by Jilly Cooper
As they trundled along, Dora amused them with anecdotes from a book on Newmarket.
‘Did you know that Gala’s hero, Charles II, was one of the few kings that ever rode a winner at Newmarket, and that the Rowley Mile, the demanding, undulating course over which both Two Thousand and One Thousand Guineas are run, was named after him, or rather after “Old Rowley”, Charles II’s favourite hack who later became a prepotent sire like himself?’
‘Like Rupert Black,’ said Eddie, chewing gum to stop himself eating the chocolate Louise was handing round.
‘The Rowley Mile,’ went on Dora, ‘is the finest, toughest test of thoroughbreds in the world. Please note, Quickly,’ as another agonized whinny echoed through the lorry.
‘Oh listen.’ Dora started to laugh. ‘William III also adored Newmarket, and won a match race there on a horse called Stiff Dick. Can you imagine the commentary? “And now Stiff Dick is coming up the inner”.’
‘Better than Floppy Dick,’ bitched Cathal.
‘Hush, he’ll be back next week,’ chided Louise.
They were nearing Newmarket, travelling down a green lane called Six Mile Bottom.
‘Good name for I Will Repay’s groom Harmony – she’s got a vast arse,’ said Cathal.
‘Oh shut up, Quickly. Should I go and check?’ wailed Gala.
‘No, we don’t want him escaping.’
Back at Penscombe, despite yard and stud being interrupted by increasingly desperate telephone calls from Gala, ‘Quickly’s doing his nut,’ there was still no sign of Purrpuss.
Taggie, wondering what to pack, which she always did at the last moment not to upset the dogs, took out a powder-blue suit, which was not really warm enough. The forecast was wet and very cold. She’d laid out Rupert’s lucky blue and green striped shirt, but couldn’t decide on a lucky tie – the lucky shocking-pink one covered in black cats would hardly match.
Sapphire, of the blonde curls and huge blue eyes, was staying the night while her mother Tabitha went to her husband Wolfie’s première in Paris. She was playing with Eamonn, Taggie’s big childhood teddy bear that lived at the end of the double bed.
‘Can I come to Nudemarket with you, Granny?’ she asked Taggie, who laughed.
‘That’s a good name for it, darling.’
‘And I know how babies come out, but how do they go into the mummy?’
Taggie was saved from answering by Gropius who rushed in, yapping furiously, wriggling his little body, grinning and beckoning her to follow him, yap, yap, along the passage, up the stairs, yap, yap, yap, to a distant unused box room. Suddenly, over the yaps, Taggie heard a faint mew.
Tugging open the warped door, choking on the dust as she stepped over old Racing Posts and Horse & Hounds festooned with cobwebs, the mewing increased. How could he be shut in here? Pulling open the middle drawer of an old chest of drawers, she found an outraged Purrpuss, leaving black hair over ancient tablecloths.
‘Oh poor old boy, how long have you been here?’
As Purrpuss jumped out, Gropius bounded forward to welcome him and gave a shriek, as the ungrateful cat delivered a punishing right hook. Taggie carried Purrpuss back to the kitchen and immediately left messages on Rupert’s and Gala’s mobiles. Two minutes later, Rupert called back.
‘How the hell did that cat get shut in there? Must have been deliberate. We’ll take him down to Newmarket, or Quickly’ll exhaust himself. I’ll be home in twenty minutes, we’ll leave at one.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got filthy hair and Sapphire for the night and I haven’t packed. Can I go tomorrow?’
‘No, come now. Tell Geraldine to organize the flight, and ring Noel at the Bedford Lodge – tell him we need a room for tonight.’
‘I haven’t got time,’ wailed Taggie.
Thank God for Jan.
‘Don’t worry, mam, I’ll look after Timon and Sapphire.’
‘But I haven’t fed the dogs and Gropius likes different dog biscuits and …’
‘I’ll feed the dogs and the birds in the morning and the badgers. I’m going to start a zoo.’ He smiled and Taggie began to relax.
‘I must get Purrpuss’s cat-basket.’
‘It’s in the hall. Go and have a shower, mam. I’ll pack for you.’
‘The forecast is frightful. I need my dark-brown boots.’ But she’d never looked very good in the sludge colours and khakis favoured by the racing fraternity.
Jan got a white trench-coat and a red trilby out of her wardrobe. ‘That’ll look great.’ He plonked it on her head. ‘Stunning, mam.’
