Lots of Love (72 page)

‘Oh, yes! Of course, Dilly’s taking part this year, isn’t she?’ Felicity looked up at her husband proudly. ‘It’s a big field. Quite our biggest yet.’

‘Indeed. We expect a very competitive race.’ Ely’s eyes sparkled.

‘Not long until the start.’ Pheely looked up at the clock-tower on Ely’s old coach-house. ‘Will you be unveiling the bust afterwards?’

‘No, that will be done very shortly – we have a rather special celebration.’ He glanced over his shoulder and nodded at one of his hired bouncers, who set off along the lane to fetch Spurs. He tutted angrily beneath his breath as he spotted yet more Wycks spilling from an ancient Ford van.

‘Oh – how lovely!’ Pheely gurgled. ‘The Oddford Wycks. Word
has
got around. What
are
you celebrating, Elijah? Beatification at last?’ Not waiting for an answer, she skipped away to check her work of art, her long curls flying back in the wind because she had lost her hat somewhere along the way.

Now temporarily without his bouncer, Ely cleared his throat nervously and contemplated the unenviable task of turning away the new arrivals.

But the Oddford arm of the Wyck family – by far the most rabble-rousing – took the most direct route to the party. Ignoring their hosts waiting at the gates, they crossed the lane from the orchard and climbed straight over the dry-stone garden wall as they homed in on the free bar. Ely couldn’t give chase because their arrival coincided with Hell’s Bells sweeping up in a vast ostrich-feather hat that buffeted around like Pheely’s wild curls. She had brought along her two sisters Til and Truffle, one as gawky and scruffy as the other was chic and beguiling. ‘Sir St John apologises, but he will be coming straight on after the last race at Ascot,’ she droned regally, extending a gracious gloved hand. ‘He is entertaining some Arabs and can’t
possibly
leave early.’ She could barely conceal her fury, but her sheer stage presence stood her in good stead and Ely fell for it, despite the reek of sherry whenever she spoke.

‘You mean he’s in
Berkshire
?’ He gulped, seeing his plans falling apart around him.

‘Thereabouts, but he promises he will get here
very
speedily afterwards. No need to panic. We can just jiggle the running order.’ Her silver-bullet eyes gleamed with irritation. Far from entertaining anybody in Berkshire, St John was glued to the television in his study. A week of course-side betting at Ascot had left him in even greater debt, owing old friends to the tune of thousands. That morning, to Hell’s Bells’ absolute fury, she had discovered his
Sporting Life
marked up as usual with his choices from the Ascot race card, although he was absolutely
verboten
to attend the fifth day, or visit the local bookie’s. He had, however, found another way of gambling. Desperate to win back the money he had lost, he’d placed a telephone bet, using the only source of ready cash at his disposal – his son’s Switch card. Having emptied Spurs’ account, Sir St John Belling now had all his hopes riding on an accumulator and refused to budge until he knew the outcome. Having emptied the sherry decanter, Lady Belling had told him that if he missed his son’s wedding, she would empty her shotgun into him.

‘Will he be here for the “announcement”?’ Ely was hissing in an undertone.

‘We shall have to wait for him,’ she murmured back, waiting for her sisters to engage fat Felicity in conversation. As soon as they had – admiring her garish flower-beds – Hell’s Bells drew Ely hastily to one side. ‘The race must be run before the wedding.’

‘We can’t do that.’ Ely thought of all the ambulances and paramedics he had laid on especially. ‘The wedding ceremony will take place first.’

‘Spurs’ father
must
be here,’ Hell’s Bells insisted, blasting his face with sherry fumes. ‘It’s correct form.’

Ely summoned the charisma of both his religions, virtuous and venal, and tried to stare her down with a dagger glare. ‘They will marry at one.’

But when Hell’s Bells’ twin-barrelled gaze returned fire, her silver eyes cornered him like a hunted serf in open moorland. ‘They will marry at one’s convenience, Elijah, or they will not marry at all. Let the race be run first. Should Spurs win – which is very likely, I gather – we will have even more reason to celebrate.’

‘Indeed.’ Ely swallowed uncomfortably and glanced across to the paddock where the city bouncer was picking his way nervously around horses in search of Spurs, pausing to exchange words with one of Ely’s farmhands as he performed a tack check on a nervy chestnut.

