Jump. Part 29

'Where's Collie gone?' whispered Etta.

'To Harvey-Holden,' said Valent, and hung up.

Harvey-Holden had always relied on cheap foreign labour, Poles, Ukrainians, Czechs and Pakistanis, who tended to form little ghettoes and speak only in their own languages. He needed the emollient Collie to hire and fire, rebuild morale and then unite people.

Collie had been seduced by the wonderful yard being built and paid for by Jude the Obese, and the house with four bedrooms and a lovely garden that Harvey-Holden was prepared to give him. Olivia, whom he'd adored but never slept with because he loved his own wife, would be around acting as a buffer between him and Shade the impossible.

He longed to be part of a winning team again. Best of all, when he walked into the yard, was the rumble of joy from Playboy, Ilkley Hall, little Gifted Child, wayward Preston and all Shade's other horses, which he'd loved and understood. Now they would be his again.

51.

Marius was almost as devastated by Collie's departure as by Olivia's, but again he was too proud and too obstinate to beg him to come back. The story, leaked by Harvey-Holden, was soon all over the racing pages. This upset Marius as well as his owners.

Bertie Barraclough, for example, was very unhappy with Count Romeo. After the fiasco at Rutminster, Marius entered the horse in a maiden hurdle at Stratford. Giving the ride to Rogue, he told him to get his bat out. As a result, the handsome Count was up with the leaders. Then he suddenly caught sight of himself on the big screen, swerved right, cantered across the track to admire himself, to the hysterics of the crowd, and came in last.

'Racing is all a question of whether,' quipped Harvey-Holden, 'whether Count Romeo is going to get off his fat black a.r.s.e or not.' This was quoted in the Racing Post Racing Post and read by Bertie, who disapproved of bad language. and read by Bertie, who disapproved of bad language.

Rogue was so angry he shouted at Marius in the unsaddling enclosure, 'Go back to school. I'm not riding for you any more until you learn to train horses.'

There was speculation in the yard as to who would take over Collie's job. Josh, Tresa, Mich.e.l.le and Tommy were all in the frame. But Marius was notoriously bad at decisions and appointed no one. Foul-tempered by day, by night he drowned his sorrows, staggering out with a torch long after evening stables to give his horses a last handful of feed and check their doors were shut. Invariably, next morning Tommy would find the wheelbarrow turned over, feed scattered all over the yard, and would hastily sweep up before the other lads appeared.

One particularly freezing morning, when Tommy was admiring the winter stars and breaking ice on the horses' water bowls, a flash sports car drove up. Bulked out by two pairs of long johns, breeches, three polo necks, a body protector, a fleece under the jacket, a scarf, a bandanna under the hat, ear m.u.f.fs and gloves, the figure jumping out was unrecognizable. All anyone could see was the eyes.

'Like those burkas your women wear,' said Tresa dismissively to Rafiq, who was s.h.i.+vering worse than Mrs Wilkinson because he couldn't afford many clothes.

'Who the h.e.l.l is it?' Josh asked Tommy, as Marius legged the stranger up on to a new horse who hadn't been on the horse walker or done any road work. Now, wired to the moon, the horse put in a mighty buck, then galloped down the drive, raced towards the gate into the road and screamed to a halt without unseating her.

'She can certainly ride,' said Tommy.

During two more lots, the stranger had both her horses flying like angels. Later, when everyone was having breakfast, she took off her hat and bandanna.

'G.o.d, one gets sweaty under these things.'

It was Amber Lloyd-Foxe.

Mich.e.l.le, who never bothered to ride out when she had a period, was furious when she found out.

'What's she doing here? I hope Marius isn't considering her for head lad. That cla.s.s always stick together. She probably went to school with Marius's sister.'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, she's only nineteen,' said Josh. 'She just wants to ride races.'

Amber, hearing Collie had gone and Marius was short-staffed, had not only offered to ride for nothing, merely to get experience, but also to help out in the yard, even to drive the lorry.

