‘When he was hast’ning home from the war
Singing from Palestine hither I come,
Lady love, lady love, welcome me home.’
‘War in the Middle East’s still going on,’ said Michelle sourly.
‘Not between Rafiq and me, it isn’t.’
Amber took her hand off the wheel and held Rafiq’s.
‘Singing from Palestine hither I come,’ sang Rafiq. ‘Lady love, lady love, welcome me home.’
‘For God’s sake concentrate on the road,’ spat Michelle, furious with Amber for encouraging that sullen beast. She couldn’t wait to get to the races and have a good bitch with Rogue or tell Marius how insolent they were being.
Rancid with animosity, they rolled into the racecourse.
An hour later, Michelle had just tacked up a restless, sweating Mrs Wilkinson when Marius raced up, already reeking of whisky. Rogue, who always left everything to the last moment, was stuck in traffic and wouldn’t make the race in time.
‘Let me ride her.’ Amber stubbed out her cigarette, leaping to her feet. ‘I know her. Don’t risk another cack-handed man getting bucked off. I’ve got my saddle.’
Marius glared at Amber. Behind her he could see Michelle frantically shaking her head.
‘OK,’ he growled. ‘Get a move on, you’ve got to go through the scales fifteen minutes before the race.’
But he spoke to the air, as Amber grabbed the silks and her saddle and fled to the weighing room under the big gold clock, which told her she’d only got ten minutes. Fortunately the valet there was a friend of her father’s, loved him on
A Question of Sport
, and with lightning speed fitted her up with boots, breeches, body protector, knee guards, undershirt and whip.
Michelle was absolutely furious.
‘I’m not leading up that bitch. Rafiq can lead Mrs Wilkinson, I’ll lead Romeo.’
Rafiq was equally furious. He’d really worked on Count Romeo, who was wearing a sheepskin noseband, in the hope that he might concentrate on that rather than the world around him. The Count looked sensational and would probably win the turnout and the £50 that would have enabled Rafiq to ask Amber out for a drink that night. Instead he was left with Mrs Wilkinson, who was sweating up, probably ashamed of the sloppiest plaits in the world.
Because the meeting was midweek, and cold and dank, the crowd consisted of serious racegoers rather than the kind who roll up for the champagne and to be looked at. All the same, Seth was being mobbed by autograph hunters and was now being interviewed by
At the Races
. In shot behind him, Trixie could be seen taking swigs from a bottle and alerting friends on her mobile.
Etta, distressed to receive a distraught telephone call from Tommy, was relieved to see Mrs Wilkinson being led up not by Michelle but by Rafiq. She was further relieved when the big noticeboard announced a jockey change to Amber Lloyd-Foxe.
A lot of women in the crowd wished they were on the handsome Rafiq as he prowled round the paddock stroking and singing under his breath to Mrs Wilkinson, who was psyching herself up for battle with Rogue.
There were some good horses in the race. Oliver’s Travels, a big bay, was the favourite. Stop Preston, whom Etta liked, had been deliberately given a ‘very easy ride’ in his last race, resulting in him finishing last. This meant longer odds and a lowered handicap. Today, his jockey, Johnnie Brutus, Irish, feline, out-wardly delicate but hugely strong, would get his whip out and annihilate the opposition. Harvey-Holden and Shade had consequently had massive bets in utter confidence of victory.
Neither Shade nor Olivia was present. Keen to avoid Marius and punch-ups, they had gone with Collie to Uttoxeter.
‘Talk about a donkey derby,’ bitched Harvey-Holden as Mrs Wilkinson jogged past followed by Count Romeo, desperate to bury his head between her quarters.
Preston, who’d always been so jaunty and boisterous when he was trained by Marius, was sweating up and didn’t seem happy.
Nor was Phoebe happy. ‘Shame it’s not that gorgeous Rogue on Wilkie any more, I’ve already put on a fiver.’
‘Amber’s ten times more gorgeous,’ snapped Alan. Amber, as green with nerves as the Willowwood silks, which clung enticingly to her long high-breasted body, came over to talk through chattering teeth to the syndicate.
‘If Mrs Wilkinson wants to make it, I’d let her,’ said Marius, who was commuting between Willowwood and a disillusioned Bertie and Ruby Barraclough, who hadn’t bothered to hire a box this time.
