Jump! (33 page)

‘Do you use Pledge on them?’ joked Debbie.

The Major, who’d invested in a panama with a British Legion hatband, felt dashing and frisky. There were some jolly pretty fillies around. He smoothed his moustache. Woody was more interested in the yellow leaves already flecking the willows, and the coral keys on the sycamore. There were a lot of trees down in Marius’s copses which could be cut up and sold off to help his bank balance. The price of timber had gone sky-high.

Alan had justified skiving by giving a lift to Etta, Trixie and Dora, just back from three weeks in Greece with her boyfriend Paris.

‘We saw rather too many ruins,’ confessed Dora. ‘And remembering how Penelope’s suitors neglected poor Argus, I shouldn’t have been surprised how foul the Greeks are to dogs. I nearly brought back the sweetest little stray for you, Etta, as a present for looking after Cadbury.’

Now home and broke, Dora was anxious to sell more stories.

‘Don’t tell her too much,’ Etta pleaded to Trixie and Alan, ‘or Shagger will have ammunition and Debbie will be so shocked she might persuade the others to try another trainer.’

‘Where the hell’s Marius?’ grumbled Alan as they toured the boxes for a second time.

‘I never know what to say when people show me horses,’ whispered Tilda.

‘“Who’s he by?” is a good one,’ whispered back Alan, ‘or “Great ribcage” or “Wasn’t her grandmother Desert Orchid’s dam?”’

‘What’s a throstle?’ asked Phoebe.

‘A poetic name for a thrush,’ explained Tilda. ‘You can see a gold one on the weathercock.’

‘Don’t you want to throstle Phoebe?’ whispered Alan.

‘Always,’ whispered back a surprised but delighted Tilda.

‘That Tilda Flood’s as boring as the Electricity Board in Monopoly,’ Trixie muttered to Dora. ‘I think she fancies my dad.’

‘Après lui, le déluge,’ giggled Dora.

They were now welcomed by Collie, the head lad, who had a kind face, mousy hair and spectacles like a chemistry master at a prep school. He said Marius was still doing his declarations (two actually) but would be out soon.

Josh, Rafiq, Tresa, Michelle, Tommy and Angel, all in jeans, T-shirts and bobble hats, were legged up on to their horses and set out, splashing through the puddles.

Etta, Alan, Trixie, Dora and Painswick then piled into Collie’s absolutely filthy Land-Rover and bounded, bumped, skidded and swayed over the fields after them. The others, to the Major’s horror, were expected to take their own cars, which were soon splattered with mud. Halfway up the hill, they parked on the edge of the gallops and watched the horses snorting round the exercise ring. Then, led by the dark brown History Painting, who fought Michelle for his head all the way, they thundered thrillingly up the gallops, Sir Cuthbert, the veteran, brought up the rear.

‘Aren’t they beautiful,’ sighed Etta.

‘Imagine Mrs Wilkinson leading them,’ said Dora happily.

‘She’d soon see off History Painting and that custard-haired slag,’ said Trixie irritably, as blonde Tresa finally managed to tug the big chaser to a halt and turned, laughing, to Josh as he drew level. Trixie wouldn’t admit how pleased she felt when Josh surreptitiously blew her a kiss as he rode back down the hill.

The party from Willowwood was distracted by another string of prettier horses, and even prettier stable lasses, who all smiled and said, ‘Good morning,’ as they crossed the gallops.

‘That looks suspiciously like Rupert Campbell-Black’s Coppelia,’ murmured Alan.

‘It
is
Coppelia,’ hissed back Trixie. ‘Josh told me Rupert went ballistic when he heard Granny was forming a syndicate rather than selling him Mrs Wilkinson, but he hates Shade and Harvey-Holden even more.

‘Josh heard Rupert and Marius having a terrible row last night. Rupert saying the place was a tip and Marius should drag himself out of the Dark Ages. Marius saying if you can’t get a horse fit with good hay and oats, you might as well shoot it. But Rupert still sent his horses and lads over this morning to swell the ranks, and Taggie, his wife, is making breakfast for us all when we get back.’

‘Who’s that redhead?’ asked Painswick.

‘That’s Michelle – Meesh-hell, the little tart who’s been – ouch,’ as Etta kicked her ankle, Trixie changed tack, ‘such a bitch to Tommy, always calling her Fatty and pointing out her builder’s bum.’

