Jumping to Conclusions

by Christina Jones

  Matt wiped his hands across his face. They all wanted it so badly. So did he. Oh, God – so did he. It seemed like years ago, that race at Fakenham at the end of last season, when Dragon Slayer had gone like the wind and he knew they could win the National. Then he'd been sure he'd kill to win at Aintree. Now, he might just have to.

  So soon after that, it had all crashed around his ears. Jemima – poor girl – had appeared in his life at precisely the wrong moment. He tried not to think too much about Jemima. Of course, the easiest and most sensible thing would be to finish with her. That would be one less lever for Ned to exert. She'd have no reason to be surprised, would she? Christ, he'd been about as amorous as a castrated tomcat for months and then, and then – Matt swallowed. He still felt bloody awful about that night. Jemima hadn't deserved it. And he'd let her think it was her fault. Let her go on thinking it.

  Then he'd tried being casual and off-hand and hoped she'd call it a day. But she hadn't. She'd insisted that they talked it over like grown-ups. They were friends, she said. She wanted to stay friends. No need to worry. They liked each other... Matt groaned. That was half the trouble, of course. He did like Jemima. He enjoyed being with her. He needed her. She made him feel normal. Decent.

  Anyway, at the moment Jemima had a fox-hunting bee in her bonnet. That was another thing he admired about her: she didn't dwell on problems or minor irritations. Not like he did. She faced them, dealt with them, and got them out of the way. She'd worked out all her problems with racing, then the Parish Biddies, then the débâcle of their sex life. Each one had been coped with calmly, sorted, not allowed to interfere too much. She was always in control. Unlike him.

  At the moment, her outrage about bloody fox-hunting had taken precedence over everything else. She'd had saboteur posters up in the shop all month, even though he'd told her to take them down. Before long she'd be laying aniseed trails and blowing false halloos with the rest of the great unwashed. He had decided it was probably not the best time to inform her that he spent a good part of his winter months riding to hounds.

  Still, her current anti-blood sports campaign had its advantages. At least it took her mind off his lack of sexual prowess. He sighed heavily and wished, in that area at least, that Jemima had been different.

  And, of course, it had been just after meeting Jemima at Windsor that Ned had discovered the reasons for Matt's trips to London. Sod's law. At the very moment when he had something to bloody lose. Like with poor Vincent, Ned had left nothing to chance. He had evidence. Hard photographic evidence.

  Then Tina – Jesus! He'd walked straight into that one, too. Tina Maloret – who he would shortly be greeting with a professional doff of the cap – Charlie's girlfriend. Tina Maloret – the scalding memories of her last visit to Milton St John would stay with him for ever.

  And Charlie, bloody philanderer that he was, had this damn stupid public-school code of honour. Screw around all you liked, but you didn't – on pain of death – cheat on a mate, cheat on your trainer, or cheat on a horse.

  Matt was doing all three.

  Christ!' Philip Franklin stopped in front of him. 'You been Passed fit to ride?'

  'Uh?'

  'You're knocked about a bit. You taken a tumble?'

  'Oh – yeah. Not from Dragon Slayer. One of Kath's babies. Schooling, you know? Nothing serious. Looks worse than it is.'

  'Must have been a pearler. And straight into a bramble patch by the looks of it. Done it myself. Hurts like shit, doesn't it? You'll know about it later.'

  'Probably.' Matt fastened the stock round his throat and pulled Tina's colours over his head.

  Charlie was sitting on the bench at the far end, joking with Liam and Philip, ignoring him. He'd practically ignored him ever since Drew and Maddy's wedding. Matt couldn't think why. There was no reason. Unless he knew. Christ – what could he know? Which part? There were so many things now that kept him awake at night. Still, surely if Charlie had discovered something, he'd have let rip by now? He was never one to let a boil fester.

  'All okay?' His valet looked concerned. 'All the tack and that?'

  'Yeah. Fine.'

  'You looked worried.'

  'Nerves.'

  The valet nodded sympathetically and shouldered his way through the noisy crowd to find his next charge. Matt stood up. He didn't want to hang around in here, listening to the bragging, the bravado, the jokes. With Tina's black-and-white jersey hanging loose outside his breeches, he headed for the weighing-room door.