‘I mustn’t forget Rupert’s lucky shirt.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Jan was shovelling underwear into the side pocket of her suitcase. ‘That was the bra you used for Forester’s lead.’
‘I want to go to Nudemarket,’ cried Sapphire.
Somehow Jan got her packed.
‘You’re a miracle,’ gasped Taggie, hugging him.
‘Come back soon, mam,’ said Jan, holding her a little longer than necessary, listening to the pounding of her heart then, looking down at her, he planted a kiss on her forehead.
‘The house’ll be horribly empty without you.’ Holding a beaming Sapphire by the hand he waved them off.
‘Thank God Sapphy adores him,’ sighed Taggie.
‘There’s not a bird he hasn’t charmed off the trees,’ said Rupert, as he revved up the helicopter. ‘Expect he’s stolen Louise’s magpie. And how the fuck did that cat get shut in the drawer?’
Livid at having to exchange one prison for another, Purrpuss yowled all the way to Newmarket. It was then quite a rigmarole getting him into the racecourse stables. Any doubts security might have had, however, were dispelled by the warmth of the reunion. As Quickly went into a thunder of whickering, which was augmented by Fleance, Chuck-off and even sourpuss Touchy Filly leaning out of next-door boxes, Purrpuss jumped on to Quickly’s neck, purring even louder before settling down to wash his ears. Having eaten a huge supper of tuna and Whiskas, Purrpuss-full snuggled up under the warmth of Quickly’s rug and, clearly exhausted, went to sleep. Only then would Quickly agree to wolf down feed and hay, pausing every so often to give Purrpuss a gentle nudge.
‘Aah!’ said everyone, as Dora took a lot of pictures to post on to Quickly’s Facebook page.
‘Take some of Gala and Quickly,’ said Rupert, putting a hand on Gala’s shoulders. ‘You OK?’
‘I am now. Thank you so much for bringing him.’
Having checked all the horses, Rupert said, ‘Well done, everyone. Go and have a large drink on me, but only one, and I want you all in bed early and alone.’ And he went off to join Taggie for dinner.
45
Gala was so nervous for Quickly and Eddie, she couldn’t sleep a wink or eat any breakfast in the stable lads’ canteen. There were three big races before the Guineas, so she had time with Jemmy, Marketa and Louise to wander round and take photographs of each other in front of the statue of the great Eclipse, the founder of the English thoroughbred, unbeaten in eighteen starts.
The papers were really dissing Quickly. ‘“Under the shadow of nearly losing his licence last year”,’ read Dora gloomily, ‘“and a poor start to the season, Rupert Campbell-Black is unlikely to redeem his reputation when his only classic contender today is the temperamental Master Quickly, off the track for seven months for lying down in the stalls at Rutminster. One wonders at the wisdom of running him without the benefit of a prep race or even a racecourse gallop, and putting up a jockey whose main claim to fame is being Rupert’s grandson. Master Quickly is 33–1, will he start? With a vast crowd, unlikely”.
‘Good thing Quickly can’t read,’ Dora sighed.
By contrast, the well-behaved I Will Repay, winner of the Craven Stakes and two Derby Trials, was a massive favourite at 1–2. Dark brown, with his sire’s upside-down L-shaped white blaze between his big, kind brown eyes, he adorned the cover of Racing Post with a headline ‘REPAY BACK TIME’.
‘Everything has gone
to plan,’ said his normally taciturn trainer Isa Lovell. ‘He is simply the best horse I have ever trained.’
Never missing an opportunity to gloat, Cosmo had taken a page in the race card, showing Roberto’s Revenge – ‘The most exciting stallion in the world’ – then devoting a second page to his latest and classiest foals.
‘Sleep well, Quickly,’ tweeted I Will Repay.
Flaunting a Dubai suntan, wafting Bleu aftershave, Isa’s jockey Tarqui McGall drifted into the weighing room to find valets polishing boots and hanging up silks, and jockeys in various states of undress. Chucking down Louis Vuitton bags, with a clatter of deodorant and diet pills, Tarqui got out gel to coax up dark hair flattened by a helmet, and proceeded to tell a Channel 4 interviewer there was no way I Will Repay could be beat. Glancing at the television screen, which listed the runners in the next race, accompanied by little photographs of their jockeys, he grumbled: ‘That’s a shit picture. I need a better one.’
