by Jilly Cooper
To Dora’s amazement, Amber accepted and came down in early March to school Mrs Wilkinson over some fences. These had been hastily assembled in Valent’s orchard by Joey’s builders, whose eyes were out on stalks because Amber was languid, blonde, very beautiful, and made Mrs Wilkinson look like a different horse.
Etta, who came to watch, was enchanted to see how well she was going and how wonderfully Amber rode her. With her blonde mane and long eyes the tawny gold of winter willow stems Amber could have been Gwendolyn on a white-faced Beau Regard.
It’s an omen, thought Etta in ecstasy, but was rather disappointed when Amber pulled up and, on being introduced to Etta, pronounced Mrs Wilkinson not bad but very green and small.
‘She can’t be fifteen hands. She also drops her off hind over fences.’ Amber turned to Dora: ‘You could try schooling her over a diagonal pole.’
You could be a bit more enthusiastic, thought Etta. She did hope Amber wouldn’t use her whip on Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Who’s she by?’ asked Amber, after Etta had rushed off to pick up Poppy from school.
‘We don’t know,’ said Dora.
‘And her dam?’
‘We don’t know that either.’
‘Christ, why hasn’t she been DNA’d?’
‘Etta doesn’t want to,’ confided Dora. ‘She’s terrified the right-ful owner might want her back, not that he’d have any right after the horrific way he treated her. Etta found her tied to a tree in the middle of winter.’
‘Well, that’s that then.’ Amber jumped off without even bothering to pat Mrs Wilkinson. ‘Didn’t you realize she can’t enter a point-to-point without a passport and a sire and dam?’
‘Oh God, we’ve registered her name with Weatherbys and got her some lovely silks, beech-leaf brown with purple stars, which will really suit you. And I’ve got a certificate from the Master to say she’s hunted six times.’ Then, as Mrs Wilkinson nosed around for Polos, ‘No one said anything about sires and dams. That’s shocking actually,’ exploded Dora, ‘like saying Paris can’t go to Cambridge because he doesn’t know who his natural parents are.’
Amber took off her hat, pulled off her toggle so her blonde hair swayed in the breeze like the willows around her and reached for a cigarette.
‘The only solution would be to enter her in a members’ race. This is limited to horses owned by local farmers or members or subscribers to the hunt. Then you could put “breeding unknown” under Mrs Wilkinson’s name in the race card. Is Mrs Bancroft a member of the hunt?’
‘Not exactly,’ sighed Dora.
‘Well, she better become one tout de suite, or there isn’t a hope in hell of Mrs Wilkinson running.’
Etta was digging her garden three days later when Dora rolled up with Cadbury, looking furtive.
‘Mrs B, I mean Etta, there’s something I must tell you. As Mrs Wilkinson’s owner, you have to become a member or a subscriber to the hunt in order that she can run.’ Then, at Etta’s look of horror: ‘It’s the only way we can swing it. The members’ race is the only one that allows horses without a passport.’
‘No,’ snapped Etta, shoving her trowel so furiously into the earth she punctured a lily bulb, ‘I’m not supporting the hunt.’
‘We don’t kill foxes any more. Oh perlease, Etta, you can’t deprive Mrs Wilkinson of a brilliant career. Amber thought her exceptional,’ lied Dora, ‘and drove all the way down here. We can’t let Amber down.’
‘I don’t care.’ Etta threw down her trowel. ‘I must go and collect Drummond.’
Fate, however, lent a hand. The following morning Dora popped in and found Etta making chocolate brownies.
‘Oh Etta, I’ve just bumped into Mrs Malmesbury in floods. A horrible fox got her goose yesterday in the lunch hour (when she’d just slipped down to Tesco’s) and plucked the poor goose alive then killed her. Feathers everywhere. Geese mate for life and her poor blind gander is absolutely heartbroken and keeps calling for her, “Ee-ee-ee-ee,” and bumping into things, “Ee-ee-ee.” Foxes kill for the hell of it.’ Seeing Etta’s eyes fill with tears, Dora pressed home her advantage. ‘Just imagine the poor old boy going sadly to bed tonight, “Ee-ee-ee,” without his wife. Foxes are bastards – “ee-ee-ee.” Please, please join the hunt.’
‘Oh, all right, but only for this season. How much is it?’