‘Michelle’s the one who was shagging Marius,’ piped up Dora. ‘Everyone hoped he’d sack her when she dumped to Olivia, but she’s too good in bed.’

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Etta. ‘You won’t tell the press, will you, Dora? If you do, Debbie will pull the Major out.’

‘Course not, I never dish dirt,’ lied Dora.

‘Hum,’ said Trixie, ‘that Rafiq rides like an angel.’

Back at the yard, Phoebe and Debbie were moaning about the state of the place.

‘Aunt Ione says the house hasn’t been touched in thirty years.’

‘Nor has the garden,’ sniffed Debbie. ‘Are we sure Marius is the right trainer? He should have been here to receive us.’

Instead they were welcomed by Niall the vicar, who’d walked over, hoping such vigorous activity justified skiving. His nostrils were flaring at the smell of frying bacon from the kitchen.

‘I dropped in on Old Mrs Malmesbury on the way. Thought if I met Marius casually, he might be receptive to some counselling. He appears very troubled.’

‘And very good-looking, you silly woofter,’ muttered Dora.

‘Wow,’ sighed Trixie, as a bright blue Ferrari roared up the drive, making the returning horses toss their heads and leap about. ‘That really is hot.’

It was Rogue Rogers, rolling up to school the horses, his laughing eyes bluer than his Ferrari, who tipped the balance and reassured any waverers that this was the right yard.

‘Josh says Olivia was being shagged by Rogue Rogers as well as my dad,’ murmured Trixie to Dora. ‘That’s why they’re both absolutely livid about Shade going off with her.’

Today, however, Rogue Rogers was out to charm all the
syndicate, many of whom knew him already from when he had lived in Shagger’s cottage in Willowwood.

Back in the house, a very tall, slim and pretty woman with cloudy dark hair and silvery grey eyes was serving up the most delicious breakfast of kedgeree, bacon, sausages, fried eggs and mushrooms fresh from the fields. Rogue made everyone laugh by leaping on to a chair to kiss her, like a perky Jack Russell making advances towards a gentle Great Dane.

‘This is Taggie,’ he announced, ‘the loveliest woman in racing, easily the best cook and married to my incredibly lucky friend Rupert Campbell-Black.’

‘Oh Rogue,’ blushed Taggie. ‘Please help yourselves, everyone.’

‘Wouldn’t mind if she was on the menu,’ muttered Chris to Joey, thinking he might introduce kedgeree in the Fox.

‘Oh hello, Taggie,’ called out Phoebe. ‘I was at school with your step-daughter Tabitha. Does she still see …?’ and went into an orgy of names, while Taggie was trying to sort out who wanted coffee or tea or Bull Shots.

‘I’m not sure who Tab sees,’ she said apologetically. ‘Mustard’s over there.’

Phoebe, Trixie, Debbie, Tilda, Etta and Dora, even Painswick, proceeded to drool over Rogue as he toyed with a black mush-room, sipped even blacker coffee and, in an Irish brogue softer than the thistledown drifting past the window, assured them they’d chosen the best trainer in the country, ‘except Rupert’, he added, winking at Taggie.

They were even more excited when he lied that he’d watched the video of Mrs Wilkinson’s point-to-point and she looked a very decent hoss.

‘Do you know Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who rode her?’ asked Etta. ‘A very good jockey.’

‘Miss Amateur Lloyd-Foxe,’ said Rogue dismissively.

‘That’s naughty.’ Phoebe giggled in delight.

‘Who spends her life in Boujis,’ added Rogue. ‘She was lucky to have a good horse under her.’

‘She’ll be a different horse with you on her back,’ simpered Phoebe.

‘As long as you don’t use your whip on her,’ said Etta.

‘Not now!’ Alan shut her up sharply.

‘How do you keep so slim, Rogue?’ gushed Phoebe.

‘One meal a day.’

‘How long have you done that for?’

‘Since I was at school. I always put my dinner money on a hoss.’

After breakfast, everyone wanted to have their photograph taken with Rogue. Alan, the Major, Woody and Joey, who knew something about racing, were equally impressed when Rogue took Asbo Andy, Oh My Goodness and History Painting over a row of fences.

