by Jilly Cooper
The crowd had been delighted by a huge home win in the penultimate race: the Sheema Classic, triggering off the Dubai national anthem, tantivies from a vast local band, and lots of Arabs kissing each other and rubbing noses. Sheikh Mo did a little dance of delight.
It was time for the jockeys to mount. As Gala and Lark led Quickly over, Gav put two hands on either side of his face.
‘Godspeed, little horse,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve travelled thousands and thousands of miles across the world to get here today, but the next mile and two furlongs are the ones that matter.’ And he kissed Quickly on his pink nose.
God, Gav’s sweet, thought Gala, fighting back the tears. Gav had written his notes on one side of an A4 page.
‘Draw’s awful,’ he told Eddie. ‘You won’t be able to belt across and sit on the rail. Hammond and To Die For are going to grab that position anyway, so keep him wide. But you need to be prominent; don’t linger and try to come from behind. Keep up with the pace, so he won’t get kickback in his face. Relax him as much as you can, then use his turn of foot like a knock-out punch at the end.’ As he legged Eddie up, he smiled. ‘In a word, ride him as you’ve always ridden him – as if you’d stolen him.’
‘Good luck, Eddie,’ cried Lark, as the boy she loved joined the finest jockeys riding the most beautiful horses, except for Geoffrey who as usual looked ugly and half asleep.
‘I think Geoffrey has much the most character,’ said Mr Fat and Happy to Rosaria.
Quickly, who’d been behaving far too well, just to prove that fireworks were not just the prerogative of the Arabs, gave three terrific bucks, then going up on his hind legs, he walked a dozen paces. Eddie laughed and told him not to be silly. As he was riding out on to the course, he suddenly caught sight of Jan. What in hell was he doing here?
‘Christ, I’m nervous,’ piped up Meerkat, as together they cantered down to the start. ‘I’ve just seen Lord Rutshire.’
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Sheikh Mohammed had changed from snuff-brown to French navy, to match the indigo sky.
The fireworks had died out, leaving a smell of sulphur; the desert gleamed pale Labrador yellow. The lights of Dubai, in the distance, were another world. Eddie was suddenly terrified by the malevolence on both the faces of Roman Lovell and Ash, whose breath smelt like sour milk as he rode close.
‘Don’t try any funny tricks, pretty boy, or we’ll get you.’
‘Hell knows no fury like a faggot scorned,’ snapped Eddie.
In sympathy, Quickly flattened his ears, and took a bite at Repay.
‘No one should go near that brute without health insurance,’ hissed Ash, lifting his whip.
Etta and Valent went up into the owners and trainers box to watch the greatest race in the world. Gavin and Gala stayed on the ground; any part of the track they couldn’t see, could be watched on the vast screen.
Dear God, prayed Gala, let both of them come home safe.
Dubai was four hours ahead of Gloucestershire. With evening stables completed, all the staff including Old Eddie were gathered round the yard television. Most of the hospital staff, including James Benson, seemed to have squeezed into Taggie’s room to watch the race as the runners circled on the churned-up dirt.
‘What the fuck’s Eddie doing riding Quickly?’ howled Rupert. ‘Christ, he’d better not screw up.’
They could now see the horses jostling round in the gate … and then they were off, and Roman had surreptitiously knocked Eddie’s whip out of his hand. Bumped on the other side by Ash, when he tried to go wide, Quickly took off, hurtling to the front. Without the moderating presence of a pacemaker Eddie was struggling to restrain him, when he felt the left rein give and come away from the bit. Next second he had lurched to one side and nearly gone out of the back door. Then he saw Geoffrey’s big dirt-splattered face coming up on his right, felt someone grabbing him and with heroic strength tugging him back into the saddle. His saviour had been little Meerkat. He was aware of screams of consternation from the crowd.
‘Thanks,’ he yelled as the loose rein slashed his face. ‘What the hell am I going to do?’
‘Ditch the bridle,’ yelled back Meerkat.
Only one end of the rein had contact with the bit. Even if Eddie leant forward and clutched at the bit rings, he couldn’t steady Quickly and might any moment be catapulted over his head. As Quickly veered towards the rail, the offside cheek-piece gave way. Any moment, the reins might get terrifyingly tangled in Quickly’s flying feet. The only answer was to pull the whole bridle off and fling it over the rails into the darkness.
