Jump. Part 56

Marching in, with a grin lifting his black moustache, Mr Marcel announced that Sky and the big screen had been specifically ordered and paid for. Then, brandishing a magnum of Moet and a vast bunch of alstroemerias and pink scented lilies, he added: 'These also are for Mrs Bancroft.'

'They'll be for me,' said Romy, s.n.a.t.c.hing the flowers. 'Don't want them to go to the wrong Mrs Bancroft this time.' Laughing heartily, she ripped open the envelope and read out, '"Darling Etta, All your friends at Willowwood are missing you, lots of love Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm."'

Romy's red, turning-to-puce face was a picture: a Francis Bacon cardinal.

'How pathetic, a horse and goat sending flowers.'

'Surprised Chisolm didn't eat them,' said Etta ecstatically.

Who would have known alstroemerias were her favourite flowers? Seth, Valent, Alan, Painswick, Poc.o.c.k, Marius? She'd planted enough in his garden. She waited until her room had emptied to ring the Major, as head of the syndicate, to thank him. She got Debbie, who said Wilkie was fine, and Cheltenham would be inspecting the course at 8am, to see if racing could go ahead.

'It's very cold here, how's Switzerland?'

'OK. Thank you all for the lovely flowers and champagne and Sky so I can watch the race. I can't believe it.'

'We all chipped in but it was Seth's idea,' said Debbie tartly. 'He was so fed up with Romy boasting to everyone that he'd muddled the two Mrs Bancrofts and meant to ask her rather than you out to lunch.'

'Oh no,' whispered Etta. 'He what? How dreadful, how embarra.s.sing.'

For once Direct Debbie was contrite. 'Oh Etta, I thought you knew, I'm so sorry. And you've been forced to look after Seth's awful dog.'

Etta put down the telephone and died. Poor, poor Seth having to give her lunch and her getting so drunk and trying to kiss him. What a laugh everyone must have had. Oh G.o.d.

Then she tried to be sensible. After his first pa.s.sionate letter, she'd grown increasingly deflated as Seth's behaviour hadn't been remotely amorous. How she had beaten herself up, wondering if she'd repelled him coming on too strong at lunch, when he'd never meant anything in the first place. How he must only have dropped in so often to gaze at Trixie. Wryly she looked at her single bed: Take back the hope you gave I claim Only a memory of the same.

Would it be sacrilege to put a teaspoon in the neck of a magnum of champagne and have a gla.s.s now?

The flying cork nearly took Martin's eye out, as he popped in wearing a dinner jacket, bound for a New Year's Eve jaunt.

'Mother!'

'I'm not taking your children out tomorrow. I'm going to watch Mrs Wilkinson.'

'Mother!'

'And I'm going to have several gla.s.ses of champagne now, so I'm sure you won't consider me a responsible enough person to babysit this evening. Happy New Year, Etta,' she added, and slammed the door in Martin's face.

Then she looked in the mirror. The cowardly lion was roaring.

89.

If the sea saved Mrs Wilkinson's legs, Cheltenham, putting down enough frost cover for twenty-five football pitches, saved racing on New Year's Day. The covers had now been rolled up like black brandy snaps and sent off to Sandown to save racing later in the week. There was something schizophrenic about thick snow on the surrounding fields and ring of hills, their woods silvered with h.o.a.rfrost, and the bright green course below.

Etta stuck to her last and insisted on staying in to watch the race. Poppy and Drummond opted to stay with her, partly because Mr Marcel had presented her with a huge basket of fruit. Etta didn't tell them she'd rung Joey earlier and asked him to put 2 for each child and 30 for herself on Mrs Wilkinson, whose odds had shortened to 101. She tried, however, to explain to them about betting.

'If I put on a pound, I get eleven back.'

'Why?' said Drummond, eating grapes.

'If it's 74 like Ilkley Hall, and I put on a four pounds, I get eleven back.'

'Why?'

It was frustrating only to get a glimpse of the syndicate gathering in the parade ring. Nice that Ione, in a Saturn-ring fur hat, had accompanied Alban. Perhaps Cheltenham was warmer than Willowwood Hall.

She could see Corinna (who'd told the Daily Mail Daily Mail her New Year's resolution was 'to give up smoking and Seth Bainton'), Seth (how could she ever face him again?) and Alan, all in dark gla.s.ses, obviously with fearful hangovers. There was Phoebe, voluminous green cloak covering her still non-existent b.u.mp. her New Year's resolution was 'to give up smoking and Seth Bainton'), Seth (how could she ever face him again?) and Alan, all in dark gla.s.ses, obviously with fearful hangovers. There was Phoebe, voluminous green cloak covering her still non-existent b.u.mp.

