by Jilly Cooper
Next moment Bullydozer, having caught another glimpse of Vakil, fled past, startling Julien Sorel, who immediately took off, scorching past Amber.
‘Nice to see you so relaxed,’ she shouted.
They were all out. ‘Are you ready, jockeys?’ called the starter. The flag fell, the tapes flew, they were racing.
As Bullydozer, a lunatic front-runner, set off, binoculars leapt to eyes, race cards were scoured, as despite competing with two ex-flat horses, Lusty and Julien, he shot fourteen lengths clear. After the first circuit he showed no sign of letting up.
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Joey, ‘Josh told me to back him to lose.’
Rogue, as usual, chose to hover at the back and join the leaders at the last fence, particularly as it once again gave him the bittersweet pleasure of admiring Amber’s graceful haunches, lust riding Lusty.
Gradually, Julien Sorel, Ilkley Hall and Internetso reduced the gap between themselves and Bullydozer.
Tommy, knowing what was at stake, watched the race through her fingers. Marius, in the last-chance saloon, was smoking with his back to the course. Mrs Wilkinson, mid div, was bustling along easily.
‘Lovely girl,’ cajoled Amber.
In front of her, Internetso, Julien Sorel and Ilkley Hall were toughing it out up the hill, turning the turf black with their hoofprints, white plumes of breath rising from their nostrils as they overtook Bullydozer, who’d run a gallant race.
‘Go for eet, Amber,’ yelled Rafiq as now in fourth place she passed him.
But there was no room for a little one.
‘Go back to the Pony Club, snotty bitch,’ yelled Killer, glancing around. ‘We’re not letting you through.’
Mrs Wilkinson thought different. The crowds at Cheltenham remember it to this day. Glimpsing back through her legs, realizing Rogue was about to swoop, Amber, using Ilkley Hall’s plump quarters as a guideline, jinked Wilkie at a right-angle right, then right-angle left like a polo pony, then right-angle left again, three sides of a square, before putting on a phenomenal burst of speed and drawing away from the leaders.
Heartened by the crowd bellowing her name, their cheers driving her forward, Mrs Wilkinson belted up the home straight, somehow escaping her pursuers.
That same moment Bullydozer, like Count Romeo, seeing his dear mentor and protector surging ahead, responding to Rafiq’s whip and pounding heels, caught the leaders on the hop, scorned Rogue’s late run and passed the post hardly a length behind Mrs Wilkinson.
Marius fought back the tears but Joey had no such reserve. One had wagered £1,000 he couldn’t afford on each horse, the other £500.
Pocock’s hand slipped joyfully into Painswick’s, Alan’s into Tilda’s and Woody hugged Niall. ‘Thank you, dear, dear God.’ Etta jumped up and down, up and down, clutching Dora, both yelling at the tops of their voices, drowned by the ecstatic roar of the crowd. Once past the post, Mrs Wilkinson slowed to a walk. Amber, delirious with joy, turned to shake hands with Rafiq.
‘We did it, we did it, we beat the buggers.’
Next moment Rogue had caught up with them.
‘Well done, darling, bloody good,’ he told Amber, ‘and as for you, you little tinker,’ leaning over, he hugged Mrs Wilkinson, ruffling her mane and pulling her ears. The crowd, loving a generous loser, roared even louder.
‘Thank God Rupert isn’t here,’ said Rogue. ‘I’d be Campbell-Black and blue for getting beat.’
For a divine second, he and Amber smiled at each other, then Dare Catswood, who’d come fifth, cantered up. ‘Well done, Amber,’ he shouted. ‘Bloody good show, Bolly’s on you tonight.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck, thought Amber as Rogue’s face closed up and he trotted off.
But as Wilkie, led by Dora and Tommy, entered the noisily appreciative winners enclosure, Marius noticed they were practically holding her up. For once her ears weren’t pricked but flat against her hung-down head, her white face black with mud, her sides heaving, and with a lurch of guilt and gratitude he realized she’d given her all to save him and his yard.
As they posed for photographs, he put his arms round her and kissed her on her forehead. ‘You’re a mare in a million.’ Then he kissed Amber, ‘Well done.’
‘You shouldn’t get rid of your cast-offs so casually,’ Dora taunted a hopping Harvey-Holden, who’d only managed fourth place with Ilkley Hall.
