Jump!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Well, that’s a relief then. Come and have a drink,’ said Valent.

  It was another ravishing evening. Jupiter, the archetypal alpha male, blazed above Marius’s yard, billowing blue-black clouds were echoed in shape by deepening green trees, the air was heavy with the scent of a thousand roses, honeysuckle, philadelphus, rank sexy elder and sweet white clover.

  The nightingales had left, replaced by Beethoven’s fourth piano concerto played by Marcus Campbell-Black, which flooded the valley.

  ‘How lovely,’ cried Etta. ‘That was my father’s favourite piece of music. I adored the Proms because for once, on Fridays, which was Beethoven night, I was allowed to stay up and listen.’

  ‘Why were you called Etta?’ asked Valent, handing her a glass of Pimm’s and leading her into the garden.

  ‘My real name’s Henrietta, but my maiden name was Bullock and the girls at school kept chanting “Henry ate a bullock” so I changed it to Etta. Sampson said it sounded like a dodgy terrorist organization.’

  How rarely she mentions him, thought Valent.

  ‘What do you miss about Sampson?’ he asked.

  ‘I liked the way he used to yell at the television during wildlife programmes. When some starving meerkat had been rejected by the pack or a baby elephant had lost its mother, he’d yell, “You bloody cameraman, why don’t you get out of your Land-Rover and give that poor animal some of your bottled water and egg sandwiches?” or “Why don’t you warn that poor zebra a lion’s bearing down on it, instead of filming it being gobbled up?”’

  ‘How’s Honky Malmesbury?’ asked Valent.

  ‘Well, Oxford’s returned to Mrs M for the summer and has personally vowed to catch the fox, and Honky’s fallen in love with the patio heater and won’t leave it alone.’

  Valent laughed. ‘How are your grandchildren?’

  How kind of him to ask, thought Etta, and confessed Poppy had suddenly become terrified of the dark.

  ‘Someone told her about the ghost of Beau Regard. And I’m a bit worried about Drummond. He used to be so aggressive. But I went to watch him play football the other day, he kept kicking balls into his own goal and expecting everyone to clap, and the other boys just said, “You’re so stupid, Drummond.” When he was in goal, he kept looking in the wrong direction, letting goals in and getting shouted at. He was so crestfallen.’

  ‘I’ll kick a ball around with him, next time I’m down.’

  ‘Oh, would you? Such a thrill for him.’

  Etta got to her feet and wandered to the edge of the terrace. She was pleased with the roses and the delphiniums rising like dark and light blue dreaming spires. Across the valley, she could hear the roar of machinery as Marius’s lads pulled up ragwort and drove round spiking up bales of hay shaped like cotton reels.

  ‘Thank God he’s got his forage in. Torrential rain’s forecast for tomorrow. Oh look, there’s Count Romeo with his head between Wilkie’s hind legs so she can whisk the flies off him with her beautiful tail. Double pleasure. Sir Cuthbert’s looking very jealous. Poor little Chisolm still in her priest’s hole. She’d so love the fruit in this Pimm’s. Good thing Ione thinks fitted carpets are naff. Scattered currants don’t matter so much on polished floors.’

  ‘Are you going to Worcester to watch Family Dog next week?’ asked Valent.

  ‘With any luck. Romy and Martin are taking the children away for a long weekend, so I should be free. Doggie’s being given a last chance to acquit himself well after three years unplaced. Should be a laugh.’

  105

  Next day the rain started, and by Friday the River Severn had risen about four inches. Severe flooding was forecast. Racing had already been abandoned at Naas, Market Rasen and Brighton. Everyone expected racing to be cancelled at Worcester but it went ahead.

  The centre of the course was flooded. Depressed swallows massed on telegraph poles, the Owners and Trainers was shut, and in the unearthly storm light the grass was lurid green and yellowish.

  Despite dire reports of roadblocks, trains cancelled and fire brigades pumping out homes, the syndicate had pressed on. Alan had been keen to spend an afternoon with Tilda, Woody with Niall, Alban with Etta, Phoebe, already, without Bump. To the Major’s disappointment, Corinna was in London, rehearsing for Mother Courage, which was opening in the West End.

