Furious loathed and feared Michelle, who in the early days had hit him once too often with a spade. Now she was leading him up in a really vicious American gag, which caused him great pain if he took the smallest pull. Despite the pain, Furious, his rolling, darting eyes looking everywhere for escape, leapt this way and that, scattering spectators.
The Major, who’d also been bunged by Lester, seized the microphone: ‘Pray silence for Mr Lester Bolton.’
Lester then announced he was offering the Flower Queen a wonderful opportunity to star as Lady Godiva’s daughter. In addition, he hoped as many people as possible from Willowwood would turn up at North Wood to be paid as extras and take part
in crowd scenes. Details would be posted on the
Lady Godiva
website.
Next moment the steam engine hooted and hissed, the band struck up ‘The Galloping Major’, the microphone screeched and Furious went berserk. Plunging his teeth into the shoulder of Michelle, who dropped the lead rope, he dumped a shrieking Cindy on the rock-hard ground, lashed out at the platform and the Major and took off through the stalls, kicking down the coconut shy, sending second-hand books, home-made cards, bric-a-brac including a yellow teapot, ten lavatory hippos, plants and cakes flying, charging straight through the microphone wire and upturning the tombola table with a great crash.
Treading on his lead rope, causing himself untold agony, he was now bearing down on the bar. Seth snatched Trixie out of the way and Alan grabbed Tilda as Furious sent the table, glasses of Pimm’s and bottles flying. Seeing a way out, Furious, blood gushing from his mouth, hurtled towards the crèche where a dozen village children were painting each other’s faces.
‘Stop him,’ screamed Romy.
He was twenty yards away, ten yards, when a figure leapt out, catching his lead rope, tugging him to one side.
‘Steady, boy, steady, boy, it’s OK, it’s me,’ cried Rafiq, who, after being dragged along the ground, managed to jump on to Furious’s back and steer him away from the children, until they came to a shuddering halt against a hawthorn hedge.
Leaping off the terrified, maddened animal, Rafiq hugged and stroked him, crooning and murmuring, ‘It’s all right, boy.’
Next moment, Charlie Radcliffe had panted up with his bag.
‘Well done, bloody well done.’ Then, as Furious lashed out with his off fore: ‘I’ll give him a shot.’ Seeing blood was pouring from Furious’s mouth he asked, ‘Christ, what’s he done to himself?’
‘This fucking gag,’ hissed Rafiq, who was drenched in blood too. ‘Look what she put on him. No wonder he go crazy, poor horse.’ He was ruffling Furious’s mane and rubbing his forehead to distract him as the needle went in.
‘Now get him out of here. Go through the woods,’ ordered Charlie.
But as Michelle rushed up, followed by a limping Lester, Rafiq went berserk.
‘You stupid, stupid bitch!’ he yelled. ‘Why you bring him here and put that gag on him? He’s terrified of you anyway, ever since you hit him with a spade.’
‘I never,’ yelled back Michelle, ‘that horse is vicious.’
‘So is that gag, you torture him, don’t you ever touch him again.’
‘Don’t speak to a lady like that,’ howled Bolton. ‘He’s my ’orse to do what I like wiv. No good you sticking up for that brute, he’s going to the sales next week.’ Then: ‘Ouch,’ he screamed as Chisolm, drunk from hoovering up the cucumber and strawberries scattered round the Pimm’s stall, butted him in the groin.
As people picked themselves up and tried to assess the damage, the fête committee decided they were going to need a large cheque from Mr Bolton. The Major, however, found compensation in helping a sobbing Cindy to her feet.
Trixie was horrified how much she’d enjoyed being pulled out of danger and held against Seth’s hot, hard body. Tilda ditto, against Alan.
Furious calmed down and was practically nodding off by the time Rafiq had walked him home. Dilys was delirious with joy to see him. She was such a sweet sheep, so loving and so much less self-regarding and greedy than Chisolm. Rafiq fed them both and kept them in for the night.
At around four o’clock in the morning, however, Rafiq and Tommy were woken by hysterical and bewildered neighing.
First to reach Furious’s box in her nightie, Tommy opened the door to find Dilys lying in the straw, her coat soaked in blood, her head kicked in. Furious, wool in his teeth, was desperately nudging her, pitifully calling for her to wake up.
Tommy couldn’t stop crying.
