Well Groomed

by Fiona Walker

  She was rather sickened halfway around the course to hear him having a ten-pound bet with the Scottish eventer, Glen Bain, that Hugo would win the championships.

  ‘He’s been dying to get his hands on that horse for years . . .’

  The course inspection did nothing to cheer her up.

  First they were driven around both roads and tracks sections, breaking in between to spill out of their vehicles and inspect the steeplechase course – much like any used for a National Hunt race and there to test the horse’s stamina. Then it was back to the endurance box to walk around the ultimate test – Snob’s old favourite – the cross-country course.

  This first inspection – the only officiated one – was perhaps the most communal and least serious of the competitors’ several course-walks. It was the first time that the riders had a chance to see any new fences close up, although most of the course was familiar as it stayed largely the same year in and out, to be run in alternate directions year by year. As they walked the course on this occasion, the riders and owners joked and gossiped between fences, exchanging tips and advice, horror stories and anecdotes, only pausing to discuss each fence fairly seriously when they came to it. All the riders would walk the course again – some several times – to measure out paces, time checks and alternative routes in and out of each fence. The later course-walkings would be far more studied, serious affairs, conducted with measuring wheels, chewed nails and pencils and pads. This time it was more about communal spirit and gasping at new fences than technicalities.

  Tash was horrified by pretty much every single obstacle and felt nothing but relief that she was not facing the prospect of riding Snob around them. Whereas other events presented challenging fences at intervals, stopping the gaps between them by ‘stocking fillers’ – easier, galloping fences that allowed one to gain confidence and maintain rhythm – this course was challenge after challenge without let up. Every single obstacle presented its own series of problems, requiring thought, accuracy and skill. With Snob towing her around here, it would be like driving the wrong way up the M4. At least with the safer, more reliable Hunk she could plan her lines without worrying what would happen if he trundled up to the fence with his head between his knees, looking at the ground instead of the huge jumping effort ahead. Hunk hadn’t the same ability, but he was as accurate as laser surgery and tirelessly responsive.

  The course was scattered with fences that had been around for years and still instilled fear into the greatest of riders – the vast, gaping angle of the Vicarage Vee, the yawning ditch beneath the Cross Questions, the twisting undulations of the Quarry, and, of course, the steep drop into the huge Lake which, if one rode it too boldly, could set a horse swimming in seconds.

  Of the new fences one or two stood out as titanically difficult and had fellow competitors scratching their heads as they pondered sharp turns, tight arrowheads and, the latest craze amongst course designers, angled triple bounces which required horse and rider to head for a fence in a perfectly judged stride and line in order to make it over three jumps in immediate succession. These three fences, which looked like Chinese hieroglyphics in high relief when you first saw them, would be angled so acutely that the line had to be precise or the horse would either grind to a halt or drop a shoulder and run out at one of the elements.

  The fence that worried Tash most was a new one called the Three Scythes and involved a lethal and complex combination of fat, solid log ‘arms’ and curved silver-painted arcs scattered with bundles of cut grass. It was a rider brain-teaser that in essence could prove easy provided the jockey had worked out exactly how to aim his horse towards it beforehand. There was only one logical direct route, which would save seconds but had absolutely no room for inaccuracy. The alternatives took one all around the houses and could effectively scupper one’s chances of winning the event. Tash had a feeling that cross-country day would be won or lost on that fence, and it was just the sort of obstacle that Snob loathed.

  ‘I should watch him at this one,’ she told Hugo as they stood by it, watching the beetle-browed Scottish eventer Glen Bain clambering all over the fence and declaring it a monster. ‘He might be athletic, but three bounces on a pin-point line is stretching him and he could go horribly wrong.’

  ‘With you, maybe,’ Hugo was staring at the line intently, ‘but I’m on board on Saturday.’

  Tash refused to rise. ‘I’d check out all the alternatives really thoroughly,’ she warned. ‘If there’s a route where you don’t have to pull him up too much or turn him tightly, I’d go for that. Anything that allows him to keep his impetus and rhythm, even if it’s longer, will be safer. This is absolutely his worst type of fence.’

