by Jilly Cooper
There were also her two equine admirers.
Sir Cuthbert belonged to Nancy Crowe, the local MFH, who, because of a sentimental attachment to Marius’s father, left the horse with Marius, even though he’d been off for two seasons with a tendon problem. Sir Cuthbert had been a good servant to the yard, coming second and third on numerous occasions. Heartbroken when little Gifted Child had been taken by Shade to Harvey-Holden, he had transferred his affections to Mrs Wilkinson. Now they called and called to each other when separated. Mrs Wilkinson knew Sir Cuthbert’s approaching footsteps from twenty other horses and set up a din. Once united they would spend hours kissing and grooming each other. Count Romeo, looking on longingly, was occasionally let into the circle. Horace the Shetland, given to Romeo as a friend, had got a crush on Chisolm, who butted him away with her horns less and less.
‘Love is in the air,’ sang Rafiq.
As the weather grew colder, Mrs Wilkinson was stabled with Cuthbert and Romeo on either side.
‘It’s so sweet the way she pushes her hay through the hole in the wall to Sir Cuthbert when he’s hungry,’ Tommy told Etta. ‘And when she’s hungry she scrapes her food bowl up and down the wall or drops it and rattles her empty water bowls.’
Adoring making people laugh, Mrs Wilkinson started doing the tricks Dora had taught her for the lads: pulling faces, shaking hooves, unpeeling a banana before eating it, curtseying and playing football with Chisolm.
‘Next time we play football against Rupert Campbell-Black or Harvey-Holden, she and Chisolm better be in the side,’ said Josh.
‘We’ll need them anyway,’ said blonde Tresa gloomily. ‘If Marius lays off any more people we won’t be able to field a team.’
Etta, now visiting most days, was making friends, particularly with Rafiq, Tommy and little Angel, at sixteen the youngest member of the yard.
‘I love working here,’ Angel told Etta. ‘I rode out two lots this morning and had a shag in the tack room.’
‘Really,’ said Etta.
There was a lot of yard bitching about Michelle, who was getting more and more up herself.
‘When I go inside to pray, Michelle say, “Why don’t you ask Allah to teach you to ride?”’ stormed Rafiq.
‘How rude,’ squeaked Etta. ‘You ride beautifully.’
Michelle, who clearly resented the fact that Rafiq didn’t respond to her charms, never stopped bitching at him. Every time there was a reference to terrorism in the papers, she’d say, ‘Oh, that’s your lot again.’
‘And she put poor little Angel, because she’s young and pretty, on the most difficult horses,’ raged Rafiq, ‘and she cheeky Collie the whole time, and he’s her boss. Collie complain to Marius who always defends Michelle.’
The morning after this conversation, the entire yard heard raised voices coming from Marius’s office. Next moment Mistletoe the lurcher shot out and took quivering refuge in the tack room between Tommy’s legs.
‘There isn’t any more fucking money to give you,’ Marius was shouting.
Collie had started as a boy, looking after the hunt horses when Marius’s father was Master, and had worked his way up to the glory years when the Throstledown flag was always flying. Marius had then made Collie head lad and given him and his wife a four-bedroom house as a wedding present with only £40,000 of mortgage left to pay.
Having for years invested his heart and expertise in nurturing Ilkley Hall, Gifted Child, Preston and most recently Bafford Playboy, Collie, although not showing it, had been devastated when Shade took these and his other horses away. He hated seeing them at the races, hepped up, unsettled, calling out to him, but now winning glory for Harvey-Holden, who was going from strength to strength and continually sneering about Throstledown’s decline.
Collie was accustomed to running a winning ship, and bringing peace and harmony to the yard. Olivia had been his great pal and he missed her too. In turn Collie worried about Rafiq, who every night rolled up his mattress and rode it, practising changing his whip from one hand to the other, obsessively watching videos of Rogue Rogers, Killer O’Kagan and Bluey Charteris. Rafiq had a very short fuse and had nearly lost it the other day, when Michelle threatened Furious with a pitchfork. Something must explode soon.