‘Only about four hundred pounds.’ Then, as Etta gasped: ‘But it’s already been paid for.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’ve had a whip-round. Alban, Alan, even the Major coughed up (but don’t tell Debbie), even Debbie (but don’t tell the Major) – Chris and Chrissie, the Terrible Trio, of course, Tilda, Painswick and Pocock. They all chipped in. Phoebe promised but I expect she’ll conveniently forget.’
‘They can’t,’ protested Etta. ‘I shouldn’t support the hunt and I can’t allow other people to pay for me to do so, they can’t afford it.’
‘We can,’ said Dora stoutly. ‘We all love Mrs Wilkinson, we’re so proud of the way you’ve brought her back from the dead. We all feel we’ve got a stake in her. She’s the village horse.’
‘I must contribute something,’ squeaked Etta, sadly bidding farewell to the lovely sea-blue suit in the Blue Cross shop she’d hoped to wear on the day.
‘You can pay the entry fee and Amber’s cap if you insist,’ said Dora kindly. ‘God, these brownies are yum. That’s only a hundred pounds.’
And the dashing blue stetson as well, thought Etta.
After she’d given the children their tea, Etta rang Alan, who’d contributed more than a hundred pounds to her membership fee. ‘Oh Alan, Sampson so disapproved of racing, he’d have died at the thought of my being an owner. And I’m so anti-blood sports I feel I’m going to pieces in every way.’
‘Paris is worth a mass,’ said Alan reassuringly. ‘And Willowwood’s so excited. Mrs Wilkinson’s given us all an interest.’
34
Race day dawned cold and breezy but still without rain.
‘We’re going to win the turnout prize if nothing else,’ vowed Dora to Etta as she plaited up Mrs Wilkinson. ‘That mane and tail conditioner made her mane so thick and shiny. No, darling,’ she added as Mrs Wilkinson irritably thrust out a foreleg for a snack, ‘you’ve got to hoist yourself over those fences. And I mustn’t forget to take water away an hour before the race.’
Mrs Wilkinson gave a whicker of welcome and Chisolm bleated in excitement as Painswick bustled in with the Racing Post.
‘Look, you’re all in the paper. Here we are,’ she said as the pages blew around. ‘“Number 13, Mrs Wilkinson, grey mare”, dear little soul. “Owned by Mrs Etta Bancroft, trained by Miss Dora Belvedon.”’
‘Well, someone had to,’ mumbled Dora, going rather pink and concentrating on the last plait.
Oh goodness, what would Romy and Martin say if they saw the race card? Etta turned pale. Thank God they’d taken Poppy and Drummond away for the weekend.
As Painswick got an apple out of her bag, Mrs Wilkinson brightened, but Chisolm rushed forward and grabbed it.
‘Afraid she mustn’t eat before the race,’ said Dora. ‘What are the odds?’
‘Fifty to one. Doesn’t she look lovely?’
‘So do you,’ said Etta.
Painswick was looking very flash in a dashing blue hat with a feather, to pick up the blue in Hengist’s scarf.
‘I just dropped in to say I won’t be needing a lift,’ she said smugly. ‘I thought poor Old Mrs Malmesbury needed taking out of herself after the wicked fox killed her poor goose,’ Painswick looked straight at Etta, daring her to try to chicken out, ‘so I invited her to join us at the races. She’s driving me.’
‘God help you,’ muttered Dora.
‘I’ve brought some supplies for the picnic.’ Painswick waved a carrier bag which Chisolm eyed with interest as she edged forward to be petted.
‘Who else is in Wilkie’s race?’ asked Dora.
‘Family Dog and Crowie, of course,
’ said Painswick fondly.
‘And Rupert Campbell-Black’s son Xavier, who was at Bagley with Amber, riding an old soldier called Toddler. Harvey-Holden’s got Judy’s Pet, and Bafford Playboy ridden by Olivia Oakridge.’
‘That’ll win,’ said Dora.
‘Don’t be defeatist,’ reproved Painswick. ‘I’m sure Amber will ride Mrs Wilkinson to victory.’
Mrs Wilkinson, however, had other ideas. When Joey and Woody rumbled up in the lorry already containing Not for Crowe and Family Dog, even when her buddy Chisolm bounded up the ramp, Mrs Wilkinson flatly refused to load, going into a quaking, rolling-eyed, rearing and plunging panic. It took all Dora, Woody, Joey and Etta’s strength to stop her hurtling off across Valent’s orchard.
Coaxing with nuts had no effect, nor did Dora trying to ride her into the lorry, and when everyone including Painswick tried to hoist her up the ramp, she went crazy, kicking, striking out with her foreleg crashing to the ground, and flailing in panic.