Reluctantly, Marius agreed and, also reluctantly, noticed how beautifully Mrs Wilkinson went for her over both fences and hurdles.

'You ride very well for a girl,' Rafiq told her.

'I ride very well full stop,' snapped Amber.

Rafiq, Tommy, Angel, even Josh and Tresa were delighted to have her around, because it bugged the h.e.l.l out of Mich.e.l.le that Amber wasn't remotely afraid of her.

It was also noticed that Rogue had made it up with Marius and was coming down more often to school horses. To begin with he indulged in horseplay on the gallops, pulling the bridle over Mrs Wilkinson's head, goosing Amber, leaving a welt on her bottom when he whacked her with his whip, but after she slashed him across the face with her own whip he backed off.

52.

As Mrs Wilkinson had hardly exerted herself at Worcester, Marius shortly afterwards entered her for another maiden hurdle at Newbury, where a different mix of the syndicate turned up to cheer her on. s.h.a.gger, utterly sceptical of the mare's ability, persuaded Toby to stay in London for some City lunch. Ione and Debbie were too busy battling over next Sunday's church flowers. They were united, however, in their displeasure that Niall the vicar had been persuaded he needed a day off and gone to the races. Why couldn't he bless Mrs Wilkinson before she left Willowwood?

Nor was Ione pleased that Alban had been hijacked again to drive the Ford Transit, which Chris the landlord had finally collected. Handsomely resprayed in emerald green and decorated on both sides with pale green willows and the words 'Willowwood Syndicate', it was now being revved up outside the Fox.

'Isn't it lovely,' cried Etta. Weighed down by carrier bags, she came running up the high street. 'Oh, thank you, Chris.'

'Mrs Wilkinson better win today so we can pay for it,' said Chris, winking at everyone as he loaded a groaning picnic hamper and a large box of drink.

He was staying behind to man the Fox as it was the turn of pretty, wistful Chrissie, who still hadn't managed to get pregnant, to go to the races. Scuttling past driver Alban, who she'd last seen when they grappled on the churchyard gra.s.s during little Wayne East's christening, she found a seat at the back.

'Now you be'ave yourselves,' teased Chris, further winking to mitigate the cheekiness, or Mrs T-L will have something to say when you get 'ome, Alban.' He banged on the bus roof as it set off to Newbury.

'You could always hang Chris out of the window and use him as an indicator,' observed Alan.

The instant they rounded the bend, Joey put back the gold pen he'd taken out of his woolly hat to mark the Racing Post Racing Post and, announcing he was going to snog in the back, moved seats to join Chrissie and pour her a large brandy and ginger. and, announcing he was going to snog in the back, moved seats to join Chrissie and pour her a large brandy and ginger.

The bus was impeded by a huge lorry delivering an indoor swimming pool to Primrose Mansions, whereupon Alan leapt out and redirected it to Harvey-Holden's yard.

'Jude the Obese can use it as a bidet,' he told the giggling pa.s.sengers. 'Poor Alban must be h.e.l.l driving a lot of p.i.s.s artists,' he muttered, filling his gla.s.s with Pouilly Fume and handing the bottle on to Seth.

'h.e.l.l,' agreed Seth. He'd just finished filming in several episodes of Holby City Holby City, and was feeling exhausted but exuberantly end-of-termish. 'But I wish he'd get his finger out or we'll miss the last race.'

Alban was indeed sad. To save water, at his wife's insistence he was wearing a wool check s.h.i.+rt for a third day. He was chilled to the marrow because Ione believed in extra jerseys rather than central heating. Finally, he'd heard that a 200,000 job to chair an independent review of an independent economic review accused of government bias had fallen through because he was considered too right wing.

If only he could have poured his heart out to Etta. How pathetic to be jealous of Poc.o.c.k, who'd taken the seat beside her.

Major Cunliffe would also have liked to sit next to Etta. Freed of his wife's beady chaperonage, he was feeling flirtatious and was delighted, as inky clouds ma.s.sed on the horizon, that his grim forecast looked correct. Up the front, he was again acting as Alban's satnav, which didn't speed up the proceedings particularly as Alban kept slowing down to identify the inhabitants of the great houses along the route.