As most of the field drew level, he must stay wide and not get trapped in the mêlée. All he could do was take hold of Quickly’s blond mane, sit absolutely still and yell: ‘Come on, Quickers, you’ll have to look after me.’
And Quickly, realizing the vulnerability of the man on his back, for once agreed. Suddenly they were back among the buttercups on their first ecstatic gallop at Penscombe.
‘He’ll kill himself,’ cried an anguished Gala, her hand slipping into Gav’s.
Like a Red Indian hurtling across the prairie, raking up the cinnamon-brown dirt, Eddie and Quickly, hugging the far rail, passed the Japanese who’d travelled so badly, and without a side glance from Quickly, passed Manu on Simone de Beauvoir, passed the US ace Hammond Johnson, who seldom got beat on To Die For, passed Roman on Ivan the Terrorist and Ash in Wang’s red and gold colours on Repay, passed the great horses of the Sheikhs and from Irish Ballydoyle, finally overtaking Meerkat trundling along on Geoffrey – and surged into the lead.
There was no way of putting the lid on Quickly. Eddie could only guide him by shifting his body.
‘Dear God,’ prayed Eddie, ‘don’t let him run out of gas.’
‘He’s going to do it!’ yelled Rupert, sitting on Taggie’s bed, watching in the grey five o’clock daylight and cheered on by most of the hospital. ‘Don’t let him – no, no, no, look out!’ he shouted as I Will Repay sidled up on the left, stalking Quickly, hell bent on mugging him on the line.
Eddie could just hear Meerkat shouting, ‘Watch out, Ash’s coming up on your nearside.’
An exhausted Quickly slowed as Repay drew level – then, seeing his old enemy, he rallied; gathering all his strength, ears flattened to his head as they hurtled together, Quickly ahead, then Repay was moving closer, trying to rattle Quickly, but with a mighty last effort, Quickly hurled himself forward, past a winning post topped by a golden ball.
‘Photo, photo!’ cried the commentator.
The wait was everlasting. Then, out of a deafening roar of speculation: ‘First Master Quickly,’ by just an inch of pink nose.
‘Good boy!’ howled Rupert. ‘Christ, he’s good – that was the bravest piece of riding I’ve ever seen.’
On the screen they could see incredulity and wonder dawning on Eddie’s desperately clenched features, as taking both hands off Quickly’s mane, he raised them above his head, blowing a kiss to the sooty heavens.
‘This one’s for you, Love Rat,’ he yelled. ‘You’re Global Leading Sire at last.’
By almost more of a miracle, with Quickly as a pacemaker, Geoffrey had come third. Taking Meerkat’s hand, Eddie kicked his feet out of the stirrups and they cantered back together in front of a wildly cheering crowd, who although disappointed not to have a home-win for their revered Sheikh, recognized heroism.
Then a laughing, sobbing Lark came tearing up with a lead rope and a head collar to stop Quickly running away, hugging and patting him, and when a laughing, overjoyed Eddie leaned down and kissed her, she didn’t even notice that Quickly was nipping her very sharply on the shoulder, to remind them who’d won the race.
Next moment, a plump girl in a black coat, her huge thighs emphasized by light-coloured breeches, cantered up on a chestnut, brandishing a microphone.
‘What is going through your mind at this special moment, Eddie?’
‘That I want to go on kissing the prettiest girl in the world.’
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‘And what was going through your mind when the bridle broke up?’
‘This is it,’ laughed Eddie. ‘How the hell was I going to stay put.’
‘How special is it to win the greatest race in the world without a bridle?’
‘Quickly won it.’ Eddie hurled his goggles into the crowd. ‘He looked after me, he found and found, and he quickened twice, and Meerkat saved my life, but I’d like to know who fucked that bridle.’ Then as he was wrapped in the American flag, the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ rang out.
Meanwhile, on the grass outside the parade ring, Gavin and Gala had leapt in the air, screaming with joy, hugging each other. ‘We did it, we did it …’ Then as the photographers raced up the track to catch Quickly and Eddie, they paused and looked at each other. Gav’s lean face was so transformed by happiness, his no longer sad eyes sparkling with tears.
