Led up by Tommy, Mrs Wilkinson looked a picture, gleaming pewter and silver as the curly white and dark grey clouds raced overhead. The crowd admired a weeping willow Tommy had imposed by transfer on her sleek quarters and laughed at Chisolm, who’d snatched a large mouthful of pansies from a tub on the way in.
‘Hello, Wilkie, hello, Chisolm,’ they cried.
Only that morning an old lady had written to Marius asking for a set of Mrs Wilkinson’s shoes and a signed photograph.
Bolton was still complaining loudly that Michelle wasn’t leading Wilkie up. Having legged up Amber, Marius retired to the bar, fingers caressing a treble whisky.
‘Marius Soakridge,’ quipped Harvey-Holden nastily.
The syndicate gathered outside the bar to watch the race. Ten horses went down to post. One mare dumped her jockey, jumped the rail and took off into the country.
‘Must be Furious’s sister,’ said Alan.
Etta looked at the cathedral spire rising out of the trees. ‘Dear God, bring Wilkie home safely.’
‘I do a lot for the planet,’ Bonny was saying. ‘I couldn’t go out with a man who didn’t recycle.’
‘That’s why you’ve bought Valent an exercise bike,’ mocked Seth.
‘I’m fed up with all this Green stuff,’ grumbled Cindy. ‘Ione’s got Lester geed up now, said we should have dimmer lights everywhere. She’s given ‘im a wind-up torch – he’s going to need it to find the clit – and she’s even got ‘im on to solar-powered sex toys now. He put my vibrator out on the balcony to recharge yesterday and it got rained on.’
‘For God’s sake, shut up,’ muttered Bonny.
‘They’re off,’ said Seth, picking up his binoculars.
The sun came out.
Mrs Wilkinson was travelling beautifully. By the end of the first circuit, the field was so close, their black shadows were like nine clubs on a playing card. Mrs Wilkinson was edging up to the leaders. The syndicate yelled in delight at each long glorious jump. Marius was so delighted he came running out to join them.
‘Come on, little girl, come on.’
‘She’s going into the lead,’ yelled Seth.
The runners were still on the far side of the course when, four from home, on the big screen Amber could be seen drifting away from the field.
‘Stupid, stupid bitch,’ howled Bolton. ‘She’s taken the wrong course.’
‘Shit,’ hissed an ashen Marius, ‘oh shit, she’s broken down.’
‘Shit,’ said Seth, ‘I’ve lost a bomb.’
‘What’s happened?’ gasped an anguished Etta.
For a couple of seconds they could see Mrs Wilkinson hobbling helplessly, Amber pulling up and jumping off, and the horse ambulance hurtling towards her. Then the camera moved back to the rest of the runners, who were galloping round the bend and entering the home straight.
‘Wait for us,’ begged Etta, but Marius had vaulted over the rail, bolted across the track and vaulted over the far rail before the rest of the runners cleared the final fence and came thundering towards him. Next moment he’d hijacked a Land-Rover and set out to find his stricken charge.
‘I must go to her,’ sobbed Etta.
‘Come on,’ cried Cindy, kicking off her six-inch heels. ‘Lester can’t run in his wellies. See you later, babe.’
‘I’m coming too,’ cried Phoebe. ‘Poor Wilkie.’
‘I’m not going,’ said Bonny. ‘I’m too sensitive to witness an animal’s suffering.’
‘You’d better have a large drink then,’ said Seth.
The rest of the syndicate raced across the wet grass to the stables on the far side of the course. Phoebe and Cindy were in the lead, clutching their shoes, their macs and bags over their arms.
They were followed by a desperately panting Etta, whose hat had fallen off and been run over by the horse coming in last. She was joined by Tommy and Chisolm, who had rushed over from the finish.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Bancroft.’ Tommy hugged a distraught Etta. ‘I’m sure she’ll be OK. The ambulance will have taken her to the stables.’
The rain-dark trees hung overhead like undertakers. By the time they reached the stables, Mrs Wilkinson had been seen by the vet and her two front legs had been hastily wrapped in bright blue bandages with cotton wool spilling over the top. Her coat was dark with sweat, her big brown eye with the blue centre heavy with pain. She gave a half-knucker when she saw Etta and Chisolm and fell silent.
Her leg had evidently exploded and had swollen up hugely. The vet, who wore a bright blue shirt to match the bandages, said he had given her two shots of morphine. Etta put her arms round Mrs Wilkinson’s neck.