At least Etta wouldn't have to relay every moment of the race to her. Five minutes to the off pre-recorded film was now showing the twelve runners circling the parade ring.

All eyes were on Ilkley Hall, the black and beautiful favourite with his white zigzag blaze, and on Mich.e.l.le, slinky in tight black leather jeans and a waisted scarlet jacket with a red fur-lined hood, as she led him up.

Ilkley Hall was followed by another of Mrs Wilkinson's old rivals, Cosmo Rannaldini's Internetso and by two younger horses, Last Quango, which Harvey-Holden had sold for vast profit to Lester Bolton, and a flashy chestnut gelding called Merchant of Venus, trained by Rupert Campbell-Black.

If only I were there to gaze at Rupert, thought Etta.

She was so nervous, she could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down her sides. She took a huge gulp of champagne.

'Here's Wilkie,' shrieked Poppy. 'Doesn't she look lovely.'

Etta had to fight back the tears as Mrs Wilkinson came dancing out in her patchwork rug. Chisolm, in a red Christmas bow, followed, irked that the public were warming their hands on cups of coffee or soup rather than eating ice creams. Etta was so pleased to see the crowds clapping and smiling as they pa.s.sed: 'Welcome back, Wilkie, Happy New Year, Chisolm.'

She knew she was being sentimental but as Wilkie jigjogged past, ears p.r.i.c.ked, she kept turning her head as though she were searching for Etta, wanting to give that rumbling thunderous whicker of pleasure.

'You'll see her again soon, Granny.' Poppy took Etta's hand.

Oh, there was Lester Bolton, shaved head covered by a brown trilby, and Cindy smothered in white furs like the Snow Queen.

'This is boring,' grumbled Drummond, grabbing the remote control.

'Don't you dare,' snapped Etta.

'Oh look, there's Rupert talking to Rogue, who's riding Merchant of Venus.'

Then she gave a gasp of horror as the list of runners and riders came up, and she realized Killer O'Kagan, back in circulation after his year-long ban, had flown in from Ireland at the last moment to ride Ilkley Hall. The young Irish jockey Johnnie Brutus had been demoted to Last Quango and Dare Catswood jocked off altogether.

Because she in turn had been off since June, Mrs Wilkinson had never come up against the dreaded Killer before.

Oh G.o.d, what evil schemes might Shade and H-H be cooking up? For a minute into shot came Olivia in blond furs and Shade in a black fur hat, both richly brown from skiing. By contrast Killer, skeletal thin but huge across the shoulder, his thumb constantly caressing his whip, was white as the snowflakes tumbling down. Malevolence gave a green tinge to Harvey-Holden's ratty little face. What a terrifying quartet, plotting, caballing.

Etta caught a glimpse of Marius ignoring his ex-wife as much as Amber was ignoring Rogue. Etta had no idea how hopelessly Amber had been thrown earlier in the day to see Rogue lounging, muscular thighs apart, on Channel 4's programme The Morning Line The Morning Line.

Although Merchant of Venus had a spectacular turn of foot, Rogue had told the panel, Ilkley Hall would probably win the race. Mrs Wilkinson, he went on, didn't have his cruising speed, but it was nice to have her back and her jockey Amber Lloyd-Foxe would certainly win the beauty stakes. He'd then gone on to talk about the likelihood of his retaining his champion jockey t.i.tle.

Rafiq, watching at Throstledown, had nearly kicked the television in.

Both Killer and Rogue had already notched up a hundred winners.

'You beat me last year, but I'll have my t.i.tle 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 s.p.a.ce 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' screamed Etta, as Killer, his face even whiter and crueller, his reins deceptively loose in his left hand, thrashed the h.e.l.l 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, b.u.mping her, denying her running room. For a second she reeled from the b.u.mp but held steady and pushed through.

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' screamed Etta, 'lay off Mrs Wilkinson, you f.u.c.ker.'

'Granny!' said Poppy in horror.

'Get your a.r.s.e into gear,' screamed Drummond.

'Drummond!' said Poppy, appalled, then, 'Go on, Wilkie, f.u.c.king 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 Mich.e.l.le 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' 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.' Mich.e.l.le 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 l.u.s.ting 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 gla.s.s and pouring a quarter each for Poppy and Drummond, he said Mrs Wilkinson was 'tres pet.i.te 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?'