  The air was still ice cold. The track was riding fast after weeks of fine weather and keen downland winds. Since Newbury's renovation, the weighing room faced the parade ring and the winner's enclosure. The crowds were packed three deep as the horses were led from the pre-parade ring to plod round, manes and tails tangling sideways in the breeze.

  Dragon Slayer wasn't out yet. Nor was Bonne Nuit. There was no sign of Kath or Tina. He could see Jemima though, standing close to the rails with the Milton St John contingent it was her first trip to a racecourse since Windsor. He knew how deeply she'd agonised about being there. He wished she wasn't.

  She looked lovely. The long conker-brown coat and matching velvet hat pulled low over her eyes made her look tall and elegant. The hat probably belonged to Gillian who seemed to have a whole wardrobe full of hippie gear. She was next to Jemima, in a black cloak with the hood up, pointing out something in the racecard, and on the other side was Maureen in a scarlet PVC trench coat and – oh shit – Vincent.

  Was Vincent here to report back to Ned? Probably. Who cared? Matt knew what he had to do. He simply wasn't sure if he had the guts to do it.

  There was a sudden stir in the paddock; a whole entourage of people seemed to be pushing their way through to the front. Several stewards in sheepskins and trilbys were clearing a path. Royalty? Matt squinted. Well, hardly – not unless the Royals were now into multicoloured dreadlocks and split-melon grins.

  Fizz Flanagan was accompanied by a phalanx of minders. Matt nodded ruefully. So he did own Bonne Nuit, after all. Charlie would say nothing to confirm or deny the horse's ownership despite the speculation in the village. And Bonnie was always entered under Drew's name. Still, a lot of owners chose to remain anonymous for various reasons, although Matt could see no reason why the flamboyant Fizz should want to keep it quiet. He had loads of horses spread through various yards. Maybe Bonne Nuit was a tax fiddle. Matt would have welcomed something as minor as cheating the Inland Revenue. He could handle that.

  Nearly time. Dragon Slayer's lad was just leading him into the parade ring. Matt took one fond look at the huge black horse, felt sick, and retraced his steps to the weighing room.

  Charlie, who was still stripped to the waist and was just coming to the end of a very blue joke, had neat rows of scratches along the width of both shoulders. Matt wanted to kill him.

  Okay?' Kath was back in her winter racing outfit of ground-brushing coat and beret. She gave him a leg up into the saddle.

  'You know what to do with him. Let him settle. If he wants to front-run don't stop him, although I'd prefer it if he did the first circuit covered up. See how he goes at the water. Get in on middle ground if he feels spooky. Let him find his own pace. We know he's got the stamina for the final four – so if you've got into trouble early on you should be able to get out of it. Right?'

  'Right.' Matt gathered the reins between his fingers. He was pretty sure Kath suspected something. She was giving him options. And she hadn't used one swear word. Not even a mild curse. Christ – he was becoming completely paranoid.

  Charlie was in the saddle, too, wearing the shocking pink and black colours that Fizz Flanagan had opted for. It had to be some sort of fiddle, Matt thought, because all the other Flanagan horses ran in Fizz's dazzling green and yellow of Jamaica. Looking relaxed on Bonne Nuit, Charlie was grinning at Drew, joking with Gillian, and – good Lord – Jemima. What the hell was Jemima doing in the paddock? Gillian, too, come to think of it? And why did Charlie – even
before the biggest race – always seem like he didn't have a damn care in the world?

  Tina wasn't about, thank God. He still felt guilty when Tina and Jemima were together, and he certainly didn't want to watch her with Charlie. All the other owners and trainers were clustered round their horses, tightening girths, giving last-minute instructions to the jockeys, while the television cameras swooped and zoomed and the armchair experts crowded on to the rails and gave their loudly voiced opinions.

  Jemima seemed to be talking first to Drew, then to Gillian, and then started to walk towards him. He tried to smile at her. The wind froze it into a manic grin.

  'Is it okay?' She tilted her head back to look up at him in the saddle, keeping a safe distance from Dragon Slayer. 'Can I wish you luck? Or am I supposed to say break a leg like in the theatre?'

  'I'd rather you didn't. I'm surprised you're here – in the paddock I mean.'