Marius, meanwhile, was impressed with Mrs Wilkinson but wasn’t having much success in teaching her to load or accept a male rider on her back. She did, however, tolerate Rafiq with his soft voice, silken hands and fluid body. But Marius was no more ready to allow Rafiq to ride her in races than Amber Lloyd-Foxe, even though Amber was so determined to become a professional that she’d taken a foundation course at the British Racing School. Now qualified as a conditional jockey, she was allowed to carry 7 pounds less in races until she’d notched up twenty wins. Knowing Mrs Wilkinson’s first race must be soon, she rang in every day asking for rides. She even offered to work for nothing if Marius allowed her to school the horses.
Michelle had great delight in fielding these calls until Amber shouted, ‘The only way to get put up is to sleep with the trainer, and you know all about that,’ and hung up.
49
By late autumn Mrs Wilkinson was flying over hurdles with Tommy on her back and Marius was so pleased with her progress, he entered her for a midweek maiden hurdle at Worcester. The Willowwood syndicate became frightfully excited, revving up for their first race. They had exerted huge self-control and stayed away, but had constantly pestered Etta for news of their horse.
Many had missed dropping in to see her at Badger’s Court. Alban and Pocock had called in as an excuse to see Etta, Dora and Trixie on their exeats and Joey and Woody on their breaks. Alan had come for black coffee when swaying home from the pub, Miss Painswick for a gossip and Chris and Chrissie bearing bread and butter pudding, which in the pub had been renamed ‘Mrs Wilkinson’s Favourite’.
Neither Shagger, the Weatheralls nor the Cunliffes had visited in the past, but now boasted about ‘our horse in training, sired by Rupert Campbell-Black’s Derby winner’.
The Cunliffes had returned early from Lanzarote and the Major had most unusually ducked out of a meeting of the Willowwood Improvement Society, which he was supposed to be chairing. Instead he emailed the rest of the committee to watch the 2.15 at Worcester on Wednesday, where they might see ‘a most familiar face’ in the winners enclosure.
As the race was midweek Shagger, Phoebe and Toby took a day’s holiday and the train down from London, having emailed most of the City, Fulham and Chelsea to say that Rogue Rogers would be riding ‘my horse in the 2.15’.
To everyone’s disappointment, Seth was filming. Dora and Trixie were stuck in school. Dora, however, alerted the press to look up the court case and the point-to-point at which Mrs Wilkinson had beaten Bafford Playboy, who had since won three races. Niall the vicar was equally fed up to have a two o’clock funeral but had exhorted his tiny congregation to pray for ‘the safe return of our Village Horse on Wednesday’.
Joey just skived, leaving his indignant team – all fans of Mrs Wilkinson – applying wallpaper at £8,700 a roll to the dining room at Badger’s Court, with a portable television. They all had huge bets.
Direct Debbie bore Miss Painswick off to Cavendish House to do some shopping. In the next-door booth, Painswick heard a mobile playing ‘Edelweiss’ and Debbie’s voice saying: ‘Indeed – the two fifteen at Worcester. Our National Hunt horse, Mrs Wilkinson, will be making her hurdling debut under rules.’
To mark the solemnity of the occasion, Miss Painswick splurged on an olive green coat in Whiskas brown to go with the blue hat to match Hengist’s scarf and emailed her old boss that he might see his protégé Rafiq at the races. Debbie, meanwhile, bought a royal-blue trouser suit and a vermilion sombrero to brighten the greyest day.
A heartbroken Pocock didn’t dare abandon Ione midweek. Tilda too was unable to leave her class, who’d all drawn good luck cards for Mrs Wilkinson and would be allowed to watch the race in the staff room at the end of the dinner hour. Tild
a, as Romy and Martin were being thoroughly unhelpful, had heroically offered to take Drummond and Poppy home after school to give Etta a chance to celebrate after the race.
‘If she wins, you’ll be guest of honour at the pub that evening,’ promised Alan, who was not getting on with his book on depression.
Etta, who couldn’t afford to buy anything new, took her charcoal-grey coat to the cleaners, to rid it of Cadbury and Priceless’s hairs and muddy paw prints. She tried pulling her old pale blue beret on to the left side of her head, but her ear stuck out hideously through her hair on the right. At least that looked better than the check cap and matching scarf with snaffles on in tan, easily Etta’s worst colour, which Direct Debbie and Painswick had brought her back as a treat from their shopping trip.
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 som
e 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.