Jump. Part 28

Etta, who hadn't slept either, felt sick. The hurdles suddenly looked huge and she felt so responsible for all these friends who'd kept having even bigger bets.

Having cheered on Rogue to win his second race, they hurried down to the pre-parade ring, gathering round an open stall to watch Tommy and Rafiq tacking up Mrs Wilkinson, who gave a thunderous whicker of welcome when she saw Etta and her friends.

Before a race, to check the girths aren't pinching, a horse's forelegs have to be stretched out one at a time.

'Aaaaaaah,' went the syndicate, as Mrs Wilkinson, without any prompting, proffered each leg in turn to Rafiq.

Tommy meanwhile was sponging her face and mouth with water. 'Because she's not allowed to drink anything,' she explained.

Like me, thought Alban wearily. He could murder a quadruple Bell's.

Rafiq had his arm round Mrs Wilkinson's neck, constantly stroking and calming her. Tommy, in a dark blue jacket and black trousers, her face red from exertion, her unruly dark hair restrained by a blue scarf, waited until she was about to lead Mrs Wilkinson up to the paddock before whipping off her tail bandage, undoing six little plaits and applying a squirt of mane-and-tail spray, so Mrs Wilkinson's tail exploded in a crinkly white fountain. Even s.h.a.gger cheered.

'She looks wonderful! Thank you, Tommy,' cried Etta.

She looked wonderful in the paddock but very small, which elicited more jokes about Shetlands and 'shrunk in the wash'. As she led Mrs Wilkinson round anti-clockwise, the public ringing the rails could see that Tommy had hung a black patch over her blind eye.

The favourite was a lovely bay mare called Heroine, who was trained by Harvey-Holden. H-H's ferret-like face contorted with fury as he caught sight of Mrs Wilkinson, then turned into a sneer, his upper lip curling more than the brim of his brown felt hat.

'What's that pony's handicap?' asked Heroine's owner.

'Having Marius Oakridge as a trainer,' snarled Harvey-Holden. 'Her odds, for some unaccountable reason, are even shorter than her legs.'

On the bookies' boards and on the big screen, Mrs Wilkinson was now second favourite at 51. Etta felt even sicker.

Tommy won the turnout.

'Pity she can't do something about her own appearance,' said Mich.e.l.le, who was about to tack up History Painting for the next race.

The jockeys were flowing into the paddock.

'Don't our silks look lush on Rogue?' sighed Phoebe, as in emerald green with a pale green weeping willow back and front he was waylaid by photographers and television presenters.

Etta noticed the contrast between the slim, emaciated jockeys with their ashen, often spotty faces and frequently cut lips, polite and formal as little corporals, and the fat, shiny-suited owners flushed from hospitality.

Rogue looked different. For a start he had a tan, his hands were as big as a prop forward's, his shoulders huge and muscular. On his collar was printed the words 'Venturer Television', on his breeches it said 'Bar Sinister'.

'I'd like to sponsor Rogue's thighs,' giggled Phoebe, as he strutted towards them, speculative eyes turned turquoise by the Willowwood colours, slapping his whip against muddy boots, going for the treble.

'Connections', as owners, trainer and stable lad belonging to an individual horse are grandiosely known, hung on his every word, straining to hear, as if he were George Clooney or Prince William.

'I've studied the video, she's a decent hoss,' lied Rogue. 'I'll settle her mid-division and hont her round.'

'Please don't hit her with that whip,' Etta couldn't help saying.

'Shhhhhh,' hissed the horrified syndicate as though Etta had farted in church.

'Rogue needs his whip to guide her,' snapped Alan.

'We mustn't wish you good luck, it's unlucky, so break a leg,' called out Debbie heartily.

On their way to watch the race, Etta b.u.mped into Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who was riding in a later ladies' race and looked very upset.

'I should be riding her,' she pleaded to Etta, 'please put in a good word.'

Up in the Owners and Trainers, aware that owners invariably hug each other if their horses win, s.h.a.gger placed himself next to Woody. Etta was shivering so uncontrollably, Alban put his greatcoat round her shoulders so it fell to her ankles, like Mrs Wilkinson's rug. G.o.d, she's sweet, he thought wistfully.