Rafiq comforted her: ‘It must have been the fête and that gag that made him mad.’
When Marius returned from Cartmel the next day, he insisted Dilys be buried in the field behind the house alongside his great horses. After Josh and Rafiq had dug a grave, Furious refused to let them take Dilys away and stood over her, lashing out at anyone who came near. Rafiq had to lead him down the drive while they removed her body. When he was returned to an empty stable, he called for her endlessly.
Later Joey made a headstone: ‘Dear Dilys, Furious’s faithful companion.’
That was the end for Marius, who had been very fond of Dilys. He thanked Rafiq for his quick thinking at the fête. He fired Michelle. He agreed to buy back Furious and promptly entered him for a selling race at Stratford early in September.
Rafiq and Tommy were distraught. Rogue, Awesome and Amber all refused to ride him, not wanting to get carted, bucked off or savaged, so Marius allowed Rafiq a first and last ride.
Rafiq, however, had studied Furious and remembered his first and only win with Amber. He had reared up at the start because she tried to hold him up, and then carted her past all the other horses. Rafiq realized that Furious hated other horses so much that if he were allowed to escape from them and gallop flat out from the start, nothing could catch up with him … the answer was to make all.
It was a hot, muggy day. Furious worked himself into a state before the race, getting angrier and angrier, and when he couldn’t get at Rafiq he swung his head round, trying to bite the toes off the new boots Rafiq had struggled to pay for.
Rafiq, however, rode him with immense sympathy and kindness, giving him his head, so he hurtled straight into the lead, getting the stride right at every fence. Even when other horses challenged him in the straight, Rafiq didn’t pick up his whip but let Furious accelerate naturally. Winning by fifteen lengths, he contemptuously slowed to a trot as he passed the post.
The athlete in victory starts to die. In his moment of glory, Furious was put up for auction. He had never looked handsomer, chestnut coat gleaming, quarters and shoulders rippling with muscle, pink and black oiled hooves flashing in the sun, snow-white star giving his face a look of deceptive amiability and
contentment. Tommy invariably won the turnout prize but never had she done one of her charges prouder.
A toff in a trilby with a microphone was revving up the crowd, which ringed the winners enclosure ten deep. Tommy walked Furious round and round as the water thrown over to cool him down dried in the hot September sun.
All day Furious had sensed that Tommy and Rafiq were unhappy. That was why he hadn’t bitten anything except Rafiq’s boots and had carried Rafiq, such a sensitive rider, so willingly. He nudged Tommy and placed his shoulder against hers as they circled.
It had been a tough race but he’d enjoyed it. He loved the cheers just for him and the ecstatic patting from Rafiq and later Tommy, as she’d run towards him, tears in her eyes, and tugged his ears. But now he sensed her sadness and wanted her to take him back to his box and bask in reflected glory. He wanted to have something to eat rather than biting anyone, so he laid his head on Tommy’s shoulder, breathing into her ear.
‘We now offer you Furious, a beautiful six-year-old chestnut gelding who won at Worcester as a five-year-old and won very convincingly this afternoon.’
The bidding started at 3,000 guineas and quickly went up to 3,750 then 4,000 guineas.
The horse had won magnificently, but all eyes were also on the stocky little stable lass. White as a sheet, she had forgotten to brush her hair, her full round breasts were rising and falling beneath the beige T-shirt, plump thighs filling the charcoal-grey jeans, sturdy ankles above trainers, eyes cast down like King Cophetua’s beggarmaid. A tear trickled like a diamond from her lashes, an indicator of the flood to come. The crowd was drawn to her as much as to the powerful, ungovernable horse, momentarily docile beside her as, bottom lip trembling, he tried to nudge her into cheerfulness.
The bidding was creeping up: 7,750 guineas, 8,000.
‘Oh, please let him go to someone who loves and understands him,’ prayed Tommy.
Rafiq leant against a tree, puffing frantically on a roll-up. He could see that a well-known trainer, a woman with a tough face, her hair tied back in a red scarf, was bidding against an owner whose trainer hadn’t arrived, caught up in the inevitable traffic. The auctioneer pointed his clipboard at a man with a thin ferret’s face. Imagining the sadistic pleasure Harvey-Holden would have knocking Furious into shape, Rafiq clenched his fists. Isa Lovell was also bidding. Big bidders usually kept out of the way, in case
people got fired up into thinking a horse was worth more. In fact the auctioneer was the only person who knew all the people bidding, looking out for a nod of the head or a raised finger.
