by Jilly Cooper
Rupert had recently come across an utterly brilliant saying by Havelock Ellis, that ‘What we call progress is the exchange of one nuisance for another nuisance.’
One nuisance recently had been the incessant wet weather, which had meant that horses, who prefer quick ground, hadn’t run at their best, or not at all. Another nuisance was Young Eddie, his grandson. Having been a successful flat jockey in America, Eddie had grown too heavy and come over to England to try his luck over jumps. The fact had to be faced: he wasn’t good enough, his forte being split-second timing and the ability to ride a finish needed on the flat – like driving a Ferrari rather than the four-wheel-drive of jump racing. The opposite of Gavin Latton, who settled and relaxed whatever he was riding, Eddie over-egged horses and was screwing up too many of Rupert’s. Irresistible to most girls, Eddie had, however, grounded himself by acquiring an extremely pretty girlfriend, Etta Bancroft’s granddaughter, Trixie, who was about to have Seth Bainton’s baby. Rupert very much doubted if Eddie was stepfather any more than jump-jockey potential. Teenaged Trixie, who planned to go to Oxford, also seemed far too intellectual for him.
Old Eddie, Rupert’s father, was another nuisance. He was getting more and more senile, walking starkers into a stallion parade last year and cantering along beside his beloved Love Rat, whom he insisted on visiting every day, accompanied by one of his aggravating carers.
Having watched yet another race, Rupert then got caught up in the difficult birth of a very large, late foal. Finally, going back to the house to make it up with Taggie, he found curling roast beef in the oven, and Taggie fast asleep but still dressed on their bed. Even when he pulled off her clothes and admired her beautiful body, she didn’t stir. Putting a duvet over her, vowing to pay more attention to his marriage, Rupert returned to the stud office and settled down to working out which horses to run at Royal Ascot in order to make the most prize money to bump up Love Rat and Peppy Koala’s earnings.
Finding a bottle of water in Gavin’s drawer he took a swig and, encountering neat vodka, spat it out. Gavin would have to be sorted.
5
Six months later, Gavin Latton celebrated (perhaps the wrong word) six months without a drink. Aware if he lapsed that Rupert, who’d paid for his three months in rehab, wouldn’t let him back on a horse, which was where his genius lay, he had opted to work over Christmas and on New Year’s Eve, when Team Campbell-Black were all getting hammered at the Dog and Trumpet down the road.
There should have been two of them on duty, but ‘Woluptuous, woluble’ Marketa from the Czech Republic, who couldn’t say her ‘vs’, hadn’t showed up. Gavin was relieved. Apart from a distant din of parties, the stud was quiet. No foals were expected. It was just a question of touring the boxes, filling up knocked-over water buckets, adjusting rugs and checking on one-eared Safety Car, who insisted on sleeping out in the fields, wrapped in his six sheep friends, with only a three-sided shed for cover. Safety Car whickered, nudged Gav in the belly and accepted a carrot, but the sleeping sheep didn’t stir.
Gavin looked up at the winter stars, a glittering zoo overhead. There was Lepus the Hare lurking out of the way of Orion’s Dogs, not to mention Taurus the Bull and Monoceros the Unicorn: constellations he’d taught himself during so many sleepless nights or when he had ridden out before the sun rose. He could see the russet glow of Rutminster and what, he wondered, would the New Year bring? He must accept that his marriage was over. Early on, Bethany had mocked him because desire had made him come too quickly. Later, drink, to blot out the pain of her infidelity, had rendered him impotent – mocked too by the plunging, potent stallions around him and the easy promiscuity of the stable lasses in the yard with their iron thighs and their thrusting movements.
‘Why don’t you go to a sex therapist?’ Bethany taunted him. ‘Or thera-pissed in your case.’ She wasn’t even satisfied when he stopped drinking. ‘At least you were fun when you were drunk.’
Ironically, even if it didn’t tempt Bethany, giving up the booze had given Gav back his looks. His thick dark hair was clean and glossy, his slate-grey eyes no longer puffy, though heavily shadowed, his eyeballs white, his olive skin clear, his stomach flat.