  She trudged around the remainder of the course with Lucy Field and Penny, both of whom were frantically gossiping about the fact that Kirsty’s fiancé, thick Richie, had faxed her that weekend to say he’d been having an affair with a fellow Australian lawyer for six months and their engagement was off.

  ‘You’d have thought he could have waited until after Badminton!’ Lucy was appalled. ‘I call that so insensitive.’

  Tash hid a smile. She guessed if there was one thing that Niall had always been, it was sensitive.

  That afternoon was the first of the event’s vets’ inspections. It was a rather grand affair in front of the main house with a large number of officials in situ to preside over proceedings with the panel of vets. India had spent a large whack of the afternoon beautifying Hunk who now gleamed like a melting chocolate bar, his bay coat so shiny that Tash could almost see her pale, anxious face reflected in it as she waited to trot him up on the straight run of flat Tarmac which had been scraped out of the gravel carriage sweep. Although fit for over two months now, his tendon did give him sporadic stiffness, especially when it was cold and wet. So far that week the weather had held out, giving them a cool, blustery backdrop with just the odd glimmer of chilly sun, as though God was running a lighting check for the big summer stage show in a couple of months’ time. But the forecast for the weekend was bad and a lot of the competitors had spent the day gazing sporadically at the western horizon from which a huge blanket of storm cloud was predicted to emerge.

  Because she had originally been entered on two horses, Tash was drawn as a very early number on Hunk. Snob, who was to have been her second ride, was one of the last in the draw and so Hugo wasn’t even out in front of the house as Tash trotted Hunk up before the panel. She jogged alongside him like Madonna shadowed by a huge bodyguard, trying to remember to keep his head straight as Gus had told her, which was hard as his nose kept dive-bombing her pockets for Polos.

  He gambolled along happily, black ears pricked tightly forward, eyes gleaming, huge soup-plate hooves ringing out a clear, even percussion on the Tarmac. On the return leg, Tash had to sprint to keep up with him. There was no question but that he would pass. She felt immensely relieved and watched as, half an hour later, Fashion Victim passed too, although the vets were far slower in letting him through, deliberating for some seconds and calling Gus over for a quick word.

  ‘What did they say?’ Tash asked as they walked together back to the stable yard.

  ‘Oh, the usual stuff about his wind – you know how he pants like an obscene caller. He’s got a reputation for it now, so we always go through a bit of a question and answer routine about it. And they asked after his corns, like old ladies at a clinic.’

  At the yard, a glamorous former Olympic eventer, Julia Ditton, whom Tash had once desperately wanted to be, was roving around preparing the pre-recorded information package that would precede the live television coverage of the endurance day on Saturday. She was interviewing grooms and riders for gossip, scratching the better-known horses’ noses in front of the camera and picking through tack boxes to explain to the folks at home what a brushing boot was.

  She cornered Tash by a feed bin.

  ‘D’you mind awfully doing a little interview about giving Hugo the ride on Snob? I’ve already hoodwinked h
im into taking part. I know it’s a pain, but I’d be tremendously grateful.’

  Tash reluctantly agreed. She tended to get very tongue-tied and idiotic at these things, dropping malapropisms left, right and centre as she groped for words. She’d once told a Sky reporter that she was ‘billed to thrits’ at winning Bramham. Hugo, by contrast, was supremely fluent and sexy on screen, which in part accounted for his huge female following. Commiseration letters and fan-mail had been flooding in since the weekend. Already, Snob had hundreds more good luck cards pinned up around his stable door than any other horse. Poor old Hunk only had a card from Beetroot (in India’s handwriting) and a telegram from Alexandra wishing him and Tash luck and begging the latter to call.

  The television crew consisted of a bored-looking cameraman with scurf-scattered shoulders, and a balding sound recordist wearing headphones over his pate and waggling a furry microphone around. Lurking behind them was a despotic BBC sports producer called Paul who was wearing a baseball cap and a Pringle sweater and yakked into his mobile phone almost incessantly. He kept grumbling that horses were absolutely not his thing, and he gave anything with four legs – including the dogs – a wide berth, his sunburned nose wrinkling.

