by Jilly Cooper
‘The other jockeys will be raising hundreds of thousands.’ Martin stood his ground.
‘I’ll write a cheque then. GET OUT.’
‘Ouch,’ screamed Martin, as Cuthbert bit his ankle.
Rupert turned on a giggling Dora. ‘It’s not funny. If I’m approached by another crone waving a bucket I’ll kick her teeth in.’
‘Kick the bucket, kick the bucket.’ Dora was reading Clover’s notes. ‘The money raised will go to Jack Berry House, which is run by the Injured Jockeys Fund and – lovely typo – the Northern Raving College. Didn’t know they did much raving. Jemmy said the girl students were very much kept from the boys.’
A worse problem for Rupert was that a hard finish needs a very fit man. By jogging and giving up alcohol and not snacking on cheese or chocolate, he managed to lose ten pounds, making him leaner and meaner. But with travelling to sales and race meetings all over the world, it was difficult to exercise on a plane.
One baking evening in late August, he flew back to Penscombe in time for evening stables. Having caught a glimpse of Taggie and Jan in the kitchen, he whisked off round the yard and stud checking every horse, then dropped into the office to see the latest emails.
‘God, you look tired,’ said Geraldine. ‘Have a drink.’
‘Fresh drinking whisky should always be available,’ sighed Rupert. ‘I must stay off it until after this bloody race. Where are the dogs?’
‘Gala waited for it to get cooler, then she walked them.’
In the kitchen he found Young Eddie, who was not riding tomorrow, tucking into a bottle of red and talking to Taggie and Jan, who was marinating steak for a barbecue.
‘I’m going for a jog before dinner,’ Rupert told them.
‘Why don’t you play tennis with Jan?’ asked Eddie. ‘In this heat, you’d burn off much more fat than pounding round the valley.’
Rupert, whose brilliant eye and timing had made him a great showjumper and crack shot, had also been an effortless tennis player. It would be quite nice to annihilate the smug bastard.
‘I thought he was cooking my father’s dinner.’
‘We’ve got time,’ said Jan. ‘Your dad’s happy enjoying Fiona Bruce for the next hour.’
‘Please rest, darling,’ said Taggie in alarm. ‘You must be so jet-lagged, and far too tired to play tennis.’
‘Meaning I’m not up to it.’
‘No, no.’
‘I’m game if you are,’ said Jan. ‘I’ve started up the barbecue. The steak’ll only take a few minutes.’
‘OK, just a couple of sets.’
‘I’ll come and umpire,’ said Eddie, gathering up his bottle of red.
‘Watch it, he’s bloody good,’ warned Gav as Rupert set out.
The tennis court lay to the left of the house, reached by a gravel path bordered by white buddleia, covered in peacock butterflies enjoying the last of the sun. After evening stables, the lads usually played rounders or football before drifting down to the Dog and Trumpet. This evening, however, word had gone around of more fascinating diversions, and a crowd bringing glasses was gathering on the grassy bank above the court.
Eddie, three drinks up on an empty stomach, perched glass in hand on a high chair, was regaling them with Wimbledon chatter. Rupert rolled up in a dark-blue polo shirt and an old pair of denim shorts, which he had to belt because of his ten-pound weight loss, and threw a net of green balls down on the court. Next moment, Jan ran down the path, flexing his shoulders, brandishing four rackets and a big fluffy towel to a chorus of wolf whistles. Very Wimbledon in very short white shorts showing off long tanned legs, a white Federer bandeau holding down his conker-brown hair, he was in superb shape and twenty years younger than Rupert.
As Jan picked up a green ball and unleashed an Exocet down the court, it was plain he was good enough to play for Port Elizabeth if not South Africa.
The sun had retreated behind the beeches and was gilding the fields across the valley; the bank was covered in gaping stable staff. By the time Jan, five games up, had floored Rupert with ace after ace and sizzling returns of serve that sent Rupert racing all over the court, it was hard in the half-light to see the ball.
‘Fifteen love,’ giggled Eddie, as Rupert’s ball shot into the bushes.
Jan to serve, irritatingly bouncing the ball over and over again, chucking it miles in the air, and as he reached up to hit it, pulling his white T-shirt out of his shorts to show even more bronzed flesh.