'That's Robinsgrove, Ricky France-Lynch's place. His wife Daisy did a lovely oil of Araminta.

'That's Valhalla,' he announced ten minutes later, 'where the late Roberto Rannaldini lived. Absolute s.h.i.+t but brilliant musician.'

As he turned up the wireless to drown the Major's directions, the bus was flooded with Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

'Rannaldini's son Wolfgang married Tabitha Campbell-Black. I was at school with both of them,' piped up Phoebe, who'd come without Toby because she'd got a crush on Seth. He looked even more gorgeous in that black pea jacket with those bags under his naughty eyes.

Phoebe was not over-pleased when Trixie, playing truant from yet another school, flagged down the bus thirty miles outside Willowwood, disappeared into the upended-coffin-shaped loo and emerged in black boots and tights, a groin-level shocking-pink coat and a black trilby decorated with a pink rose.

'You'll run out of schools to get expelled from soon,' reproved Alan.

'Fat chance,' sighed Trixie, taking a swig from her father's bottle. 'With Mummy standing by to offer to build them a new science block, I'll get in anywhere.' She smiled at Seth.

Alan knew he should send her back to school, but he was so proud Seth thought she was pretty. Trixie, however, fancied Woody and took a large drink and the seat next to him.

Down the bus, Dora, also playing truant, had three mobiles to her ears and was reading the Racing Post Racing Post.

'What does it say about Mrs Wilkinson?' asked Woody, who had rather nervously taken another day off from the big job of clearing Lester Bolton's wood.

'It says,' giggled Dora, 'connections have decided to persevere with Mrs Wilkinson because of her very promising homework. More than can be said for Trixie and me.'

'What do they say about Count Romeo?' Marius had entered him in the same race.

'"At least Mrs Wilkinson won't come last,"' read Dora. '"That place is reserved for that dreadful lazy pig Count Romeo."'

'Goodness,' gasped Etta, 'I hope Bertie and Ruby Barraclough don't read that. They're threatening to ask for their fifty thousand back.'

'That's Rupert Campbell-Black's place,' shouted Alban, pointing to a beautiful golden house against a background of beech trees. The bus nearly keeled over as everyone rushed to the right to have a look. 'Declan O'Hara lives in the Priory across the valley,' added Alban.

'Declan's daughter Taggie, who married Rupert, cooked break-fast for us the day we met Marius,' called out Phoebe.

Guiltiest of all syndicate members was Tilda Flood. Yesterday, with lowered eyes, she had asked for the day off for 'personal reasons' and not elaborated. Whereupon the head, Mrs Hammond, aware how often and how uncomplainingly Tilda covered for staff members when their children were ill, had urged her to go. Tilda rolled up in a new dark crimson suit and medium-heeled brown boots bought especially to impress s.h.a.gger, only to learn when they were halfway to Newbury that he'd ratted without telling her.

Aware that she'd risked her job with a lie, Tilda burst into tears.

'Don't worry,' Seth hugged her, 'you'll have much more fun without him and it'll give us blokes a chance. Come and sit here beside Alan.' This gave him the opportunity to move nearer to Trixie.

Alan poured Tilda a large drink and soon decided she was much less skittish and silly when s.h.a.gger wasn't around.

'Mrs Wilkinson's the first horse I'm not frightened of,' she confided. 'I like petting them and feeding them carrots, but with a fence between us.'

'D'you feel that way with men?' teased Alan. 'That's a very pretty suit.'

'Bit too bright for the races,' stage-whispered Phoebe to Miss Painswick. 'You should wear brown and greens, camouflagey things that blend into the countryside. Trixie's pink coat is completely OTT.'

Phoebe then launched into hostess mode.

'You should be sitting next to Niall, Tilda, singletons together. Nice seeing Etta next to Poc.o.c.k, both lonely people.'