Now back in the stud office, he was surrounded by black leather head collars, grooming kits, first aid kits, Christmas cards and fridges full of colostrum: frozen mares’ milk to build up a newborn foal’s immunity. Reluctantly, because there was work to be done, he didn’t pick up Wilkie, the story of Mrs Wilkinson, by Etta’s son-in-law Alan Macbeth. The book was touching and very funny, especially the bits about the goat Chisolm, and had become a massive bestseller. Half the yard had given it to each other for Christmas.
Instead Gavin turned back to a pile of requests from breeders, avid – particularly if they were women – to bring their mares to Rupert’s stallions. His job was to check if the mares were good enough. Here was a chestnut who’d won three Group Two races and the Irish Oaks. Love Rat loved chestnuts, so a tick for her.
Gavin knew that Rupert was looking forward to the imminent birth of two foals: the first Mrs Wilkinson’s, the second to his favourite brood mare, My Child Cordelia, another chestnut who’d produced winner after winner. Both foals were likely to be future stars and boost Love Rat’s earnings and his popularity.
‘Coo-ee, coo-ee,’ cried a voice. Fuck it, it was Celeste, the stud nympho, hardly covered by a gold tunic, showing off a ravine of cleavage, beech-leaf red mane snaking nearly below the groin-level skirt, green eyes slightly glazed, but avid for plunder.
Oh Christ, thought Gavin as, tottering on seven-inch heels, she fell deliberately into his arms.
‘Marketa got hammered at lunchtime and carried on drinking. She’s out of it, so I offered to take her slot. Sorry I’m late.’
As she gave him a long wet kiss on the mouth, her tongue probing and exploring, she tasted of drink. Gavin recoiled in horror.
‘Stop being such a virgin,’ she chided. ‘I’ve brought some booze,’ she produced a bottle of brandy out of her bag, ‘to cheer you up.’
‘You know I don’t drink and I’m married,’ Gav tried to joke.
‘No point in being faithful when your slag of a wife had the gall to come into the pub with that vile Brute Barraclough. Don’t get what she sees in him when you’re so fit.’
‘A bloody good fuck, probably. No, I don’t want a drink. I’d better check the horses.’
‘Kiss me first.’ Celeste wound a hand round his neck. In those heels she was the same height as him. He felt her breasts squirming against him as she whispered, ‘There’s an empty box next door.’
She was very pretty. Gavin felt a flicker of lust but was not prepared to risk the humiliation of not getting it up. As he kissed her back, she was encouraged. If she couldn’t manage to pull Rupert and only occasionally Young Eddie, whose girlfriend had just had someone else’s baby, Mr Lean and Moody would do nicely, and it would give her a buzz to beat every other stable lass to getting him into his bed.
‘Stop it,’ he told her, removing a hand that was creeping inside his jeans. ‘We’re working.’
Setting out on his rounds of mares in foal, he was amazed to find Cordelia, who wasn’t due for another month, sweating up, pacing her box, looking at her belly and scraping her bed of straw. Next moment there was a giant splash as her waters broke.
‘Christ, she’s foaling – come quickly!’ Gavin shouted to Celeste.
‘Shall I ring Rupert, or the Dog and Trumpet?’ bleated Celeste in terror.
‘Too late, got to pitch in.’
It must have been the quickest birth in history. Cordelia hardly had time to push with her powerful abdominal muscles before a very small foal, feet first, its hooves under its nose, emerged into the world. After a few minutes Cordelia struggled to her feet, whickering with joy, and a moment later, the afterbirth followed. Gavin told Celeste to put it in a bucket and weigh it.
‘I think that’s everything out, beautiful little thing,’ he added in delight, �
�and, bloody marvellous, it’s a colt.’
Cordelia bent her head to examine a foal much darker than herself with a white star on his forehead and one white sock.
‘Oh how sweet,’ sighed Celeste, despite having blood all over her gold silk tunic.
After they had washed down mare and foal, both were installed in a huge bed of straw piled up high round the side of the box. Whickering with love and pride, Cordelia was licking the foal, who was sticking out his tongue, making sucking noises, and trying to clamber to his feet.
Then, while Celeste gave the mare a drink of water and a warm wet mash and the foal an enema to get rid of any harmful substances, Gav in the office next door filled in the Record of Foaling form. This was admittedly much easier now he didn’t drink, as he stated the time the waters had broken, the name of the sire, Love Rat, and the dam, My Child Cordelia, and the colour of the foal.
