Both Killer and Rogue had already notched up a hundred winners.
‘You beat me last year, but I’ll have my title back by April,’ taunted Killer as they set off down to post at Cheltenham.
Snow was falling faster, mist coming down. Marquees, stands, rails, wings to the fences, wheeling seagulls on the lookout for chips dropped by hungover racegoers, the jockeys’ breeches and Mrs Wilkinson’s dear white face and Ilkley Hall’s zigzag blaze were among the only things discernible through the gloom.
As the jockeys, wearing thicker clothes and gloves, gathered at the start, Amber gazed stonily into space as Rogue circled beside her cracking jokes. Mrs Wilkinson looked so much smaller than any of the others.
Little donkey, little donkey, don’t give up, pleaded Etta.
Even Drummond looked up from his computer game, and they were off.
Last Quango went straight to the front, setting a punishing pace for the first few furlongs, then Mrs Wilkinson overtook him, trundling along like a little train, jumping so carefully and, as she cleared each fence, looking ahead for the best place to jump the next one, doing the thing she loved most, racing and listening to the sweetest sound in the world to furry ears on a dank, freezing New Year’s Day: the Cheltenham crowds calling her name, ‘Come on, Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘Mrs Wilkinson is taking them along,’ said the commentator.
Etta squeezed herself in joy. ‘Taking them along’, what a lovely phrase.
‘Wilkie’s travelling really well,’ she told the children.
Too well for Killer, who moved up the inner, galloping beside Mrs Wilkinson so she couldn’t see the rails out of her good eye.
Confused, losing her bearings, she took off a stride too early and stumbled on landing. Amber managed to stay in the saddle but by the time she’d righted herself Internetso, Ilkley Hall, Merchant of Venus and Last Quango had all overtaken her.
Mrs Wilkinson also took a while to recover but fortunately, like Valent, she could always see a gap. This time it was in the huddled-together quarters ahead and, trusting Amber, displaying incredible courage, she pushed through despite Killer riding right across her.
‘Get off her line, you bastard,’ screamed Etta, as Killer, his face even whiter and crueller, his reins deceptively loose in his left hand, thrashed the hell out of Ilkley Hall with his right and, as a fiendish trick, at the same time let the whip repeatedly catch Mrs Wilkinson’s good eye as he thundered once more up the inner, pushing her wide on the bend, as they swung into the home straight.
Although wincing and blinking, Mrs Wilkinson’s blood was up.
Even though snow was now clogging her good eye, she challenged again, darting back up the inner, stripping the paint off the rail. Killer, enraged, swung Ilkley Hall deliberately left, bumping her, denying her running room. For a second she reeled from the bump but held steady and pushed through.
‘Bastard,’ screamed Etta, ‘lay off Mrs Wilkinson, you fucker.’
‘Granny!’ said Poppy in horror.
‘Get your arse into gear,’ screamed Drummond.
‘Drummond!’ said Poppy, appalled, then, ‘Go on, Wilkie, fucking do it,’ she screamed as Mrs Wilkinson stuck her white head out, drawing level with Killer as they crossed the line.
Ilkley Hall had won four races since the season began. Mrs Wilkinson had been to the seaside.
‘Well done, Amber. If that’s not Ride of the Week, I’ll eat my hat,’ said Derek Thompson, thrusting a microphone under her nose.
‘Photograph, photograph, she was robbed,’ yelled Etta and everyone else, clocking the way Michelle had thrown a rug straight over Ilkley Hall to cover excessive whip marks.
‘Photo, photo,’ echoed the commentator.
Ding dong, ding dong, went the airport sound, followed by the loudspeaker announcing a stewards’ inquiry.
There was no shaking of hands between the contestants.
‘You bastard,’ hissed Amber, about to slash Killer’s evil, mocking face with her whip.
Mrs Wilkinson had no such reserve. Lashing her tail, flattening her ears, stretching out her neck once more, she bit Ilkley Hall sharply on the shoulder.
‘Stop that.’ Michelle raised a black leather fist to punch her.
‘Don’t you dare,’ shouted Tommy.
The crowd in the lit-up stands cheered Mrs Wilkinson all the way back to the winners enclosure, where without hesitation she took up her place by the number one post, refusing to let Ilkley Hall anywhere near it.