‘Stop it,’ yelled Etta, flinging her arms round Mrs Wilkinson, trying to still her violently trembling body. ‘You can’t make her go. She was just like this when I found her, only she was too weak to struggle. This could set her back permanently. She’s not going to run.’
‘Then I’ll hack her there,’ cried Dora, rushing past a stable door covered in good luck cards to fetch her tack. ‘It’s only five miles to Ashcombe.’
‘She’ll be far too tired to run.’
‘We’ve gotta declare in half an hour,’ said Joey, who was fast losing his temper. ‘I’ve put everyone’s money on. Half Willowwood has had a punt. Let Dora ride her.’
‘No,’ wailed Etta.
‘I do think you are being rather selfish, dear,’ said Painswick, wiping Mrs Wilkinson’s froth off her coat.
‘Am I?’ Etta straightened one of Dora’s lovingly executed plaits.
‘Yes,’ said Joey, ‘she’ll be fine. She’s kept going all day out hunting.’
‘We can’t let Amber down,’ said Dora, sliding a bridle over Mrs Wilkinson’s head. With Joey’s help she was tacked up in a trice.
‘Go across country,’ advised Woody, giving Dora a leg up. ‘Lester Bolton’s got the road up winching in a new cinema to show off his wife’s horrible films.’
‘I don’t want Wilkie to go,’ cried Etta. ‘She’s my horse, and what I say …’
But Mrs Wilkinson had taken matters into her own newly shod hooves. Frantic to put as much distance between herself and the lorry, she set off down the drive while Dora shouted back, ‘Can you ring Amber and tell her we’re on our way? And don’t forget the silks. She’ll be fine, trust me, Etta.’
As Woody put an arm round Etta’s heaving shoulders, Chisolm, unmoved by such events, was polishing off Painswick’s last tomato sandwich.
35
Amber Lloyd-Foxe had arrived at Ashcombe unusually early. Believing Mrs Wilkinson hadn’t a hope in hell, she had last night gone to a party, met a gorgeous man and ended up in bed with him. Now she was fighting a hangover and remorse for being so unprofessional. To clear her head she had twice walked the course, which unwound over two fields bleached khaki from lack of rain and lying at the bottom of a valley. The valley itself was divided by a nearly dried-up stream which the runners would cross by a water jump and a grassed-over bridge.
Huddled in her Golf in the car park, Amber lit another cigarette. Hoping it was the man from last night, she was disappointed when Etta rang to say Dora was hacking over and hoped to make the declaration.
Trust Dora to cock it up, thought Amber crossly. She should never have accepted the ride. She’d tried to stop her father driving down, but he’d switched off his mobile.
There was a far smarter and larger crowd of all ages than she’d expected, mostly in khaki camouflage. The racing fraternity, who Amber always thought of as the Check Republic because they always dressed in check tweeds, the men in check tweed caps, were out in force. Loads of Sloanes and Aggies from the Royal Agricultural College, with lurchers, Labradors and little terriers on leads, clustered round the boots of Land-Rovers for warmth and sustenance.
Studying the race card, Amber found her name, and Mrs Wilkinson, described as ‘a first season youngster, unraced over fences or the flat’.
Next moment she heard raised voices, and looking up recognized Shade Murchieson, olive-skinned, black-browed, his handsome sensual face contorted with rage. A pale fawn cashmere coat, thick leather gloves and a dark brown Homburg set him exotically apart from the other racegoers, but he’d look foreign if wrapped in a Union Jack. He was also a big owner. Amber lowered her window.
Shade was shouting at a man with his back to Amber, who, although as tall and broad-shouldered, was far more slightly built. His thick dark brown curls spilled over the high neck of an ancient bottle-green check coat. Amber could just see even thicker dark eyelashes and the edge of a beautiful jawline. His ears were red with cold and his fists clenched.
‘Will you fucking well stop ringing my lads and my jockeys, giving them totally conflicting instructions and pestering them for information on my horses?’
‘They’re my horses, remember that,’ shouted back Shade, ‘and as I pay you an inordinate amount to train them, I expect you to deliver occasionally.’
‘How can I, with you hanging round the yard, butting in, wrecking morale, ordering them not to try? Don’t push me, Shade, or I’ll call the police. And stay away from my wife.’
