Jump!

by Jilly Cooper

  Having failed all her exams, Dora was outraged to have been gated at Bagley Hall.

  ‘How can I achieve maximum coverage for Corinna Waters’s first trip to the races if I’m not on the spot?’

  Facing a two-hour journey to Ludlow along winding roads, the minibus, parked outside the Fox, was due to leave at eleven. Alban (who’d only been allowed to go if he didn’t drink) was revving up. Ione had rolled up to wave them off, bringing a large thermos of lentil soup to keep out the cold. She was now scowling at the minibus.

  ‘Stop revving up, Alban, it’s so wasteful. Those monsters bingedrink petrol.’

  ‘Oh, put a sock in it, Ione,’ shouted a shivering Alan, who was having a Bloody Mary and a fag outside the pub. ‘This bus is carrying eleven people who could all be driving their own cars. I suppose you’d like us to bike to Ludlow.’

  Chris, whose turn it was to go instead of his wife, was loading up the boot.

  ‘Poor ’en-pecked sod,’ he murmured, laughing fatly.

  From the warmth of the pub, Chrissie watched her husband, poised the moment the bus left to ring Joey, who’d virtuously announced that he couldn’t justify another day’s skiving, Valent had been so decent about it last time.

  Inside the Fox, a video of Mrs Wilkinson’s last race played continually on the television. A framed photograph of the syndicate flanking her hung on the wall. Phoebe, on a bar stool sipping hot Ribena, was delighted to be the baby of the party again, but with fewer people on the jaunt she might not have the excuse to sit on Seth’s knee. But at least Toby had risked the wrath of Carrie Bancroft and, braving the cold, was chatting to Uncle Alban.

  A minute to the off, the Major, who’d recorded another half-inch in his rain gauge, was forecasting rain and arctic conditions. Thrilled about seeing Corinna, he rolled up with Debbie, who, not realizing Ludlow didn’t have a Royal Box, had invested in a beetroot-coloured trilby with a lilac feather. She was also hopping. Corinna Waters, the great Shakespearean actress, might have the perfect diction that could be heard in the gods, but it could also be heard all over Willowwood.

  ‘She and Seth were rowing and hurling plates all night,’ Debbie was now telling the entire pub, ‘playing loud music to drown each other and with so many kiddies in the village their language was simply disgusting.’

  ‘Fink Joey’s kids could teach Corinna and Sef a few new words,’ said a returning Chris with an all-embracing wink.

  ‘That’s a lovely one of me,’ said Phoebe, admiring the cuttings pinned to the noticeboard. ‘I must get Dora to get me a print.’

  ‘The correct procedure,’ said a returning Alan, ‘is to ring up the picture editor and ask to pay for it. Dora’s done more than enough.’ He held his glass out to Chrissie for a refill. ‘We ought to go,’ he told the Major.

  ‘Who are we missing? Seth, Corinna, Etta,’ the Major consulted his clipboard, ‘that’s not like her.’

  On cue, Etta crashed through the door.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I forgot Poppy and Drummond’s lunch boxes and had to go back, and the Polo’s got a puncture so I had to walk. I hope I haven’t held everyone up.’

  ‘No panic.’ Alan handed her his Bloody Mary. ‘Seth and Corinna haven’t arrived yet.’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ said Etta. She had time to whisk into the loo and do her face.

  Once inside, she realized she’d forgotten her make-up bag and she had no foundation to tone down her flushed face or to hide the red veins and dark circles, or eyeliner to enlarge her tired, bloodshot eyes. As she hadn’t been able to afford to have her hair streaked and cut since the summer, she’d curled it up, but it had now dropped in the mist and rain and hung to her shoulders – a grey-haired crone, an awful old bat stared back at her from the mirror. What would Seth and Valent think? Not that they’d look at her anyway. She took a slug of Bloody Mary and returned to the bar, where Debbie and Phoebe were of the same opinion. They must smarten Etta up and decided to club together to give her a decent haircut and a smart hat.

  Everyone then waited and waited and waited. Toby returned to the warmth of the pub and, lips moving, read Shooting Life before moving on to Country Life. Etta would have had masses of time to retrieve her make-up bag from Little Hollow. Alan called Seth: ‘Where the fuck are you?’

  ‘Madam’s been doing an interview for Radio 4, we’ll be along in a minute.’