Ely raised his hands to attract their attention and get them to stop. Waving back at him, the bouncer unwittingly terrified the chestnut and suddenly disappeared from view. Moments later the St John’s Ambulance crew were in attendance.

Ely looked up at the sky wearily. ‘Very well. It’s in your hands now.’

Ellen ran round the
O
of
‘FORGIVE ME’
one last time. Spurs’ crop circles were barely visible now, the wheat having sprung back up in recent days. Her legs were itching from wading through its scratchy ears and she had lost her way in
‘LOVE’
several times, finding herself back at ‘
I
’.

But now, puffed out and pumped full of endorphins, she was ready. The dope was out of her system. She was going to face them all.

Ahead of her, the Devil’s Marsh laid out its tempting carpet of wild flowers. One or two competitors had already made their way over the bridge to warm up and check the course. The St John’s Ambulance was back – it had disappeared for a while – and was taking up a hopeful position close to the start. On the opposite side of the riverbank bright dresses and hats milled around in front of the huge white marquee, which was still emitting the odd disembodied wail as Roadkill checked their levels to wind up the string quartet.

Ellen made her way to the edge of the cornfield, looked through the hedge on to the marsh and wondered whether she should just walk out on to it, Emily Davison-style, as her mother had suggested.

No. That had been the dope speaking. She had no intention of getting flattened in the stampede. Breaking into a run, she found her way back on to the bridleway and crossed the river by the folly before darting through the courtyard of new barn conversions and on to the bank on the village side – private fields and paddocks belonging to the plush cottages of North Street.

One of them was Otto’s field and Ellen stopped in wonder when she reached it, stealing through Giles’s garden. A bright red hat was swinging from the gatepost, trailing a long purple scarf in the breeze. It was as though somebody knew she was coming.

She crammed it on to her head and jumped the gate, running alongside the bubbling Odd and darting behind Gin Palace Heights.

She could now clearly hear the chatter of guests and the spirited bow work of the windswept string quartet, as well as smell roast hog and barbecue smoke. Overhead, the clouds were pelting past, switching the sun on and off like a strobe show.

Hesitating by the high, impenetrable hedge that separated Ely’s ancient lawns from those of his yuppie neighbours, Ellen glanced across the river at the jewelled marsh. More horses were gathering on it, snorting excitedly, spooking and whinnying, their riders struggling to keep them under control. She couldn’t see Spurs among them.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ announced a jolly, gin-soaked voice, and Ellen realised that Giles Hornton was taking over on the PA. ‘If I can have your attention! I’m sure you’d all like to join me in a round of applause to thank Ely, Felicity and their family for inviting us here today.’

There was a paltry smattering in response and Ely’s peacocks shrieked mournfully.

‘Hear hear.’ Giles rallied bravely. ‘And the Gates family have a
very
special surprise that they would like us to join them in celebrating today. I have been asked to tell you all that, before today’s race takes place, there will be – oh – one moment—’ There was a shriek of feedback as a hand covered the microphone and a muffled exchange took place.

‘Immediately
after
the presentation for the big race,’ Giles said, sounding shell-shocked, ‘there will be an announcement in the marquee that I can assure you nobody will want to miss. Ely asks that you all gather promptly for the unveiling of the traditional floral display along with a specially commissioned piece of art created by our beloved local sculptress, Ophelia Gently. We will be entertained by local band – er – Road Drill.’ The microphone was muffled again as the running order was checked.

‘And
then,
I am told, there will be a quite magnificent surprise celebration that we simply cannot miss. All guests are asked to refrain from photography, smoking, consuming alcohol and swearing at that time.’ There was another blast of feedback and, thinking that he was off-air, Giles swore a great deal. ‘I’ll personally be pissed, stoned and videoing the lot. Jesus!’ he cackled, puffing noisily on a freshly lit cigar.

‘But first, fellow Oddloders, to the event I know you’ve all been waiting for!’ He returned gratefully to his script. ‘The Devil’s Marsh Cup! Today’s race will take place on the opposite side of the river in twenty minutes’ time, so could you all gather your glasses and assemble on the banks to watch the jockeys parading for you. Bets can be placed with “Honest” Al Henshaw, who is running a small charity bookmaker’s from the pagoda. A full list of runners and riders is on the large noticeboard beyond the marquee, so please do make a note of the combination you would like to win and – don’t – forget – to –
CHEER!’

