Adding a bestselling toy to his other triumphs, however, had not made Valent happy. Rafiq being jocked off was the last straw. Etta was still refusing to speak to him.
Valent also felt guilty about the syndicate, who were observing a faint media neglect of late. There were no badly parked journalists’ cars or television vans for the Major to chunter over. Would Niall be allowed to bless Wilkie? Would anyone visit Painswick and Pocock’s teashop? Mop Idol was desperately trying to prevent Joey putting his £50,000 on Wilkie. Woody was busy trying to find a cure for Rupert’s chestnut avenue, their grey trunks cracked and slashed as though Rafiq had taken a sword to each one. The ladies, Phoebe, Corinna, Debbie, Bonny, even Tilda, were outraged to have been denied access to Rupert and his yard. Trixie was desolate not to have been summoned to cherish Furious. Alan was frantic for an ending to his book.
To cheer them up and to tempt Etta out of her mega sulk, Valent invited the syndicate to a pre-National get-together on the Thursday before the race. He’d have liked to hold it at Badger’s Court, but to swell Chris and Chrissie’s depleted takings he chose the Wilkinson Arms.
Etta was terribly torn. Her tears had watered the Valent Edwards rose, which was about to bloom. She so longed to see him, yet so passionately disapproved of the action he had taken.
All in an April evening, hummed Etta, going out into the soft
twilight. Now the conifer hedge had gone, she was able to see a little gold crescent moon. As galaxies of primroses and daffodils twinkled all over Valent’s garden, Orion and his dog star, Arcturus, Capella and the Great Bear glittered overhead. Was it global warming that made them so bright?
The willows were at their fluffiest, little green leaves, tiny yellow catkins at roguish right angles to their gold stems. Earlier she’d noticed the ground cracking, which meant good going for Wilkie. It was such a magic evening, she couldn’t bear to stay away. She was comforted by the way Valent’s face lit up as she entered the pub.
‘Oh Etta, so pleased you’ve come.’ He shoved a glass of champagne into her hand.
‘Wilkie’s really well,’ he told her by way of mitigation, ‘and cheered up. She’s so happy to have Amber on her back. Tommy’s fussing over her, and Tommy, Chisolm and Furious have driven up today with a nice Irish lad of Rupert’s called Michael Meagan. They’re staying tonight and tomorrow in some quiet yard owned by friends of Rupert about fifteen miles from Liverpool, so she won’t be subjected to all the madness and boostle till Saturday morning.’
The rest of the syndicate waved but were too busy playing with cuddly Wilkinsons and Chisolms, who were bleating so loudly it sounded like market day in Larkminster.
As Valent wandered off to welcome Alban and Ione, Phoebe joined Etta. ‘How are you, stranger? Aren’t they adorable?’ she cried, winding up a Chisolm. ‘I’m going to pinch a pair for Bump, who’s walking now.’ Then, at Etta’s expression of disapproval, ‘Valent can spare one, he’s making a fortune, the only reason he insisted Wilkie run in the National was to boost sales.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ protested Etta, taking such a slug of champagne it spilled over her face. Debbie then came up to ask if Etta had heard from Rafiq. ‘I was shocked Rupert jocked him off, but I suppose it stands to reason, Rupert wants the mount for his precious grandson,’ she sniffed.
‘Eddie’s a very good rider,’ said Trixie sharply.
‘Bit mean to sack Rafiq as well,’ said Phoebe.
‘He what?’ asked Etta incredulously.
‘Sacked him,’ said Shagger, joining the group. ‘According to Painswick, Rafiq never even bothered to collect his stuff from Throstledown. He’s utterly deranged evidently, I hope he doesn’t start blowing people up.’
Seeing the outrage on Etta’s face, alarmed she might bolt, Valent was checking everyone had full glasses.
‘When’s little Bonny travelling up?’ asked Shagger fondly and to wind up Etta.
‘On Saturday,’ said Phoebe happily. ‘She’s coming straight to Aintree.’
Valent banged the table, welcomed everyone and said he was looking forward to seeing them all at the Grand National, and hoping to fly up as many of them as possible the following evening to stay at the Radisson Hotel.
‘Can we each have a couple of owners’ badges?’ asked Shagger.
