Jump. Part 34

'd.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n,' said Phoebe, filling up her Ribena gla.s.s with champagne. 'We want to start a family and it would have been the perfect part-time job for me.'

'Joyce won't last long. Far too bossy for Marius, can't see her appealing to the owners,' sniffed Debbie.

'Joyce is a darling,' flared up Etta to everyone's amazement, 'such a kind heart and a lovely sense of humour. She'll look after Marius and the horses and the lads.'

'Hoity-toity,' muttered Debbie to Phoebe, as Etta stomped off up the bus to talk to Alban and Toby, who were praising Araminta, whom Toby often took shooting.

'I've been told to take at least a thousand cartridges to the Borders next weekend,' Toby was saying excitedly. 'Must go and have a pee.'

'I had a wonderful tip for the two thirty,' Alban turned round and smiled at Etta, 'but alas, I've reached the age when if someone gives me a wonderful tip I've forgotten it in five minutes.'

59.

'"The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,"' sang Amber as she swung Marius's lorry into the Ludlow road. 'Such a lovely song, one of my father's favourites.'

She was eaten up with nerves. Unlike Newbury, where she'd been thrown up at the last moment, she'd had several days to fret.

'The last line of the song's so sad,' she continued, rattling away to Tommy and Rafiq. '"The lads that will die in their glory and never be old."

'Housman's a brilliant poet for jump racing,' she went on. 'He understood about camaraderie and bands of brothers, soldiers at the front heroically risking their lives day after day. Jockeys are the same, riding into the cannon's mouth, never knowing if they or their horse will come home. Most jockeys are in constant pain from endless falls or stomach cramps from wasting.

'Rogue says even the jockeys he most wants to beat, like Bluey Charteris, even an evil b.a.s.t.a.r.d like Killer O'Kagan, he misses when he's not riding every day against them. He hates it when they have terrible falls.

'"The lads that will die in their glory and never be old."' As Amber sang the line again, her voice broke. 'I'm sorry to bang on, I guess I'm just wound up. I hoped my dad was going to make it and walk the course with me, but he's not very well.'

'You'll do brilliant,' said Tommy soothingly. 'Must be awful living in a time of war when you're constantly dreading all your friends and family being wiped out.'

'I still am,' said Rafiq chillingly. 'In Afghanistan, in Iraq, in Pakistan. The Yanks bombed a funeral the other day and killed my uncle and aunt.'

'I'm so sorry.' Tommy put an arm round his shoulders, feeling him tense up then tremble. 'I wish you'd talk more about it.'

And you'd tell your policeman father, thought Rafiq darkly. He'd been up at five, praying for Amber and Mrs Wilkinson and that Marius would get out of blinkers and at least recognize how well the horses went for him and help him get a licence as a conditional jockey.

Back in the Ford Transit, a lurking s.h.a.gger descended heavily into the seat beside Corinna.

'You have such exquisite diction, Miss Waters, have you ever thought of insuring your voice?'

'Will you also insure my exquisite d.i.c.k? I know you'd like to,' said Seth maliciously.

s.h.a.gger blushed. He felt ambiguous about Seth, responding to his magnetism but aware of his ability to make mischief as well as love.

'How's little Trixie?' murmured Seth to Alan.

'Gated like Dora.'

Next moment Etta's mobile rang: it was a gated, gutted Dora.

'You'll never guess what utterly b.l.o.o.d.y Rogue has done. You know, with Killer banned this season, Rogue's determined to nail the championship. He's already got ninety-seven winners. Well, racing at Down Royal's been cancelled because of flooding, so Rogue's flown back to Ludlow and told his agent to pinch rides off as many other jockeys as possible. I've just heard one includes Johnnie Brutus on Bafford Playboy in the two fifteen so Rogue'll be riding against Mrs Wilkinson.

'There's no way Wilkie's going to beat Rogue and Playboy on that right-handed track,' stormed Dora. 'And Marius will go ballistic Rogue's riding for Shade. And it's so unfair to Joey, Alan and everyone who's had ma.s.sive ante-post bets on Wilkie but all Rogue cares about is getting his hundredth win.

'The flip side is that the press will be out in force to see if Rogue gets his ton, and Corinna will think they're all for her.' Dora giggled. 'I've just rung Painswick, neighing down the phone pretending to be Mrs Wilkinson and asking her to take poor deserted Chisolm a piece of carrot cake for her tea.

