by Jilly Cooper
‘Oh dear, that means more rain,’ noted Etta.
As the course was half a mile away from the stables, horses had to leave about fifty minutes before the race. This calmed down some horses because they enjoyed the long walk across the Knavesmire; others became over-excited by the wide-open space and upset by a different routine, particularly if an earlier race was still in progress. Taking no chances, Isa Lovell had opted to box any horses over.
‘I do hope the going won’t be too testing,’ (a new word she had learnt) said Etta.
She and Valent had been invited by the Chairman, Lord Grimthorpe, to lunch in the Ebor Stand. Etta, who was wearing a new daffodil-yellow suit, was far too nervous to do more than toy with a first course of goats’ cheese and asparagus, followed by lobster, crab and prawn salad. She was, however, encouraged to knock back several glasses of magical white wine by the charming trainer on her right, who was called Tommy Westerham. Tommy said he tended to read wine lists rather than books, and was puffing away on an electronic cigarette to help him give up smoking.
‘Training horses,’ he added, ‘is such a stressful profession.’
‘Does that cigarette have any side-effects?’ asked Etta.
‘It’s made me impotent.’ Tommy roared with laughter. ‘No bad thing with four children at boarding school.’
Tommy, who had a big white-faced bay in the Nunthorpe, called Mobile Charger, knew all about Love Rat, Mrs Wilkinson and Quickly.
‘Seems a tricky bugger.’ He also asked lots of questions about Rupert – ‘an even trickier bugger.’
Etta felt comforted but changed the subject to the thrill of having Mrs Wilkinson’s foal running.
‘Having a homebred win,’ agreed Tommy, ‘is the most exciting and satisfying thing in the world. Breeders are a different species, in it for the long haul. They care far more deeply for their horses; they get a sense of dynasty. Colts and fillies you’ve bred are like grandchildren.’
‘Much less of a worry,’ mused Etta, thinking of Trixie back with Seth.
‘I’m not very good with little people,’ confessed Tommy, ‘and not very good with little adults either. Jockeys drive me round the twist, cocky little bastards – particularly the successful ones.’
Across the room, Etta noticed Lord Grimthorpe leaping up to kiss a drenched but pretty dark girl who’d just arrived and was overflowing with apologies and ‘please don’t bothers’ as he found her a chair and whistled up a large drink.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Etta.
‘Darling Rosaria Barraclough, married to the unspeakably vile Brute. She does all the work and he takes all the credit and any money she makes, and sells on any horse that looks like being any good. Today, for instance, she’s had to do all the driving, mucking out and leading up herself because Brute’s taken any remaining lads off to Goodwood. Normally she’d be in the stables roughing it and Brute would be in Hospitality. She’s got an unbelievably plain horse called Geoffrey running in the Gimcrack.’
‘I know Geoffrey,’ said Etta. ‘Quickly beat him at Wolverhampton. Rosaria looks so sweet.’
‘She is. Hi, darling.’ Tommy waved at Rosaria, who went crimson and waved back. ‘Someone ought to rescue her. Do you mind if I eat your lobster?’
‘Oh please, such a waste to leave it.’
Another charming trainer called Chas Norville had sat down in the empty place on Etta’s left, apologizing for being late. Having agreed with her that he was far too nervous to eat, he then wolfed four cream buns, washed down with three large glasses of champagne.
Chas had a three-year-old in the Nunthorpe Stakes, a filly called Trans Jennifer, who turned out to be Quickly’s girlfriend.
‘She’s gorgeous. Perhaps he’ll come out of his gates to keep up with her,’ said Etta hopefully.
‘Did Valent really give you Mrs Wilkinson as a wedding present?’ asked Chas. When Etta nodded, both men said she and Valent must come to their Open Days in Newmarket. Etta was sure they were only being sweet to her because she had a very rich husband who might buy their horses, but she was having fun.
‘Horses are no problem, it’s the owners,’ Chas said. ‘Rupert’s so lucky he’s only got you, who’s clearly adorable, so only himself to please. Imagine the horror when you have two owners in the same race.’
Then, as Cosmo strolled in with Mrs Walton: ‘God knows who’s bankrolling him. I’ve just sold him Trans Jennifer’s half-sister, a beautiful filly, for an absolute fortune. She’s brilliant, bound to win lots of races.’
‘How can you bear to part with her?’