Everyone had their mobiles poised to report victory.

Back in Willowwood, the whole of Greycoats was now watching on the school television. Dora and Trixie were watching at Bagley Hall. Joey rushed downstairs to put on another hundred for himself and Woody. If she won at 51, that would pay the mortgage and the gas bill.

Through his binoculars, far down the course on the left, the Major could see the jockeys circling. For once the p.i.s.s-taking Rogue was the b.u.t.t of their humour, as they patted him on the head from the superior height of their horses.

'Oh Daddy,' said Debbie, taking the Major's hands, 'this is a dream come true.'

'Good thing to have a grey,' Alban told Etta, 'always identify them.'

Through her shaking binoculars, Etta could see only that Mrs Wilkinson wasn't happy, her coat white with lather as she gazed longingly in the direction of the stables and the lorry park.

'I can't look.' Phoebe put her hands over her eyes. 'Tell me what's going on.'

'Are you ready, jockeys?' called the starter. 'OK, then off you go,' and encouraged by a steward cracking a whip behind them, off they went.

Except for Mrs Wilkinson. Feeling her hanging back, Rogue gave her a couple of hefty whacks. Next moment, she'd veered left, ducking under the rails, sc.r.a.ping him off as, with lightning reflexes, he kicked his feet out of his irons, and depositing him on the gra.s.s before scorching off to the lorry park.

'Hurrah,' yelled an overjoyed Harvey-Holden from behind the stunned syndicate, 'that's one less horse to beat.'

'I can't look,' cried Phoebe. 'What's going on?'

'b.u.g.g.e.r all,' said Chris as the rest of the runners thundered by on the first circuit.

Harry, the lorry park attendant, grabbed Mrs Wilkinson as she hurtled towards him. By the time Tommy caught up with her, the race had been won by Heroine and a gloating Harvey-Holden.

Collapse of stout syndicate.

Everyone was flattened with disappointment.

Etta was in tears. 'I'm so dreadfully sorry.' Alan and Miss Painswick gave her their handkerchiefs.

Alan tried to comfort her. 'Lots of owners never get a winner.'

'We should have brought Niall with us,' said Woody. 'He'd have prayed us into the frame.'

Everyone, to Etta's white, horrified face, was very sympathetic.

'I must go to her.' She wiped her eyes. 'Rogue shouldn't have hit her. Why didn't Marius tell him?'

'Jockeys are paid to use their crops,' spluttered the Major the moment Etta ran off down the steps. 'Rogue's had two wins already. Proof of the pudding. This has cost us three thousand plus a hundred and eighty-five pounds a month.'

'I wasted a day's holiday,' pouted Phoebe.

'We came back from Lanzarote,' grumbled Debbie.

'I'm sure she'll win next time,' protested Painswick. 'I expect something frightened the poor little soul.'

'All trainers go through lousy seasons,' said s.h.a.gger contemptuously, 'but Marius is having a lousy decade. We should have gone to Harvey-Holden,' he added. Looking down, they watched a returning Heroine being clapped back to the winners enclosure.

At least I won't have to fork out for the champagne and I'll have lots of people to interview about depression, thought Alan.

'What happened to Mrs Wilkinson?' cried the children at Greycoats.

Major Cunliffe's committee, who'd stopped proceedings to watch the race, had a good laugh to see 'a most familiar face' looking absolutely livid.

50.

Rogue returned from the race with only his pride hurt. Temporarily denied his treble, he needed to collect his saddle and pull himself together for the big race on History Painting. On his way he b.u.mped into a jubilant Amber.

'Aren't you going to debrief connections?' she mocked. 'I was taught to work out what happened in a race and why it happened, so you can talk positively to the owner and trainer.'

'f.u.c.k off,' snarled Rogue, disappearing into the weighing room to change silks and receive more mobbing up.

Etta found Mrs Wilkinson in the stables, head down, trembling violently from head to foot, with Tommy hugging, stroking and desperately trying to comfort her.

'Rogue said he'd watched the video.'

