‘At least you get the insurance like you did after that fire you started. I know everything about you, you evil bastard.’
As he whipped out a knife, everyone jumped back, except Valent, who stepped forward: ‘Give that to me, lad.’
But Rafiq only wanted to cut off a lock of Furious’s mane.
‘They’ve killed my horse,’ he yelled at Valent, then dropped a last kiss on Furious’s shoulder, covering himself in blood.
‘I’m awful sorry, Rafiq,’ muttered Eddie, who, supported by an ambulance man, had joined the group.
For a moment, Rafiq fingered his knife.
‘I’d have kept him out of trouble,’ he hissed. ‘He hate any horses round him, but it was Wilkie’s fault, she hung left. She brought him down.’
‘They’re coming. Get off the course,’ yelled a security man as the runners on the second circuit came thundering towards them. By the time they had gone and new fallers were waiting to be picked off the floor, Rafiq had vanished.
News had flashed round the course that both Furious and Ilkley Hall had fallen and the screens had gone round but few knew the outcome or could hear the commentary because of the roar of the crowd.
Only fifteen horses were left. Ilkley Hall’s stable mate was faring well. On the big screen, Playboy could be seen beginning to work his fatal magic on the race, eating up the miles, sweeping past the field as though they were standing still. Killer on his back was hunting him round – a day out with the Beaufort.
Sir Cuthbert was up with the leaders, in with a chance. To the joy of the crowd, Mrs Wilkinson, tongue flapping, was in eighth place, leading the second group.
Amber was dying of pride, as she crouched over the neat grey plaits, watching the grey ears twitching, listening to every word of encouragement. Now Wilkie was grinding her teeth in her determination to catch the leaders.
‘You can do it, Wilkie, you can do it.’
One furlong to go, two horses crashed at two out. Only Squiffey Liffey, Sir Cuthbert and Playboy were ahead. Then Julien Sorel, who’d unshipped Dare Catswood at the open ditch on the second circuit, lumbered past like a maddened buffalo determined to influence the race, and did so by spurring on Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Come on, Wilkie,’ roared the ecstatic crowd, as she overtook him.
Killer, bounding up to the last fence, a four-foot-six cliff of green, was so convinced he was going to win, he lost concentration and let Playboy take off too early so he banked the fence, scattering spruce, losing ground.
Reaching the elbow, he moved his whip into his right hand to
guide Playboy to the left and into the home straight. Deafened by another roar, he glanced between his legs, arched like the John Smith horseshoe, and was flabbergasted to see his nemesis, a white face in a green browband, bearing down on him.
Never had a roof of blue sky been so raised at Aintree. Watching the huge bay and the little grey battling it out was like seeing a father racing his child. The difference was that Killer, mad with rage, was thrashing the life out of Bafford Playboy.
‘Such a fight to the death,’ yelled Jim McGrath from his commentary box. ‘This is the battle of the sexes. First time a mare’s won for nearly sixty years, first time a woman’s ever won it, making history in the battle of the sexes.’
Mrs Wilkinson was so exhausted, humping her great burden of weight, she could scarcely put one foot in front of another. She’d given her all. Would the post never come?
In the BBC control room, they could see the Liverpool ladies screaming in ecstasy, the stewards leaving their polished table and running cheering to the window. Even the policemen in their yellow flak jackets turned round to smile and cheer as Wilkie pulled ahead.
‘Mrs Wilkinson is about to join the great legends of the winter game,’ shouted Jim McGrath. ‘She’s coming up on the inside rail, she’s scraping the paint, this is un-be-liev-able.’
This is the longest time I’ve ever been on a horse. Keep asking, keep asking, Amber told herself.
Foam was flying from Wilkie’s mouth, the veins on her grey coat stood out like pipelines, but she pricked her ears and, still with a little left in the tank, she thrust her head forward.
But Killer, riding with balls of steel, bringing his whip down again and again, was coming from the right again. He was ahead.
‘Get your bat out,’ Amber could imagine both Rupert and her father yelling. She could hear the crackle and slap of whips behind her. How many horses were going to overtake her? Glancing round she could see Squiffey Liffey and Sir Cuthbert bearing down.
Kicking and kicking with her heels, thrusting her body forward and forward, she caught sight of the post and Red Rum’s grave on the left, ‘Earning our love for ever more.’