‘Oh my angel, my poor angel. Is she going to be OK?’
‘I’ve advised Marius to take her home and let your vet X-ray her in the morning.’
Tommy and even Michelle were crying openly, and so was Phoebe. ‘Oh, poor poor horsey,’ wailed Cindy.
Amber was sitting on an upturned bucket, her head in her hands.
‘I’m so sorry, Etta. She was jumping perfectly, going like a dream. Then she seemed to collapse under me.’
‘What’s happened, what did the vet say?’ gasped Alan, running up. He was followed by Debbie, Painswick and Pocock, who at least hadn’t collapsed from shock this time.
‘Will Mrs Wilkinson have to be put down?’ panted Debbie. ‘Will she get better?’
‘Poor horse, poor horse,’ sobbed Cindy, trying and failing to give her a Polo. ‘Has she hurt both her poor leggies?’
‘No, you always bandage both,’ said Amber.
Everyone was being gentlemanly. No one was saying, ‘I’ve paid three thousand for a share in this horse,’ when Bolton barged in.
‘I’ve just joined this fucking syndicate,’ he howled, ‘and the fucking horse has broken down.’
‘And you pressurized Marius into running her, you bully,’ howled back Cindy. ‘Poor little Wilkie, the grass was too wet and slippery.’
‘A good ‘orse can run on any ground, look at Arkle,’ shouted Bolton.
‘We’re not talking about Arkle, dickhead.’
Alan, Josephus the historian, was standing outside the box, talking into his tape recorder.
Everyone except him and Bolton was stroking Mrs Wilkinson and telling her what a good girl she was.
How ironic, thought Etta with strange clarity, that in a disaster Wilkie was being wept over, fussed over and patted in exactly the same way as when she won at Ludlow, Newbury and Cheltenham – the agony and the ecstasy of racing.
Alban, who had a bad hip, and the Major, who was scared of coronaries, had just reached the stables.
‘We should be told what’s going on. Where’s Marius?’ demanded the Major.
‘Gone,’ intoned Amber. ‘History Painting needed saddling up for the next race. The trainer and the television cameras move on.’
‘What did the vet say exactly?’ asked Alban.
‘I think we better get everyone out of the stable,’ said Tommy.
Horses were clattering past the door, going out or returning from races.
How dare you be sound? Etta wanted to shout at them.
‘Good thing I was wearing flatties for running,’ said Phoebe. ‘I felt like Princess Diana in that mothers’ race. It’s been such fun. We must get another horse.’
‘That’s my last horse,’ quavered Painswick. ‘I couldn’t have another horse after Wilkie.’
Pocock put an arm round her heaving shoulders.
‘Think we ought to clear out and give her some peace,’ urged Alban.
Unable to contain her anguish any longer, determined not to frighten Mrs Wilkinson by breaking down in front of her, the same as not crying when Bartlett was put down, Etta stumbled out. Finding an empty stable, she sobbed her heart out.
‘Oh please God, let her be all right.’
Suddenly she was aware of darkness as the light from the door-way was blotted out by a large figure. It was Valent.
With a wail, Etta collapsed sobbing against him.
‘I’m so sorry, it’s Wilkie. I’m so terrified she’s going to be put down. I don’t want to frighten her by crying. Oh Valent, she’s so brave, I love her so much.’
‘I know you do.’ Valent enfolded her in a great warm bearlike hug. He was wearing a black shirt and a black and white herring-bone jacket. Both were soaked by Etta’s tears as he patted her shoulder and stroked her hair.
‘It’s OK, it’s going to be all right. What did the vet say?’
‘Lots of meaningless things, meaningless because you can’t take them in. I don’t want them to write her off and s-s-s-shoot her.’
‘No one’s going to shoot her, I promise, we’ll get her the best vets in the world. You pulled her through last time.’ For a moment Etta thought he might break down too, as he went on in a rough, choked voice, ‘She’s going to need you.’ He squeezed her tightly. ‘I’m so sorry, luv.’
‘Thank you.’ Drawing away, Etta tugged the pink and lilac scarf from her neck and blew her nose. ‘She was going so beautifully,’ she gulped.
‘She’ll be all right, she’s tough,’ said Valent, drawing her close again. ‘Come on, luvie, get a grip for Wilkie’s sake. We’ll go and see her.’
They heard a clatter outside and the smell of stables was joined by a waft of Allure.