‘Yes,’ said Gala in amazement. ‘Oh yes, yes, yes, we did it.’
Unable to stop herself, she grabbed his head, burying her fingers in the thick black curls, drawing him closer and pressing her lips to his, kissing him harder and harder, until he responded and kissed her back even harder. Only when they began choking for lack of breath did they break apart, but still gazed at each other. Gala ran her hand down his cheek as if she were reading happiness in Braille.
‘How stupid I am, oh my darling, I’ve been barking up the wrong tree.’ And she kissed him again until they were tapped on the shoulder by a tearful overjoyed Valent.
‘Hasn’t your horse joost won a race? Shouldn’t we go and congratulate him? And Rupert says will you switch on your bluddy mobile, Gav.’
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Scenes of wild jubilation followed. Etta, as Quickly’s only owner present, was ecstatic to receive the huge World Cup from Sheikh Mohammed, and water the vast accompanying bunch of flowers with her tears of joy. Rosaria and Mr Fat and Happy could be seen fox-trotting joyfully round the winners enclosure to celebrate Geoffrey’s third place.
A spectator, meanwhile, had found the broken bridle chucked over the rails and returned it to the stewards. The stitches had been unpicked, and the prongs on the buckles, attaching the reins to the bit, had been unplugged. Sabotage must have occurred at the very last moment. So suspicion fell even more on Bao.
There would be an enquiry later, but there was no question that Quickly had taken the race. And it was generally agreed with Rupert that Eddie’s had been the bravest piece of riding ever seen. Eddie agreed and now, brandishing his winning jockey’s gold whip, was telling a vast army of tape recorders and cameras: ‘We did it without a bridle or a whip, without a pacemaker and without Safety Car, Quickly’s best friend. Quickly showed he is the greatest horse in the world.
‘The tragic news is that Master Quickly’s sire, Love Rat, died this morning.’ Then, as a groan of surprise and sadness greeted this: ‘But the great news is that by this awesome win, Quickly’s earnings have pushed Love Rat posthumously to the top of the Global charts.’ Eddie flung his arms out and shouted so it echoed round the desert, ‘You’re Leading Sire at last, Love Rat.’
Over huge cheers, on a roll, utterly captivating his audience, Eddie went on to express gratitude to Meerkat for saving his life, and to Gavin and Gala who made Quickly great, and to Lark. Eddie searched round for her in the crowd. ‘Where are you, Lark? She’ll be back at the stables cherishing Master Quickly.
‘Most of all,’ somehow Eddie kept his voice steady, ‘I want to thank Quickly’s co-owner and my grandfather, Rupert Campbell-Black, who is simply the greatest trainer in the world. He had to fly home because his wife Taggie isn’t well. Hope you get well soon, Taggie. Sorry I’ve been a piece of work in the past, Grandpa, but I hope you’ll let me ride for you again one day.
‘But I guess the one thing that will make Taggie and Grandpa happy is for Safety Car to come home. Safety’s the kindest horse in the world, and he must be somewhere – and it’s typical of Grandpa’s generosity that he’s offered £500,000 reward for his return. So please, guys, start looking.’ Eddie brandished a large photograph of Safety Car. ‘This is what he looks like.’
Watching back in Gloucestershire, Rupert was utterly choked. As Taggie was falling asleep, he went back to Penscombe to seek news of Safety Car, and to check on the yard and on Old Eddie. Jan had evidently vanished without trace, and a new carer had been bussed in.
‘A gorgeous black lady called Bertha,’ Pat told Rupert. ‘Your father’s in heaven – he’s convinced he’s in Barbados.’
Trailing dogs, Rupert crossed the garden, past the tennis court to the graveyard where the greatest, most loved animals were buried. No one had yet laid turf over Love Rat’s grave but someone had put a vase of daffodils and a great bowl of primroses on the freshly dug earth into which a wonky wooden cross had been plunged. On it, Pat, who must have overheard Rupert yesterday, had scribbled: Rest in peace, Legend.
Oh Christ, why did everything hurt so much? His horse had won the World Cup, but he felt no elation.
They had still to learn if the cancer had spread to the lymph glands. It was as though he and the family were sitting in a room with a terrorist, bomb in his hand, peering in at the window. If Taggie went, everything would collapse.