  Shagger returned to the attack and accosted the Major.

  ‘You sure we’re insured? What happens if Mrs Wilkinson injures herself or anyone else? What about Amber Lloyd-Foxe? I’ve looked into it, I could provide total cover for Willowwood and you could waive my subscription.’

  ‘Which I haven’t yet received,’ said the Major.

  ‘Nor should you. Mrs Wilkinson won two and a half thou at Newbury, that divided into ten shares should cover it.’

  ‘Doesn’t quite work that way,’ admitted the Major. ‘Minibus has to be paid for, and the catering,’ he lowered his voice, ‘was very expensive last time.’

  ‘Thought Valent picked that up.’

  ‘Only bubbly after we won the race. Champagne charged at pub prices and food came to sixty pounds a head.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Debbie’s going to look at special wine offers in Tesco’s and I think we’ll have to start bringing our own grub. Or having a hot dog at the races.’

  ‘Hardly Corinna’s style, where the hell are they?’

  ‘If they don’t come in five minutes, we’ll go without them.’

  ‘Here they come,’ said Chris, as Seth and Corinna came down the high street, ten yards apart, obviously in the middle of a blazing row.

  ‘They’ve brought that dreadful dog,’ fumed Debbie, as Seth swept through the door, holding it open for Priceless but letting it swing in Corinna’s face. Priceless proceeded to greet Etta with delight, sweeping the cuttings off the table with his tail before lifting his leg on the curtains.

  ‘Can’t bring that dog to the races,’ Chris told Seth.

  ‘I know,’ apologized Seth, ‘I hoped darling Chrissie might look after him for the day, he’s no trouble. For a fee,’ he added.

  He was followed by Corinna, who smiled around:

  ‘Hello, darlings, we better get going or we’ll miss the first race.’

  She was wearing a blond fox-fur hat, whose shaggy fringe flattered her long dark crafty eyes, a short scarlet coat, shiny black boots, and she looked a billion dollars.

  ‘Outrageous,’ spluttered Debbie.

  ‘Steady on, Mother,’ murmured the Major.

  ‘Hiya, Seth,’ twinkled Phoebe, ‘hiya, Miss Waters.’ Then, as they climbed into the bus: ‘We’ve left you the comfy seat along the back so you can spread yourselves.’

  ‘I get sick in the back,’ said Corinna rudely, ‘particularly when I’ve got lines to learn.’ She picked up Debbie’s bag on the third row, threw it across the gangway and settled into the seat next to the window. Seth ostentatiously took a seat two back from her next to Alan. Phoebe sat next to the window in the seat in front of them in order to show off her charming profile.

  Toby took a seat up the front next to Alban so they could discuss shooting and people they knew.

  Having waved them off, Chrissie rang Joey:

  ‘All clear, but they’ve landed me with bloody Priceless.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find somewhere. We’ll have to go dogging.’

  Accustomed to playing queens, empresses or other powerful women on stage, Corinna treated other humans as subjects. Only happy if the centre of attention, demanding, imperious, charismatic, she took violently against anyone who criticized or disagreed with her. On the other hand, she took her art incredibly seriously, watching people the whole time, rowing, insulting, enchanting so she could study the hurt and anger or delight in others’ faces.

  Junoesque with a white opaque complexion, which seemed impervious to booze or late nights, she had a strong face, shaggy shoulder-length dark hair, drooping red lips,
and dark eyes that swivelled, not missing a trick. She seldom looked people straight in the face because she didn’t want them to suspect the truths she was absorbing about them.

  Corinna tended to wear black or brilliant colours, chucking her clothes on like a throw with which one hides a beautiful but dilapidated sofa. Above her black boots, her tights were laddered. There was a food stain on her black cashmere polo neck. Becoming every character she played, she didn’t mind looking ugly if the part required it, confident she could be beautiful and irresistible when needed.

  As the bus set off north-west through the icy rain, seeing Alan and a boot-faced Seth getting stuck into the red and the racing pages, she ordered Chris to pour her a half-pint of champagne.

  Noticing Debbie more beetroot than her trilby and about to explode, Etta, attempting to defuse things, took the window seat in front of Corinna. ‘What a beautiful coat.’

  ‘One should always have a red coat in one’s wardrobe. It looks good in photographs, even if one doesn’t.’

  ‘There’s a picture of you in the Telegraph today, Miss Waters, you are so photogenic,’ gushed Phoebe.