'And Etta, if you get a moment, you won't forget to show Corinna those pictures of Paris. There's a fantastic part for him in Phedre Phedre if they bring the production to England.' if they bring the production to England.'

60.

The sun kept making brief appearances in a sky dominated by inky-blue clouds, either ta.s.selled by falling rain or with rainbows leaping up into them like chasers. Gradually, as the road twisted and turned, stone walls gave way to neat fences, sheep-coloured fields scattered with sheep, blue mountains topped with fir trees and square Georgian houses in white or faded red.

Once again Alban kept slowing down to discuss who lived in the larger ones.

'They put Phoebe and me in separate rooms, last time we stayed there,' brayed Toby, 'so I got into Phoebe's bed. Next moment our host marched in and jumped on us. Bit put out to find me there, then tried to join in.'

'Look, there's a signpost to Much Wenlock,' said Seth. '"On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble."'

'So will we be if we don't get a move on, Alban,' called out Alan.

'Housman was born on the borders of Shropshire and Worcester actually,' said the Major, determined to keep his literary end up.

'Housman was a very difficult, introverted man, rather like Marius,' mused Seth.

'Housman was gay,' protested Alan.

'Marius isn't exactly jolly,' grinned Seth.

'I guess it's worth putting money on Rogue and Bafford Playboy,' said Chris.

Corinna, on her third half-pint of champagne, was pretending to learn Phedre Phedre. Etta sat down beside her.

'I hope you don't mind, darling Dora Belvedon's boyfriend Paris is determined to be an actor. Just wondered if you knew of anything for him? He's awfully good-looking, they're still talking about his Romeo at Bagley.'

'No, no, no, no!' exploded Corinna, so everyone in the bus stopped talking. 'Every day the post is a Niagara of demands, every telephone call, every email wants something, a favourite recipe, a doodle, a tile painted, a thirty-minute trip to a studio to talk up some lousy dead actress, a fete to open, a request for a piece of jewellery, a signed T-shirt. Me,' raged Corinna, 'in a T-shirt, free seats for a play, a sponsored walk. Even worse are the endless execrable scripts that thunder through the letter box, the letters from parents demanding help for their children. Find me a director, a producer, most of all an agent. Watch this DVD of my play about recycled gerbils, watch this video of me in Hamlet Hamlet, give me a part in your next play.'

Her rage was terrifyingly eruptive, the spit flying from her lips, mad eyes glittering, emotions going to work on her face like a jockey on the run-in, all the time brandishing Phedre Phedre as though she was going to bash Etta on the head. as though she was going to bash Etta on the head.

'I'm so sorry,' whispered Etta. 'It was tactless of me, when you must be so tired.'

'I have no time for myself. I am an artist, but my public devours me,' stormed Corinna. 'I am sucked dry like a lemon.'

Debbie smirked at Phoebe. Serve Etta right for sucking up.

Gazing down at her trembling hands, Etta suddenly saw the photographs she was clutching being taken from her and replaced by a large gla.s.s of champagne.

'Shut up, Corinna, just shut up,' ordered Seth. 'You're not Phedre now, just look at these pix.'

'Take them away,' screeched Corinna, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead.

'b.l.o.o.d.y look,' hissed Seth.

There was a long pause.

'Christ, he is beautiful,' admitted Corinna. 'Heart-stopping.' She examined the pictures more closely. 'How old is he?'

'Eighteen,' stammered Etta, 'he's just gone up to Cambridge.'

Corinna glanced up at Seth.

'Hippolyte?' she said. 'If we do an English run.'

'Or Konstantin,' said Seth.

'Tell him to ring me up,' said Corinna. Then, bursting into deep, rather too consciously infectious laughter, she patted Etta's cheek: 'I'm sorry, you were quite right.'

As the bus rumbled into Ludlow racecourse, Etta couldn't stop shaking. Seth helped her down.

'Darling Etta, you're a saint. Corinna's rehearsing the bit of Phedre Phedre when Hippolyte rejects her. I'm so sorry. You're the best thing about this syndicate. Thank you so much.' He kissed her cheek and the grey day was flooded with light. when Hippolyte rejects her. I'm so sorry. You're the best thing about this syndicate. Thank you so much.' He kissed her cheek and the grey day was flooded with light.