  Because of the school term, exams and general revulsion, it was the first time Trixie had joined the syndicate since Antony and Cleopatra in February. Afterwards Seth had bombarded her with flowers and telephone calls begging her to forget the four-in-a-bed – everyone had been plastered – and see him again. All of which Trixie had refused but she was still overwhelmed with a sick craving for Seth and had rolled up today in the hope of seeing him again, only to find he was in Bath, in Private Lives with Bonny.

  Looking up at the unrelenting black clouds, Trixie was distracted from thoughts of Seth by worry about her grandmother.

  ‘People have been advised to move their valuables and furniture upstairs. Granny doesn’t have an upstairs.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said Debbie briskly. ‘She can check the state of flooding on the internet.’

  ‘Granny doesn’t have the internet, and she’s in a car anyway.’

  ‘Well, as long as she keeps her mobile charged.’

  ‘She often forgets to switch it on and she sometimes can’t get a signal down at the bungalow.’

  ‘I thought she was coming today, where’s she gone?’ asked Woody.

  ‘Bloody Martin and Romy,’ exploded Trixie, ‘have rushed off to London to some stupid WOO launch, leaving poor Granny to drive Poppy and Drummond to Weybridge so Romy and Martin can pick them up on the way to their weekend in Kent. Bloody selfish. Granny was so looking forward to cheering on Doggie.’

  Doggie was 250–1 now. There was an expression of hopeful expectancy on his broad white face as he splashed round the parade ring after the seven other runners. It had started to rain in earnest. Tommy, her elbow on Doggie’s shoulder, her hand stroking his neck, had put on two rugs, one pulled up round his floppy ears.

  ‘Worth putting on twenty quid at that price,’ said Woody, the not very proud co-owner.

  ‘Worth twenty-five after your boyfriend’s blessed him,’ said Joey, the other owner.

  ‘Shurrup,’ hissed Woody. ‘He’s such a sweet horse, I can’t bear to sell him.’

  His face softened as Niall waded into the paddock, put a hand on Rafiq’s thigh and on Doggie’s shoulder and murmured a few words.

  ‘Can he put a call in to Allah?’ asked Joey. ‘Oh hell, it’s worth a monkey.’

  Valent landed in his red and grey helicopter just before the horses went down to post.

  ‘Fancy him turning up here when he’s so busy,’ said Phoebe to Debbie. ‘Toby and I thought he’d be a nice rich godfather for Bump.’

  Valent was wearing his dark blue overcoat with the collar turned up and a dark blue Searston Rovers baseball cap.

  ‘Where’s your nan?’ he asked Trixie, thinking how pale and tucked up the child looked. The big smile was wiped off his face when Trixie said Etta had gone to Weybridge.

  ‘Fucking hell, in this weather? Half the roads are closed, flooding everywhere.’

  ‘I know.’

  It was raining even harder, coloured umbrellas going up like psychedelic mushrooms. The syndicate waited hopefully. Plenty of time for Valent to buy them a quick drink to warm them up before the off, but he was straight on to his mobile, checking flood lines and traffic lines, his face growing grimmer. In the distance he was sure he could see a huge black cloud over Willowwood.

  ‘I’m so glad I didn’t have a bet,’ said Phoebe as Doggie, who was inspecting a flock of paddling seagulls, got badly left behind at the start. Not liking mud kicked in his face, he fell further and further behind as he ambled along, admiring stretches of water on both sides.

  ‘He’s going to be lapped by the front-runners,’ muttered an anguished Woody. The crowd rocked with laughter.


  ‘Come on, Doggie,’ yelled Trixie. ‘Dogs are supposed to be good at paddling.’

  Doggie, however, was so far behind, he missed being caught up in a seven-horse pile-up at four out. Picking his way carefully over prostrate animals and their swearing riders, he was the only runner to complete the course, to deafening cheers. Rafiq, who hadn’t bothered to pick up his whip, was grinning from ear to ear. The £5,500 for the winner meant £2,200 each for Woody and Joey, and £750 for Marius and £750 for Rafiq to send home to his beleaguered family.

  Tommy couldn’t stop laughing as she led Doggie into the winners enclosure and gave him a long drink of water which he didn’t deserve, having hardly broken sweat. Doggie looked both delighted and astounded to get so much patting.

  ‘He’ll get hooked on success and win again,’ said Trixie, who’d put on a fiver and won £1,250.

  ‘It’s because you blessed him, Rev,’ grinned Joey, who’d won twelve times that amount. ‘He’ll probably turn up at Evensong on Sunday to fank you. Let’s go and get legless.’