'He says that to everyone.'

Etta's mobile rang. It was a spitting Dora.

'It was all Rogue's fault for giving her those reminders.'

Back in the bar, a grey-faced Joey downed a treble whisky. Having already lost 500 on Mrs Wilkinson, he was just wondering whether to try to recoup his losses by backing History Painting in the next race when his mobile rang, and he went even greyer.

Valent had rolled up at Badger's Court unexpectedly, just as the ceiling collapsed in the dining room taking all the 8,700-a-roll wallpaper with it. Joey would have to get a taxi straight back to Willowwood.

Joey had in fact met Collie for a drink in the Fox the previous night. Both men had children at Greycoats. Collie told Joey if he didn't get any winners today, he was handing in his notice. Marius was drinking far too much. Trainers should either be charming to owners or get inside the heads of their horses. Marius, at the moment, was doing neither.

'Where might you go?' Joey had asked. 'Christ,' he said when Collie told him.

History Painting and Rogue fell three out in the next race, which was won by Harvey-Holden with Shade's horse, Gifted Child.

'Still waiting for Mrs Wilkinson to come in?' he called out b.i.t.c.hily to Alan and Alban, as he loped off yet again to the winners enclosure.

Marius had an equally dreadful time at Rutminster, where Bertie and Ruby Barraclough felt even more humiliated than Major Cunliffe. Count Romeo had been absolutely useless, trotting up at the back of the field, fooling around, gazing at sea-gulls and sheep.

Since the court case, Valent Edwards had been sorting out businesses in India and China. Back in England he had been goaded by Bonny Richards, who, determined to have a minimalist house in London, had been pressurizing him to throw out Pauline's stuff. Not realizing Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm had gone to Marius, she'd also been nagging him to get them out of Badger's Court or they'd soon be claiming squatters' rights.

'I'm not going to live in the house if they're there.'

Valent had therefore returned unexpectedly to Willowwood to find Mrs Wilkinson's stable being knocked down and rebuilt and his entire workforce, with no manager in sight, watching Mrs Wilkinson screw up on a portable television.

Legend has it that it was Valent's ensuing roar of rage that brought down the ceiling of the dining room and all of the 8,700-a-roll wallpaper. This resulted in an extremely unpleasant hour for a returning Joey.

When Etta got back to Little Hollow, her telephone was ringing. It was Valent.

'How dare you send Mrs Wilkinson to a two-bit yard and a c.r.a.p trainer without telling me,' he roared.

'Marius was local,' stammered Etta. 'We wanted to be able to go on seeing her.'

'I didn't allow her to camp out in my study for nearly two years for that.'

'I know. I'm so sorry.'

'Or come back from China to win her back in the court case.'

'I know, I know. You saved her from Harvey-Holden.'

'She'd be better off with him. At least he gets winners.'

For once Etta was glad the mature conifers were protecting her from Valent's wrath.

'Marius hasn't had a winner for two hundred and twenty days. It's absolutely goot-wrenching, he hasn't even got anyone manning his phone. I've been trying to get through all day. Why didn't you send her to Rupert Campbell-Black? He helped you enough giving you his lawyer.'

'I know,' sobbed Etta, 'I'm so sorry, but Rupert's too big, too impersonal. I was frightened he'd be tough on her, she's so sensitive.' G.o.d, she sounded like Phoebe.

'Well, you picked the wrong trainer. Collie's leaving.'

'No,' gasped Etta. 'Collie's wonderful.'

'He can't survive on the pittance Marius pays him, so he's off. Who owns Mrs Wilkinson now?'

Etta quailed. 'We all do, all the Willowwood syndicate.'

'Joodge Wilkes gave her to you,' snarled Valent.

I couldn't afford to keep her, Etta wanted to plead. If she'd told Valent, he might have bought Wilkie for her. He'd done so much, she was terrified of imposing any more.

As if reading her thoughts, Valent shouted, 'You might have given me first refusal.'

'I'm so sorry.'

'No good being bluddy sorry, it's a bluddy disgrace. You've let me down and you've let Joodge Wilkes down.'