Jump!

by Jilly Cooper

  Down in the office, Valent thought how pale and exhausted Marius looked. At the Races, turned up sforzando, was showing a race in Kentucky with lots of little Eddie Aldertons in long white trousers and ankle boots riding large horses which were being ponied down to the start by large men on little ponies.

  He knew Marius was anxious to get out to evening stables, so, having accepted a can of beer, he immediately broke the news that he’d bought Mrs Wilkinson.

  ‘Shouldn’t chuck your money away like that.’

  ‘Got enough for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Not if you start buying racehorses,’ said Marius, examining the schooling list for tomorrow.

  ‘Will you turn the foocking television down and concentrate, Marius? I’ll have to put you in a flooffy noseband.’

  ‘Stupid time to buy her anyway,’ went on Marius, ‘I’m going to turn her away for the summer. She’s had a long hard season.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Valent, ‘she’s been very lightly raced, only did one round of the Gold Cup. I want her to go in for the National.’

  ‘Too late, it’s all been handicapped. And she’s much too small.’

  ‘You entered her and Furious ages ago.’

  ‘Painswick did. I never had any intention of running her, unless she’d missed the Gold Cup or hadn’t won the King George. They announce the National weights in the middle of Feb, after the King George in fact, which means she’d be top weight. You can’t expect her to carry 11 st 10 lb, 10 lb more than Playboy. I’ve lost too many horses in that race.’

  ‘Why are you running Sir Cuthbert then?’ asked Valent sulkily.

  ‘Because we’ve finally got him right, he’s twice as big as Wilkie and he stays for ever. Wilkie’s too gutsy, her heart’s too big. I’m not running her. If you’re determined to take her to Aintree, enter her in the Mares Only on Friday.’

  Marius topped up his whisky without water, turned up the television and picked up the Racing Post.

  Valent flipped. ‘Turn that foocking TV down.’

  Despite his great generosity, Valent was first and foremost a major player who always aimed for the top. Ryan was back in his life, excited at the prospect, and there were 500,000 cuddly Wilkinsons to shift out of the starting stalls.

  The Gold Cup was the mecca of the National Hunt world, but the National was something else. Every housewife in England had a pound on it, 600 million people watched it on television. It was an Everest with vast romantic and historical associations. Valent also remembered Etta saying she still read National Velvet once a year.

  ‘Wilkie’ll make a fortune as a brood mare if she even runs well in the National.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Marius looked up from the Racing Post. ‘Great race mares don’t necessarily make good brood mares.’

  ‘Aintree would love to have her,’ said Valent proudly. ‘It’d be great box office to take her there. Aintree’s flat, it would suit her better. You know, Marius, the Gold Cup’s for horses with a great cruising speed and a turn of foot which Wilkie doesn’t have. National’s for out-and-out stayers. Anyway, small horses tend to jump more carefully and concentrate.’

  Marius looked at him beadily.

  ‘You’ve been talking to Rupert.’ Valent drained his beer and got up.

  ‘I’m sorry, Marius, Wilkie’s going in for the National.’

  ‘She is bloody not. It’s less than three weeks away. Don’t tell me how to train horses, Valent, go back to inventing robots and importing toys.’

  Valent glanced at a photograph of Olivia taking part in the Ashcombe point-to-point – she and Bafford Playboy stretched over an open ditch.

  ‘National’s only an oopmarket point-to-point,’ he said.

  Hearing shouting and Valent’s car storming off down the drive, Amber shoved back drawers and ran downstairs.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  Marius, pouring himself another large whisky, couldn’t speak for rage. Mistletoe cowered under the desk.

  Amber crouched down to stroke her. ‘Whatever’s happened?’

  ‘Valent’s taking Furious and Mrs Wilkinson to Rupert.’

  ‘He what!’ Amber was aghast. ‘They’ll loathe it, he’s far too rough on horses. Like going to Borstal.’

  ‘He’s entering them both in the Grand National,’ said Marius bleakly.

  ‘He can’t,’ whispered Amber. ‘Rupert doesn’t approve of women jockeys. He can’t put up that spoilt brat Eddie Alderton, he wouldn’t get her over the first fence. Nor will Furious ever run for Eddie or Rogue.’