‘Can’t afford to fall in love with horses. I’ve got a hundred people working for me who need to feel secure in their jobs. So I had to sell her.’
‘Oh goodness,’ murmured Etta. ‘There’s Roddy Northfield,’ who was pressing his turbot lips against Rosaria’s hollow cheeks.
‘He’s my owner,’ Tommy told her, ‘and easily the worst. Pompous ass, always shouting if his horses lose.’
‘How on earth,’ Roddy was bellowing to Lord Grimthorpe, ‘did Campbell-Black get that delinquent Quickly into the Nunthorpe?’
‘He’s won two races,’ said Lord Grimthorpe reasonably.
‘Wolverhampton and Windsor, they were flukes. He only beat mediocre horses.’
‘One of which was mine,’ called out Chas.
Roddy looked round. ‘Etta, Etta.’ He changed red-trousered legs briskly. ‘How good to see you. Is Valent here?’
‘He’s over there.’
Glancing across the room, Etta saw that Valent was also having fun with glamorous blondes, one of them Lady Grimthorpe, on either side of him. Looking up, he blew a kiss to her. It was so heavenly not to worry, as she always had with Sampson, her late husband, that Valent might surreptitiously be making assignments.
‘Nice people,’ said Valent, taking her hand afterwards. ‘You look lovely.’
Big racecourses often have wonderful art. On the way out, Etta was enchanted to pass a portrait on the wall of a legendary horse called Voltigeur, whose favourite companion had been a cat, who’d sit for hours on his back. Just like Purrpuss. What a great omen!
Back at Penscombe, the excitement was mounting with all the staff in the stud and the yard gathering round television sets. Leaving Old Eddie having an afternoon sleep, Gala had just slipped out to join them when she felt hands round her breasts and a lingering kiss on the back of her neck. Swinging round, she found a laughing suntanned Young Eddie back from America.
‘What are you doing here?’ shrieked everyone.
‘I knew Grandpa was at York.’
‘Don’t think he’s quite ready to serve up the fatted calf,’ said Gala.
‘It’s not fatted calves I’m interested in.’ Eddie ran his hands up her legs. ‘You’re looking stunning – we must sleep together soon.’
‘Only if Quickly wins tomorrow.’
When Jemmy had put all his wages on Quickly that morning, word had flashed around the bookmaking world. Stable lads usually knew something. As a result, Quickly’s odds shortened dramatically.
Up at York, the two-year-olds were coming into the paddock for the six-furlong Gimcrack watched by Taggie, Rupert and Gav, the two men very tired from racing at Deauville and gruelling sales in America.
Led up by Lark, New Year’s Dave looked an absolute picture as, with ears pricked, he sauntered round the paddock, full of confidence, taking everything in. His dazzling white star set off his gleaming chestnut coat, and on his quarters Lark had stencilled a leopard in recognition of Rupert Black’s legendary sire.
‘She’s marvellous, that girl,’ Rupert murmured to Taggie.
‘That’s Rupert’s Dave,’ said the crowd approvingly.
New Year’s Dave was followed by Geoffrey, shambling, eyelids drooping like a lizard, led up by Rosaria.
‘Give him some Botox,’ yelled another wag in the crowd.
Rosaria blushed and put a protective arm round Geoffrey. Then, as the jockeys came out and her jo
ckey, Dermie O’Driscoll, came over awaiting instructions, she stammered, ‘Thank you so much for riding Geoffrey. He’s a good old boy and much faster than he looks.’
‘He’s fine,’ said Dermie, determined to win for Rosaria because she was so sweet.
The other discomforted person in the parade ring was Gav, who couldn’t stop shaking, and not just from nerves. Nearby, admiring I Will Repay in his radiant dark-brown glory, were Isa Lovell, Cosmo, in a Panama and a very sharp pale-beige suit, and his mistress Mrs Walton. Cosmo, whom Gav had once discovered enjoying a foursome with his ex-wife Bethany and jockeys Ash and Tarqui, who themselves had just strutted up in Cosmo’s scarlet and magenta colours.
‘Poor old Gav,’ Cosmo had sneered at the time. ‘Can’t get it hup, hup, hup,’ and Gav had staggered out into the night and drunk himself insensible, keeping on drinking until Isa had fired him.
‘Still not getting it hup, poor Floppy Dick?’ Cosmo now murmured to Gav as everyone drifted out of the paddock to watch the race.