‘Rummy’s calling you, Wilkie.’
As if by magic, Playboy’s cavernous nostrils were receding, now level with Wilkie’s ears, now with her sweat-darkened withers.
With a supreme effort as though her heart would ‘burst the
buckles of her armour’, Mrs Wilkinson hurled herself past the post.
All heart, all heart, all heart.
Aintree erupted.
‘This is focking unbelievable, focking unbelievable,’ yelled Rogue to the delight and horror of the BBC’s 600 million viewers. ‘The smallest horse, a little mare with one eye carrying a young girl and 20 lb more than Bafford Playboy. We knew she had gots, like David, she’s dispatched not one but forty Goliaths. What a marvellous ride, well done, Amber darling.’
‘That’s enough, Rogue,’ said a not unamused director into Rogue’s earpiece.
All over the course there was pandemonium – hats, scarves, cuddly Wilkinsons and Chisolms being thrown into the air. Even people who hadn’t backed Mrs Wilkinson were yelling their heads off.
A second later, to Amber’s amazement, Killer was shaking her hand and kissing her cheek.
‘Well done, baby, great ride.’
Next moment Awesome, ecstatic at coming third on Sir Cuthbert, had cantered up, hugging Wilkie and pulling her ears:
‘Brave little girl.’
He was followed by the handful of jockeys who’d managed to finish, hugging, kissing Amber, banging on her helmet. She’d joined the band of brothers at last.
The yelling and cheering increased deafeningly as Tommy, crying her eyes out, and Valent, who’d just made it back, came running towards her, and turned to shouts of laughter as Chisolm, to avoid the scrum, leapt up and hitched a lift behind Amber.
‘Bluddy marvellous, well done, both of you,’ Valent had to yell to make himself heard over the crowd, and two fingers to Etta, perhaps she’d forgive him now. Tommy flung a Union Jack round Amber’s shoulders and her arms round Wilkie. A fanfare of trumpeters and two police horses accompanied them back to the winners enclosure.
Raising her own two fingers to the Pony Club, Amber undid her cheek strap and hurled her hat into the crowd, then shyly touched her head to acknowledge the tumultuous applause. Her heart swelled to see an overjoyed Rupert, the handsomest man in England again, with a smile plastered across his face.
‘Well done, angel. Christ, that was marvellous. How could I ever have doubted you? Well done, Wilkie,’ and the little giant killer disappeared under a frenzy of patting from her supporters.
*
Burly Valent and Ryan then escorted Amber through the rugger scrum to the podium in the winners enclosure, so she could weigh in and be drenched in champagne by the other jockeys clapping her from the weighing-room steps, then back to Mrs Wilkinson for photographs and more patting.
Meanwhile, high up in Valent’s box, the syndicate had erupted with joy the second Mrs Wilkinson passed the post. The cavalry charge to the Melling Road was nothing to Corinna and Bonny, who hurtled down the stairs to get in the photograph.
‘Who came second?’ asked Alban.
‘Who the fuck cares?’ crowed the Major.
‘Penny in the swear box, Daddy,’ chided Debbie.
‘I can afford it,’ laughed the Major, ‘I’ve just won two grand.’
Even Shagger, who’d worked out they’d each get £8,000 prize money, was looking quite cheerful.
‘Our horse came third,’ cried an overjoyed Painswick, foxtrotting round the room with Pocock. ‘Good old Sir Cuthbert, Marius will be so delighted.’
‘Your prayers did it, Niall,’ said Trixie, who was so excited she spilled her drink all over the man in the box below, who promptly asked her out to dinner.
Alan, with his laptop on his knee, ecstatically writing the perfect ending, could hardly bear to stop to take a call from Etta in Willowwood.
‘Wasn’t she wonderful, wasn’t she wonderful? Please tell Valent, I was so stupid to make a fuss over that portrait, one must never listen to old wives’ tales. Please give Valent all my love and congratulations.’
‘Fine, fine,’ said Alan, typing with one hand, ‘I’ll ring you later, darling. We’ve got to belt down to the winners enclosure. No, I’m not sure what happened to Furious. Wish you were here.’
By the time he’d finished his paragraph and accepted a kiss and a glass of champagne from Tilda, Alan had forgotten all about Etta.
