by Jilly Cooper
She was lying tenth, keeping quiet except that Harvey-Holden’s third horse, Last Quango, was sitting on her tail, like a driver in a narrow lane pushing her into error. Then Cosmo Rannaldini’s Wriggoletto cut in front of her trying to seize the inner, kicking a lump of mud into Wilkie’s eye.
Drawn into a barging match, Wilkie couldn’t see and panicked. Ahead on the rails Voltaire Scott was being deliberately held up by Johnnie Brutus. Amber was forced to pull out to overtake them but as she passed, Johnnie swung right, knocking Wilkie off course. Instantly Last Quango slid up and took Wilkie’s place, on the inside rail, further blocking her vision. As she lost her bearings, Wilkie was unable, without her whiskers, to feel her way through the solid line of horses in front of her.
‘Wilkie, Wilkie, Wilkie,’ roared the crowd.
‘Let me through,’ screamed Amber, ‘give me some daylight.’
Then she saw Killer’s teeth flashing beneath his black goggles, like a highwayman chancing on a coachload of bullion. Thrusting Ilkley Hall up on the left between her and Last Quango, he edged her even further away from the rails. Wilkie was also having trouble tugging her feet out of the mud but somehow she scrambled over the big fence four out on the first circuit.
Ahead loomed three out, flanked by trees and daffodils, known as the field of Hope, but there was no hope for Wilkie. To avoid Killer, she jumped wildly to the right, skidding across the wet grass on landing. As Amber struggled to stay put, Wilkie tipped over, crashing to the ground, throwing Amber into a pounding seven-strong pack of horses.
The crowd’s massive bellow of encouragement, briefly drowned by whoops of joy from Shade’s box, turned to screams of horror and anguish as both horse and rider lay motionless, Amber’s face whiter beneath the mud than Mrs Wilkinson’s.
The convoy of doctors, vets and paramedics accompanying the runners screamed to a halt.
As silence fell over Cheltenham, a hundred thousand hearts broke. Despite the tracking cameras following the other runners up the hill on to the second circuit, all eyes were turned down the course to the People’s Pony and her brave jockey, as the screens hid them from sight.
Valent’s binoculars swung round to the Owners and Trainers. As Etta’s hands flew to her face, he saw Seth put an arm round her.
‘Doesn’t necessarily mean a fatal accident,’ quavered Debbie.
‘Where are the loose horses?’ sobbed Etta, peering through the mist in the hope of seeing Wilkie appear over a fence.
‘Here’s one,’ said Niall hopefully, but it was only a returning Merchant of Venus who’d dumped Eddie Alderton, fortunately, out in the country, because Eddie’s language was worse than Drummond’s.
‘My book,’ groaned Alan. As he put down his pen Tilda slid a hand over his in sympathy.
The Major was looking almost smug. If they’d listened to him …
‘What a fucking tragedy we didn’t sell her last week,’ Shagger echoed his thought.
‘Shut up, you revolting man,’ screamed Tilda.
‘I hope she’s properly insured,’ said Bonny.
‘Shagger should know,’ hissed Woody, then, taking Niall’s hand: ‘Pray for us.’
‘Our Father,’ began Niall in a choked voice.
Marius, who always watched races on the members’ lawn, had vaulted over the rails, run across the track and jumped into an official’s dark green 4×4 Mitsubishi, ordering it to drive him down to three out. Legendarily concerned only with the welfare of his horses, he leapt out, pushing open the screens, totally ignoring a panting, supine Mrs Wilkinson and, to the horror of the ambulance men, gathered Amber up into his arms, his face frantic with worry.
‘Amber, darling, oh my baby, please be all right.’
‘She’s been kicked in the back and the head, for God’s sake,’ hissed a paramedic.
With infinite effort, Amber opened her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry I let you down,’ she mumbled. ‘Is Wilkie OK? I couldn’t hold her together. The bastards blocked us in, she couldn’t see. She’s so little. I’m so sorry I screwed up.’
‘You didn’t. You rode a blinder.’
‘Hardly the operative word. Wilkie’s only half-blind.’
Realizing she could still joke, Marius’s grip tightened.
‘Oh Amber,’ his voice cracked as, looking into her mudfreckled face, feeling her body protector rough beneath her green silks, unable to resist a temptation that had taunted him since Leopardstown, he kissed her passionately and at great length, only pausing to groan, ‘Thank God you’re OK.’