Alan shook his head and thought of Housman again: His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away.

Like Yelena and Serebryakov in Uncle Vanya Uncle Vanya, he reflected, Seth and Corinna descended on the country and affected everyone with their selfishness, pa.s.sing fancies and disregard for other people's lives.

Despite a dank, wet, cold Monday afternoon, a very creditable crowd had turned out to watch Rogue. Mist drifted round the bare trees like an anxious hostess. The lovely flat course was ringed with small mountains.

'Those must be Housman's blue remembered hills,' said Seth. 'I wonder if he liked horses.'

'He wrote a good poem about carthorses,' said Alan.

'Is my team ploughing, That I was used to drive And hear the harness jingle When I was man alive?

'Then he died and his ghost didn't like someone else driving his horses.'

' 'Spect those poor jockeys that Rogue's ousted feel the same,' said Chris disapprovingly. 'That's probably Rogue in that 'elicopter.'

'That'll be a bookie,' said Alan.

'Everyone got their badges?' said the Major bossily.

'Seth doesn't need a badge,' cooed Phoebe, 'everyone knows him.'

Corinna, giving Phoebe a filthy look, grew increasingly disagreeable.

'Christ, it's arctic, no wonder b.l.o.o.d.y Valent backed out. I'm getting a taxi home.'

Happily, at that moment, a pack of press and photographers, gathered in antic.i.p.ation of Rogue's ninety-ninth and hundredth, turned their attentions to Corinna, who became all smiles and waves.

'Darlings, isn't it thrilling? Yes, it's my first time jump racing,' she was soon telling Richard Pitman. 'I've come to cheer on my horse, Mrs Williams.'

'My horse?' Debbie and Phoebe exchanged expressions of outrage. horse?' Debbie and Phoebe exchanged expressions of outrage.

'Leave her,' muttered Seth. 'Anything's better than her stupid tanties.'

'I don't know how you put up with her, Seth,' said Phoebe.

Awesome Wells was livid. He'd been riding Oh My Goodness, which had been favourite in the first race, a mares only, and been so certain of victory he'd asked little Angel from Throstledown out to dinner.

Then Rogue had rolled up and taken Dare Catswood's ride on Gifted Child off him. The commentary had the crowd in st.i.tches.

'Rogue Rogers and Gifted Child are taking them along, and Oh My Goodness in the dark blue and purple colours is moving up. And, Oh My Goodness ...'

Alas, poor Awesome kicked too early. When she hit the front, Oh My Goodness, not liking being on her own, started looking around for friends. She allowed Rogue to hurtle past on Gifted and take the race, his ninety-eighth, to ecstatic cheers.

'Can I borrow fifty quid off you, Tommy?' asked Awesome.

Only two races to go. Rogue won his ninety-ninth and rode grinning into the winners enclosure to cheers and the thud of gloved hands clapping.

'I'd like him for supper,' said Corinna, now thoroughly over-excited by the strange cries of the bookies and the horses clopping clockwise round the parade ring.

Seth was delighted to be even more mobbed than Corinna.

'When's the next Holby City Holby City?' asked eager ladies.

'Perhaps Corinna should do a stint in Corrie Corrie to raise her profile,' sniffed Debbie. to raise her profile,' sniffed Debbie.

Down in the parade ring, Bafford Playboy was flexing his muscles, excited as a dog about to go for a walk. Mrs Wilkinson by contrast was cold and edgy, with no Sir Cuthbert, no Chisolm, no Count Romeo to comfort her. Only Bafford Playboy, a bully who she remembered bashing into her at the point-to-point.

As Corinna reached the parade ring, two women, wearing fur hats like Saturn's rings which showed off their exquisite cheek-bones, suddenly noticed her and squealed in excitement. 'How fritefly exciting to see you, such fans, what brings you to Ludlow?'

'My horse, Mrs Wilson, is in this race ... Which one is she?' she hissed to Etta.

'Number ten, over there.'

'But she's tiny, no bigger than a donkey,' exploded Corinna.

'Nice horse, very well related,' said a proud hovering Alban, raising his hat to the Saturn ring ladies. 'Her sire was Rupert Campbell-Black's Peppy Koala.'