‘Not sure there’ll be room in the parade ring, it might be a bit of a croosh, but we can certainly watch from the Owners and Trainers.’ Valent cleared his throat, blushing slightly.
‘I’d also like to say none of us would be here today if it weren’t for Etta Bancroft, who found and rescued Wilkie in the first place and saved her life,’ he raised his glass to a furiously scowling Etta, ‘and I’d like to make a presentation.
‘My factory in Kowloon needed guidance on how to recreate a realistic cooddly Mrs Wilkinson. Knowing her aversion to aeroplanes and long journeys, it wasn’t possible to fly Wilkie to China, so I commissioned this portrait of her by Dora’s brother Jonathan Belvedon …’
‘Must have cost him,’ muttered Shagger.
‘It did,’ beamed Dora.
‘… for them to work from,’ went on Valent, ‘and I’d now like to give the portrait to Etta as a token of all our esteem.’
The picture was propped against the wall. Dora turned it round and proudly carried it to the table:
‘Isn’t it great, Etta?’
‘That’s beautiful,’ cried Tilda.
‘Wilkie to a T, dear little soul,’ sighed Painswick.
‘Jonathan painted her left side, so you see her good eye and her sweet expression,’ said Trixie.
‘What a lovely thought,’ said Debbie. ‘That must cheer you up, Etta. You’ll have Wilkie on your wall for ever now.’
Everyone was smiling at her.
‘I don’t want it,’ gasped Etta. ‘It’s appallingly bad luck for a horse to have its portrait painted before it retires. This’ll bring disaster on Wilkie on Saturday.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ exploded Valent.
‘Don’t be so ungrateful and ungracious,’ accused Phoebe.
‘It’s bad luck and I’m not coming to the National either,’ shouted Etta.
*
The little gold moon and the glittering stars had retreated behind a black cloud by the time she got back to the bungalow. Neither Priceless nor Gwenny could comfort her.
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she sobbed.
She knew she was being horrible and everyone was fed up with her. But Rafiq and Marius had been betrayed and Valent had only bought Wilkie to help sell his bloody stuffed Wilkinsons and Chisolms. She must stick to her principles, no longer the cowardly lion, and refuse to go.
But she wept even louder as she remembered Amber would be wearing Valent’s colours, which he’d chosen from the African violets she’d given him. Worst of all, if she were truthful, even if Wilkie won the National, it would hurt too much to see Bonny and Valent rejoicing there together.
Rupert always got uptight before a big race. Matters weren’t helped on the eve of the National when he sat Amber and Eddie down to watch tapes of the other runners, and Eddie, whose nerves took the form of ragging, got bored and inserted one of Old Eddie’s porn videos, crying, ‘Look how good she’s riding him.’ Rupert had gone into orbit and nearly jocked Eddie off.
Amber was as uptight as Rupert. The knowledge that Rogue would be part of the BBC team made her even more nervous, he was sure to take the piss. She was also demented with worry about Billy, who had struggled out of bed and travelled up to Aintree in the hope of watching her ride, but had collapsed and been taken to hospital. Rupert had persuaded Amber to get some sleep and fly up with him, Taggie and Eddie tomorrow.
Trying to keep down a cup of coffee the following morning, Amber was slightly cheered when Taggie dragged her to the kitchen window:
‘Look, round the bird table, look, three magpies for a girl. That must mean you and Mrs Wilkinson will be the first girls ever to win the National.’
‘Goat’s given you a good plug,’ drawled Eddie, who was reading Chisolm’s column in the
Mirror
. ‘“Winning the National is going to be a breeze,” she writes, “after Wilkie’s day drag hunting. When she and Amber came to a vast oxer, the horses of the master, the joint master and two whippers-in all refused. But my friend Wilkie cantered up, stood back on her hocks and cleared it easily. Look to your laurels, Bafford Playboy.” That goat is getting above herself.’
It was a good thing Chisolm had departed for Cheshire. She’d
already shredded Taggie’s fur hat, eaten Eddie’s passport and regurgitated Amber’s new, new lucky pants.
Despite the quietness of the Cheshire countryside, Tommy couldn’t sleep, fretting about Wilkie and those vast fences and even more about Rafiq. He had rung once since he left Penscombe and she’d been stupid enough to express her fury at the rough way Eddie was treating Furious in an attempt to break his spirit.