Mrs Wilkinson, meanwhile, was most put out. She had been given oxygen, had the ignominy of a hunky horse ambulance man sitting on her head to keep her down. She had had needles poked into the coronet bands of her pretty feet, her tail rotated to see if she was suffering from a spine injury, and her legs tugged back to see if they were broken.
Mrs Wilkinson was a serious horse. Seeing her trainer and her jockey locked in each other’s arms, she nudged them. When they ignored her, not amused by such dalliance, she struggled groggily to her feet.
A deathly silence hung over Cheltenham. The public address system was playing up, it was hard for the stricken crowd to understand what was going on. A second horse ambulance was hurtling towards the screens from one end of the course, Chisolm and a sobbing, frantic Tommy from the other. The syndicate (even Shagger at the thought of the money he might have made) was in floods.
Then next moment, to the crowd’s incredulous delight, a dirty white face, also speckled with mud, pushed the screens apart. Mrs Wilkinson looked round for her competitors and rubbed her hooves together. Was it really her? A great bellow of joy split the air as, stirrups and reins flapping, she set out at a cracking pace. The bellow grew even louder and the entire crowd rose to cheer her home as she jumped the last two fences down the straight into the arms of a distraught, tearful Tommy, with Chisolm bleating joyfully round her. The cheers escalated in hysterical relief as Tommy led her back, hugging, kissing her and pulling her ears. Despite losing so much money, the crowds were so relieved and delighted she was safe.
Mrs Wilkinson, on the other hand, was extremely hurt and annoyed not to be allowed in the winners enclosure.
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Meanwhile, in another part of the forest, a race had been going on. As the runners reached the second circuit, Furious, the horse hater, the unpredictable, the 50–1 underdog, started to look like the over-dog, jumping majestically, unsettling the competition by the gallop he continued to take, never touching a twig, meeting each fence so exactly, landing, galloping, flustering both Ilkley Hall, who was exhausted anyway, and Last Quango, who was hitting every fence.
The crowd couldn’t believe their eyes as Furious’s white star came bobbing towards them like a satellite at night. Lusty must make a move soon, or Wriggoletto, or Internetso, but they were like Minis trailing a Ferrari.
Rafiq couldn’t believe it either.
‘Good boy, good boy. “Singing from Palestine, hither we come!”’ Talking nonsense, Rafiq crooned to him as Furious’s ginger ears flickered back to listen. His eyes were red-rimmed, his nostrils filled with foam, but he kept going faster. As they reached three out, with yellow chevrons and a man with a flag directing them round it, Rafiq noticed the screens and ambulance men but his pace didn’t slacken. ‘Come on, Furious.’
Slowly, slowly Lusty was gaining on him but at three out Lusty’s jockey took a closer look, glimpsing a slumped iron-grey body and crumpled green silks, lost concentration momentarily, but somehow forced himself to carry on.
As Furious stormed up the hill, Rafiq glanced back through his legs. Lusty was still six lengths behind, with Squiffey Liffey, Internetso and Ilkley Hall, who was having the shit thrashed out of him by Killer, even further away. Even if the Mafia got him and Furious, they would die gloriously. Flying over the last two fences like Buraq himself, showing Lusty a muddy pair of heels, Furious stormed first past the post.
Joey’s shout of joy that he’d just won £12,000 was
only exceeded by Rupert’s howl of rage when, ten seconds later, Rogue crossed the line, but, able to bear it no longer, tugged Lusty round and hurtled through oncoming runners back to Amber. Reaching three out, he leapt off his frantically blowing horse, hurling his reins to a groundsman.
‘Can you undo his girths?’ he yelled. ‘I’ll weigh in later.’
But as he ran in panic towards the screens – please God, let her be all right – his heart stopped pounding abruptly and most painfully as he caught sight of Amber in Marius’s arms. Changing tack, he escaped into the trees. The Field of Hope had failed him too.
Up in the stands, Valent’s box had erupted. Drunken footballers and WAGs screamed their heads off as Valent’s dusty green and purple winning colours were superimposed over the grass at the end of the course and other jockeys rode all over them before swinging round to shake Rafiq’s hand and congratulate him. Even Killer O’Kagan put his arm round Rafiq’s neck, pretending to kiss him before hissing in his ear:
‘We’ll get you for this, you little shit.’