Etta choked back the tears as she saw the syndicate swarming round and Mrs Wilkinson disappearing under the same hail-storm of joyfully patting hands. Then Etta’s heart stopped, for there was Valent, his jaw rigid with muscle, determined not to break down, pulling Mrs Wilkinson’s ears, hugging her, gathering up Chisolm to stop her being trampled to death and putting her on Mrs Wilkinson’s back so the press got their picture.
For a second the cameras rested on Harvey-Holden’s face, so evil that Etta crossed herself in terror.
Then followed an agonizing wait while Killer protested his innocence to the stewards with a conviction that would have earned him a scholarship to RADA.
‘If you have to count every time you smack a horse, you’ll be done for non-trying because you’re not concentrating,’ he grumbled.
‘He cut across me, pushed me into the rail, took me wide, and repeatedly hit Wilkie with his whip on her good eye,’ stormed Amber.
Rogue, having observed things from behind, backed up Amber.
‘Killer interfered with her again and again.’
Merchant of Venus had come third. On television, Etta could see a delighted Rupert giving Amber a congratulatory kiss. I would have met him, she thought wistfully, then winced as she thought of Seth. She must stop lusting after younger men.
Finally, after an interminable wait, ding dong, ding dong, and the crackle of the loudspeaker: as a result of the stewards’ inquiry, Killer O’Kagan would be suspended for ten days for interference and excessive use of the whip, and the winner was number eight: Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Why are you crying, Granny?’ asked Drummond.
‘Because she’s happy,’ said Poppy.
Both she and Drummond were even happier when Etta fumbled for her purse.
‘I backed Mrs Wilkinson for both of you. Here are your winnings,’ and she handed them £20 each.
Mr Marcel, popping in to see if everything was all right, was thrilled to hear of Mrs Wilkinson’s victory. Filling up Etta’s glass and pouring a quarter each for Poppy and Drummond, he said Mrs Wilkinson was ‘
très petite et tout coeur
’.
On the television they could still see the Willowwood syndicate ecstatic in the winners enclosure, waiting to collect the silverware.
‘Look, look,’ cried Poppy, ‘there’s Uncle Alan kissing Miss Flood. We’ll have to ask her about it when we’re back at school.’
And there was the vicar hugging Woody and Mrs Travis-Lock doing a war dance with the Major.
‘Can we go racing next time, Granny?’
Even Marius looked ecstatic and told the press he’d never expected Mrs Wilkinson to return so spectacularly after six months off. Corinna had once again covered Mrs Wilkinson with red lipstick kisses. Dora made her shake hooves with handsome Lord Vestey, the Chairman of the Course, and Chisolm took a bite out of his yellow check suit.
Finally, after they’d collected Mrs Wilkinson’s cup, the syndicate gathered round and said they’d like to send a message to Etta Bancroft, who’d rescued Wilkie in the first place.
‘You were right all along, Etta, you kept faith,’ said the Major, mopping his eyes. ‘We all miss you, it’s not the same.’
‘Come home soon,’ cried Debbie.
‘That’s you they’re talking about,’ said Drummond, fingering his twenty pounds and looking at his grandmother with new respect.
Next moment her mobile rang. It was Amber, in heaven.
‘Oh Etta, Rupert congratulated me for the first time, and at the bottom of the hill Rogue told me to go for it and I could win. Wasn’t she wonderful, and Marius put five hundred quid on her at 10–1. He must trust me now. Only sad thing, Dad couldn’t make it.’
As Etta listened, wondering what had become of Valent, she suddenly caught a glimpse of Bonny in a exquisitely cut grey-flannel coat, with snowflakes in her tousled ash-blonde hair, lovely as ever. She was flanked by Seth and Valent, who were both looking so proud.
‘It’s my first win,’ Bonny was telling Derek Thompson, and how it had enriched her life experience, and how spiritual and epic a
journey it had been, getting Mrs Wilkinson back on the race track.
‘You were nothing to do with it,’ Etta shouted indignantly. ‘You wanted to dump her.’
‘She was a birthday gift from my partner Valent Edwards,’ went on Bonny, giving Valent a kiss, ‘and I’m a very proud owner.’