  ‘Must have been taken years ago, very airbrushed,’ sniffed Debbie.

  Seeing Corinna stiffen, Etta said firmly, ‘You’re much prettier now.’

  ‘Bit tired, darling.’ Corinna smiled at Etta. ‘Just done Macbeth in America, standing ovations in every city, but it does drain you.’

  ‘It must do,’ said Etta sympathetically. ‘I’m so excited to meet you. My late husband and I were huge fans, he worked in London and never missed one of your first nights.’ Then, struck by a chilling thought that Sampson might have been one of Corinna’s lovers, she hastily added, ‘How did you and Seth meet?’

  ‘We were in Private Lives, playing Amanda and Elyot. Critics said we set the stage on fire. The press got wildly excited because Seth was a bit younger than me.’

  ‘Still am,’ drawled Seth, not looking up from the Independent.

  ‘Naughty Seth.’ Phoebe shrieked with laughter, then, turning the page of the Mail: ‘Oh look, Bonny Richards, she really is pretty.’

  Corinna seized the paper. ‘Pretty chocolate-boxy,’ she said dismissively, then reading on in a simpering little girl voice: ‘“Valent Edwards is my significant other,” dear, dear, God help us,’ then glaring at the picture at the bottom of the page: ‘She’s got Valent into “a crisp white tunic with silver trim”. God, he looks a prat. She goes on: “I want Valent to get in touch with his feminine side.” Sounds like a women’s football team. Poor sod, he is attractive though.’

  ‘For an older chap he is,’ agreed Phoebe. ‘Is he joining us at Ludlow?’

  ‘He’s not coming,’ replied the Major. ‘He phoned, very graciously sent his regards but said he’d got too much on.’

  ‘That appalling kaftan for a start,’ said Corinna. ‘That’s a pity, we were promised the great tycoon.’

  She got a red book out of her bag.

  Feeling disappointed yet relieved because she was looking so awful, Etta asked Corinna what she was learning lines for.

  ‘Phèdre. Doing it in Paris, the English are far too philistine to go to a play in French.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ asked Etta.

  ‘A stepmother falling passionately in love with her stepson. It caused a sensation when it was first produced in 1677. And Patrick O’Hara’s writing a play for me called Virago. He should know, his mother Maud and his partner Cameron are both impossibly difficult. I like playing impossibly difficult women.’

  ‘Don’t need to act,’ observed Seth.

  More shrieks from Phoebe.

  Seth was much quieter and bitchier when Corinna was around, reflected Etta. It must be difficult playing second fiddle to such a star.

  The men had marked the racing pages and telephoned their bets, putting more than they could afford on Mrs Wilkinson. The bus was following the first signposts to Ludlow now.

  ‘Housman country,’ sighed Corinna.

  ‘“Oh, when I was in love with you,”’ began Seth in his infinitely deep, husky voice with the slight break in it that sent shivers down Etta’s spine, ‘“Then I was clean and brave,/And all around the wonder grew/How well did I behave.”’

  ‘“And now the fancy passes by,”’ mockingly, Corinna took up the refrain, ‘“And nothing will remain,/And miles around they’ll say that you”’ she nodded round at Seth, ‘“Are quite yourself again.”’

  There was a silence. Alan filled up everyone’s glasses.

  ‘Where’s Joyce Painswick?’ asked Debbie.

  ‘I thought she and Hengist’s scarf were part of the fittings,’ said Phoebe bitchily, ‘getting her money’s worth.’

  ‘Joyce has got a job,’ said Etta.

  ‘Whatever as?’ asked Phoebe, then choked on her hot Ribena as Etta, with quiet satisfaction, said:

  ‘As Marius’s secretary.’

  ‘How ridiculous!’ exploded Debbie.

  ‘But she’s such a frump,’ raged Phoebe, ‘and she must be nearly seventy.’

  ‘Ah-hem,’ said Alan.

  ‘Well, some people are young at seventy,’ said Phoebe hastily, ‘but Painswick’s so spinny. She’ll never cope with Marius’s language.’

  ‘Whose idea was it?’ demanded Debbie.

  ‘Valent’s,’ said Alan in amusement. ‘He reckons Marius is in pieces. And if Painswick was able to control Hengist Brett-Taylor and six hundred hooligans at Bagley Hall, Throstledown will be a breeze. Didn’t you notice an improvement in today’s emails?’

