‘No,’ wailed Etta.
‘I do think you are being rather selfish, dear,’ said Painswick, wiping Mrs Wilkinson’s froth off her coat.
‘Am I?’ Etta straightened one of Dora’s lovingly executed plaits.
‘Yes,’ said Joey, ‘she’ll be fine. She’s kept going all day out hunting.’
‘We can’t let Amber down,’ said Dora, sliding a bridle over Mrs Wilkinson’s head. With Joey’s help she was tacked up in a trice.
‘Go across country,’ advised Woody, giving Dora a leg up. ‘Lester Bolton’s got the road up winching in a new cinema to show off his wife’s horrible films.’
‘I don’t want Wilkie to go,’ cried Etta. ‘She’s my horse, and what I say …’
But Mrs Wilkinson had taken matters into her own newly shod hooves. Frantic to put as much distance between herself and the lorry, she set off down the drive while Dora shouted back, ‘Can you ring Amber and tell her we’re on our way? And don’t forget the silks. She’ll be fine, trust me, Etta.’
As Woody put an arm round Etta’s heaving shoulders, Chisolm, unmoved by such events, was polishing off Painswick’s last tomato sandwich.
Amber Lloyd-Foxe had arrived at Ashcombe unusually early. Believing Mrs Wilkinson hadn’t a hope in hell, she had last night gone to a party, met a gorgeous man and ended up in bed with him. Now she was fighting a hangover and remorse for being so unprofessional. To clear her head she had twice walked the course, which unwound over two fields bleached khaki from lack of rain and lying at the bottom of a valley. The valley itself was divided by a nearly dried-up stream which the runners would cross by a water jump and a grassed-over bridge.
Huddled in her Golf in the car park, Amber lit another cigarette. Hoping it was the man from last night, she was disappointed when Etta rang to say Dora was hacking over and hoped to make the declaration.
Trust Dora to cock it up, thought Amber crossly. She should never have accepted the ride. She’d tried to stop her father driving down, but he’d switched off his mobile.
There was a far smarter and larger crowd of all ages than she’d expected, mostly in khaki camouflage. The racing fraternity, who Amber always thought of as the Check Republic because they always dressed in check tweeds, the men in check tweed caps, were out in force. Loads of Sloanes and Aggies from the Royal Agricultural College, with lurchers, Labradors and little terriers on leads, clustered round the boots of Land-Rovers for warmth and sustenance.
Studying the race card, Amber found her name, and Mrs Wilkinson, described as ‘a first season youngster, unraced over fences or the flat’.
Next moment she heard raised voices, and looking up recognized Shade Murchieson, olive-skinned, black-browed, his handsome
sensual face contorted with rage. A pale fawn cashmere coat, thick leather gloves and a dark brown Homburg set him exotically apart from the other racegoers, but he’d look foreign if wrapped in a Union Jack. He was also a big owner. Amber lowered her window.
Shade was shouting at a man with his back to Amber, who, although as tall and broad-shouldered, was far more slightly built. His thick dark brown curls spilled over the high neck of an ancient bottle-green check coat. Amber could just see even thicker dark eyelashes and the edge of a beautiful jawline. His ears were red with cold and his fists clenched.
‘Will you fucking well stop ringing my lads and my jockeys, giving them totally conflicting instructions and pestering them for information on my horses?’
‘They’re my horses, remember that,’ shouted back Shade, ‘and as I pay you an inordinate amount to train them, I expect you to deliver occasionally.’
‘How can I, with you hanging round the yard, butting in, wrecking morale, ordering them not to try? Don’t push me, Shade, or I’ll call the police. And stay away from my wife.’
For a second Amber thought the man in the bottle-green check coat was going to hit Shade, then he swung round and half strode, half stumbled past her. And Amber caught her breath because, despite being white with anguish and fury, he was lovely looking, like a Croatian male model, with slanting dark eyes, high cheekbones and a beautiful passionate mouth.
Then she realized it was Marius Oakridge, who was having another horrendous run of form. What were he and Shade doing here? Glancing down at her race card, she discovered Olivia Oakridge was riding Bafford Playboy, which she had a feeling Shade had bought at a vast price from Ralph Harvey-Holden and which was now being trained by Marius. Flipping through the rest of the field, she reckoned Playboy would win. Olivia, despite her kittenish exterior, took no prisoners.