Then, catching sight of Eddie in his underpants, ‘Hello, pretty boy. Grandpa’s put you up, has he? Only way you’ll get a ride in a Classic. Not that you will, because Quickly won’t go, particularly in front of this crowd. Hope you’ve given him lots of black coffee.’
‘Don’t rise,’ murmured Geoffrey’s jockey, Dermie O’Driscoll. ‘He’s deliberately winding you up, knowing it will stress Quickly.’
Once dressed, Tarqui’s clothes were weighed down by sponsors’ names. Above his coccyx were painted the words American Bravo, which was Cosmo’s father’s record company.
‘Ought to say Tradesman’s Entrance, with an arrow pointing downwards, the goddam faggot,’ spat Eddie.
The goddam faggot proceeded to get a double in the next two races.
Rupert, as has been said, had got permission from his friend Amy Starkey, Newmarket’s Managing Director, for Quickly to miss the Guineas parade where, led by I Will Repay, whose odds had shortened to 1–3, the fifteen runners would walk in numerical order past the stand and then go straight down to the start.
The course was well named Nudemarket. On a bitterly cold day, the flat landscape stretched to infinity, punctuated by pylons, a few brave trees and a sense of history. A vicious crosswind fretted flags, ruffled manes and thrashed the yellow gorse flowers. It had started to rain an hour before the big race, silvering the grass, driving off the punters, red, yellow and blue umbrellas shooting up like magic mushrooms. Clare Balding was diving under brollies to interview luminaries.
‘How’s Master Quickly?’ she asked Etta and Valent.
‘Working well at home. He’s more furnished and mentally mature.’ Using her latest phrases, Etta crossed her fingers.
Having polished Quickly to a pitch of silver perfection, Gala nipped into the Ladies to do her face, putting concealer on the dark circles under her eyes. Even though the rain would wash it away, she wanted to look good for Rupert. She was wearing the regulation Campbell-Black waterproof navy-blue jacket and trousers, and a blue bandeau to hold down her shaggy, tawny curls. Her hands were shaking so much she was just repairing the damage caused by a deviant mascara wand when she heard sobbing and Harmony, I Will Repay’s bulky stable lass, stumbled out, blowing her nose on loo paper.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Gala.
‘I’ve fed, groomed, mucked out and cared for Repay since he was a yearling. I’ve taken him to every race, got him up lovely today, and now he’s going to be led up by that bitch Sauvignon,’ Harmony’s tears doubled, ‘because Cosmo doesn’t like fat, ugly girls.’
‘You’re not ugly,’ stormed Gala. And, although she knew Rupert forbade his staff to consort with the enemy, she put her arm round Harmony’s huge, heaving shoulders. ‘You’re not ugly at all, you’ve got lovely eyes, and Repay will hate someone else leading him up.’
‘Gala, come on!’ yelled Marketa in horror. ‘The runners are already in the parade ring.’ Seizing Gala’s arm, she dragged her outside. ‘Rupert’ll get really windictive if he catches you talking to her.’
Lads formally dressed in suits and ties were walking their charges round a parade ring, crowded out with press, owners and trainers. Geoffrey shuffled along, sleepwalking, led by Rosaria Barraclough, while her husband chatted up owners.
Among the other runners were Tommy Westerham’s Mobile Charger, Chas Norville’s Unsocial Worker, and Cosmo’s second horses, Boris Badenough and Bone to Pick. A great deal of money had gone on the French colt Leconte de Lisle, ridden by the French ace, Manu de la Tour, known as ‘Menu’ because he was always complaining about racecourse food.
Gala was walking Quickly around in his mother’s green brow band, limping where he’d trodden on her toe. Hating the rain, he was lashing his tail. Quickly’s coat would never shine like I Will Repay’s. Nor could she ever compete with the divine Sauvignon, her undulating body and endless legs encased in a black PVC jump-suit, her dark-brown pony tail flowing out of a purple Breeders’ Cup baseball cap to remind everyone of Repay’s former glories.
None of the photographers could take their cameras off her, particularly when I Will Repay won the £200 turnout, and Sauvignon smilingly accepted it.
‘Harmony should have won that,’ said Gala in a loud voice.
‘Not if you’re sixteen stone, most of it spots,’ sneered Sauvignon.