‘Wow,’ cried Lou-easy. ‘Come to Federer, leave him for deaderer.’
‘Thirty love,’ said Eddie, taking another slug of wine.
Deliverance was at hand as Gala returned from walking the dogs, and the entire pack surged over the court, throwing themselves on their master in noisy ecstasy.
‘Dogs stopped play,’ shouted Eddie. Everyone roared with laughter, except Jan.
‘Get them off the court,’ said Gav, scenting trouble.
Gala had hardly complied before Jan unleashed another scorcher, whereupon Banquo rushed in and seized the ball before Rupert got to it.
‘Ball-ee,’ cheered the audience. ‘You could get a job as a ball boy any day.’
Next moment, Cuthbert had found the ball Rupert had hit into the bushes and rushed back, dropping it at Rupert’s feet. Whereupon Jan lost it and fired an ace straight at Cuthbert, who squealed with pain as its force knocked him sideways.
‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ yelled Rupert. Dropping his racket, he gathered up Cuthbert. ‘There, poor little boy, come to Daddy.’
‘I thought we were playing singles, not doubles,’ snapped Jan, who had totally abandoned his deferential manner.
‘Come on, Cuthbert. I’ll take him,’ cried Gala, grabbing him from Rupert.
Returning to the baseline, Jan unleashed another rocket, then moved to the right-hand side and, after unleashing yet another, went towards Eddie’s chair to change ends. Rupert, however, didn’t shift. ‘That was out.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Jan had picked up a towel to wipe off non-existent sweat unlike the dripping Rupert.
‘It was out.’
For a second the two men glared at each other.
‘I think it was on the line,’ giggled Eddie. ‘You should have gone to Specsavers, Grandpa. First set and macho to Jan.’
The second set was turning into just as embarrassing a rout when Safety Car, who’d been plied with red wine by spectators, catching sight of his beloved master, trotted on the court to more screams of laughter, nudging Rupert in delight before having a long pee on the service line.
‘Piss stopped play,’ shouted Eddie, nearly falling off his chair.
Another service, hit into the trees by Rupert, was retrieved by Banquo who, returning it in the middle of a rally, dropped it at Rupert’s feet.
Jan lost it. ‘Are we playing tennis?’ he yelled.
‘Jan, Jan,’ cried a voice.
It was Old Eddie, pushed in a wheelchair by Taggie, who’d been to see the foals. Now, taking a look at Jan and Rupert’s furiously set faces, picking up the tension, she called with rare firmness, ‘Eddie wants his supper, Jan.’
Old Eddie, catching sight of lots of female legs usually hidden by breeches, decided he didn’t, and he’d rather watch some tennis.
‘He’s hungry,’ insisted Taggie. ‘I’ve lit the barbecue, and Valent rang from Beijing. He wants you to ring him soonest, Rupert.’
Rupert looked at Jan. ‘We’d better call it a day.’
‘Another time,’ said Jan, balancing his rackets across the handles of Eddie’s wheelchair, and stalking off.
Safety Car, having enjoyed another bowl of red wine, invaded the court again and kicked a few tennis balls before laying his head on Rupert’s shoulder.
‘You still have me.’
Rupert shook his head, and grinned at Taggie. ‘You didn’t tell me he was better than Federer.’
‘I tried to warn you,’ said Gav.
‘I didn’t,’ said Eddi
e unrepentantly. ‘He beats me every time. Just wait till the Legends race, then you can show him what an awesome rider you are.’
Rupert dropped a kiss on Safety Car’s forehead. At that moment he decided to ride him. Gav had already been getting him fit in case Rupert wanted to hunt him. And it would be so nice for the old horse, who so loved crowds, to race again.
‘I’m going to ride Safety,’ he called out to Gav, then to the horse, ‘but you’ll have to give up the booze, old boy.’
‘You sure that’s wise?’ said Gav. ‘Owners are already lending other Legends some pretty serious horses. Isa’s bound to ride something spectacular.’
‘Safety can out-fox anyone.’
Once again the yard seethed with gossip.
‘Wasn’t Jan rude to Rupert.’
‘Serving balls at Cuthbert,’ agreed Dora. ‘Showed his true colours. Remember how he beat up Gropius?’
