’d sack her when she dumped to Olivia, but she’s too good in bed.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Etta. ‘You won’t tell the press, will you, Dora? If you do, Debbie will pull the Major out.’
‘Course not, I never dish dirt,’ lied Dora.
‘Hum,’ said Trixie, ‘that Rafiq rides like an angel.’
Back at the yard, Phoebe and Debbie were moaning about the state of the place.
‘Aunt Ione says the house hasn’t been touched in thirty years.’
‘Nor has the garden,’ sniffed Debbie. ‘Are we sure Marius is the right trainer? He should have been here to receive us.’
Instead they were welcomed by Niall the vicar, who’d walked over, hoping such vigorous activity justified skiving. His nostrils were flaring at the smell of frying bacon from the kitchen.
‘I dropped in on Old Mrs Malmesbury on the way. Thought if I met Marius casually, he might be receptive to some counselling. He appears very troubled.’
‘And very good-looking, you silly woofter,’ muttered Dora.
‘Wow,’ sighed Trixie, as a bright blue Ferrari roared up the drive, making the returning horses toss their heads and leap about. ‘That really is hot.’
It was Rogue Rogers, rolling up to school the horses, his laughing eyes bluer than his Ferrari, who tipped the balance and reassured any waverers that this was the right yard.
‘Josh says Olivia was being shagged by Rogue Rogers as well as my dad,’ murmured Trixie to Dora. ‘That’s why they’re both absolutely livid about Shade going off with her.’
Today, however, Rogue Rogers was out to charm all the syndicate, many of whom knew him already from when he had lived in Shagger’s cottage in Willowwood.
Back in the house, a very tall, slim and pretty woman with cloudy dark hair and silvery grey eyes was serving up the most delicious breakfast of kedgeree, bacon, sausages, fried eggs and mushrooms fresh from the fields. Rogue made everyone laugh by leaping on to a chair to kiss her, like a perky Jack Russell making advances towards a gentle Great Dane.
‘This is Taggie,’ he announced, ‘the loveliest woman in racing, easily the best cook and married to my incredibly lucky friend Rupert Campbell-Black.’
‘Oh Rogue,’ blushed Taggie. ‘Please help yourselves, everyone.’
‘Wouldn’t mind if she was on the menu,’ muttered Chris to Joey, thinking he might introduce kedgeree in the Fox.
‘Oh hello, Taggie,’ called out Phoebe. ‘I was at school with your step-daughter Tabitha. Does she still see …?’ and went into an orgy of names, while Taggie was trying to sort out who wanted coffee or tea or Bull Shots.
‘I’m not sure who Tab sees,’ she said apologetically. ‘Mustard’s over there.’
Phoebe, Trixie, Debbie, Tilda, Etta and Dora, even Painswick, proceeded to drool over Rogue as he toyed with a black mush-room, sipped even blacker coffee and, in an Irish brogue softer than the thistledown drifting past the window, assured them they’d chosen the best trainer in the country, ‘except Rupert’, he added, winking at Taggie.
They were even more excited when he lied that he’d watched the video of Mrs Wilkinson’s point-to-point and she looked a very decent hoss.
‘Do you know Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who rode her?’ asked Etta. ‘A very good jockey.’
‘Miss Amateur Lloyd-Foxe,’ said Rogue dismissively.
‘That’s naughty.’ Phoebe giggled in delight.
‘Who spends her life in Boujis,’ added Rogue. ‘She was lucky to have a good horse under her.’
‘She’ll be a different horse with you on her back,’ simpered Phoebe.
‘As long as you don’t use your whip on her,’ said Etta.
‘Not now!’ Alan shut her up sharply.
‘How do you keep so slim, Rogue?’ gushed Phoebe.
‘One meal a day.’
‘How long have you done that for?’
‘Since I was at school. I always put my dinner money on a hoss.’
After breakfast, everyone wanted to have their photograph taken with Rogue. Alan, the Major, Woody and Joey, who knew something about racing, were equally impressed when Rogue took Asbo Andy, Oh My Goodness and History Painting over a row of fences.
‘He’s so bloody brilliant,’ sighed Alan. ‘Look how he moves with the horse, cuddles it up on the bit, balances it, gets the maximum ounce out of every muscle, like honey on its back.’