The lawn was littered with white feathers. A buzzard must have taken out one of Taggie’s doves.
He’d better go and be charming to Eddie’s new carer. Come Dine with Me was on the television in the kitchen. Old Eddie was nosing around the vegetable rack, muttering: ‘Must go and congratulate Love Rat, must be some carrots in here.’
Looking up and seeing Rupert, the sweetest smile spread across Old Eddie’s face.
‘Hello, how are you? Would you like a drink?’
‘Probably,’ said Rupert.
‘Do you know my son Rupert?’ enquired Eddie. ‘You don’t? I thought everyone knew Rupert. He’s an awfully nice chap, awfully amusing. I’m sure you two would get on. I’d like you to meet him one day. He’s a really nice chap.’ And he turned back to Come Dine with Me.
Rupert went out on to the terrace, tears pouring down his face. What a mess he’d nearly made of his life. He hadn’t been a really nice chap to Taggie. He’d spend the rest of her life, he shivered at how brief it might be, making it up to her. He hadn’t been very nice to Young Eddie either. He must ring and congratulate him. But where the hell was Safety Car?
He was joined by Sapphire.
‘Where’s Ratty, Grandpa?’
‘He’s died, darling.’
‘I know. But everyone says he’s up there, in heaven. But Pat says he’s down there, in the graveyard. How can he be up there and down there? I don’t understand.’
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Back at the World Cup, Mr Fat and Happy and Rosaria, who’d stopped fox-trotting round the winners enclosure, couldn’t stop hugging each other. Geoffrey, coming third, had indeed outraced his pedigree.
Vile Brute, thinking he was about to make a fortune selling Geoffrey to Mr Tong, had rolled up and bollocked Meerkat for tugging Eddie back on to Quickly.
‘You could have won the race if you’d left the little shit to rot – and what a lousy finish you rode. You won’t be riding Geoffrey again, he’s off to China.’
‘No, he isn’t,’ interrupted Mr Fat and Happy. ‘I tracked down his owner Mrs Ford-Winters in Gloucestershire, nice old lady, happy to see him go to a good home, so Geoffrey’s coming to live in Weybridge, Brute – and so’s your lovely wife, Rosaria. And Meerkat can come and ride our horses whenever he wants to.’
Brute, utterly routed, was insane with rage. Even more maddened with anger was Mr Wang because Dave had been withdrawn and I Will Repay had only come second, and he wasn’t going to be the first Chinese owner to win the World Cup.
Eddie was still giving interviews, euphoric because Rupert had just rung congratulating him and thanking him for a brilliant race. ‘Come back to Penscombe straight away. Great, you saluted Love Rat.’
‘I didn’t have any reins to take my hands off this tim
e.’
But bolstering his happiness even more was the thought of meeting up soon with Lark, who was probably still down at the stables, loving and cherishing Quickly, as he longed from now on to love and cherish her.
‘Congratulations.’ For a second Eddie thought the tall auburn-haired man shaking his hand was Jan, then realized it was Rufus Rutshire, the gay elder brother of frightful Roddy Northfield, and as lean and good-looking as Roddy was magenta-faced and portly.
Having no children, Rufus made no secret of how irritated he was that his title would pass to Roddy and Damsire’s fat, pompous and charmless son Alfred who, unlike his royal namesake, spent more time eating cakes than burning them.
Rufus now confided to Eddie, as he hemmed him into a corner, how glad he was that Red Trousers had come last in an earlier race, and could they have a word? Aware that people behind Rufus were still clambering to speak to him, Eddie glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve gotta go soon.’
‘Just wondering if you’re free tomorrow fortnight,’ said Rufus. ‘It’s the day after the National, so people will be in the mood for heroics. We’re planning to create a James Northfield Memorial Race at Rutminster on the anniversary of his death. Your grandfather Rupert is the direct descendant of Rupert Black, who originally beat our James in the race. But you know all this, you spoke about it so well on The Morning Line.’
‘I’ve truly gotta go.’ Eddie drained his glass.
‘We thought it would be a terrific idea,’ persisted Rufus, ‘if one of Rupert Black’s descendants rode in a match race against one of our descendants. We could re-enact the race across the water meadows and through the wood.’