'Alban, Poc.o.c.k and the Major all have crushes on Granny,' snapped Trixie, who was painting her nails purple.

'That's ridiculous,' hissed Phoebe. 'Etta's quite the wrong cla.s.s for Uncle Alban.' Then, raising her voice: 'Sure you're going to be warm enough in that thin suit, Mrs Bancroft? You should invest in a thick coat. I saw such a lovely snuff-brown one in Larkminster with a big bow, it'd really suit you.'

'I'm not great in brown. It'd look lovely on you.'

'Oh no, it'd be much too mature for me.'

'I'd invest in a pair of earplugs first,' muttered Dora. 'Yes, Seth Bainton, he's just done a stint in Holby City Holby City,' she added into her mobile.

Joey's arm along the back seat had drifted down to stroke Chrissie's white neck.

Etta was aware of Poc.o.c.k's bony body pressing against hers each time he leant across to make disparaging remarks about everyone's gardens as they pa.s.sed. She tried to chat cheerfully to hide how devastated she'd been by Valent's harsh words after the Worcester disaster. She'd never dreamt he'd be so bothered over Mrs Wilkinson. Horrified he thought her ungrateful, she had written a crawling letter of apology, wondering which of his six houses to send it to, and planted a lot more bulbs and shrubs in his garden, where Joey's men had finished. She couldn't stop fretting and felt so guilty about the sweet judge who'd given her the horse.

Oh, please let Wilkie redeem herself today.

Looking up, she saw they were overtaking two lorries with WILKINSON on their sides, promoting Wilkinson's shops. Everyone was delighted by such a good-luck sign and giggled that Mrs Wilkinson must be branching out.

After they accelerated on to the motorway, Niall called for a two-minute silence to pray for the safety of Mrs Wilkinson. It was a bit difficult as Beethoven's Ninth had just reached the third movement, with the incessant drumroll sounding like the thunder of horses' hooves.

'Turn it down,' barked the Major.

Noticing what fun Woody seemed to be having with Trixie, Dora and Seth, Niall prayed to be delivered of his hopeless pa.s.sion. He hadn't been able to concentrate on writing his sermon yesterday, with Woody swinging his lean body round in his harness as he pollarded the church limes.

Flas.h.i.+ng orange b.a.l.l.s on either side of the road warned of fog. h.o.a.r frost silvered the tops of trees and the ploughed fields. Would the going be too firm for Mrs Wilkinson?

As they entered the outskirts of Newbury, singing along to the 'Ode to Joy', the traffic slowed to a crawl. They pa.s.sed a ghostly church hidden in the trees, with a ca.n.a.l beside which people were walking their dogs or sitting together on benches. How lovely, Etta mused, to sit with Seth and hear his deep voice quoting poetry: '"So well I love thee as without thee/I Love nothing."'

On a roundabout a racy metal sculpture reared up of a woman with high, pointed b.r.e.a.s.t.s playfighting with a man with a dangling w.i.l.l.y.

Probably the effect I'd have on Seth, thought Etta.

'Why hasn't he got a hard-on?' asked Seth.

'Probably gay,' said Trixie.

Crossing the river with its willows, swans and fleet of coloured barges lifting the grey day like jockeys' silks, they reached a sign saying 'Welcome to historic Newbury'.

'Will be 'istoric if we get there on time,' grumbled Joey.

They were driving across a common, down a road flanked with leafless poplars as though a flock of witches had parked their broomsticks in a hurry and rushed off to cheer on Mrs Wilkinson.

'Come on,' groaned Trixie.

Ahead at last was the great red-brick stand with its flags, gla.s.s doors, little triangular turrets and gold-numbered clock over the weighing room. The roofs of the hospitality-stand rose like egg white whipped into points.

'Tommy'll be walking her around the parade ring by now,' fumed Dora. 'We won't even see Mrs Wilkinson saddled up and I've alerted all the press to look out for Seth's first appearance as part of the syndicate.'

Thank G.o.d Tommy's there, nothing can go far wrong, thought Etta.