‘Glad we took the informed decision to give Mrs Wilkinson another chance,’ said the Major pompously.
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ murmured Niall.
Chisolm was less restrained. Resenting such disloyalty to Mrs Wilkinson, she lowered her head and butted a posturing Major on his posterior.
‘That’s why they’re called buttocks, because they get butted,’ said Dora to howls of laughter, as a furious Major picked himself up from the mud.
Marius was on his mobile, grinning like a lottery winner.
‘It’s Valent,’ he said. ‘He saw the race, he’s over the moon, it’s midnight in China.’
‘Oh, let me speak to him,’ gasped Etta.
‘He wants to congratulate his jockey,’ said Marius, handing the mobile to Rafiq, ‘and to know why we’re all making a fuss of Mrs Wilkinson instead of hugging Bullydozer.’
‘Because Wilkie’s one hell of a horse,’ said Joey, kissing her. Remembering last night’s talking-to, Etta said, ‘And she is a very good listener.’
114
So many lives had been ruined by the floods. As if she were truly responding to their cries for help, Mrs Wilkinson carried on winning: at Chepstow, Wetherby, Newbury, Sandown, Kempton, where on Boxing Day she pulled off an amazing victory in the King George VIth Cup to win nearly £90,000. Consequently she became so popular that wherever she raced, she put tens of thousands on the gate.
As she won, slowly the syndicate began to make money. Not huge sums because after you’ve taken off 10 per cent for Marius and 10 per cent for Amber, and divided the rest between ten with several people owning one share, £50,000 didn’t go that far, but enough to put a smile on everyone’s face.
One member who was smiling all the time was Tilda who’d at last been able to afford to have her teeth fixed. Now she could laugh and call out, ‘Do your Tilda Flood face, Wilkie,’ with the rest of the syndicate.
Joey had avoided the Grim Repossessor and, with his team, was repairing the all-weather gallop and, as more owners rolled up, building more boxes at Throstledown. Marius was greatly relieved to be able to repay Painswick.
Niall was blissfully happy with Woody, who by night could often be seen limping, trembling, through the frozen grass towards the vicarage. A church tribunal, tipped off by a wildly jealous Shagger, decided to overlook Niall’s affair with Woody because his successful blessing of Mrs Wilkinson was such good publicity for the Church of England. The church was always packed as the congregation listened for the latest updates from Niall, who accompanied Wilkie to every race, vying with the Catholic priests who blessed the Irish horses.
Alban had a kosher quango at last: £100,000 a year to decide if sitting in front of computers all day made people obese. So far Alban had managed to avoid Martin Bancroft’s attempt to forge a link with his WOO campaign.
Corinna insisted on taking a hair and make-up artist every time she watched Wilkie race, always holding up the minibus. She and Seth tried to dictate Mrs Wilkinson’s campaign to fit in with their acting commitments. Marius ignored them. Bonny never came to the races, commenting bitchily how she envied Corinna having so much free time to witness Mrs Wilkinson’s triumphs.
‘Alas, I’m always working, but my trainer Marius Oakridge updates me on the phone and sends me videos.’ (A complete lie.)
This task was undertaken by a still star-struck Phoebe, who to Painswick’s irritation had achieved her ambition to work parttime in Marius’s office. She was needed to cope with Mrs Wilkinson’s huge fan mail, now that even letters addressed to ‘Mrs Wilkinson, somewhere in England’ reached Throstledown. Vats of barley
sugar, Polos and carrots poured in.
‘Can’t we tell fans she loves champagne?’ suggested Dora.
An open-top single-decker bus had been ordered, so Wilkie could ride in triumph round the village after a win.
Now his wife was the breadwinner, an unemployed Toby was making rather a success of looking after little Bump. Everyone was having bets on who would talk first.
Those around Mrs Wilkinson were also becoming stars. Amber was permanently in the gossip columns and on the cover of magazines. Tommy was interviewed for Racing Post and photographed from a flattering angle rushing forward to welcome a winning Wilkie. Mrs Wilkinson had such clout as a crowd-puller that Chisolm was allowed to go down to post with her. Chisolm herself had already had an Observer profile, and her bleat had been heard on Radio 4. Dora was ghosting a cookery book for her called Goat Cuisine. When Mrs Wilkinson, coached by Dora, met the Queen, she executed a wonderful bob. Chisolm blotted her copybook, wolfing a posy of primroses just presented to Her Majesty by a little girl, who didn’t stop bawling until she was allowed a ride on Wilkie.
