Jump. Part 45

'For G.o.d'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 b.i.t.c.h,' howled Bolton. 'She's taken the wrong course.'

's.h.i.t,' hissed an ashen Marius, 'oh s.h.i.t, she's broken down.'

's.h.i.t,' 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 gra.s.s 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 Mich.e.l.le 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 Poc.o.c.k, 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 f.u.c.king syndicate,' he howled, 'and the f.u.c.king horse has broken down.'

'And you pressurized Marius into running her, you bully,' howled back Cindy. 'Poor little Wilkie, the gra.s.s was too wet and slippery.'

'A good 'orse can run on any ground, look at Arkle,' shouted Bolton.

'We're not talking about Arkle, d.i.c.khead.'

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.'

Poc.o.c.k 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 G.o.d, 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.

'h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo-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 a.s.sume for a second he was being anything else.'

'Don't be a b.i.t.c.h, 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. G.o.d, 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 rea.s.sured 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 b.u.g.g.e.r off and stop upsetting Mrs Wilkinson. When Bolton refused, Chisolm, like a bossy staff nurse, b.u.t.ted him out of the stable.

'Oh f.u.c.k,' 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.

74.

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 canva.s.sed 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 ma.s.s 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?

A week later, in early July, Painswick was leaving work when Mistletoe leapt on to her desk, leaving muddy paws all over the medical book and scattering papers.

'Get down, Mistletoe dear,' said Painswick fondly, reflecting that six months ago she'd have hit the roof.

Looking out, she saw Valent getting out of his Mercedes, carrying a big bunch of young carrots like a bouquet and heading towards the tack room, then going with Marius into Wilkie's box. Seeing them return, Painswick turned down At the Races At the Races, and poured a beer for Valent and a modest whisky for Marius.

'And don't go to bed too late,' she chided him as she set off for home. 'You've got an early start to Fontwell. There's a chicken pie for you and Mistletoe in the fridge.'

'Getting on all right?' asked Valent as Marius turned up ATR ATR again. again.

Marius nodded. 'She drives me round the twist, but she's an old duck and b.l.o.o.d.y efficient. She sees off Bolton and Bertie Barraclough, even Nancy Crowe.'

Proudly, shyly, he showed Valent the sapphire and crimson cushion embroidered with the words 'G.o.d, give me winners', which Painswick had made for him.