  ‘And Valent can buy us lots of lovely fizz,’ said Phoebe. ‘So nice, now Bump’s born, I can drink again.’

  ‘Worcester Racecourse provides winners with lovely hospitality anyway,’ snapped Alan.

  Through the pounding rain, a jubilant Woody smiled at Niall, who next week was off to be a locum in Suffolk. Today was their last chance to be together and Woody had planned for them to steal off for a few hours to a secret woodland dell he had discovered and make love under the stars amid pale enchanter’s nightshade and the papery ghosts of bluebells. It might be a bit damp – but who cared.

  They laughed as they passed Alban commiserating with the beaten favourite’s owner, a rather glamorous blonde called Alex Winters. Alban was nodding so vigorously, he sent water gathered in his hat cascading down her cleavage, which involved a lot of mopping up with Alban’s red silk spotted handkerchief.

  Woody was just about to take his first gulp of champagne and watch Doggie’s great victory in the hospitality room when Valent stalked in looking wintry.

  ‘Put that down,’ he barked at Woody. ‘We’re going back to Willowwood. They’ve had six hours of flash floods, Bolton’s moat and the River Fleet have both burst their banks. Sorry to ruin your celebrations,’ he told the disappointed syndicate, ‘but I think you should all hurry home and enter Willowwood from the north, Alban. Any approaches from the south have been closed.’

  As Woody emptied his glass into Niall’s half-empty one, Niall murmured, ‘Many waters cannot quench love, nor can floods drown it. Ring me when you get a moment. Good luck.’

  ‘Sorry to drag you away from your boyfriend,’ Valent told a startled Woody as they sprinted towards the helicopter. ‘Don’t worry about your mother, top of the village is OK at the moment.’

  Why the hell hadn’t he done something to stop Bolton’s moat?

  106

  Five miles south of Willowwood, Etta drove at a snail’s pace along the centre of the road. It was only twenty past six but as dark as night because the tree tunnel had been bowed down by the deluge. Ominously, there was no traffic coming in the other direction. Rain was machine-gunning the windows of the Polo, as puddles grew into ponds, streams into rivers and raindrops jumped like flying fish from the gutters.

  She had to make it home. Priceless was safe with Miss Painswick, Mrs Wilkinson safe in a field on high ground at Throstledown, but she’d left Gwenny asleep on her cherry-red chair, and the rose she was grafting for Valent on a top shelf.

  She patted the steering wheel, her dear Polo wouldn’t let her down, but she was driving through a foot of water now.

  She was terribly hot because as a suck-up gesture she had put on a wool shirt in a particularly unbecoming red which Granny Playbridge had given her several Christmases ago and which she’d never worn.

  ‘I love it,’ she had gushed on arrival, ‘I’ve worn it loads,’ where-upon a tight-lipped Granny Playbridge had removed the price tag.

  Etta was still blushing, and sweating up worse than Furious, as she splashed past Marius’s gates. Thank God Throstledown was high up, but as she dropped down and the water rose to meet her, she realized that the lazily idling River Fleet had turned into a raging torrent and the willows were tossing their weeping branches in an orgiastic dance of death.

  Then, as the water surged over her bonnet, she gave a scream of horror. For there in the field beside the footbridge was Mrs Wilkinson. She must have tried to run home to Etta. Now, with a terrified Gwenny perched on her back, eyes rolling, neighing in desperation, she was marooned on a sliver of island which, as the raging, rising waters thrashed around it, was getting smaller and smaller.

  Frantically Etta pushed at her car door, but as the water rose the pressure was so strong she couldn’t open it.

  ‘It’s all right, Wilkie, I’m coming,’ she screamed, as she managed to wriggle out of a back window.

  Clambering over the wall, splashing down the field, she reached the river bank. If she waded through the torrent to the island she could grab hold of a now piteously mewing Gwenny and lead Wilkie to safety.

  ‘Just stay there, darlings.’

  But as she stepped into the river, she realized it was at least five foot deep and she couldn’t withstand the currents. She’d better call for help. As she unearthed her mobile from her breast pocket, the force of the water swept it away.