‘See the expression of relief on History’s face, with Rogue on him rather than Michelle,’ observed Dora.
‘Josh says Rogue’s got the biggest tackle in the weighing room,’ said Trixie blithely.
As Etta moved away trying not to laugh, she noticed Rafiq had left the yard, where he had been sweeping up, to watch Rogue, an expression of passionate longing, admiration and envy on his face.
‘You ride beautifully too,’ stammered Etta. ‘We all noticed how well the horses went for you.’
Rafiq started in terror, gazing at her uncomprehendingly until Michelle made them both jump. She shrilly ordered him to stop skiving and get back to work.
‘We must go,’ said Etta. ‘We’ve taken up enough of their time.’
In the yard, horses were looking inquisitively out of their boxes. Those who’d not been ridden were put on the horse walker, while others were turned out for a few hours.
Tresa, the minxy blonde, was brushing History Painting in his box.
‘Where are you racing today?’ Phoebe asked Rogue.
‘Hereford, then I’m flying to Down Royal in Dermie O’Driscoll’s chopper for an evening meeting.’
‘Dermie wanted to buy Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Etta eagerly.
‘Showed good taste.’ Rogue smiled round at the syndicate. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you guys again. Must go and pick up my saddle from the tack room.’
‘Funny,’ muttered Dora as Rogue slid into History Painting’s box.
They were distracted by Marius finally emerging from his office, followed by his shy, striped lurcher who, to Etta’s delight, bounded up to her, wagging her shepherd’s crook tail.
Marius, even thinner and still deathly pale, was if not charming, at least polite.
‘We’re probably talking about a January start.’ Then, seeing the disappointment in people’s faces: ‘It takes ten weeks to get a horse to the races but for those new to the game like Mrs Wilkinson, it’ll take four months. She’ll walk or trot for a couple of months, then learn to canter and gallop in a straight line, to jump hurdles or small fences, to behave calmly in all circumstances, not to kick or bite, and to jump and turn corners while galloping. If this process is rushed, they fall to pieces.’
‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Etta, thanking him profusely.
As they walked towards their cars, Dora said, ‘Damn, I think I left my camera in the tack room, I’ll catch up with you.’ Scuttling back, she ran slap into a grinning Rogue zipping up his flies as he came out of History Painting’s box.
One of the very top jump jockeys, redoubtable, tricky, glamorous, Rogue had nearly given up racing eight years earlier after a hideous fall in which he broke his back and a leg and Monte Cristo, the beautiful and valuable bay he was riding, had to be shot. Marius had carried Rogue, visited him in hospital, kept up his retainer, restored his confidence, got him riding again and helped his struggle back to the top. There was no way Rogue was going to desert Marius now.
The little king of the weighing room, Rogue was tall for a jockey at five foot nine and at nine stone the perfect size. Any lighter, he would have to carry weights. Rogue drove owners, trainers and punters demented, holding up his horses as long as possible before unleashing his thunderbolt to mug the opposition on the line. No one drove horses harder than Rogue, but sensing a horse was beaten, unlike his cruel rival Killer O’Kagan, he put down his whip.
Rogue had adored Monte Cristo and still talked about him in his sleep. Determined never to fall in love a
gain, he had since treated horses as a good secretary would a letter, something to be achieved perfectly but without any emotional involvement.
He was so good a rider, in all senses of the word, that trainers and women were willing to share him.
Being a jockey is like being an actor: you have to be visible to get more rides. Rogue was hugely in demand with other trainers, but always on call if Marius needed him. The bane of the stewards, Rogue deserved a BAFTA for talking himself out of trouble. After a bad ride, as a microphone approached, the words ‘Fuck off’ could be seen forming on his perfect lips. Racing put up with his bad behaviour because the sport desperately needed stars.
44
A riotous meeting that evening decided to appoint Marius as Mrs Wilkinson’s trainer.
The only dissenting voice was Shagger’s. Returning from London, still in his City pinstripe into which he had clearly sweated, he protested in his carrion crow rasp that Marius couldn’t even win races; that he’d gone 166 days and 48 runners without being in the money.
‘Asbo Andy’s unbeaten,’ protested Etta.
‘That’s because he’s never run,’ said Shagger rudely.
Then Seth, also back from London, swept in, and in the husky, deeply persuasive voice that had been selling luxury cruises to listeners, set about reassuring the syndicate.