‘Handsome is as handsome doesn’t,’ grumbled Bertie, who wanted his £50,000 back. ‘If you pay that money, you expect your horse to at least finish.’
Today Romeo wasn’t even being ridden by the champion jockey. Awesome Wells, however, had huge brown eyes, long blond lashes and a sweet little boy’s face. He never took in the trainer’s instructions but loved chatting to owners.
‘What a good idea!’ he was saying to a slightly mollified Ruby and Bertie. ‘I must try that.’
‘Get on, Awesome,’ snapped Marius.
Michelle, to Rafiq’s rage, won the turnout, and posed for a photograph with Bertie, Ruby and Count Romeo.
A bell ordered the jockeys to mount. Suddenly Ruby descended to her knees in the churned-up parade ring, exclaiming, ‘Dear Lord God, please help Count Romeo,’ and nearly getting trampled underfoot by Oliver’s Travels on his way out.
‘Get up, Mother,’ ordered Bertie.
‘Unlike Count Romeo,’ sneered Harvey-Holden as Ruby scrambled to her feet. ‘That horse is so lazy, if he falls over on the gallops he can’t be bothered to get up.’
‘Good luck,’ chorused Willowwood, as Marius legged up Amber.
‘That’s unlucky,’ piped up Phoebe. ‘Say “Break a leg” as they do on stage, don’t they, Seth?’
‘Good luck to you both,’ a beaming Awesome Wells called out to Bertie and Ruby.
Willowwood, nerves fortunately cushioned by alcohol, retreated to the Owners and Trainers.
Looking down the flat, oblong course flanked by woodland as jagged as a growing-out mane, Etta noticed more poplars. More witches had rolled up to watch Mrs Wilkinson. Trixie took Etta’s hand. ‘She’ll be OK.’
‘I just don’t want her to be bumped about too much and lose heart.’
Across the course, they could see horses circling with intent, the jockeys’ colours shifting like shaken Smarties.
Michelle and Rafiq, having let their charges go, waited unspeaking by the Hampshire stand, on the right of the grandstand, for their return. Michelle had insisted on keeping the turnout money so bang went Rafiq’s drink with Amber. Please God, bring her and Mrs Wilkinson safe home.
Marius, preparing for ritual humiliation, retreated to the bar.
The starter on his rostrum called them into a barging, bumping start and they were off. Mrs Wilkinson was at the end of her season. Once they were racing, Count Romeo, who was fooling around at the back, suddenly realized he’d lost her. Catching sight of her lustrous, newly washed white tail disappearing round the first bend, he hurtled down the course after her. He was so incensed that she totally ignored his shrill call, he forgot to be idle and overtook her to get her attention. Mrs Wilkinson in turn was so outraged to be headed, she fought back and overtook him, grinding her teeth and lashing her tail, so he overtook her, and on it went.
Count Romeo gave every hurdle a lot of air while Mrs Wilkinson skimmed them, but Romeo displayed such a turn of foot he caught up between fences and didn’t even pause to check his mane on the big screen.
‘And Shade Murchieson’s orange and maroon silks are moving up,’ said the commentator, as Johnnie Brutus got to work on Preston, giving him not at all an easy ride as he thundered down, passing everyone to take the lead.
‘Come on, Wilkie,’ howled Willowwood.
‘Romeo, Romeo,’ screamed Ruby Barraclough.
Thwack went Johnnie’s whip again and again, clunk went his booted heels into Preston’s ribs, but he couldn’t catch the lovers. Encouraged by the mighty roar of the crowd, Mrs Wilkinson made a heroic last effort and, throwing herself forward, overtook the Count by a pale pink nose.
Miraculously Marius’s horses had come first and second, to bring him racing out of the bar, spilling whisky everywhere.
The Willowwood syndicate were yelling their heads off. Alban,
braying like an old mule, was hugging Etta. Seth was hugging Trixie, what a body. Tilda hugged Alan, who turned his head slightly so as not to get bayoneted by her teeth. The Major hugged Phoebe, scratching her with his moustache, and sidled off to hug Etta, as Phoebe sidled off to hug Seth. Chrissie and Joey launched into a wild ecstatic jive, then, as she stumbled against him, he kissed her on the mouth, harder and harder.
Woody found himself hugging Niall and drew away, meeting his eyes. Then, with a bewildered smile, he hugged him again, realizing what a lean, elegant body Niall had.