She had, however, enjoyed spending time with Rupert’s stable lad, Michael Meagan, even if he did believe ‘a dirty hoss was a happy hoss’ and left her to do both Wilkie and Furious. He also had a terrific crush on Tresa, who’d no doubt be poncing about at Aintree as she led up Sir Cuthbert.
Grand National day dawned at last very cold and grey. Michael Meagan drove Rupert’s dark blue lorry, Carl Davis’s music from
Champions
blaring, towards Aintree. As they passed houses with boarded-up windows, decorated with surrealistic paintings of Liverpool and Everton shields, and drove down streets full of pitbulls and schoolgirls socking each other at bus stops, Tommy thought how different was Liverpool to the pastel Regency houses and lovely parks of Cheltenham.
Over in the BBC tent, Rogue, at his first production meeting, was staggered by the enormity and professionalism of an operation covering three days of Aintree, culminating in today’s broadcasting of the greatest race in the world to 600 million viewers.
More than two hundred people, including presenters, many of whom were ex-jockeys, talking heads and crew members, had been employed by the production company Sunset and Vine. Having breakfasted royally at long tables covered with blue gingham cloths, they were flipping through pink running sheets and easing bacon out of their teeth, as the day ahead was scrupulously mapped out.
‘There were a few hairs out of place yesterday,’ said Dermot, the young, good-looking programme producer, whose own hair was gelled upwards like a hedgehog rolled in olive oil, ‘but it will be fine today.’
Everyone had been very welcoming, but Rogue was aware how cast down they all were by the absence of Billy Lloyd-Foxe. Despite the cock-ups and the outspokenness – ‘That jockey couldn’t get a jump in a brothel’ – Billy had been so engaging, good-hearted and adored by the public.
Rogue had been asked a lot about Wilkie and whether Rupert would transform her. He had also been subjected to a lot of ribbing about turning Lusty round and thumping Marius. Discussing the run-up to the race, Dermot the producer, over the noise of the racecourse generator, was briefing the presenters: ‘You’ll each have a camera in the parade ring, so grab any jockey coming towards you.’
‘Bags I grab Amber Lloyd-Foxe,’ said Robert Cooper.
‘Not if you don’t want to get laid out by Rogue,’ quipped Richard Pitman.
‘Don’t rise,’ murmured Jim McGrath, the genial commentator, who was busy trying to memorize all the colours.
Rogue didn’t rise. One day he would be forced to give up racing. He didn’t want to screw up a potentially lucrative career in television before it had even started.
The production team had secretly decided that, bearing in mind Rogue’s volatile disposition, he’d better not be let loose in the parade ring with a roving mike in case he got into a fight with Rupert or Marius. So apart from the odd assignment round the racecourse, he would be positioned in the ‘studio’, a raised desk near the parade ring, where his input on the day’s events would be invaluable ‘and we can kill his mike if he suddenly goes over the top’.
‘We must come to him a lot,’ said Deirdre, a production assistant, ‘he’s so gorgeous-looking. Really interesting if he could interview Rupert or Amber.’
Down the table, a group of Sloanes in looped pashminas, hair in little knots on the crowns of their heads, were also gazing at Rogue in wonder. Known as ‘spotters’, recruited from their local hunts, they would later be stationed by each National fence, armed with radios to feed through to the BBC and the Aintree PR service the news of any fallers.
‘Haven’t you ridden a race on Mrs Wilkinson, Rogue?’ they asked eagerly.
‘We never started,’ grinned Rogue. ‘I was silly enough to give her a smack at the start and she dragged me off under the rails. She’s tough.’
‘Would you like to come to our party tonight?’
In the dark blue control room next door, a wall of monitors showed the director everything, policemen turning to watch the Liverpool ladies arriving in their finery, wonderful sepia film of charismatic past winners coming out of peeling stables, the paddock, the bookies, the stewards, jockeys in the weighing room reading about themselves in the
Racing Post
, snatching sleep on
benches, Johnnie Brutus admiring himself in the mirror, Awesome Wells struggling with the crossword.
‘Pretty tame this year,’ giggled Deirdre, ‘without Rogue dropping his trousers and flashing his tackle all the time.’