The woman in the red scarf was off again. She’s so tough, thought Tommy in anguish.
‘I’ll buy that stable lass,’ said a wag, ‘she knows how to make a horse look right.’
As the bidding stuck at 12,000 guineas, a telephone bidder slid in at 12,500. Everyone glanced round for mobiles.
‘Look how sweet he is,’ said a beautiful girl, as Furious laid his head on Tommy’s shoulder again.
‘I’d buy him for you, darling,’ said her boyfriend, ‘but I don’t think I’d get him in the Aston.’
Harvey-Holden had bid 13,000, the telephone bidder 13,500, 14,000, 14,500 right up to 20,000 – very high for a selling race.
The whole crowd could smell the despair of the sweet-faced stable lass. If the horse were vicious, it might be worth employing her as well to calm him down. There was a long pause.
Harvey-Holden shook his head. Furious was too much of a risk.
‘Twenty thousand guineas I’m bid. For the second time of asking. Going, going, gone.’ The auctioneer brought down his hammer.
Tommy clung to Furious, looking round defensively, fearfully, as if she would leap on his back and make a run for it. Then, shoulders heaving, she buried her face in Furious’s glossy neck.
‘Twenty thousand guineas,’ repeated the auctioneer. ‘Bought in.’
The heaving stopped. Clinging to Furious to hold herself up, looking round incredulously, Tommy noticed Marius chucking away his cigarette.
The bell for the next race was telling the jockeys to mount.
Hugging and kissing Furious, wiping her eyes and nose with his mane, Tommy led him back to his box. She was just rubbing him down when a voice said, ‘I thought we’d give him another chance, rather an expensive one, admittedly. That’s ten thousand pounds of the bid to pay back to the racecourse.’
As Marius entered the box, Furious flattened his ears and took a bite out of his sleeve.
‘Ungrateful sod,’ said Marius.
‘We’re not,’ said Tommy in a choked voice. ‘Oh Marius, thank you. I know he’ll reward you,’ and she flung her arms round Marius’s neck and kissed his cheek.
For a second Marius was tempted to kiss her back. Since
Michelle had gone, his bed was very empty. Tommy’s body would make a comforting replacement.
‘He’ll win it all back for you,’ she mumbled.
Furious looked up and whickered as Rafiq’s head appeared over the half-door.
‘Didn’t Rafiq ride well?’ said Tommy.
‘He did,’ said Marius. ‘Well done.’
‘He stuck his head out and galloped all the way for me, he is holy terrier.’ Rafiq pulled Furious’s ears. Then, after a long pause: ‘Thanks for buying him back.’
Thus Marius won the undying loyalty and gratitude of Rafiq.
Charlie Radcliffe gave Mrs Wilkinson the all-clear at the beginning of September. Let out of Valent’s stable where she had been imprisoned for months, she went berserk, tugging the lead rope out of Tommy’s hand, charging round the orchard bucking and squealing. Etta, Tommy, Marius and Chisolm held their breaths but she walked back absolutely sound.
‘With luck she’ll be up and running soon after Christmas,’ said Charlie.
‘Well done, Etta and Tommy,’ added Marius with rare warmth.
Tommy needed every encouragement. With the departure of Michelle, Marius had made Josh rather than her head lad because he felt Josh would be better at keeping order than the gentle Tommy, though he was desperate to hold on to her because she was so good with the horses. Josh had consequently moved into the head lad’s cottage that Collie and his family had left. This had been redecorated, recarpeted and fitted with a new shower and kitchen, which delighted blonde Tresa, who had officially moved in with Josh.
The fact that Marius could afford to do up the cottage and buy back Furious convinced observers that he was receiving financial help from Valent.
Back at Throstledown, also in September, Marius held a parade of the horses to attract new owners and to enable existing ones to meet each other over an excellent lunch. Furious the unpredictable was shut away in a far-off field. To distract people from the hairiness of some of the horses’ ankles, the prettiest stable lasses, Tresa and Angel, were deputed to lead them past. The yard, however, looked wonderful, newly painted by Joey’s men, the buildings in good order, Etta’s flowers blooming in tubs
and beds. There was definitely a feeling of renewal and optimism.