Back at the house, Rupert told Taggie he was tempted to fire Jan. ‘Bloody insubordinate. Could have killed Cuthbert.’
‘Oh please not, he’s so brilliant with your father and all the grandchildren. I’m sure normally you’d beat him. He was match fit while you’d just got off the plane. The light was awful.’
Rupert went out on the terrace. His staff were setting out for the Dog and Trumpet. God, he could kill for a drink. Cuthbert, who was sitting on his knee, growled as a voice said: ‘I want to apologize, sir.’
It was Jan, back in cords and a dark-brown T-shirt. ‘I’m afraid nerves got to me. Eddie said you were a great player. I got carried away, all those dogs invading the place. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I’m sorry. Just lost my sense of humour.’
‘Didn’t know you had one,’ said Rupert coldly.
Jan proved he had by laughing heartily. Then, as Rupert returned to his messages: ‘Supper’s ready.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ lied Rupert. He was damned if he’d accept anything from Jan.
‘Just steak and salad – keep up your strength for the big race, sir, and you ought to put on a sweater. Enjoy your meal,’ he urged Rupert, as he put a big plate of beef in front of him on the table.
‘Is this your way of apologizing to my dogs?’ Rupert peeled off a slice for Cuthbert. ‘All right, apologies accepted, but don’t ever touch them again.’
58
Gav helped Rupert by explaining that flat racing was exhausting.
‘Jump racing’s different; you can take a breather at fences. This will be flat literally out. You’ve got to be as still as possible to settle the horse, you need balance and calves of iron. When you move, squeeze with your legs and push with your arms and your whole body. You use your reins more; flat horses have much harder mouths and like to take up the bit.’
‘I know all that.’
‘I know, but you’ve never ridden in a flat race before.’
Rupert was far more preoccupied with a little chestnut two-year-old whom he’d recently bought in France. Appropriately called Delectable, she was as sweet and affectionate as Touchy Filly was snappy and permanently pre-menstrual. Rupert had entered her in a fillies race before the Legends race, about which he refused to give any interviews.
He was not unpleased, on arriving at Doncaster, however, to learn that he’d put an estimated 20,000 on the gate.
In the programme, John Sexton, the compère and a racing journalist, had described the Legends taking part as united by: ‘a ravenous will to win, a competitive streak, a pride, a passion and a burning desire to succeed’.
‘Not a million miles from Rupert,’ observed Cathal.
Stars with a thousand winners under their belts, the Legends were euphoric to be back in the weighing room, experiencing the camaraderie and the banter, howling with laughter as cock-ups and triumphs of the past were recalled.
‘D’you remember how Charlie held up the favourite by hanging on to its tail until we nearly fell off our horses laughing?’
The Doncaster valets, delighted to see old friends again, were busy sewing on buttons. No matter if the old kit was too tight or it took endless tugging and talcum powder to pull on old boots. The Legends were rightly proud of raising more than £100,000 for charity and having a chance to shine again.
‘’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.’
They were polite to Rupert when he came in to hang up his kit, but slightly irked by an outsider stealing their thunder. Rupert himself felt equally out of it, isolated from the ragging. He was very tired and just off another plane from the Keeneland sales. Never needing a bucketful of whisky more, he felt he had strayed into someone else’s school reunion, particularly when he had to line up before the race for a group photograph and towered head and shoulders above the other Legends, a Great Dane among Jack Russells.
After weeks of sunshine, the rains had come with a suggestion of thunder, but nothing could dampen the spirits of the crowds on Legends Day. Doncaster was a beautiful course, a huge oval of fields and woods within the town.
Before the race, the Legends and their guests had been invited to a splendid lunch party in the hospitality block, whose roofs rose like whipped meringue. Sartorially the occasion was a challenge. Many of the ladies, excited that the Princess Royal would be present, despite the rain, had dolled up in high heels, hats and pretty dresses, only to find the sensible Princess had arrived hatless in flat boots and a warm woollen coat.
Apart from the race itself, the greatest challenge for the Legends was this party. Having wasted for weeks, desperate to psych themselves into a mood to annihilate their rivals, they were expected to sit down to a delectable fine-wine-fuelled lunch of seafood pâté, chicken poached in Madeira and frangipane tart, and then be charming to a myriad of admirers around them, giving the sponsors the chance to meet their idols.