  ‘Didn’t get certain people leaving on time,’ said Debbie sourly.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn,’ said Phoebe, filling up her Ribena glass with champagne. ‘We want to start a family and it would have been the perfect part-time job for me.’

  ‘Joyce won’t last long. Far too bossy for Marius, can’t see her appealing to the owners,’ sniffed Debbie.

  ‘Joyce is a darling,’ flared up Etta to everyone’s amazement, ‘such a kind heart and a lovely sense of humour. She’ll look after Marius and the horses and the lads.’

  ‘Hoity-toity,’ muttered Debbie to Phoebe, as Etta stomped off up the bus to talk to Alban and Toby, who were praising Araminta, whom Toby often took shooting.

  ‘I’ve been told to take at least a thousand cartridges to the Borders next weekend,’ Toby was saying excitedly. ‘Must go and have a pee.’

  ‘I had a wonderful tip for the two thirty,’ Alban turned round and smiled at Etta, ‘but alas, I’ve reached the age when if someone gives me a wonderful tip I’ve forgotten it in five minutes.’

  59

  ‘“The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,”’ sang Amber as she swung Marius’s lorry into the Ludlow road. ‘Such a lovely song, one of my father’s favourites.’

  She was eaten up with nerves. Unlike Newbury, where she’d been thrown up at the last moment, she’d had several days to fret.

  ‘The last line of the song’s so sad,’ she continued, rattling away to Tommy and Rafiq. ‘“The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.”

  ‘Housman’s a brilliant poet for jump racing,’ she went on. ‘He understood about camaraderie and bands of brothers, soldiers at the front heroically risking their lives day after day. Jockeys are the same, riding into the cannon’s mouth, never knowing if they or their horse will come home. Most jockeys are in constant pain from endless falls or stomach cramps from wasting.

  ‘Rogue says even the jockeys he most wants to beat, like Bluey Charteris, even an evil bastard like Killer O’Kagan, he misses when he’s not riding every day against them. He hates it when they have terrible falls.

  ‘“The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.”’ As Amber sang the line again, her voice broke. ‘I’m sorry to bang on, I guess I’m just wound up. I hoped my dad was going to make it and walk the course with me, but he’s not very well.’

  ‘You’ll do brilliant,’ said Tommy soothingly. ‘Must be awful
living in a time of war when you’re constantly dreading all your friends and family being wiped out.’

  ‘I still am,’ said Rafiq chillingly. ‘In Afghanistan, in Iraq, in Pakistan. The Yanks bombed a funeral the other day and killed my uncle and aunt.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Tommy put an arm round his shoulders, feeling him tense up then tremble. ‘I wish you’d talk more about it.’

  And you’d tell your policeman father, thought Rafiq darkly. He’d been up at five, praying for Amber and Mrs Wilkinson and that Marius would get out of blinkers and at least recognize how well the horses went for him and help him get a licence as a conditional jockey.

  Back in the Ford Transit, a lurking Shagger descended heavily into the seat beside Corinna.

  ‘You have such exquisite diction, Miss Waters, have you ever thought of insuring your voice?’

  ‘Will you also insure my exquisite dick? I know you’d like to,’ said Seth maliciously.

  Shagger blushed. He felt ambiguous about Seth, responding to his magnetism but aware of his ability to make mischief as well as love.

  ‘How’s little Trixie?’ murmured Seth to Alan.

  ‘Gated like Dora.’

  Next moment Etta’s mobile rang: it was a gated, gutted Dora.

  ‘You’ll never guess what utterly bloody Rogue has done. You know, with Killer banned this season, Rogue’s determined to nail the championship. He’s already got ninety-seven winners. Well, racing at Down Royal’s been cancelled because of flooding, so Rogue’s flown back to Ludlow and told his agent to pinch rides off as many other jockeys as possible. I’ve just heard one includes Johnnie Brutus on Bafford Playboy in the two fifteen so Rogue’ll be riding against Mrs Wilkinson.

  ‘There’s no way Wilkie’s going to beat Rogue and Playboy on that right-handed track,’ stormed Dora. ‘And Marius will go ballistic Rogue’s riding for Shade. And it’s so unfair to Joey, Alan and everyone who’s had massive ante-post bets on Wilkie – but all Rogue cares about is getting his hundredth win.