Looking up, Amber saw that Shade had got back into his Mercedes, number SM1, and was smiling into his mobile.
Where the hell was Dora?
‘My horse, my horse, a kingdom for a horse,’ grumbled Amber.
At last a much graffitied white lorry rumbled into the car park, and Joey and Woody jumped out and rushed off to declare. They were followed by an ancient Polo containing Chisolm, who’d travelled all the way with her head on a tear-stained Etta’s shoulder.
‘I’m here,’ Amber leapt out.
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ said Etta, handing her the silks. ‘Mrs Wilkinson refused to load. Dora should be here any moment.’ Then, trying not to cry: ‘You won’t use your whip on her, will you?’
Amber felt so sorry for her she said she’d guard Mrs Wilkinson with her life.
Fighting through the crowd, Amber changed in a freezing tent with a cracked mirror. Nor did the clashing reddy brown and purple do anything for her flushed hungover face. At least Mrs Wilkinson as an unraced mare with a woman rider only had to carry 11 stone 2 lb, as opposed to the 11 stone 12 of Bafford Playboy, who’d won two point-to-points in Ireland.
As Amber carried her saddle in the direction of the roped-off circle serving as a paddock, she was flabbergasted to see from the bookies’ boards that Mrs Wilkinson was joint favourite with Playboy at 5–1.
‘Hello, Amber, just put a lot of money on you,’ whinnied Toby Weatherall, raising his brown curly-brimmed hat. ‘Terrific write-up in the
Racing Post
.’
‘In Rupert Campbell-Black’s column, no less,’ chirped Phoebe. ‘You are lucky to have friends in high places. Do introduce us, Rupert’s so gorgeous and his son Xavier’s riding in the same race as you.’
‘What
are
you talking about?’
‘Here.’ Toby thrust the
Post
at Amber. Rupert’s cold, beautiful, unsmiling face headed the column, which ended with a paragraph urging everyone to hotfoot it down to the West Larks point-to-point, where Amber, an extremely promising amateur jockey, daughter of his old friend and iconic showjumper Billy Lloyd-Foxe, would be riding Mrs Wilkinson, a brilliant novice, in the members’ race.
‘Oh my God.’ Amber flushed even more with pleasure and dropped the
Racing Post
, which promptly blew away. ‘Rupert’s never, ever encouraged me before. No wonder the odds have shortened. I can’t believe it.’
Nor could Rupert, who was incandescent with rage but could hardly admit to the racing world that his column had been ghosted by a schoolgirl.
Next moment Richard Pitman had jumped out of a car. ‘Hi, Amber, tell me about this wonder horse.’
‘She should be here any minute,’ said Amber.
Dora had great difficulty holding up an utterly traumatized Mrs Wilkinson, who’d cantered or galloped most of the way. She was only now slowed down by the racing traffic still flooding into the ground, so Dora rode her along the verges. She certainly
wouldn’t win the turnout prize, her coat ruffled with sweat, her legs and white face mud-splattered.
Willowwood had turned out in force, enjoying communal hospitality from the Travis-Lock boot, where Chris was serving Bull Shots, red wine and chicken soup. Phoebe was sitting on the Land-Rover bonnet, telling everyone that she’d just learnt that naughty Amber had been at an all-night party the previous night. Debbie Cunliffe had just returned from a stroll round the trade stands. The Major was bellyaching about sloppy parking and how many more cars he’d have fitted in, and how there hadn’t been any rain in his rain gauge for ages. The Cunliffes were on non-speaks with the Travis-Locks because of Ione’s latest plan to have a wind turbine clanking away between their gardens.
Ione had only just forgiven Alban for overturning her wormery. The moment she pushed off to enquire into the possibility of a Green stall next year, Pocock, in brown suit and tweed cap, the vicar, still in his dog collar from Matins, and Alban got stuck into the red.
Tilda Flood was looking wistful because Shagger had pushed off to socialize with Toby, who seemed to know everyone. She was cheered up, however, by a large gin and tonic handed her by Alan. Painswick, who arrived white and shaking after a bumpy ride with Mrs Malmesbury, also opted for a G and T. Old Mrs M was already on her second Bull Shot.
No one was making inroads into Ione’s forced rhubarb crumble or butternut squash quiche, or even Chris and Chrissie’s sliced beef Wellington or Etta’s egg sandwiches, because they were all too nervous about Mrs Wilkinson, Family Dog and Not for Crowe.