Mrs Wilkinson’s photograph also appeared on a Glad to be Grey poster for Age Concern. Her willow-green browband was universally copied by the Pony Club. The press, revved up by Dora, nicknamed her the ‘People’s Pony’. How could anything so small contain such a huge heart?
Dora had also revamped an earlier refrain about the great jockey Aubrey Brabazon.
‘Amber’s up,’ sang the fans, ‘The money’s down, the frightened bookies run / So come on punters give a cheer for Mrs Wilkinson.’
Marius’s other horses, Furious, History Painting, Bullydozer, Count Romeo and Oh My Goodness, to name a few, were all doing well. It was hoped that Mrs Wilkinson’s beau, Sir Cuthbert, after his long, long lay-off might race again soon.
Marius had notched up fifty wins by the end of January. He kept seeing Olivia at the races looking lovely and cherished by Shade. But when Mrs Wilkinson, despite carrying another 13 lb due to her successes, had her glorious victory in the King George, beating Playboy, Shade’s Gold Cup hopeful, Olivia rang up to congratulate him.
‘They talked for twenty minutes and Marius was so un-grumpy afterwards,’ Phoebe delighted in telling Amber, who was still not praised enough by Marius.
But at least the sapphire and crimson flag was flying continually again at Throstledown. And when Marius complained that Killer and Ilkley Hall had once again cut up Rafiq and Bullydozer at Sandown, Killer was banned for a week and no stewards ignored Marius’s objection because his wasn’t a big enough yard.
The flip side was the press hanging around the whole time. Marius loathed this. Not only did it disrupt the peace of the yard, but he was far too superstitious to enjoy pronouncing on the likelihood of his horses winning races.
The syndicate, however, was reaping benefits. Because of his diplomatic skills, Alban had also got a consultancy job with World Horse Welfare, heading up a campaign to put an end to the dreadful transporting of live horses abroad. Ione had been invited to go on Celebrity Big Brother and as Green Queen was frequently asked on telly, usually to shout at tycoons because of their excessive carbon footprints. Willowwood’s own tycoon, Valent Edwards, had been away. Following the worldwide success of Guardi, the lit-up Guardian Angel who dispelled children’s fear of the dark, Valent’s Chinese factory was working on other toys.
The Major was kept busy controlling the parking of all the tourists who poured into the village. All the local businesses were prospering. The Fox, renamed the Wilkinson Arms and with an inn sign of a white-faced Mrs Wilkinson with her tongue lolling out, was always packed. A betting shop called Easy Lay had opened in the high street. The village shop and post office, threatened with closure, had to stay open to cope with Wilkie’s fan mail.
Painswick and Pocock, growing even closer and also padding through the frozen grass, were planning to move in together and spend their winnings and the money from the sale of Pocock’s house on opening a teashop.
Miss Painswick’s adored former boss, Hengist Brett-Taylor, whose photographs she had taken down in the drawing room, had meanwhile become a huge television star. A second Simon Schama, he was making a drama-documentary about the legend of Willowwood and the rise of Beau Regard the Second. He was working closely with Alan, whose publishers had suddenly become wildly excited about his inside story of Mrs Wilkinson. Both Hengist and Alan were delving into her past.
To rub acid into the wound, fans and press never failed to remind an increasingly maddened Harvey-Holden that he had let the mare who had so helped racing slip through his fingers.
Even more wickedly, Dora had taught Mrs Wilkinson to yawn for the cameras every time Harvey-Holden’s name was mentioned.
115
Stardom, however, invites jealousy. Morale may rocket in a yard that brings home winners, but Josh and the other lads, who considered themselves far better riders than Rafiq, were irked by his success. It was worse now Dora had got to work, organizing features in the nationals, which led to a piece in Hello! that included moody, sexy photographs of Rafiq, the tigerish ‘Shere’ Khan of racing. This resulted in a lot of ragging, but also some snazzy clothes and a small car, thanks to Dora. She had craftily explained that, if Rafiq were given money, he’d send it straight home to Pakistan.