For a second Amber thought the man in the bottle-green check coat was going to hit Shade, then he swung round and half strode, half stumbled past her. And Amber caught her breath because, despite being white with anguish and fury, he was lovely looking, like a Croatian male model, with slanting dark eyes, high cheekbones and a beautiful passionate mouth.
Then she realized it was Marius Oakridge, who was having another horrendous run of form. What were he and Shade doing here? Glancing down at her race card, she discovered Olivia Oakridge was riding Bafford Playboy, which she had a feeling Shade had bought at a vast price from Ralph Harvey-Holden and which was now being trained by Marius. Flipping through the rest of the field, she reckoned Playboy would win. Olivia, despite her kittenish exterior, took no prisoners.
Looking up, Amber saw that Shade had got back into his Mercedes, number SM1, and was smiling into his mobile.
Where the hell was Dora?
‘My horse, my horse, a kingdom for a horse,’ grumbled Amber.
At last a much graffitied white lorry rumbled into the car park, and Joey and Woody jumped out and rushed off to declare. They were followed by an ancient Polo containing Chisolm, who’d travelled all the way with her head on a tear-stained Etta’s shoulder.
‘I’m here,’ Amber leapt out.
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ said Etta, handing her the silks. ‘Mrs Wilkinson refused to load. Dora should be here any moment.’ Then, trying not to cry: ‘You won’t use your whip on her, will you?’
Amber felt so sorry for her she said she’d guard Mrs Wilkinson with her life.
Fighting through the crowd, Amber changed in a freezing tent with a cracked mirror. Nor did the clashing reddy brown and purple do anything for her flushed hungover face. At least Mrs Wilkinson as an unraced mare with a woman rider only had to carry 11 stone 2 lb, as opposed to the 11 stone 12 of Bafford Playboy, who’d won two point-to-points in Ireland.
As Amber carried her saddle in the direction of the roped-off circle serving as a paddock, she was flabbergasted to see from the bookies’ boards that Mrs Wilkinson was joint favourite with Playboy at 5–1.
‘Hello, Amber, just put a lot of money on you,’ whinnied Toby Weatherall, raising his brown curly-brimmed hat. ‘Terrific write-up in the Racing Post.’
‘In Rupert Campbell-Black’s column, no less,’ chirped Phoebe. ‘You are lucky to have friends in high places. Do introduce us, Rupert’s so gorgeous and his son Xavier’s riding in the same race as you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
�
��Here.’ Toby thrust the Post at Amber. Rupert’s cold, beautiful, unsmiling face headed the column, which ended with a paragraph urging everyone to hotfoot it down to the West Larks point-to-point, where Amber, an extremely promising amateur jockey, daughter of his old friend and iconic showjumper Billy Lloyd-Foxe, would be riding Mrs Wilkinson, a brilliant novice, in the members’ race.
‘Oh my God.’ Amber flushed even more with pleasure and dropped the Racing Post, which promptly blew away. ‘Rupert’s never, ever encouraged me before. No wonder the odds have shortened. I can’t believe it.’
Nor could Rupert, who was incandescent with rage but could hardly admit to the racing world that his column had been ghosted by a schoolgirl.
Next moment Richard Pitman had jumped out of a car. ‘Hi, Amber, tell me about this wonder horse.’
‘She should be here any minute,’ said Amber.
Dora had great difficulty holding up an utterly traumatized Mrs Wilkinson, who’d cantered or galloped most of the way. She was only now slowed down by the racing traffic still flooding into the ground, so Dora rode her along the verges. She certainly wouldn’t win the turnout prize, her coat ruffled with sweat, her legs and white face mud-splattered.
Willowwood had turned out in force, enjoying communal hospitality from the Travis-Lock boot, where Chris was serving Bull Shots, red wine and chicken soup. Phoebe was sitting on the Land-Rover bonnet, telling everyone that she’d just learnt that naughty Amber had been at an all-night party the previous night. Debbie Cunliffe had just returned from a stroll round the trade stands. The Major was bellyaching about sloppy parking and how many more cars he’d have fitted in, and how there hadn’t been any rain in his rain gauge for ages. The Cunliffes were on non-speaks with the Travis-Locks because of Ione’s latest plan to have a wind turbine clanking away between their gardens.
Ione had only just forgiven Alban for overturning her wormery. The moment she pushed off to enquire into the possibility of a Green stall next year, Pocock, in brown suit and tweed cap, the vicar, still in his dog collar from Matins, and Alban got stuck into the red.