  'Drew invited me. He thought I might enjoy the race better if

  I understood it all. Dad's hopping mad. He's always wanted to be allowed in this bit, apparently.' She rubbed her gloved hands together. 'It's freezing. Don't you feel the cold?'

  Matt shook his head. Bugger Vincent. He suddenly wanted to kiss her. She looked fresh and clean and sweet and wholesome and – oh, sod it. He leaned down and touched her cheek, pleased that she didn't pull away immediately. 'Have you watched the other races?'

  She shook her head. 'Gillian did – with Dad and Maureen. I stayed in the bar. I'm going to watch this one, though. There's a first time for everything, I suppose, and I can always take my glasses off if I don't like it. Oh, hello, Tina.'

  Matt straightened in the saddle. He wondered if Tina had seen him touch Jemima's cheek. He hoped not. 'Where've you been?'

  'Bloody photographers.' Tina, dressed from head to toe by Joseph Ribkoff, was totally stunning. Jemima, Matt thought, however lovely, looked like a small brown sparrow beside her. 'They wanted to do a social diary piece with Fizz Flanagan, for God's sake.'

  Ignoring Jemima, she turned and waved to Charlie. He raised his whip in salute and she giggled. Matt felt another surge of jealousy. Jemima held up crossed gloved fingers at him and moved back towards Gillian.

  'I thought she hated racing.' Tina ran her fingers round the top of his riding boot. 'Why the hell is she in the paddock?'

  Matt shuddered as the fingers travelled higher. 'Drew's idea of aversion therapy.'

  The nails dug into his thigh. 'Sad little bunch, really. The bookseller, the Vicar's wife, the would-be Buddhist trainer, and the playboy jockey. Could turn it into a French art film.'

  'You're a bitch.' He spoke the words quietly. Sensuously. The nails dug deeper. 'And we're supposed to be discussing tactics.'

  Tina opened the saucer eyes to dinner plates. 'Oh, we are, sweetie. We are.'

  With all the jockeys in the saddle, the horses were moving now. Tina, side by side with Kath, had turned into the Perfect Owner, wishing him luck, smiling sweetly. He wanted to win for her. Fucking hell – what a mess!

  He plodded in line to the course, then, as the lad let go of Dragon Slayer's reins, kicked off and rode on the wind. The ground was perfect – as it always was at Newbury – the turf luxuriant with just enough bounce to ensure steady galloping progress. God, this horse was brilliant. Perfection. He wouldn't lose on him today. He knew he wouldn't. Let Ned do his worst; today belonged to Dragon Slayer. And to Tina.

  He pulled up just past the grandstand, wheeled the horse round and trotted him back up the course for the pre-race parade. Vincent could go back to Milton St John and tell Ned whatever he liked. Dragon Slayer was favourite to win this race – and that was exactly what he intended to do.

  The first circuit had been disastrous. Five fallers. Dragon Slayer had avoided the mêlée and had tons in hand. Matt knew he couldn't blow this one now even if he wanted to. Dragon Slayer was determined to win. The crowd had one voice, screaming encouragement each time he came to a fence.

  Charlie on Bonne Nuit was scrubbing along beside him, falling a bit behind at the take-offs, but making up ground between the fences. They were on the back straight, leading the depleted field with five fences left to jump. Several of the fancied horses had fallen in the earlier catastrophe. Matt was pleased that there had been no fatalities. It was all part of the game, of course, but bloody upsetting when it happened. Charlie, he knew, cried when horses were killed. Matt never had. He put it down to being brought up on a farm. Life and death both had lesser value somehow when the animals you played with disappeared to market and slaughter on a regular basis.

  'It'll have to be at the next.' Charlie was upsides him now. 'The cross fence before the home turn. You won't get away with it in the straight.'

  If it hadn't been so serious it would have been funny. Like that ongoing gossiping jockey sketch in The Harry Enfield Show that everyone in Milton St John found so screamingly amusing.

  'Piss off.'

  There was a crashing, turf-shaking thud behind them as something didn't make the final fence. Matt winced and glanced over his shoulder. Philip Franklin was sprawled on the ground. His horse, untangling itself from the dangling reins, was struggling to its feet.