Furious was also becoming a cult figure, an alpha mule captivating the crowd with his wayward antics. In big races he was now allowed to miss the parade before the start because he bit and kicked both people and horses. Having refused even to be tacked up at Ascot, his finest hour had occurred in the Larkminster Cup, his prep race for the Cheltenham Gold Cup, when as the tapes went up, he turned, sending the man with a whip leaping for his life, and bolted in the other direction. Hauled round after a furlong by a screaming Rafiq, he changed his mind and belted after the high-class field. Horrified to find himself among them, he overtook the lot to beat Lusty by a length, to scenes of hysterical laughter and adulation.
Like Mrs Wilkinson, he was a character and whenever he ran, the public flocked to the track to watch the bad boy of racing. Rafiq adored him more than ever, wandering round the yard and the fields without a lead rein, Furious following him like a big dog.
‘Amazed Hello! got a word out of him,’ snarled Josh. ‘All he ever talks to or about is Furious.’
Rafiq now prayed to Allah that Marius would put him up on Furious for the Gold Cup in March. He had stopped praying for Amber to return his love. Even if his career continued to soar, like Buraq the flying horse who carried the Prophet to paradise, their backgrounds were too different. Even if he came ‘singing from Palestine’, Amber, his lady love, would never welcome him home.
Hearing him singing his mournful songs round the yard, however, Dora had opened negotiations with a record producer. ‘Rafiq’s so beautiful, he’s got such a lovely voice, he could easily become a pop star.
‘Honestly, Rafiq,’ she sighed later, ‘with me around you don’t need an agent.’
When Etta met Hengist Brett-Taylor she thought he was one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever encountered and totally understood Painswick’s crush. He was so amused and amusing and couldn’t stop laughing about his old secretary’s new love.
‘I cannot believe the old duck’s got a drake at last, or rather a Pocock. I must tell Sally,’ and he rushed off to ring his wife.
Etta also loved Hengist because he rolled up with a beautiful white greyhound called Elaine, with whom Priceless fell madly in love, and even more because Hengist insisted on having Rafiq, his gaol-mate, in his drama-documentary. Dora’s boyfriend Paris was playing Sir Francis Framlingham. Rafiq, in a blond wig, plumed hat pulled down over his nose, was acting as Paris’s standin, cantering across Larkshire on Mrs Wilkinson to recreate Sir Francis going to war on Beau Regard.
Hengist was also using Rafiq in the documentary to put for- ward the Muslim point of view. There was a touching moment when they were filming in the church, as a bristlingly defensive Rafiq had gazed down at th
e stone effigy of Sir Francis for a few moments before murmuring, ‘He too went a long way for his religion.’
Rafiq had mellowed. As a Muslim he had learnt that human life was sacred, but, steeped in the ideology of the terrorist training camp, he had come to believe that his own life should be sacrificed for the cause in the holy war to wipe out non-believers. But gradually he had found himself growing to love nonbelievers. Not just Hengist, who had protected him in prison, or Marius, who had bought back Furious and given him a chance as a jockey most lads could only dream of, or Etta and Painswick, who’d mothered him so kindly, or Valent, who’d tipped him so generously and fought his corner. There was also his dear friend Tommy, who worked so tirelessly on his horses, advised him so tactfully and had contributed so much to his dramatic rise to fame.
Rafiq was keeping his nose clean. He was extra careful because he was sure the police were watching him and tapping his telephone calls, hoping this would lead them to his cousin Ibrahim, who he believed was still hiding out in the lawless badlands on the borders of Pakistan.
To up their incomes, Josh and the other lads all passed on tips to punters. ‘It’s a lovely day in Willowwood’ was code for a horse likely to win, while ‘It’s raining in Willowwood’ indicated one that hadn’t a chance. Rafiq had stopped even giving free tips to the friends he had made in gaol.
Tommy, meanwhile, who looked after Wilkie, Romeo, a rapidly improving Bullydozer, and Furious when Rafiq was away, was well ahead in the Throstledown points system that allocated a groom three points for a win and one for a place.
Tresa and Michelle (even though she now worked for Harvey-Holden) were wild with envy. They were a thousand times prettier than Tommy, but they didn’t get the fan mail, weren’t pestered for autographs or have their pictures in the Racing Post. Owners pinched their bottoms, but they didn’t thrust fistfuls of tenners into their jeans pockets for racking up wins and turnout prizes.