  ‘Is this going to take long? Only I’m due at the vets’ inspection soon,’ Hugo snapped. He was looking extremely dashing, if crabby, in a cream waistcoat and navy cords, Tash noticed. She wished she’d made more effort for the earlier inspection instead of borrowing Penny’s rather worn navy blazer and dragging her hair into a messy ponytail. She looked like a student with a vast overdraft at her first job interview. No wonder he was practically ignoring her at the moment. She determined to make a real effort to smarten up for the rest of the week.

  At first, Paul wanted Tash and Hugo to be standing on either side of Snob during the interview, but the chestnut took an instant dislike both to Paul’s hat and to the sound recordist’s furry microphone, looking in imminent danger of demolishing both with his paddling hooves as he reared up, with Tash struggling to keep a grip on him. He was quickly reinstalled in his box and it was decided to interview them with Tash sitting on a bale of straw whilst Hugo stood behind her with his foot resting on the bale in romantic hero pose. The stance was extremely artificial and Julia raised her eyes to heaven in sympathy.

  ‘Raymond Brooks Ward would never have stood for this,’ she groaned, adjusting the alice band in her short blonde hair and wiping the moisture from her forehead. ‘Still, I need the cash. Right, let’s get cracking.’ She waited for a nod from the camera-man, did a short spiel to camera, and then turned to them with a big smile. ‘Hugo, I was so sorry, as I’m sure all our viewers were, to hear of the tragic death of your great horse Bodybuilder last weekend. How are you feeling about that now?’

  Behind her, Tash could feel Hugo’s foot digging into the straw as he tensed.

  ‘Not great,’ he admitted. ‘He was a terrific horse – perhaps the best I’ve ever had. He was so clever, he could tackle a fence from any direction off any leg at practically any speed. I adored him, and I’m cut to ribbons that he’s gone – I’d be a liar to pretend otherwise.’

  That’ll get them right where it hurts, Tash realised. The gruff, drawling voice just tinged with sadness would have teenage girls and old age pensioners weeping countrywide when this was aired.

  ‘And with the loss of Bod, you weren’t expecting to come here at all, I gather?’

  ‘Nope, I was planning my first weekend at home this season.’ His foot was starting to dig into the small of Tash’s back now. ‘Which is rather bad timing as my house is being invaded by film crews at the moment.’

  Choosing not to pick up on this, Julia pressed on. Behind her Brian Sedgewick’s groom, Ursula, had wandered into shot without realising and was now trying to edge her way out again, looking wildly self-conscious. Watching her shuffling sideways like a prime prat, Tash started to giggle.

  ‘But you had other ideas, didn’t you, Tash?’

  Suddenly realising that the furry microphone was being waggled at her, Tash found her tongue was intent on counting her teeth one by one.

  ‘Yes,’ she managed to splutter.

  Julia smiled kindly, waiting for more. Behind her, Ursula, blushing furiously, fell over a bucket with a loud clatter. Tash felt her face straining and twitching under the pressure not to laugh. Hugo gave her back a sharp prod with his foot but her chest was starting to heave now and hiccups of laughter were bubbling up in her throat so she kept her mouth glued closed as though sucking a fizzy sweet.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ Julia prompted hopefully.

  ‘I – er – I—’ Tash had to shut her mouth again as her voice warbled towards the giggles.

  ‘Tash very generously offered me the ride on one of her top horses, Foxy Snob,’ Hugo cut in smoothly. ‘He’s a brilliant but very difficult horse who tends to drag a rider around a course, as many followers of the sport will know. Tash felt a change of rider at this stage might get Snob on his toes again and, as I was suddenly without a horse, she offered him to me. I’m just hoping I can give her and Niall the best wedding present ever and win Badminton for them this year.’ His foot ground its way towards one of Tash’s kidneys and she winced.

  Giving Tash a very sly wink, Julia turned back to the camera again.

  ‘Of course as most of you out there who read the gossip columns will know, Tash is marrying the actor Niall O’Shaughnessy a week on Saturday. Despite this, she’s bravely riding around the toughest course in the country on her second horse Hunky Drunk on Saturday. Tell me, Tash, are you more nervous about that, or about marrying every woman’s dream man?’