But Rafiq was too dazed to care. He could hardly stammer out a sentence when Derek Thompson rushed up waving a microphone, except to say that Furious was worth a million horses, and Valent was wonderful owner, and Marius wonderful trainer.
Fortunately Rafiq couldn’t hear the commentators banging on and on about how he and Furious had met in prison and what a triumph it was, Rafiq putting his criminal past behind him.
Next moment Trixie had panted up, sobbing with joy and flinging the green and white Pakistani flag round Rafiq’s shoulders before throwing her arms round Furious, who was so amazed by the cheering crowds he forgot to bite her. Nor was he even fazed by the deafening roar that greeted Wilkie when she emerged from the screens.
Nearly as loud a cheer went up as Marius emerged with his arm round Amber. As the Mitsubishi dropped them both off at the medical room, Edward Gillespie, Cheltenham’s charismatic managing director, tapped Marius on the shoulder. ‘You’re wanted in the winners enclosure,’ he said with a smile. ‘Your other jockey’s talking to connections.’
Slowly it dawned on a dazed Marius that he might have won the Gold Cup.
The loudspeaker had announced a stewards’ inquiry; punters had been advised to hang on to their betting slips. Killer and Johnnie Brutus were in the stewards’ room, about to be banned for extremely careless riding and interfering with Mrs Wilkinson. Killer was employing all his thespian skills to persuade the Stipendiary Steward that Mrs Wilkinson, with an inexperienced rider on her back, had been wandering all over the place. Difficult not to cut her up.
‘Listen,’ Killer kept saying, ‘listen.’
‘I’ve done quite enough of that already,’ snapped the Stipe, who was not looking forward to the blazing row he would have next, when he suspended Rogue for infringement. The groundsman had not only undone Lusty’s girths but also removed his saddle, which made it no longer possible for Rogue to weigh in or Lusty to come second.
To complicate matters, Furious’s victory, as a rank outsider running way above his handicap, was so unexpected that as a formality he’d have to be dope tested in the sampling unit after the presentation.
With two Cotswold Huntsmen flanking him, Pakistani flag around his shoulders and the broadest grin splitting his face, touching his hat shyly to acknowledge rather muted cheers, an utterly dazed Rafiq had been led into the winners enclosure by a joyful, still tearful Trixie and an ecstatic Valent punching the air.
Furious, still enchanted by all the applause, neither kicked nor bit anyone. Marius the reticent also found himself being hugged by everyone, so he hugged everyone back and, as they all posed for photographs, informed the seething media that Wilkie and Amber were both all right.
‘Tommo told me to enjoy the moment,’ sighed Trixie, hugging Valent. ‘Oh, thank you for giving me this chance.’
Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was only twenty minutes, the loudspeaker crackled.
‘Here is the result of the Cheltenham Gold Cup: first Furious; second Squiffey Liffey; third Internetso; fourth Ilkley Hall.’
A jubilant Valent, taking Ryan, Diane and the grandchildren with him, went up and accepted the Gold Cup from the Princess Royal, whom he admired because she worked as hard as he did. The Gold Cup turned out to be a gleaming golden bowl with bites out of the rim as though Furious had enjoyed a good supper out of it.
A shell-shocked Marius went up next for a smaller Gold Cup and a louder cheer for a great trainer who’d come back after too long in the wilderness. A large police presence moved in, security guards fingering their guns, as Rafiq, the first Muslim to win the Gold Cup, received a little gold replica and told the Princess, ‘Furious is so honest.’ Finally they were joined by Trixie, in her purple and green striped jacket with her black plait unravelling, who accepted a silver photograph frame to a chorus of wolf whistles.
But as Marius stepped down from the platform, Rogue, who hated stipes because they treated jockeys like other ranks, and who had come out of the stewards’ room with the possibility of being banned until long after the Grand National, clinched the matter by ducking under the rails and hitting Marius across the winners enclosure.
‘Keep your hands off Amber, you fokker,’ he howled.
‘How dare you hit my daddy,’ screamed little India Oakridge, rushing up and kicking Rogue on the shins.