  ‘Rogue’s banned until after the National.’

  ‘Wilkie’s uptight enough as it is. If he takes her away from Tommy and all her friends, it’ll destroy her. And what the hell will it do to Rafiq? How dare Valent do that, after all you’ve done for Furious and Wilkie.’ She put her arms round him. ‘Come to bed. I’ll make it better.’

  But later, when she put her lips round his cock, nothing happened.

  ‘Flag’s the only thing going up round here,’ said Marius bitterly.

  Rogue came out of the cottage in Penscombe, from which Rupert had evicted him, to find the paparazzi out in force. Why had he turned his horse round, why had he hit Marius? Was he gutted because Amber had shacked up with Marius?

  Rogue shrugged, ‘I guess on the day I was beaten by a better horse,’ and jumping into his Ferrari, he drove straight at the paps, sending them leaping for their lives.

  He had screwed up the best job in racing and probably his best chance of winning the National. His shoulder was giving him hell, but nothing like the pain of being banned for a month. To avoid the press, he decided to go on holiday and flew out to Portugal. Having sat on the beach for ten minutes, surrounded by vast women with massive tattooed thighs, he decided to fly home again.

  He felt utterly miserable. For two years he’d been fighting the fact that he was crazy about Amber. He’d give up all the girls in the world for her. Nothing had equalled the agony when he’d seen her motionless body at the Field of Hope.

  He must be lunatically smitten for it to take his mind off winning the Gold Cup, but even that agony was nothing to the red-hot-poker rage when he saw her in Marius’s arms. It was entirely his fault, he’d taken the piss out of her so often, and now he’d lost her and screwed his career.

  As he walked into the Arrivals lounge at Heathrow, his mobile rang. It was Diana Keen from Sunset and Vine, the ace production company with the massive task of covering the Grand National for the BBC:

  ‘Hi Rogue, Billy Lloyd-Foxe is ill and won’t make it, Bluey Charteris has got pneumonia. How’d you like to come and help us with the commentary on the Grand National?’

  131

  Rupert Campbell-Black had moved almost entirely away from National Hunt to the flat, winning the big races with the progeny of his stallions to advertise their potency. As each stallion was capable of covering 150-odd mares a year, at a massive stud fee, the riches were unimaginable.

  The great Irish trainer at Coolmore, the sheikhs in Dubai and Rupert all respected and liked each other and bought each other’s foals. Although he was a martinet, Rupert’s jockeys and stable staff would jump through fire for him. Now he was fiftysix, not too many miles from sixty, his record-breaking three-thousandth win was expected before the end of the season. But Rupert was not happy.

  For a start, he was faced with the problem of the two Eddies. His father Eddie had been such a hit on Buffers, the television show in which retired military men argued about wars, that the public had even started shoving Rupert out of the way to get Eddie’s autograph. Eddie, however, was slipping into senility, resolutely exposing himself in the orangery, addicted to pornography, sliding DVDs entitled Eight Hours of Big Tits and Dicks into a machine and his hands up girls’ skirts.

  Even Painswick, who’d helped Eddie out with his fan mail when things had been slack at Throstledown, wasn’t out of bounds and Pocock was threatening to call Eddie out. Rupert, woken by moaning the morning after the Gold Cup
, thought it was Banquo the Labrador desperate to go out, but discovered it was one of Cindy Bolton’s Casanovas which a naked Eddie was watching in the study.

  More stressful, however, was Eddie the second: Edward Alderton, Rupert’s twenty-year-old grandson by Perdita and Luke Alderton, both international polo players, so Eddie could ride before he crawled.

  Arrogant, spoilt, opinionated, Eddie had already achieved considerable success as a flat jockey in America, but having grown too tall and heavy he’d decided to try his luck over fences and had come to spend a year with Grandpa Penscombe and Taggie.

  Like Rupert nearly forty years ago, this gilded brat thought he knew everything and was very rough on horses. The rows between him and Rupert were pyrotechnic. Poor Taggie, Rupert’s wife, was desperately attempting to keep the peace.