‘He’s so bloody brilliant,’ sighed Alan. ‘Look how he moves with the horse, cuddles it up on the bit, balances it, gets the maximum ounce out of every muscle, like honey on its back.’

‘See the expression of relief on History’s face, with Rogue on him rather than Michelle,’ observed Dora.

‘Josh says Rogue’s got the biggest tackle in the weighing room,’ said Trixie blithely.

As Etta moved away trying not to laugh, she noticed Rafiq had left the yard, where he had been sweeping up, to watch Rogue, an expression of passionate longing, admiration and envy on his face.

‘You ride beautifully too,’ stammered Etta. ‘We all noticed how well the horses went for you.’

Rafiq started in terror, gazing at her uncomprehendingly until Michelle made them both jump. She shrilly ordered him to stop skiving and get back to work.

‘We must go,’ said Etta. ‘We’ve taken up enough of their time.’

In the yard, horses were looking inquisitively out of their boxes. Those who’d not been ridden were put on the horse walker, while others were turned out for a few hours.

Tresa, the minxy blonde, was brushing History Painting in his box.

‘Where are you racing today?’ Phoebe asked Rogue.

‘Hereford, then I’m flying to Down Royal in Dermie O’Driscoll’s chopper for an evening meeting.’

‘Dermie wanted to buy Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Etta eagerly.

‘Showed good taste.’ Rogue smiled round at the syndicate. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you guys again. Must go and pick up my saddle from the tack room.’

‘Funny,’ muttered Dora as Rogue slid into History Painting’s box.

They were distracted by Marius finally emerging from his office, followed by his shy, striped lurcher who, to Etta’s delight, bounded up to her, wagging her shepherd’s crook tail.

Marius, even thinner and still deathly pale, was if not charming, at least polite.

‘We’re probably talking about a January start.’ Then, seeing the disappointment in people’s faces: ‘It takes ten weeks to get a horse to the races but for those new to the game like Mrs
Wilkinson, it’ll take four months. She’ll walk or trot for a couple of months, then learn to canter and gallop in a straight line, to jump hurdles or small fences, to behave calmly in all circumstances, not to kick or bite, and to jump and turn corners while galloping. If this process is rushed, they fall to pieces.’

‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Etta, thanking him profusely.

As they walked towards their cars, Dora said, ‘Damn, I think I left my camera in the tack room, I’ll catch up with you.’ Scuttling back, she ran slap into a grinning Rogue zipping up his flies as he came out of History Painting’s box.

One of the very top jump jockeys, redoubtable, tricky, glamorous, Rogue had nearly given up racing eight years earlier after a hideous fall in which he broke his back and a leg and Monte Cristo, the beautiful and valuable bay he was riding, had to be shot. Marius had carried Rogue, visited him in hospital, kept up his retainer, restored his confidence, got him riding again and helped his struggle back to the top. There was no way Rogue was going to desert Marius now.

The little king of the weighing room, Rogue was tall for a jockey at five foot nine and at nine stone the perfect size. Any lighter, he would have to carry weights. Rogue drove owners, trainers and punters demented, holding up his horses as long as possible before unleashing his thunderbolt to mug the opposition on the line. No one drove horses harder than Rogue, but sensing a horse was beaten, unlike his cruel rival Killer O’Kagan, he put down his whip.

Rogue had adored Monte Cristo and still talked about him in his sleep. Determined never to fall in love again, he had since treated horses as a good secretary would a letter, something to be achieved perfectly but without any emotional involvement.

He was so good a rider, in all senses of the word, that trainers and women were willing to share him.

Being a jockey is like being an actor: you have to be visible to get more rides. Rogue was hugely in demand with other trainers, but always on call if Marius needed him. The bane of the stewards, Rogue deserved a BAFTA for talking himself out of trouble. After a bad ride, as a microphone approached, the words ‘Fuck off’ could be seen forming on his perfect lips. Racing put up with his bad behaviour because the sport desperately needed stars.

A riotous meeting that evening decided to appoint Marius as Mrs Wilkinson’s trainer.

The only dissenting voice was Shagger’s. Returning from London, still in his City pinstripe into which he had clearly sweated, he protested in his carrion crow rasp that Marius couldn’t even win races; that he’d gone 166 days and 48 runners without being in the money.