  Tash’s giggles instantly evaporated as the scurfy cameraman panned into her face in sharp close-up.

  ‘Mmmm . . .’ She started to cough. ‘Both really.’

  ‘And can we expect the gorgeous Niall to come and support you this weekend?’ Julia looked girlish.

  ‘He’s – er – busy filming.’

  ‘What a shame! I bet he’s at the end of a phone all the time, hoping that you don’t do yourself an injury this weekend and ruin the big day?’

  Tash coughed. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time in this sport that a bride went up the aisle with the aid of crotches – I mean, crutches,’ she fumbled nervously. ‘In fact, I might need a stretcher to get me up there, as the saying goes.’ She wasn’t sure that the saying did go like that, but anyway.

  Julia’s pale blue eyes were widening with surprise and she gave a nervous laugh. ‘Quite. So you’ll be in the unique position this weekend of competing against one of your own horses?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tash decided to settle for her old favourite answer again. Her more inventive one clearly hadn’t gone down too well.

  ‘Won’t that be odd?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you’ve done it before?’

  ‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, no. I mean, in the yard where I’m based we swap around horses quite a lot, so you find that the one you were working with the week earlier is with another member of the team the next week. Quite often it means I compete against a horse I’ve schooled myself. We often change our mind about which horse suits which rider best at a late stage. Like men, really!’ she gulped.

  ‘I see.’ Julia turned to the producer. ‘We’ll do that bit again, shall we?’

  He shrugged. ‘Scrap the lot for all I care – it was dismal. I wanted to be at Silverstone this weekend. Let’s get a shot of the nag now. Which one is it?’ They wandered towards Snob who was being pacified by India with a carrot while Jenny plaited him for the inspection panel. The producer’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Let’s have a few shots of the horse and his young groom, shall we?’ he suggested excitedly, taking in the length of India’s legs.

  ‘India’s not actually looking after him this weekend,’ Tash explained, following them. ‘Jenny’s his groom.’

  ‘It’s all right, darling, we won’t need you for this bit.’ Paul waved a dism
issive hand over his shoulder.

  Tash melted away.

  For the ensuing half-hour Paul presided with meticulous care over the shooting of India from every conceivable angle – leading Snob across the yard, feeding Snob a Polo mint, putting his bridle on, taking his saddle off, lifting his leg and dropping his girth. It was a dangerous escapade – Snob was notoriously evil in the stable – and she was rather embarrassed throughout, but Paul was enchanted.

  Finally, Hugo insisted on dragging the horse away for the vets’ inspection. After that, Paul even had the gall to suggest that India carry on the shoot with another similar-looking horse, but thankfully Julia put a stop to it.

  ‘You might not be able to tell them apart, chum,’ she smiled her delightfully disarming smile, ‘but most of the viewers will – it’s like sports presenters: Des Lynam and Jimmy Hill look one and the same to a BBC2 arts viewer, and horses look the same to a suburban golf-fanatic, but not to the eventing fans. Now we must interview Lucy Field – you’ll love her. She’s pretty.’

  Tash sloped off to watch Snob fly through the vets’ inspection, so obviously fit to run that he almost dragged Hugo into the crowd. He came away grinning broadly.

  ‘I am going to have to pin you down soon and grill you for fitness training techniques,’ he told Tash as he waited for the inevitable ‘passed’ to bark out over the senior steward’s megaphone. ‘This horse is like Linford Christie on the blocks.’

  Despite herself, Tash felt her shoulders straighten with pride.

  But after that he vanished like the shop-keeper in Mr Ben, leaving Jenny clinging on to Snob’s bobbing pink nose. It was becoming something of a habit of Hugo’s. Apart from their dreadful interview together, Tash had hardly seen him.

  ‘Sloping off to make telephone calls to a bloody girlfriend, I’ll bet,’ Kirsty sniped, blowing her red hair out of her eyes. ‘Stefan says he’s madly into someone at the moment. He’s been yakking away into that mobile all day. You think you can go the straight route on the Three Scythes?’