  With a despairing sob, wading downstream, she tried to swim to the island. Next minute the racing river had sucked her under. Choking on thick muddy water, she tried to regain her foothold, but the level was rising too fast. When she pushed out her arms to swim, the current again defeated her and swept her fifty yards downstream until she crashed into an overhanging willow and grabbed a branch, which cracked and gave way.

  She grabbed another one, the long green leaves slipping away. Somehow she clung on and, edging upwards, caught hold of a larger branch. Digging her fingers into its mossy grooves, she gained a purchase. She couldn’t drown, she’d got to save Wilkie and Gwenny. Dragging herself upwards until the raging waters were below her, she emerged through the canopy of leaves to reach the top of the tree, to be greeted by torrential rain.

  You couldn’t be wetter, Etta.

  But looking upriver, she gave a wail of horror. Wilkie was still screaming shrilly as she paced up and down her piece of land, but Gwenny had vanished. She’d never survive in this torrent.

  ‘Cling on, Wilkie,’ sobbed Etta.

  Then suddenly hope flared, as a police helicopter chugged over her head, searching for casualties.

  ‘Help, help, help,’ screamed Etta, but the thunder of the waters drowned her cries, and it chugged on.

  After an eternity, by which time she had frozen solid and grown hoarse from shouting for help and reassurance to Wilkie, she heard the relentless purring rattle of another helicopter. Frantically tearing off her red shirt, she waved it round and round, nearly losing her grip and plunging into the river, clinging on and croaking, ‘Please God, help us.’

  Could it be red and grey? Then, like a huge insect of mercy, the heavenly ’copter hovered overhead. Was it moving on? No it wasn’t.

  Suddenly Etta and her old greying bra and grey pacing Wilkie were flooded with dazzlingly bright light. As the helicopter descended, the downdraught blasted into the willow, flattening and spreading its branches, so Etta nearly lost her balance, and only prevented a plunge into the river by clutching more leaves with numb fingers.

  But as the canopy spread, a god descended harnessed to a steel cable.

  ‘I’ve come to tack you up,’ shouted the god in a strong Larkshire accent.

  ‘Oh Woody,’ sobbed Etta, ‘oh thank goodness.’

  ‘We’re here, you’re safe. Good old Salix babylonica saved you.’

  Swinging towards her, he rested his foot on a horizontal branch, then, slipping a harness under her arms, pulled her towards him.

  ‘Don’t cry, this is the way we do it.’

&nbs
p; Pressing her head against his chest, wrapping his legs tightly round her bent-up legs, ‘God, you’re cold,’ he said and made a thumbs-up sign to the pilot above.

  ‘We can’t leave Wilkie, and Gwenny’s in the water,’ wailed Etta as they were hauled upwards.

  ‘Valent’s ringing for an RAF helicopter which’ll bring slings so we can winch Wilkie to safety,’ yelled Woody.

  ‘Thank you, thank you for rescuing me,’ gasped Etta through desperately chattering teeth, as Valent, looking more threatening than the black clouds massed overhead, reached out and tugged her and Woody into the helicopter. Then, as with frozen fingers she frantically tried to tug on her sopping wet shirt to cover herself, he roared, ‘Don’t put that stupid thing back on, give her my coat, Woody,’ then, completely losing his temper, ‘You stupid woman, risking your life to rescue a bluddy horse.’

  ‘She’s not a bloody horse,’ shouted Etta over the roar of the blades. ‘She’s the Village Horse and we’ve got to rescue her.’

  Then, peering down out of the still open door, she gave a scream of despair, for Mrs Wilkinson, unnerved by the helicopter and the water swirling round her hocks, deserted by Gwenny and her mistress, had plunged into the raging torrent. For a harrowing half-minute, she disappeared under the water, then the strong little frame, stout legs and even stouter heart, which had propelled her over huge fences and down the straight to snatch victory from her rivals, did not desert her.

  Her white face could be seen above the frenziedly tossing white horses as she battled to safety. She was nearly defeated, disappearing beneath the water again, as she tried to find a foothold on the sodden collapsing bank. But after a heroic lurch, she found firm ground beneath a clump of bulrushes and managed to tug her feet out of the quicksand. Next moment, Tresa, who with Painswick had been manning the yard, and Priceless came racing down the hill to lead her to safety.

  ‘“And even the ranks of Tooscany,”’ Valent squeezed Etta’s hand for a second, ‘“could scarce forbear to cheer.” Sorry I chewed you out, luv, I was worried.’