  Racing was different in America. Even apprentice jockeys only ride out from six thirty to ten thirty in the morning, while stable lads, mostly Mexican, look after the horses. Painkillers banned in England are allowed in the States to enable horses to run. Jockeys are ponied down to the start. Eddie refused to admit how terrified he’d been when, in his first race in England, he had to find the start by himself and his horse had carted him. Eddie had also taken some time to overcome his terror of Rupert’s kamikaze downhill gallop. Now he scorched down, taking every liberty.

  Young Eddie had also palled up with old Eddie. They watched porn together with howls of laughter and encouraged each other in all sorts of silly behaviour which drove Rupert crackers.

  Also contributing to Rupert’s unhappiness was the fact that his beautiful chestnut avenue, a towering candlelit vigil in spring, shedding conkers like a bed of fire in autumn, which he had planted when he first started showjumping back in the sixties, was dying of some incurable fungus, its bark cracking. It might soon have to be felled.

  Finally Rupert was devastated because his greatest friend, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, was dying of cancer. Rupert, despite his Olympian caprice, had troops of friends but none equalled Billy for tolerance and sweetness and a sense of humour. He and Rupert were joined at the hip, read each other’s minds and finished each other’s sentences.

  On the surface Billy was too kind, easy-going and generous, but he had won Olympic medals for showjumping and had become an adored BBC commentator. Somehow, too, Billy had managed to stay married to his rackety, promiscuous journalist wife, Janey. But to cope with the strain, Billy had always drunk and smoked to excess, which had now taken its toll. Billy made light of the pain but his stocky figure had dwindled away, the thick curly grey hair was sparse, and only the huge smile dominating the emaciated face was the same.

  Although Billy remained in hospital, he was still hoping and fighting to be well enough to fly up and swell the team of BBC presenters covering the Grand National.

  The National was the only big race that had evaded Rupert and he had caught Valent up in his desire to crack it. He therefore made colossal headlines by announcing that from now on he would be training Furious and Mrs Wilkinson at Penscombe and they would both be joining Lusty in the National in three weeks’ time. Despite his love-hate relationship with young Eddie, he would have adored his grandson to ride his three-thousandth winner on one of the three horses.

  Most of the Willowwood syndicate were absolutely thrilled by the move to Rupert. Not only had they cleaned up financially with their share of the £600,000 Valent had paid for Mrs Wilkinson, but there was also the 1 per cent share they’d retained in her, and Valent had promised to fly them all up to Aintree where he’d taken a box.

  ‘Marius who?’ mocked Shagger.

  ‘Rupert’s two top stallions, Peppy Koala and Love Rat, charge stud fees of a hundred thousand,’ announced Alan.

  ‘I’d pay that to sleep with Rupert,’ said Corinna.

  ‘If we all put in ffity thousand we could have a gang bang,’ chortled Phoebe, then, although she’d never visited Mrs Wilkinson at Badger’s Court or Throstledown, she added, ‘I hope we’ll have lots of access to Wilkie so she won’t get lonely.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Rupert’s wonderful yard,’ said Tilda.

  So was Alan, for his book, but he was not sure how accommodating Rupert would be.

  ‘“At the base of these aristocratic races,”’ quoted Seth, ‘“the predator is not to be mistaken, the splendorous Blond Beastie avidly rampant for plunder and victory.” Never underestimate Rupert.’

  Etta had missed the meeting held on the Monday after the Gold Cup, at which the Major told the syndicate of the move to Rupert’s. Romy and Martin had buzzed off to London for an evening fundraiser, leaving Etta with the children. She therefore heard the news later in the evening from an outraged Painswick and was so distraught she immediately rang Valent:

  ‘How dare you desert Marius after all the love and work he’s put into Wilkie, and what about poor Tommy! They know what she’s capable of – not bloody Rupert Campbell-Black.’

  ‘I thought he was your pin-oop and you’d be pleased to have him training Wilkie for the National.’

  ‘The National?’ screamed Etta. ‘How could you!’

  ‘You were always saying your favourite book was National Velvet and as a little girl you dreamed of winning the National.’

  ‘The Pie in National Velvet was huge, Mrs Wilkinson’s had all the stuffing knocked out of her by the Gold Cup and she’s only fourteen two.’

  ‘So was Battleship.’

  ‘Everyone quotes bloody Battleship. Anyway National Velvet was fiction.’