‘What you get from racing isn’t money,’ he said. ‘Put in a hundred pounds, you’re lucky if you get twenty back. What you’re getting is fun, friendship and excitement, meeting, mixing and networking with great jockeys and owners and wonderful horses.’
And the lost heart quickens and rejoices, thought Alan, observing the rapture on Woody’s, Tilda’s, Etta’s, Pocock’s, even Painswick’s faces.
So Marius it was.
The syndicate then gathered round a table, with Priceless the greyhound flashing his teeth like a Colgate ad as he rushed in from the kitchen, making the numbers up to fourteen by stretching out on a nearby sofa. First drinks were on the house as the rules were hammered out. Only people who lived in Willowwood could join. The majority vote would prevail on all occasions. Payment of vet’s bills, insurance, proportion of winnings dependent on size of stake and allocation of owners’ badges at race meetings were all thrashed out. Anyone who backed out, or defaulted for three months on payment, would lose their stake unless they could get someone approved by a majority syndicate vote to take it over.
Major Cunliffe had been mugging up on syndicates and, as an ex-bank manager, he was appointed treasurer. When he suggested that ‘Cash sums can be handed over in this pub on the twenty-fifth of every month, but I’d prefer people to pay by Direct Debit,’ no one dared look at one another.
‘And anyone who defaults will be spanked by the Major,’ yelled Alan, getting up to buy the next round of drinks.
Direct Debbie looked very disapproving.
‘Debbie will be in charge of good behaviour,’ said Seth, feeding crisps to Priceless.
‘We must think of a name for the syndicate,’ said Etta hastily.
Toby, who’d flown down straight off the grouse moors and looking a prat in knickerbockers, interrupted her, announcing that Shagger, ‘a whizz-kid in the City’, should be the syndicate’s banker.
Alan, however, had observed Shagger’s trick of asking for a fiver from everyone to buy some white and red, then, having acquired three or four bottles for much less, pocketing the rest. Equally, Shagger would sidle into a group, bury his fat lips in the cheek of one of the women, buy her a half, slide back into the group and be the beneficiary of succeeding rounds.
Only a couple of days ago, Shagger had edged up to him in the pub to reiterate that if he, Shagger, secured a favourable insurance deal for Mrs Wilkinson, perhaps the syndicate might waive his fee. Remembering how Shagger, with the aid of a vicious Health and Safety inspector, had once ripped off Woody, Alan had snapped that it was most unlikely.
Shagger’s methods were entirely opposite to the generous open-ended way Alan operated, aided admittedly by a rich wife, so Alan now suggested it would be better if Major Cunliffe was also their banker. He was more experienced, more local and therefore more available. Everyone except Shagger and Toby agreed. Major Cunliffe went puce with pleasure.
‘Ask a busy person,’ said Debbie smugly. ‘Daddy always finds the time.’
‘We still haven’t got a name,’ said Etta, making notes.
‘What about Affordable Horsing?’ suggested Seth.
Everyone giggled.
‘Why not the Willowwood Legend,’ said Trixie.
Everyone liked that, it sounded so romantic.
‘Except Beau Regard died,’ said Painswick.
‘Let’s just call ourselves Willowwood,’ said Woody, seeing Etta’s face falter and moving his thigh away from Shagger’s.
‘How are we going to get to the races?’ asked Joey. ‘When Mrs Wilkinson starts winning we’ll want to celebrate on the way home.’
Chris the landlord then announced he’d got wind of a second-hand Ford Transit bus that took ten.
‘Don’t ’spect everyone’ll go every time she races,’ said Joey.
‘Some of us work,’ quipped Chris.
‘And people can sit on people’s knees,’ said Phoebe, looking up at Seth from under her pale brown eyelashes.
‘We’ll provide the picnic,’ said Chris, thinking of a fat profit.
‘We can all make things,’ said Etta.
‘And drink ourselves insensible,’ said Seth, draining his glass.
‘We’ll have to find someone sober to drive us,’ said Alan. ‘How about Alban? Poor sod’s just returned from rehab utterly demoralized, off the drink, for ever, if Ione has her way. Desperately needs something to do.’
‘He’s a seriously slow driver,’ protested Toby.