‘
C’est Bonny Richards,
’ said Mr Marcel in awe.
As the syndicate swarmed off to the Royal Box to celebrate, Etta sat down on an apple with one bite out of it, feeling the euphoria drain out of her. Then she felt bitterly ashamed.
It should be enough that Wilkie had made such a dazzling comeback. Why shouldn’t Bonny, Seth and Valent enjoy themselves?
‘Mummy, Daddy,’ cried Poppy as her parents swept in, ‘Mrs Wilkinson won, and Miss Flood and Uncle Alan have been on telly and Granny cried and cried.’
It would have been nice if Romy and Martin had been even fractionally enthusiastic. One plus was that Drummond had been totally converted to racing.
‘Granny had a bet for me,’ he said, waving his twenty-two pounds. ‘Can I have a bet tomorrow?’
Fortunately an enraged Martin and Romy were distracted by a journalist, alerted by Mr Marcel, rolling up to interview Etta about her great victory.
‘Don’t forget to mention the Sampson Bancroft Memorial Fund,’ hissed Martin.
Next day the papers were full of Rogue Rogers hitting Killer O’Kagan across the weighing room and also being suspended for ten days. So the battle for champion jockey was still wide open.
Etta returned home feeling very flat, and was vastly cheered by a message on her machine from Valent, saying how wonderful Wilkie had been, and how they’d all missed her at the races.
She was almost more touched that Priceless was absolutely ecstatic to see her. He had lost a lot of weight and he smiled and smiled when he saw her, snaking his head round and round her hips in the most loving way. They were both so tired from not sleeping, they fell into bed, Priceless immediately taking up three-quarters and Etta not minding, even when Gwenny joined them in the middle of the night.
To cheer up the gloom of winter, a mega jaunt was planned in early February. The syndicate would watch Mrs Wilkinson run at Warwick, then move on to Stratford to stay in a hotel and see Seth and Corinna open in
Antony and Cleopatra
, followed by a party afterwards.
In the preceding weeks, a great din could be heard issuing from the Old Rectory as the two stars hurled insults and objects and re-enacted the play together. As a demanding, charismatic applause junkie, with the ability to charm, seduce and manipulate, the part of Cleopatra might have been made for Corinna. Having been with Seth for fifteen years in which she had been more successful, she was aware he played around while she was away. Yet on stage as Cleopatra the enchantress, she felt sure she could win him back and was excited by the challenge.
As the din increased, there was great local speculation over Seth’s ebony locks, which were suddenly much greyer. Had this been caused by Corinna’s tantrums or was grey considered more suitable for the battle-scarred Antony, or was it his natural colour which he’d stopped dyeing black?
One evening, as Oscars and BAFTAs started whistling past his head, Seth escaped. Armed with a big bunch of alstroemerias and a bottle of Moët, reeking of Terre, he banged on Etta’s door.
‘Darling, darling, I’m so sorry about the two Mrs Bancrofts, I only made a pass at Romy to irritate her tosser of a husband. I only called you “Sorry with the fringe on top” because you’re so sweet and always apologizing for everything. Please forgive me.’
And of course Etta did. Priceless was less forgiving. At the pop of the champagne cork he retreated, with a deep sigh, to Etta’s bed.
‘How are things going?’ she asked.
‘I feel as though both the Tiber and the Nile are flowing through our drawing room.’ Seth filled two glasses. ‘If we were doing
Othello
I could smother her with a pillow. She’s given up drink to lose weight and reduce any red veins and it makes her really mean. Antony’s such a demanding part, I’ve got 24 per cent of the lines. Corinna’s only got 19 per cent and hers are far more beautiful and more dramatic. You must help me to learn mine.’
Etta tried not to melt as he gazed into her eyes and, in his deepest, huskiest voice with a slight break in it, declaimed of love finding a new heaven and a new earth.
‘It sounds wonderful,’ said Etta as they paused for a break.
‘Fascinating plot, the great warrior destroyed by sexual desire,’ observed Seth.
‘Sampson was destroyed by Delilah,’ mused Etta. ‘I remember being shocked when I overheard my father saying Eisenhower had a mistress. I thought he meant a schoolmistress and that Ike was a bit old for that.’