Any unusual behaviour in foaling? No. Presentation of foal? Normal. Time waters broke? 10.54. Time of foaling? 10.58. That was incredibly quick, reflected Gav. Time mare stood up? 11.10. Was mare quiet to foal and quiet with foal? ‘Yes, yes, the little darling,’ Gav wrote in joyfully.
As the foal struggled to his feet, found the nipple and began to suckle, dirty, bloodstained, triumphant, Gav and Celeste looked on and joyfully hugged each other.
‘We deserve a drink too,’ said Celeste, getting out her bottle of brandy as they returned to the office.
‘There’s probably some Coke in the fridge,’ said Gav, taking the bottle to fill up a mug for her.
Then he nearly dropped the bottle, as rollicking over the midnight air came the bells of All Saints Church, Penscombe, ringing in the New Year. Looking out of the cobweb-strewn window, he could see fireworks exploding.
‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,’ groaned Gav. The worst had happened.
‘What’s the matter? It’s midnight now, so you can kiss me properly. Happy New Year.’
‘Don’t you realize, that little colt’s a year old now.’
‘Happy New Yearling,’ giggled Celeste.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid. Have you forgotten one of the silliest rules of racing? All horses have their birthday on January the first. This means that whatever day they are born on, the year before, they’re officially one on Jan One. So even though that foal’s hardly an hour old, as a racehorse he’s now one. Next January the first, when he’s only a yearling, he’ll be officially regarded as a two-year-old, expected to go into training and run in two-year-old races. Then on the next January the first, he’ll be not two, but officially three and expected to compete with three-year-olds in classics like the Guineas and the Derby. His career is fucked.’
‘Happy New Yearling,’ repeated Celeste, taking a slug of brandy out of the bottle. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Chuck away that form.’ Scrumpling it up, Gavin dropped it into the bin and hid it in a pile of bloodstained towels. ‘We’ve got to fill in another form, to say it was born after midnight.’ Then, when Celeste looked alarmed: ‘I’ll take the rap. You’ve just got to promise to keep your trap shut and no one will know.’
‘What happens if you’re found out?’
‘Rupert would get a hefty fine, might even lose his licence. That’s why he must never know, because any races the colt wins, posing as a two-year-old, would be disqualified.’
‘Do you think it’s safe?’ Celeste took another slug.
They looked into the box next door, where Cordelia was gazing down so proudly at the little colt who’d collapsed back on the straw.
‘Look at him, he deserves a future.’
Gav seized a new form, changing the date of birth to 1 January and recording that the waters broke at 12.16 and the foal was born at 12.20. By the time he’d finished filling it in, both he and Celeste were sweating more than the mare had done earlier.
‘Are you sure we won’t get into trouble? Rupert can’t blame us if she was born too early.’
‘We couldn’t have prevented it,’ Gav said. ‘Rupert’s been good to me, saved my career. I’m not going to fuck up the prospects of one of the best homebreds and his beloved Love Rat’s foal. I’d better go and ring him.’
Glad of an excuse to leave his in-laws’ party across the valley, Rupert came straight over. Even asleep in the straw with his coat ruffled and still a little damp, Rupert was ecstatic to recognize a ravishing colt. Taking the foaling record, however, and knowing how fatal would be the alternative, he raised an eyebrow.
‘Sure it was January the first?’
‘Quite sure – even Mrs Wilkinson’s book couldn’t keep me awake. I crashed out briefly, then suddenly, thank God, I was woken by the church bells, checked on the mares, saw Cordelia was sweating and pawing her belly. Then her waters broke, followed by the quickest birth ever.’
For a second, as he and Rupert looked at each other, Gav held his gaze.
‘Sure?’
‘Quite.’
‘Good, I’ll take your word for it.’ Rupert looked at the two glasses.
‘I was about to have a Coke. I wouldn’t have been able to fill in that form with a steady hand in the old days.’
‘Good, well done, well done, Celeste.’
‘She was terrific,’ said Gav. ‘First foaling, kept her cool.’
‘Good girl,’ said Rupert. ‘Sure it was January the first, not December?’
‘Of course.’ Celeste’s knowing green eyes were the picture of honesty. ‘I didn’t know it mattered until Gav explained about Jan first being their birthday. He came out so easily, we were so relieved everything went OK.’