Taggie shivered in her white trench-coat, trilby and horribly uncomfortable new boots, which she’d rushed out and bought that morning, having packed two right ones.
No one looking at Rupert’s still face could guess the fury churning inside him. He felt an absolute prat in this hastily bought olive-green gingham shirt. He had already bitten Taggie’s head off for not packing his blue and green striped one – although she swore she’d put it in – the lack of which was entirely responsible for Tarqui McGall’s double and second in the first three races, and Penscombe’s horses not troubling the judges.
He could throttle little Cosmo, who was exuding complacency and triumph in the parade ring as he shared with Ruth Walton a rose-red umbrella which cast a glow over her lovely features and his normally sallow ones.
Out surged the jockeys to join their connections. Cosmo’s red and magenta silks suited Tarqui’s suntan and lean, powerful body. He was followed by Eddie, teeth chattering, blue with cold as Rupert’s colours.
‘That’s my goal for tonight,’ leered Cathal, nodding at Sauvignon.
‘Christ, look at that girl.’ Noticing her too, Eddie forgot his terrors for a second.
‘Concentrate,’ snapped Rupert, who was trying to brief him. ‘Don’t make your run too early – Quickly thinks he’s won the race if he’s in front too long – but don’t leave it too late. Tarqui specializes in the flying finish.’
‘Where’s your lucky shirt, Rupert? You’re going to need it,’ shouted a punter.
‘Good luck, Eddie,’ chorused Taggie, Etta and Valent as Rupert legged him up.
‘Pretty mediocre race,’ Roddy Northfield was telling Channel 4. ‘When Frankel and Sea the Stars won their Guineas, they blew the other runners away like a dandelion clock.’
46
Dizzy from nerves and lack of food, Gala clutched on to the rail in front of the stands, where she joined Marketa, Harmony and the grooms of the other runners, so they could duck under and retrieve their charges once they’d passed the post.
On the big screen, down at the start awaiting the other runners she could see Eddie looking curiously vulnerable, limbs folded like a daddy-long-legs over the tiny saddle. Beneath him, Quickly was having a mega-strop, tail lashing, head shaking to avoid the icy wind and rain. Next moment he boiled over and took off, back round the course, covering two furlongs before a hauling, bawling Eddie could pull him up and canter back, as the last runner was being loaded.
‘Oh Quickly,’ wailed Gala, winded with disappointment.
‘Thank Christ I didn’t back him. He’s exhausted himself, hasn’t a chance now,’ grumbled Walter Walter as yard and stud back at Penscombe gathered round the television.
As a stall handler in brown and blue grabbed Quickly, he took a nip at him, then pulled away, then bounded forward, then stuck in his toes, as half a dozen handlers weighed in, practically lifting him into his stall. Just nine inches more, and they could slam the gate behind him and get on with the race.
‘Move it, you bugger.’ A flustered Eddie booted Quickly in the ribs.
Tarqui, on the beautifully behaved I Will Repay in the next stall, reached out a black-gloved hand, stroked Quickly’s cheek, ruffled his blond mane and taking his rein coaxed him gently forward.
‘Don’t touch my horse,’ spat Eddie as the gate slammed behind them.
‘Don’t be ungracious, pretty boy, one can do anything with kindness,’ mocked Tarqui. Nearby jockeys grinned.
As Quickly reared up dangerously, the other runners pawed the wet ground, the last handler scuttled to safety, the gates flew open and they were off. First Classic of the season, £178,000 to the winner. Quickly, frantic to escape, shot out ahead of the field. Down the straight course, Gala could see the runners approaching like tiny scrabbling ants.
Slotted in on the rail, behind Boris Badenough, Quickly was not amused to have mud kicked in his face. Eddie was pondering whether to swing out of the line of fire, when Isa’s son Roman Lovell, riding Bone to Pick, moved up on his right, hemming him in, galloping along beside him so he could neither overtake nor accelerate without ramming Bat Out of Hell up the backside.
‘Lemme out, you bastard!’ yelled Eddie.
‘That’s team tactics,’ shouted a furious Gala.
‘Perfectly legitimate,’ said Sauvignon, who was putting on lipstick.
Next moment, the field had plunged into the famous Rowley Mile dip which is like an extra step at the bottom of the stairs – unless a horse is perfectly balanced, which Quickly was not, particularly as the track then shot steeply upwards. Losing momentum, he dropped swiftly back into twelfth place.