Dora was on her mobile talking to the press:
‘Mrs Wilkinson’s seen off Preston and Oliver’s Travels.’
Harvey-Holden, on his mobile, was changing colour from sallow to olive green as Shade blamed him totally for Preston’s failure and Marius’s victory.
Except for her gleaming white teeth and the two pale circles round her eyes where her goggles had been, Amber was caked all over with mud, and so was her brave grey mare. For once Rafiq was all smiles as he ran towards her, patting Mrs Wilkinson over and over again, pulling her ears and hugging her.
‘Well done, Amber, well done, Wilkie.’
He looked so handsome with the tears spilling out of his pale grey eyes and his black curls ruffled that Amber was tempted to kiss him. She was only distracted by an
At the Races
microphone thrust under her nose.
‘Well done, Amber, great ride,’ said a delighted Robert Cooper.
‘What a credit to her connections,’ babbled Amber. ‘She’s a one-eyed wonder. Only one eye but the biggest heart in the world. Preston was our only worry and he couldn’t get near her, thanks to Count Romeo. Mrs Wilkinson has to be up there, and she sticks her neck out and really tries.’
Mrs Wilkinson loved praise and nudged Robert Cooper’s microphone.
‘And she’s beautifully looked after at home by Tommy Ruddock and Rafiq here.’ Amber tapped a bemused Rafiq on the head with her whip.
‘Is that really our ice-cool Amber?’ said Josh in amazement, as back at Throstledown the stable lads who’d been watching the race were dancing round the yard. Tommy decided not to resign after all, as she joyfully clocked Amber touching her hat with one finger to acknowledge the cheers as she rode into the winners enclosure. Mrs Wilkinson was delighted to disappear under a hailstorm of patting hands.
‘Darling, darling, darling little girl.’ Etta hugged her, then,
looking round at a phalanx of snapping cameramen: ‘We must have Rafiq, Amber and all the syndicate in the picture with her. Where is Mr Pocock?’
‘He fainted with excitement,’ giggled Trixie. ‘Painswick revived him with a handkerchief drenched in lavender cologne. She and Dora have taken him to Casualty. Could this be the start of something big?’
‘We must go to him,’ gasped Etta. ‘Poor man.’
‘No, we must not,’ said Seth, hugging her. ‘Enjoy your moment, Mrs B.’
Everyone had had bets on Mrs Wilkinson and Count Romeo and 80 per cent of Mrs Wilkinson’s £4,000 winnings would be divided out among them. Ten per cent would then go to Marius and ten to Amber, who was happily telling the press what a wonderful horse Mrs Wilkinson was before going off to weigh in.
On the way she bumped into a just-arrived Rogue. Surrounded by groupies and signing autographs, he looked up.
‘Well done,’ he said evenly.
‘Thank you. What price Amateur Lloyd-Foxe now?’ demanded Amber.
They were knocked sideways by an ashen Johnnie Brutus, who’d been threatened with the sack as Harvey-Holden’s stable jockey for not winning on such a heavily backed Preston.
Meanwhile, in the winners enclosure, Awesome was talking to Ruby and Bertie, who were ecstatic that their glossy black boy had come such a close second.
‘He ran green,’ admitted Awesome, ‘but halfway round he got the hang of it, desperate to keep up with his lady friend, over-taking horse after horse to get to her. Only got beat by a whisker. Nice horse, a true Romeo, like to ride him again.’
‘You shall, you shall,’ cried a tearful Ruby. Then, falling to her knees again: ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Lord.’
The Willowwood syndicate were being mobbed.
‘We’re getting ten times as much attention as last time,’ said Phoebe, happily rearranging her fur hat. ‘That’s because Seth’s here.’
‘It’s because we won,’ snapped Alan, ‘and because Dora worked so hard.’
Niall was in a daze. Could it really have happened? Even now Woody was smiling shyly across at him.
Mrs Wilkinson was as tickled pink as her nose. She had drunk water from a yellow bucket, she wasn’t remotely tired, could easily have gone round again, was greeting all her friends, ecstatically
nudging microphones and tape recorders, and listening with pricked ears to all the questions.
Then suddenly she glanced up, gave a deep-throated whicker of welcome and dragged Rafiq across the winners enclosure to leave white slobber all over the navy-blue cashmere coat of Valent Edwards.