‘Better to be safe than sorry,’ said Miss Painswick, getting another skein of wool out of her bag.
‘Will you approach Alban?’ the Major asked Alan pompously. ‘I was thinking of asking him to address Rotary on his take on the Arab world.’
‘We must paint the bus our colours,’ said Tilda in excitement.
‘What are our colours going to be?’ asked Shagger, filling up his pint mug from one of the bottles of red on the bar.
‘Why not a dark green willow on the palest green background?’ suggested Phoebe, who worked in an art gallery. ‘We must have something that shows up on grey, foggy days.’
‘Or a pale green willow on an emerald green background.’ Etta was surprised by her own assertiveness. ‘It would suit Amber. I do hope Marius puts her up.’ Hark at herself, swinging into the jargon.
‘Rogue Rogers has lovely kingfisher-blue eyes,’ sighed Phoebe.
‘Rogue likes wearing silks with horizontal stripes to make his shoulders look bigger,’ said Trixie, ‘which wouldn’t work with our willow tree.’
‘Perhaps those clever children at your school could come up with a design,’ suggested Etta.
‘And you’ve forgotten your girlfriend’s glass, Shagger,’ said Alan pointedly, as he tipped the remains of his glass into Tilda’s. ‘We’re going to need more bottles, Chris,’ then, as Tilda threw him a smile of passionate gratitude, thought: she’d be pretty if she had those teeth fixed.
‘Our vicar,’ said Seth, who was admiring Trixie’s legs, ‘must come along whenever Mrs Wilkinson runs to administer the last rites.’ Then, seeing the horror on Etta’s face: ‘And bless her and pray for her safe return.’
‘I do hope she isn’t homesick,’ sighed Etta. ‘It’s like sending her off to boarding school with name tapes, a trunk and a fruit cake.’
‘And costs about the same,’ said Seth, then he put a hand on Etta’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’
Etta looked round the group who were all smiling sympathetically at her, and thought, nothing can go wrong for Mrs Wilkinson with all these sweet people rooting for her.
After the meeting dispersed, Alan and Seth, who were friends, both married to power
ful women and led each other astray, stayed behind in the pub to get tanked up and discuss a trip to York.
Alan confessed the biography of Walter Scott he longed to write was hardly started. ‘I can’t get stuck into it. Walter wrote frantically to the end of his life to pay off debts incurred by his partner in a publishing firm. I identify with that aspect of his character. But I’m still wrestling with this bloody book on depression and really I need go no further than Willowwood.
‘I’m depressed about being Mr Carrie Bancroft. You’re pissed off playing second fiddle to Corinna. Alban’s about to slit his wrists missing whisky and the kudos of the embassy. Etta’s terrorized by ghastly Martin and my wife, missing her old house and her dog and, from next week, Mrs Wilkinson. Tilda’s gagging for a husband. Shagger’s a bastard to her, hardly surprising bearing in mind his hopeless passion for Toby. Painswick’s eating her heart out for Hengist. Niall’s terrified of being outed, and demoralized by his empty church. Chris and Chrissie can’t have children, unlikely when they’re working and drinking themselves insensible. There’s something wistful about the divine Woody. Joey seems pretty happy. Mop Idol’s frantically worried about money. Pocock is a poor widower, gagging for a shag. Poor Marius, with Olivia buggering off, is the saddest of them all, poor boy, and that stormy Rafiq’s obviously got a few problems. Hey presto, I can interview them all for my book on trips to the races.’
‘Trixie seems fine,’ said Seth idly.
‘She’d be better if her mother took a bit of notice of her,’ said Alan bitterly.
‘She’s utterly faint-makingly gorgeous, she’s just got to wait for things to happen to her,’ said Seth.
Outside, the constellation Pegasus galloped over Throstledown. Poor gorgeous Seth, on his own until Corinna gets back, thought the female members of the syndicate as they rustled home through the first fallen leaves, all alone in that big house.
45
Two weeks later Mrs Wilkinson moved to Throstledown, along with her football and ten pages of notes listing her likes – being sung to, Beethoven, Sir Walter Scott and bread and butter pudding – and her phobias, which included men with loud voices, pitchforks and shovels, cars backing towards her and people approaching unannounced on her blind side. Marius promptly tore up the notes and Tommy pieced them together again when he wasn’t looking.