  ‘I don’t oonderstand you, Etta,’ snapped Valent and hung up. Priceless sighed.

  The rest of the syndicate tried to talk Etta round.

  ‘You’re being too harsh on Valent, Granny,’ protested Trixie, remembering the greenbacks after the Gold Cup. ‘He loves Mrs Wilkinson and he’s saved her so many times, look at the time he came all the way back from Dubai to talk the syndicate round. And think how exciting it will be to see Rupert’s yard.’

  Rupert’s yard was indeed glorious, with its lovely honey-gold house lying back against its pillow of beeches, now showing a green blur of spring. The old showjumping yard had been enlarged to house his racehorses, but he had colonized the entire valley to build the stud where his stallions strutted their stuffing and the boxes for his brood mares and their foals. Electronic security gates and CCTV cameras monitored operations in field and stable.

  ‘It’s a good thing they didn’t operate in the old days,’ said Dora, ‘when Rupert was pulling every girl groom in sight.’

  There were multi-screens in his office to watch his horses wherever they were running as well as a gym, spas and a salt-water pool, plus equipment and flat and uphill gallops to replicate every fence, hurdle, surface or course in the world.

  None of this, however, impressed Mrs Wilkinson, who was above all a home bird who never slept in strange stables. She was desperately homesick and frightened at Rupert’s. No one played Beethoven to her. No one laughed when she stuck out her tongue, no one gave her a Polo if she tried to shake hooves. Refusing to eat, walking her box, driving everyone crackers yelling for Chisolm, she desperately missed Tommy, Etta, Rafiq and all her horse friends at Throstledown.

  Nor, to their rage, was Rupert going to give that ‘ghastly syndicate’ access or allow any journalists or fans into his yard, so Mrs Wilkinson missed their adulation as well.

  The acquisition of Mrs Wilkinson was a two-edged sword. Red postal vans were soon buckling under her fan mail, as tons of Polos, carrots, barley sugars and get-well cards arrived at Rupert’s gate. Chisolm sent her a bleatings card. These had been redirected by Painswick, who remembered Rupert as one of the most subversive and difficult parents at Bagley Hall.

  ‘It’s your problem now,’ she sourly told Rupert’s very diplomatic PA.

  132

  Dora, however, was a great friend of the Campbell-Blacks.

  ‘It’s absolutely dreadful for Marius, Tommy and Rafiq,’ she told Etta apologetically, ‘but I can’t
diss Rupert because I’m writing his column for him.’

  Always on the hunt for a story, Dora rolled up at Penscombe to see her friend Bianca, Rupert and Taggie’s daughter.

  Mrs Wilkinson, temporarily roused out of her black depression, was touchingly pleased to see Dora, practically clambering out over the half-door of her box.

  ‘How is she?’ Dora asked Lysander, Rupert’s assistant, who was a genius at bringing on horses. Infinitely patient, refusing to push them, believing that it didn’t matter if they came fifth or sixth as long as they looked forward to their next race, Lysander praised and encouraged them to the skies. So far he wasn’t having much success with Mrs Wilkinson.

  ‘She’s absolutely miserable,’ he sighed. ‘Rupert’s put her in a ring bit and a cross noseband to teach her to jump straight. He’s taking her drag hunting tomorrow so she gets used to jumping big fences at speed.’

  ‘She’s refusing Polos, she must be dying,’ said a worried Dora.

  ‘She’s also come into season.’

  ‘Ah, will Rupert still run her?’

  ‘Only one in ten mares runs better in season or when they’re cycling,’ said Lysander, ‘so the odds aren’t great.’

  ‘We better enter her for the Tour de France then,’ giggled Bianca.

  Mrs Wilkinson sank back into gloom, whinnying piteously then retreating to the back of the box, head drooping, tail down, so Dora asked if she and Bianca could take her for a walk. Lysander, who was quite used to dealing with temperamental stallions but who had turned deathly pale at the prospect of sorting out an impossibly fractious Furious, said that was OK.

  The yard for once was very quiet. All the lads were on their breaks. Rupert was at the World Cup in Dubai. Lysander had clattered off to the indoor school. Bianca, who was madly in love with Feral Jackson, Ryan Edwards’s brilliant new striker, wanted to know if Dora thought seventeen was too young to get married.