‘Leave this to me,’ murmured Rupert who’d overheard the exchange, and proceeded to call out: ‘Ruth, darling, how are you?’ Then as Cosmo’s ravishing mistress turned back, delighted to see him, Rupert kissed her lovingly. ‘When are we going to have lunch? You’re not still with that poisoned dwarf surely?’ he added loudly, whereupon Cosmo’s face blackened with rage.
It was an even greater satisfaction to Gav when New Year’s Dave gave Meerkat a flawless ride, weaving through gaps, never breaking his stride, stealing up the inner and mugging I Will Repay, and Tarqui, who was admiring himself in the big screen, on the line. Geoffrey, his spindly legs whirring, was only a nose behind them.
Racing down the course, Lark flung her arms round Dave’s hardly sweating neck. ‘Oh well done, Meerkat! Well done, Dave!’
Hot on her heels was Rosaria. ‘Oh thank you, Dermie, thank you, Geoffrey.’
‘He ran great. He’s bloody fast.’
‘Thank you so much. He did wonderfully.’ Rosaria was reeling with relief. Geoffrey’s third would enable her to pay the wages and feed the horses for another month.
The crowd was ecstatic as Rupert’s royal-blue and emerald colours were superimposed on the course once more. The King was back.
Amid the joyful celebrations at Penscombe, Gala broke off dancing with Young Eddie to give Love Rat a large carrot to celebrate a great win by one of his offspring.
29
Rupert’s ritual at York, which had brought him luck in the past, was to watch his runners, standing by the winner’s podium and smoking a cigar. He wondered how this would work for Quickly, whose turn it was the following day.
Quickly had enjoyed walking across the Knavesmire with Safety Car. So excited were the crowd to see the old warrior with his one ear and straggly tail, that they cheered him to the rooftops; cheers that Quickly assumed were for him. The worry was how he would behave in the parade ring – into which Safety wasn’t allowed. Apart from spooking at Peppa Pig, and walking around on his hind legs, however, Quickly decided to behave himself, not even showing any interest in a disappointed Trans Jennifer.
‘That colt suffers from commitment phobia,’ sighed Louise.
The Nunthorpe was such an important Group One race that the twenty jockeys had to line up in front of their own wooden posters which flagged up their colours, their names and that of their horses. Meerkat, the smallest jockey in the race, was so proud. All this and another good luck card from Gee Gee.
‘Nice ass,’ said Ash, pinching his bottom.
‘Fuck off!’ squealed Meerkat.
‘When are we going to bed again?’ called Rupert across the paddock, deliberately to wind up Cosmo.
‘Naughty,’ giggled Mrs Walton.
Rupert turned back to Valent. ‘Have you backed Quickly?’ he asked quietly.
‘I have.’
‘Well, back him again.’
Rupert was equally economic in his instructions as he looked down at Meerkat’s green and blue quartered cap.
‘Miss the kick and you’re dead. Let him dominate the race – you just steer.’
‘I didn’t know you were breeding centipedes, Rupert,’ mocked Cosmo, because Quickly, still greyhoundy, was about half the size of Ivan the Terrorist, Cosmo’s hunk of a four-year-old, whose coat, being dark brown, gleamed far more glossily. Ivan was being led up by a ravishing brunette in pink hot pants, which was perhaps why Mrs Walton was flirting so pointedly with Rupert.
‘Rupert, Rupert!’ cried an excited Dame Hermione, Cosmo’s diva mother, resplendent in white, with a huge hat, as though a turquoise flying saucer had landed on the side of her head.
Safety Car waited patiently for Quickly outside the parade ring, and such was his reassuring presence, as he ponied him down to the start, that Quickly went straight into his stalls without any fuss.
Ahead was a great green Mississippi of grass. Two minutes to the off, Cosmo and Isa, applying gamesmanship, ensured that both Violetta’s Vengeance and Ivan the Terrorist went down as late as possible, knowing that young Quickly would act up if he had to wait too long.
‘Why can’t they fucking hurry?’ asked Meerkat between chattering teeth, raking Quickly’s mane to calm him as other fretting horses starting bounding and jogging.
‘Fifty-eight seconds and it’ll all be over,’ comforted Dermie O’Driscoll, who was in the next-door stall.