Marius was so enchanted with Sir Cuthbert coming third for Lady Crowe, and Mrs Wilkinson winning, that he and Olivia hugged Rupert, Taggie and Valent. Mrs Wilkinson, her little sides heaving, was so exhausted, she nearly fell over as she tried to shake hooves with her beloved ex-trainer. Instead she rested her weary head on Marius’s shoulder.
Tommy was in heaven.
‘I look after Wilkie, I do everything for her, I love her to bits,’ she was jabbering to Clare Balding. Alas, her euphoria was
fleeting as an ashen Lysander pushed his way through the crowd.
‘Brilliantly done, Wilkie and Amber.’ He gave Wilkie a huge pat and kissed Amber. ‘Sorry to spoil things,’ he turned to Rupert, ‘but Furious had to be put down, broke a leg at the Canal Turn. Ilkley Hall broke his back at the same fence.’
‘Oh God,’ Tommy’s tears of joy turned to horror, ‘poor Furious, poor Rafiq.’
‘Rafiq was there,’ explained Lysander, who seemed still in shock. ‘He was sobbing his heart out, begging the vets to save Furious. We had to drag the poor bugger off.’
‘What about Eddie?’ asked Taggie quickly.
‘Might have put his shoulder out,’ answered Valent, ‘but he was able to walk to the ambulance.’
‘How d’you know?’ asked Rupert.
‘I got there joost after they’d shot Furious, but I doubt if we could have done anything, it was a hideous break. Rafiq was absolutely demented, crazed with grief, he ran off down the course.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ snapped Rupert.
‘I didn’t want to spoil Wilkie’s moment.’
And he managed to lead her in, keeping his unhappiness to himself. That was so brave, thought Taggie, giving Valent a hug.
As his overcoat fell open, she noticed his shirt covered in blood. ‘I know how fond you were of him.’
‘How the hell did it happen?’ demanded Rupert.
‘Evidently Wilkie jumped across Furious, cut him up. We’ll see on the rerun.’
All this was going on while a frenzy of press and well-wishers were desperate to congratulate and interview them.
‘Don’t say anything to Amber,’ said Rupert sharply. ‘She’s trying to get through to the hospital.’
‘Dad’s asleep,’ said Amber, switching off her mobile.
As they all posed for photographs, with Chisolm still bleating on Wilkie’s back, Rupert turned to Valent.
‘Sorry about Furious, as Hen Knight said after Best Mate died, “If you have livestock, you have to have deadstock.” It’s a risk sport. You can go to the races with a full lorry and come home with an empty one. I know it’s hard.’ He turned to Taggie, who was comforting a sobbing Tommy. ‘Can you try and track down Eddie? He’s probably been taken to the Fazakerley. We’ve got the presentation in a second and then Amber, Valent and I’ve got to face a press conference.’
‘Well done,’ murmured back Taggie, ‘your first Grand National and your three-thousandth win,’ and she kissed his rigid cheek.
‘I’d forgotten about that.’
*
Walking back from the bookies down a side alley and carrying a bulging suitcase, Rupert bumped into a man in a black woolly hat. Then, seeing murder in his eyes, he recognized Rafiq and said, ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t save him.’
‘You killed him,’ said Rafiq hysterically. ‘Wilkie took him out, cutting across him. But it was the fault of your precious grandson holding him up, allowing him no daylight. Now he never see daylight again.’ He gave a strangled sob.
‘I’m sorry, we’ll try and bury him at Penscombe.’
‘I bury you first,’ hissed Rafiq, spitting in Rupert’s face before he disappeared into the crowd, upsetting Rupert more than he cared to say.
On the television screen, after a rerun of the race the BBC showed Mrs Wilkinson’s name being painted in gold letters on the Grand National winners’ list.
‘Not since Aldaniti,’ observed Rogue to Richard Dunwoody, ‘has an entire country been behind a horse.’
Clare Balding had made the presentation and Amber was now in the media centre facing the post-race press conference with Rupert and Valent, their early euphoria diluted by the death of Furious. Amber, her sweat- and champagne-drenched hair unloosed, sat looking vulnerable, still wrapped in her Union Jack and clutching her big silver winner’s plate like a shield to ward off trouble.