‘Lucky Joey got our bets on first thing,’ murmured Alan to Alban. ‘Mrs Wilkinson’s shortened to 4–1.’
‘Wilkie’s so thirsty, can’t she have a little drink of water?’ pleaded Etta.
‘Not before the race. Just run a wet sponge round her mouth,’ insisted Dora as they resaddled up Mrs Wilkinson behind Joey’s lorry to avoid the vicious wind whistling through the bare trees.
Next door, in Marius’s lorry, a bounding Bafford Playboy was being saddled up by a sexy but very sulky Titian-haired stable lass called Michelle. Watching her were Shade and Olivia Oakridge, wearing a Puffa over Shade’s magenta and orange colours.
‘Rupert must know something to have tipped Mrs Wilkinson in the
Post
,’ said Olivia.
‘When has anything Rupert said ever had any credence,’ snarled Shade. ‘Only thing you’ve got to do is beat his arrogant little toad of a son, Xavier, and that scraggy old has-been Toddler.’
‘I’m sorry Marius has buggered off to Chepstow,’ sighed Olivia.
‘I’m not,’ said Shade, then to wind Olivia up, he added, ‘That’s a stunning girl,’ admiring Amber’s endless legs in white breeches and shiny brown-topped boots, as she loped towards Joey’s lorry. Michelle, the sulky red-headed stable lass, gave a smirk of satisfaction.
The firmness of the ground had reduced the runners to eight. Not for Crowe looked even more gloomy as he padded round the parade ring, Family Dog more cheerful. Joey, riding Crowie, had given up Etta’s cakes for two months and just made the weights.
‘What did you have for breakfast?’ shouted Chris, hanging over the rail.
‘A carrot,’ shouted back Joey.
The vicar’s heart twisted at how pale and thin Woody looked as he saddled up Family Dog.
There were cheers for Farmer Fred’s son, Harry, on a chestnut called Nixon, and for Nancy Crowe’s son, Jonathan, on a black cob called Marvellous. Jonathan had the same wizened face as his mother and looked almost as old.
Punters gazed approvingly at a very pretty dark brown mare called Judy’s Pet, trained by Harvey-Holden and one of the first horses in his fightback. She was owned by a Mrs Judy Tobias. Neither she nor Harvey-Holden was present but a dashing local amateur called Aberdare ‘Dare’ Catswood was riding the mare.
Quietly plodding round the paddock was Rupert Campbell-Black’s ancient warrior Toddler with a seen-it-all-before look on his kind white face.
A rumble of approval greeted Bafford Playboy, a lovely old-fashioned chaser, heavy in the quarters and rippling with muscle.
‘That’s the horse Shade bought from Harvey-Holden and gave to Marius to train,’ murmured Alan to Alban. ‘But not for much longer, they had an awful row in the car park. Lovely horse.’
Shagger stole off to have a bet.
The Willowwood contingent huddled together on the ropes for warmth. Etta stood among the owners in the centre of the parade ring, a forlorn figure in her old grey coat – if only she could have afforded that one in sea blue.
‘Poor little soul’s invested so much love in Mrs Wilkinson,’ observed Painswick, speaking for everyone. ‘It’ll break her heart if anything goes wrong.’
A great cheer went up when Mrs Wilkinson, still in a borrowed red rug which fell to her fetlocks, was finally led in by Dora.
‘Must have shrunk in the wash,’ shouted a wag.
She was easily the smallest runner, shying nervously, eye darting everywhere, searching the crowd until she caught sight of Etta and dragged Dora over to her, whickering with pleasure, nearly sending Judy’s Pet flying.
‘Isn’t that darling,’ said Tilda to Alan.
But as the public took in Mrs Wilkinson’s lack of inches and her one eye, her odds began to lengthen dramatically.
The bell went for the jockeys to mount.
‘I don’t have to give you any instructions,’ murmured Shade. As he gave Olivia a leg up, Michelle the stable lass couldn’t fail to notice his hand moving up her thigh.
The crowd cheered again in real excitement and Shade’s face blackened as Rupert Campbell-Black, the trainer who had rejected him, stalked into the paddock, followed by his son Xavier, wearing Rupert’s famous dark blue and emerald silks.
‘What a treat.’ All the women in the crowd and Niall the vicar patted their hair.