by Fiona Walker
Charge, crouch, ping. Charge, crouch, whoof!
He rattled poles and made the crowds in the stands gasp.
They were the last combination to jump, the overnight leaders with less than a fence in hand to secure victory. The FEI Classics series had gone right to the wire too, and everything was riding on this round. If they went clear they would win the series after the closely contended battle that had been running throughout the season between the two best known rivals in eventing.
Charge, crouch, spring.
They turned for the final fence, the whites of the horse’s eyes gleaming, nostrils two red furnaces set in that smoky muzzle, his distinctive heart-shaped star lifting higher as his head shot up and he locked on to the striped poles and charged, pulling the reins from his rider’s hands and taking off almost a stride too early.
The surge of power was spectacular, the muscles in his gleaming haunches shifting beneath the copper skin like polished pennies pouring from a slot machine. But it still seemed an impossible leap.
Tash closed her eyes and waited for the sound of thudding poles. Instead she heard cheering.
‘He’s won?’ She opened her eyes again. ‘He’s won!’
Despite having a baby in a papoose and a toddler to each side of her, she started to run round in excited circles, cheering gleefully. Then she rushed forwards to kiss the winner as he exited the arena after a lap of honour and jumped from the horse to claim her.
Julia Ditton was on hand with her microphone, now reporting for Eurosport after a rather ignoble departure from the BBC following the now infamous Burghley Bollocks incident.
She tried to get a word with the man who had just won the biggest eventing prize of the year, but couldn’t get past the mass of supporters, well-wishers, family and connections crowding round him, not least his wife, who appeared to have leaped aboard him like Meg Ryan in Top Gun, baby papoose and all, both laughing and kissing delightedly.
Giving up, she turned to the runner-up who was standing near by, waiting to add his congratulations, and she thrust the microphone at him. ‘You won the Olympic silver to Hugo’s gold, and now you’ve just lost out here at Pau,’ she pointed out rather ungraciously. ‘So tell us, Lough, how does it feel to be the bridesmaid but never the bride?’
Lough rarely laughed, especially in public, but today a delicious, deep rumble of noise bubbled up like a hot spring and he gave Julia and the camera the benefit of his rare and delectable smile. ‘Actually, I’m marrying the groom next week …’ He glanced over his shoulder.
Leading his horse around behind him the groom in question blew him a kiss.
When Beccy Sergeant and Lough Strachan married in All Saints Church in Ascot it was a quiet family affair. Lough’s mother and sister travelled from New Zealand; James gave his stepdaughter away with tremendous pride; Henrietta, Em and Tash cried happily nonstop; the Beauchamps’ new baby Winifred – known to all as Whoopee – cried for five minutes before being removed by a doting Hugo. And Sophia, sharing quiet asides with her mother throughout the ceremony, was so swept away by the simplicity and romance of the occasion that she didn’t make one bitchy comment.
Afterwards, they had a wedding party at Benedict, mostly close eventing friends, the Haydown and Lime Tree crowds, Lough’s New Zealand team-mates and new friends from their Salisbury base.
The couple delayed their honeymoon by a week because they wanted to spend time with Lough’s visiting family, and because they had another wedding to go to …
*
A week later, Faith and Rory married in the chapel at Fox Oddfield Abbey, which had been granted a special licence when Pete and Sylva had married there earlier in the year, in an extravaganza that had lasted for three days, three Cheers! spreads and three episodes of Sylva’s Shadow.
A hundred guests crammed in for the ceremony. Rory’s mother and sister wore rival hats of such magnificent proportions that nobody on the groom’s side could see past them; Faith was given away by all four of her fathers; Anke and Tash cried happily throughout; baby Whoopee cried unhappily for five minutes before being removed by a doting Hugo.
Afterwards, they held a reception with two hundred additional guests in the main house. It was a joyful, raucous, debauched party typical of the eventing crowd, the highlight of which was a one-night-only repeat performance by the Rockfather and his son.
As the first bars of ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’ struck up, the newly married couple took to the dancefloor.
‘I’m home.’ Rory buried his face in his wife’s sweet-smelling neck.
Faith threaded her fingers through her husband’s hair and felt her heartstrings knot ever tighter to his. ‘And dry.’
They swayed deliciously to the beat, Rory’s hipflask jabbing into her ribs through his morning suit. She pulled it out and unscrewed the top.
Rory’s cheeks coloured. ‘I’ll always be a badly behaved event rider …’
‘Me too.’ She lifted the flask to her lips, a smile breaking there as she tasted nothing but lemon barley water.