‘Hello, hello-o.’ It was Bonny, with a distinct edge to her voice. ‘Welcome home, Valent. I thought it was Mrs Wilkinson who needed comforting.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Etta leapt away from him, battling a further onslaught of tears. ‘Valent was just being unbelievably kind.’
Bonny glanced at Etta’s crimson, wrecked, blubbered face incredulously.
‘I didn’t assume for a second he was being anything else.’
‘Don’t be a bitch, Bonny,’ snapped Valent. ‘Wilkie’s special to Etta.’
‘And to me. I’ve got a share in her too. I’d have come sooner, but I can’t bear to see animals suffering. God, this place stinks.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ gulped Etta.
As she stumbled towards the door, Seth appeared.
‘Oh, there you all are. Hi, Valent, good flight? Great to see you back. Bonny managed to enchant some besotted official into driving us over. She’s been really missing you,’ he reassured Valent, then, turning to Etta: ‘Don’t worry, angel, Wilkie’ll be fine, she’s such a gutsy horse.’
Seth hugged Etta, his body so lean and honed, a panther compared with bearlike Valent.
‘I’ll look after Etta,’ Seth added, ‘and leave you two lovebirds to a touching reunion. You’re a lucky man, Valent.’
Seeing Valent’s face like granite, Bonny decided not to make a scene.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ she told him as soon as Seth and Etta were out of earshot. ‘You should have warned me you were coming. Nice jacket, black and grey suit you.’ Then, seeing Valent still looking wintry: ‘Don’t worry about Mrs Bancroft. I’ve spoken with Romy, her daughter-in-law, such a charming woman, and she says Etta’s a drama queen, far too dotty about animals, cries at the drop of a sparrow, and she’s had a little too much bubbly today. Martin and Romy are really concerned about her drinking.’
‘Etta’s a sweet lady,’ said Valent sharply, ‘and Wilkie means the world to her.’
‘And who’s been eating too much chop suey?’ Bonny poked Valent in the tummy. ‘We’ll have to get you back in shape, or on second thoughts,’ even in the dim light, Valent was dazzled by her beauty, ‘let’s go back to Willowwood. I can’t wait for you to see the improvements I’ve made and to try out our new bed.’
She couldn’t understand why Valent didn’t seem to take in what she was saying and insisted on seeing Mrs Wilkinson first.
Finding Bolton still bellyaching: ‘I paid three grand to join this syndicate, what compensation do I get if she’s a write-off ?’ Valent promptly told him to bugger off and stop upsetting Mrs Wilkinson. When Bolton refused, Chisolm, like a bossy staff nurse, butted him out of the stable.
‘Oh fuck,’ said Alan, as the tape ran out.
Word had got around that a big hitter had arrived. Suddenly every trainer on the racecourse made an excuse to stop by and commiserate with Valent and Bonny, who might well be looking for another horse soon.
Next day Charlie Radcliffe X-rayed Mrs Wilkinson and diagnosed a possible hairline fracture of the cannon bone. He would X-ray her again in a fortnight and in a fortnight after that, by which time the injury would show up more clearly. After twelve weeks, if nothing more serious had developed, she could very slowly start exercising again, but was unlikely to be race-fit before late spring, which could mean nearly a year off.
Etta, who hadn’t dared ask Marius if she could sleep in the stable with Mrs Wilkinson, spent a miserable night, but was thrilled when Valent rang her mid-morning.
‘Don’t you worry, luv, it could have been a lot worse and later she and Chisolm can come back to Badger’s Court to convalesce.’
‘How lovely to have her home again,’ gasped Etta. ‘Are you sure people won’t mind?’
‘I’m people – and I don’t,’ said Valent and rang off.
Arrangements for the immediate future were more complicated, however. To give Mrs Wilkinson a chance, she had to be confined to twenty-four-hour box rest in big bandages for at least three months. There was even talk of cross-tying her so she couldn’t move around.
Most of Marius’s other horses were turned out. Having been canvassed by Bonny, Romy and Martin were deliberately keeping Etta busy. As a result she had far less time to visit Mrs Wilkinson, who sunk into depression, slumped in her box, refusing to eat, head hanging, not even diverted by Chisolm’s antics. The mass of get-well flowers from fans, propped outside her box and not eaten by Chisolm, had withered away. There were also murmurs of discontent from the syndicate. Why should they go on forking
out for a horse that might not be able to race for a year – with no prize money and escalating vet’s bills?