Rogue was about to be arrested by the posse of policemen watching Rafiq when he was grabbed by Rupert Campbell-Black roaring, ‘Come here, you little bastard,’ and dragging him off to perdition.
‘Nothing much wrong with Rogue’s shoulder,’ observed Awesome. ‘That cold treatment works wonders.’
Meanwhile Phoebe, who’d spent a fortune on a rocking horse for Bump, and Corinna, wearing a vast turquoise Cavalier hat trimmed with a plume of Prussian blue feathers, had fought their way back from the shops. Having earlier heard the roars of ‘Wilkie, Wilkie, Wilkie,’ they had assumed Mrs Wilkinson had won and were outraged not to be allowed into the winners enclosure.
Bonny was equally incensed. She too was denied access and couldn’t pose beside Valent to show off the debut outfit in the Bonny Richards Collection.
‘Where’s bloody Seth? I need a vast drink,’ snarled Corinna.
Bloody Seth, however, lust reignited, had accosted Trixie and Furious on their way to the sampling unit.
‘Darling, well done, how terrific you look, are you going to put my picture in that smart silver frame?’
Trixie gasped and recoiled in horror. Furious, who’d behaved well for too long, was just flattening his ears when a mud-caked Eddie Alderton swooped and seized Trixie’s arm.
‘You’re too late, Grandpa,’ he told Seth. ‘She’s putting my picture in that photo frame. And once she’s settled Furious she’s coming back to my grandpa’s box to celebrate, then she’s coming to the Lesters’ with me tomorrow.’
‘Am I?’ asked Trixie excitedly. Seth was looking absolutely livid.
*
Cheltenham racecourse was ringing with the sound of high words. Even Killer turned pale as Shade and Harvey-Holden bawled out him and Johnnie Brutus, who were awaiting news of the length of their bans. ‘How could you be so fucking stupid to get caught out? You’ve probably lost us the Order of Merit.’
‘If you’re not back for the National you’re fired.’
‘The hoss was exhossted,’ protested Killer.
‘Don’t make bloody excuses.’
Rupert was even more drastic. ‘You lost me the bloody Gold Cup, you cunt-struck bastard,’ he was yelling at Rogue. ‘You’d have won it if you’d kept up the momentum. You’re fired. You’ll never ride for me again and I’m going to sue you into the next county for the loss of prize money.’
Olivia Oakridge pretended to be incensed by Killer and Johnnie Brutus’s poor showing but her fury was directed more towards her husband.
‘God, Marius has got hard. Not giving a damn about poor Mrs Wilkinson, only interested in sn
ogging Miss Lloyd-Foxe in the middle of a Gold Cup. Lost the plot completely. No wonder Rogue hit him.’
Chisolm, who’d been intending to snack on the oxblood and mushroom-pink orchids round the Queen Mother’s bronze in the winners enclosure, was even crosser.
A tear-stained Tommy, who’d been ricocheting between hell and heaven, having bandaged and settled Wilkie, was belting back to listen to the press conference when she ran slap into Rafiq, returning to check on Furious. Next moment they had fallen into each other’s arms.
‘Well done, well done, I’m so proud of you and Furious, he ran brilliant,’ cried Tommy, quite giddy with relief.
‘Oh Tommy.’ Rafiq gave a sob as he buried his muddy face in her neck. ‘Wasn’t he wonderful, I miss you so much, please be patient. One day I explain why I’m so cold, for now, please keep away from me,’ but as he reluctantly pushed her from him, from the shadows he saw Vakil leering at them both.
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Valent’s box was a riot with the CD player blaring out, ‘We Are The Champions’, and the binoculars of half the men in the crowd trained on the balcony where Cindy Bolton and assorted WAGs screamed and tossed their manes in the breeze.
Etta wished she had a stable pass so she could go and console Wilkie and Tommy and congratulate Trixie, Rafiq and Furious. But even more, she longed to go up to Valent’s box and congratulate him, but he was probably still drinking champagne with Lord Vestey and Edward Gillespie in the Royal Box. If he’d really wanted to see her he could have called her on her mobile.
In an overcrowded marquee beyond the weighing room, Valent in fact was controlling the press conference. Having dispatched Rafiq before any awkward questions were asked about his past and Marius before anyone asked him about snogging Amber, Valent, who didn’t want to talk about Bonny, was winding things up.