Ellen felt her throat constrict in terror as she watched the crowds drift towards the riverbank beyond the high hedge. They were running the race before the wedding. What was going on?

Crashing through one of the Gin Palace gardens, she sprinted out of Coppice Close and on to the lane, following the sound of whinnying and clattering hooves as she raced towards the trout farm. Late arrivals queuing to get into Ely’s garden turned to look as she belted breathlessly past the farm gates dressed in frayed hot pants and an outlandish hat.

‘I do like her style.’ Truffle Midwinter turned to her sister Til. ‘Rather reminds me of you at that age.’

‘Nonsense,’ Til muttered brusquely. ‘I was far more gauche.’

‘Not too gauche to meet Reg Wyck in the River Folly after lights out.’

‘Patricia!’ Til blushed crimson and checked over her shoulder to make sure nobody had overheard. With so many Wycks swarming about it was very dangerous territory.

Every family member from the valley seemed to have gathered in Ely’s garden for a rare clan reunion. And they all seemed unexpectedly distracted. They weren’t raiding the food and drink or watching the race as would be customary. Most of them were in the marquee, taking an unexpected interest in Felicity’s shrouded floral display like eager mourners at a wake.

‘Do you know? I definitely think something fishy is going on here,’ she whispered at her sister.

‘Oh, I agree,’ Truffle scooped a raspberry from her Pimm’s and popped it into her mouth. ‘Very, very fishy.’

Ellen made it to the horsebox field as the last of the competitors were mounting and making their way towards the bridge. Spurs was nowhere in sight. Then she spotted Dilly hopping around a hugely overexcited Otto with one foot in the stirrup.

‘Where’s Spurs?’ Ellen gasped, as she rushed up to them.

Otto took one look at her hat and almost passed out.

‘Oh, thank goodness you’re here!’ Dilly hopped even faster as Otto dashed away from Ellen’s hat. ‘Can you hold his head for me? Bloody Rory and Spurs have already gone ahead so that they can be at the front of the start. That stupid man spent ages checking my tack and I got left behind.’

‘Can I ride Otto?’ Ellen begged, assessing the stirrup for height as she worked out how to get aboard.

‘What?’ Dilly was almost flattened as Otto barged forward while her attention was distracted.

‘Please, Dilly – lend me Otto! I have to stop Spurs killing himself.’

‘Don’t be daft. You can’t ride.’

‘I’ll pick it up as I go along.’

‘No, you won’t.’ Dilly scrambled into the saddle and looked down at her. ‘Spurs will be fine – honest. He’s a better rider than anyone. He’ll win like everybody says he will. Wish me luck!’ She bounced away on the pink snorter.

Ellen looked around desperately for an unguarded horse to steal, but all had been gathered up and were being directed towards the start. On the other side of the farmhouse, Giles was on the PA again, announcing the favourites and telling the crowds excitedly that they could count many professional riders among the field that day.

She ran towards the bridge, where one of Ely’s burly farm-workers was counting the runners and riders past with a clipboard, ticking off numbers and checking girths.

‘Nobody on foot beyond this point,’ he told Ellen sternly.

‘I’m First Aid.’ She tried to push past.

‘No, you’re not – my brother Jack is in charge of St John’s and you ain’t from his blood wagon.’ He gave her a wise look. ‘If you want to cheer your boyfriend, do it with everybody else, love.’ He nodded towards the gates that led to Manor Farm’s courtyard. ‘Nice hat, by the way.’

Ellen sidled into Ely’s lair, pulling the brim of the red hat down over her face and darting past chattering guests. The riverbanks were crowded with eager spectators. Only one section was empty where the marshy rushes made it too wet to stand. Ellen ran towards it.

The competitors were already lining up for the mass start across the river. She gasped as she took in the number of horses. There had to be close to fifty, from huge snorting shires to fat little ponies. Most of the riders were white-faced with fear, but determined to acquit themselves with honour.

And then she saw the bravest of them all. At their fore, Spurs sat very still on the huge grey White Lies, whose flanks were dark with sweat as he waited, boggle-eyed, for the signal.