The crowd were boiling over, willing Rupert, still their favourite, to get a double. Ivan the Terrorist was last in … and then they were off – twenty of the fastest horses in training. Exploding out of the starting stalls, Quickly set off at a furious pace, with all the fancied runners – Ivan, Mobile Charger and Trans Jennifer – struggling to keep up, past the red houses and the woods with a deafening thunder of hooves. Flabbergasted, the crowd waited for Quickly to run out of petrol but, like Dave, he ran absolutely straight, finding more and more.
Glancing between his legs, Meerkat would have needed a telescope to see the other runners. Nor was Quickly daunted by the tumult. He galloped even faster, determined to give the yelling hordes on left and right a thrill.
The race, in fact, was eerily reminiscent of Rupert Black’s win more than 200 years ago: Quickly winning by so many lengths that the television screen was empty for an eternity before Ivan the Terrorist and any of the other runners passed the post. Whereupon a stunned silence was followed by the kind of roar that greets a great pianist finishing the Grieg Piano Concerto at the Proms. Quickly had smashed the course record by five seconds.
Many cameras were on Rupert’s face, completely deadpan then suddenly blazing with triumph as he turned and kissed a screaming and ecstatic Taggie. Then he chucked away his cigar, so it landed in the cleavage of Enid Northfield.
‘Rupert, Rupert, Rupert!’ Next moment, he was engulfed by press.
‘What a horse,’ he told a waving flotilla of mikes. ‘No one’s ever seen speed like it.’
Once again, Lark pounded up the course, throwing herself on a red-nostrilled, red-eyed Quickly. Meerkat, riding in to deafening applause, could hardly speak to Channel 4 for the excitement of his first Group One win.
‘He’s absolutely fearless,’ he gabbled.
Then, as a fanfare of trumpets welcomed him into the winners enclosure, he fingered Quickly’s shoulders which were black with sweat. ‘Look where his wings have sprouted – and we should all thank Lark for looking after him – she does Dave proud too.’
‘Don’t forget to touch your hat,’ cried Lark, delighted the next moment to be embraced by an overjoyed Gav.
Quickly had fulfilled his date with destiny.
‘Only beaten mediocre horses,’ repeated Roddy Northfield, fishing Rupert’s cigar butt out of his wife’s cleavage.
‘That’s mine,’ said Enid, snatching it back, ‘and you can hardly call Ivan a mediocre horse, his damsire was Terrible Twin.’
Isa and Cosmo, who’d gone parsnip-yellow with rage, were being debriefed by Isa’s son, Roman Lovell, ba
ck from Australia, who’d ridden Ivan the Terrorist.
‘That Quickly’s a freak, no one could beat him.’
‘BF stands for Bloody Fool, not Beaten Favourite. How could you get so far behind?’ raged Cosmo, getting a sharp look of reproof from Isa, who agreed with Roman that Ivan had run well.
Quickly, preening in a beautiful soft white winner’s rug, perfect for Purrpuss to curl up on, decided he liked crowds. Showing a reluctance to leave the winners enclosure, he tugged off Dame Hermione’s turquoise flying saucer when she tried to shove Mrs Walton aside and give Rupert a congratulatory hug.
Back at Penscombe, a large group from the yard had gathered in the Easy Lay, the bookies in Penscombe village, to watch during their break. They included Jemmy, who’d put all his £3,000 winnings on Dave back on Quickly, who was now 2–1 for the Guineas, which was a classic race for three-year-olds the following year.
Throughout the race, Banquo the Labrador, whom Gala had brought along because he was missing Rupert, kept barking and barking and being told to shut up. It was only after everyone had exploded in excitement and stopped hugging each other over new riches that they glanced round and found Banquo still barking, the bookmaker tied up and a thief who’d emptied the till legging it down Penscombe High Street. Fortunately Eddie, who had been jogging to keep his weight down, accompanied by Banquo, was able to catch up with him and retrieve the takings.
‘Quickly won,’ Gala told Old Eddie when she got back. ‘He just raced away.’
‘Who came second?’ asked Old Eddie.
‘Daylight,’ said Gala.
And back at York, Etta, equally ecstatic as breeder of the winning horse to receive a prize of £6,000, came reeling out of the winners room half an hour later, having consumed several more glasses of champagne and brandishing both a memory stick and a framed photograph of the race which was given to winning connections.
‘So brilliant,’ she cried, tucking her arm through Taggie’s. ‘When heavenly things happen like Quickly winning today, or Valent and my wedding, you don’t remember a thing afterwards unless you have a record.’