‘Better call him New Year’s Dave,’ said Rupert. He looked at his watch. ‘The two o’clock shift’ll be on in a minute. You’d better both come and have a drink – or a cup of coffee,’ he added to Gav, who was reluctant to leave the colt.
Celeste, however, was dying to see inside Rupert’s house. He looked so lush in that dinner suit, and he might even open a bottle of bubbly.
‘We’d love to, just get my bag.’ She scuttled back into the office.
Rupert was euphoric. Not least that Gav hadn’t cracked under pressure and had a drink.
‘Christmas must be hell for you,’ he said. ‘But well done.’ He then added that Gav could start riding work, which meant exercising the horses, next week.
The evening had been such a strain, Gav clenched his jaw not to break down.
‘Thanks, he’s a lovely colt.’
‘Jan One also marks the start of the new Leading Sire season for Europe and GB. I’m going to need you to rake in the winners.’
Rupert had been desperate to get Gav right, not just to train and ride the horses but also to see that no star slipped through the net at the sales. It also gave Rupert the added satisfaction of rescuing him and profiting from his genius, when Cosmo Rannaldini and Isa Lovell, for whom Gav had worked previously, had so brutally discarded and demoralized him.
Seeing them deep in conversation, Celeste plunged her hand into the bin, scrabbling round to retrieve the bloodstained scrumpled-up form headed: Penscombe Stud, Record of Foaling, and thrust it into her frilly gold bra.
She could hear voices outside; the relief watch had arrived and New Year’s Dave was no doubt being shown off. With any luck Gavin might want to take her bra off later, reflected Celeste, and transferred the Record of Foaling instead to the inside pocket of her bag. One day it might come in useful.
6
An irritating, often bewildering aspect of Rupert’s character was the way he tolerated people like porn star Cindy Bolton because she was so dreadful, she made him laugh. On the other hand, he didn’t like Etta, who he thought was a drip – this because she had so disapproved of his training methods that when her now-husband Valent had transferred Mrs Wilkinson to Penscombe before the Grand National, she had boycotted the race.
Nor could he understand why Valent had dumped Bonny, his ravishingly pretty actress girlfriend, for such a dog as Etta; pity she couldn’t be dumped like the re
st of the Willowwood syndicate. However, love me, love my dog. Rupert realized that Valent was bats about Etta and if he wanted control of Mrs Wilkinson and her impending foal and any deal in China, he had better win her over and take her a present.
After New Year’s Dave’s unexpectedly early arrival, Rupert was determined to take no chances with Mrs Wilkinson’s foal. But he got caught up with flying eight horses out to the Meydan carnival in Dubai in search of decent prize money. All the world’s star jockeys were out there, and Rupert was delighted when his stable jockey, Lionel ‘Lion’ O’Connor, fought off many other overseas riders to win seven races.
Back in England, Rupert set out on the day after Valentine’s Day, which marked the beginning of the covering season, to visit Etta in Willowwood.
Despite being paid £5,000 each by Valent for their individual shares, Mrs Wilkinson’s syndicate had not been pleased to be discarded, particularly on learning that Rupert, who had the Midas touch, was involved. When she wasn’t scuttling along with her granddaughter, Trixie’s new baby, in his pram down Willowwood High Street to avoid them, Etta had been kept very busy making sure Valent’s first birthday since their marriage, which fell on Valentine’s Day, had been particularly special and excitedly getting ready for Mrs Wilkinson’s foal.
For this she had ensured she had brought in suitable mineral and vegetable supplements. Plenty of colostrum to strengthen the foal’s immunity was stored in the fridge. She had mugged up on the care of the udder. On the kitchen table she had amassed a basic kit of tail bandages and bin liners for the afterbirth, disposable gloves, antiseptics for the navel dressing, enemas for the foal, two buckets in different shades of purple for water and for feed, and a set of bright-orange over-trousers and over-shirt topped by a matching baseball cap to keep her hair out of the way. These Etta couldn’t resist trying on. As the mirror in Valent’s kitchen had been hung for a man and he was a good eight inches taller than her, she clambered on to the dark-red sofa to have a look. The orange clashed hideously with her pink face, but everyone would be looking at the foal.