  Charlie, sitting easily on the smoothly moving Bonnie, leaned slightly towards him. 'I know what you're up to. I haven't got a clue why – but you're going to chuck this for fucking Ned Filkins, aren't you?'

  It was like a punch in the groin. Matt, his mouth already dry, and every muscle aching, sucked more air into his painful lungs and kicked Dragon Slayer forward. Charlie was having none of it. It could have been a two-horse race. The crowd thought it was. He could hear the grandstand erupting.

  'Why do you need to take fucking backhanders to throw this away?'

  'I'm not taking backhanders!' The words hissed out, hurting.

  'I heard you, you shit. At the wedding. I fucking heard you.'

  Matt closed his eyes. Dragon Slayer, getting no instructions, was doing what he did best. Racing to win. The cross fence was hurtling towards them. So was Philip Franklin's loose horse.

  Delighted to be free, as dangerous as an unguided missile, it cannoned between Dragon Slayer and Bonne Nuit. Charlie managed to snatch Bonnie away from danger just in time. Matt was not so lucky.

  Dragon Slayer, rising instinctively to meet the tricky fence just before the turn, put on the brakes to avoid the collision. Matt heard the yells from the grandstand, heard Charlie's shout of warning, then heard nothing else as he was catapulted from the saddle.

  December

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Parking Floss beneath the bare branches of a twisted oak tree, Jemima stepped into the desolation of downland December. The steel of the sky threatened sleet at least, and the wind rustled through the dead grass with a mournful Greek chorus whisper. Three weeks before Christmas, and 'In the Bleak Midwinter' could have been written as Fernydown's theme song.

  The grim weather didn't seem to have affected the hunt, though. They were there in strength outside the Pickled Newt Farmhouse Eaterie – which Jemima could have sworn had, until recently, been called The Plough or something equally bucolic – drinking stirrup cups. Dozens of foot followers were milling around in Barbours and checked caps, while the Master of Hounds and whippers-in sat ramrod straight on their horses, their scarlet coats a vivid insult.

  Jemima took a deep breath. It was the first time she'd seen the hunt in all its glory, apart from on television or tablemats or the faded prints in the Cat and Fiddle, of course. As a spectacle, a rural tradition, it was pretty awe-inspiring. If only they could stay like that, a tableau frozen in time: the horses tossing arrogant heads, the cheeks of the participants made ruddy by a combination of mulled wine and chilled air, and the hounds, tails wagging, noses snuffling, running in skewbald circles. But within moments they'd be off, charging across the fields, braying, view-hallooing, yelling with excitement as they terrified yet another small animal to death.

  Jemima squinted through her glasses. There wer
e the James-Jordans – looking like something out of Pat Smythe – and Kath Seaward – and several of the other faces peering from beneath the gleaming black caps were also familiar. She was pretty sure she'd seen most of them in the Cat and Fiddle at some point. The bastards! She'd never ever speak to any of them again. Drew wasn't there as far as she could see – nor Charlie. Thank God.

  A British Field Sports lady was eyeing her speculatively, sensing a newcomer, so shoving her hands deeper into the pockets of her reefer jacket, Jemima crossed the road towards a mass of parked cars. Far better to be considered an ignorant townie observer, she decided, than to be mistaken for a camp follower – or, worse still, have the woman in her deerstalker attempt to sign her up for a life of mass slaughter.

  Of course, she could have stood her corner and argued the toss, but she was hoping that she would manage to get away with being there today without any confrontation. She certainly didn't want the Milton St John hunting contingent to recognise her and start shouting cheery greetings.

  Nearly everyone in the village, seeing the poster in the bookshop, had warned her about becoming involved. Even Gillian and Glen, who were obviously anti-hunt, had explained the wisdom of turning the occasional blind eye. Jemima had considered this pretty unchristian and had said so.

  When she'd crossed the road and reached the rows of four-wheel-drives, muddied Land-Rovers and gleaming saloons bearing this year's registration plates which plainly belonged to the hunt supporters, she glanced back across her shoulder. The deerstalker had given up on her, and was homing in on further prey. Relieved, Jemima slipped between a clutch of ancient hatchbacks and rusty vans bearing multitudes of animal rights stickers. These clearly belonged to the other side. She felt more at home here and wished she'd parked Floss nearer.