Taggie, who’d donated her unworn Ascot hat to the auction, found herself at a table with Etta and awful Roddy and Enid Northfield, who was soon rabbiting on about ‘damsires’.
On each table were envelopes for donations and iPads with which to bid.
‘I can’t work those things,’ confessed Etta. ‘I’ll probably end up bidding millions of pounds by mistake.’
‘I’ll show you, Etta,’ said Roddy, bolder because Valent was in China, taking her hands and placing them on the iPad.
‘I’d like to bid for Fred Archer’s whip,’ said Dame Hermione, who was sitting at the next table with Cosmo, Mrs Walton, and Isa’s boyish wife Marti, who looked at Taggie without warmth. And, oh help, there was Janey Lloyd-Foxe, at the same table as vile Brute Barraclough, who had been a very mediocre jump jockey to achieve Legends status.
‘It’s a very emotional day for me,’ Janey was telling everyone. ‘My darling husband Billy died of cancer.’
Brute kept dropping his race card or the programme as an excuse, when retrieving it, to bury his face in Janey’s crotch. Meanwhile, down at the stables, poor Rosaria was getting his horse ready.
‘Do you have horses?’ Taggie asked the sponsor on her right.
‘No, I have daughters.’
‘Delicious chicken,’ said Etta, amused to see Legends all round picking at their food, while their spuds were forked up by their larger wives.
‘Where’s Rupert?’ demanded Dame Hermione, irritated by his empty place as was every other woman who wasn’t hanging around the pre-parade ring for a first glimpse.
Rupert, in fact, had glanced inside the hospitality block, seen Cosmo, Dame Hermione and Janey at adjoining tables, and Roddy and Damsire at his own, and gone sharply into reverse, as had Isa.
‘Typical bad manners,’ thundered Roddy. ‘All the sponsors have forked out to meet the Legends.’
Tommy Westerham, who’d notched up two Derbys and a St Leger as a jockey, having discovered that the sponsors to his right and left had no interest in buying horses, was reading about his exploits in the programme.
As people bid for next year’s Cup Final tickets, visits to smart yards, lunch at Weatherbys boxes at Ascot and Taggie’s big grey hat,
every table was also being exhorted to put £20 notes into waiting envelopes as they tucked into frangipane tart. Rain was lashing down the windows. On the monitor, Rupert and Isa could be seen respectively saddling up their latest stars, Delectable and Jezebella, for the fillies’ race.
Damsire, bored of Roddy doing a number on Etta, had swung round her chair to talk to Cosmo.
‘Jezebella’s definitely the standout in this race. She’s a Roberto’s Revenge, of course. I can’t think of a stallion I’d rather put a mare to than Roberto.’
‘I’d rather have a Joomper than a flat horse,’ said a fat sponsor.
‘The only joomper you’re going to have,’ said his even larger wife, ‘is one round your neck.’
There were huge cheers as little chestnut Delectable, wearing blinkers for the first time, at Rupert’s suggestion, hacked up in the fillies’ race. Threading her way through a dozen other runners, she was ridden with great panache by Eddie, whose overjoyed blue eyes could be witnessed as, once the race was over, he shoved his goggles above the peak of his hat. Rupert was hugely pleased, particularly as Jezebella had come last.
‘You must get changed,’ Gav urged him. ‘You’ve got to weigh out. Safety Car and Marketa are already in the pre-parade ring.’
But Rupert had been distracted by a row in the unsaddling enclosure.
Jezebella, Sheikh Baddi’s latest extremely expensive purchase, had been running for the first time in his colours. The Sheikh, in a suit which glittered like a pale-grey moonlit sky, had assumed he’d go into the winners enclosure to welcome her home.
Jezebella had been ridden by Tarqui McGall, the go-to jockey, who because of his contumely had been jocked off by Isa and Cosmo, but who had been given a chance of a comeback in this race. On form, Tarqui ignited horses – but despite every effort, he couldn’t galvanize Jezebella.
Leaping off her, turning to Isa, Cosmo, the Sheikh and his entourage, he yelled: ‘This horse is focking useless! Isa, why are you wasting my time on such a focking awful yak?’ which even Sheikh Baddi and his retinue, who included his second wife and daughters, understood.