Slowly it dawned on a dazed Marius that he might have won the Gold Cup.
The loudspeaker had announced a stewards’ inquiry; punters
had been advised to hang on to their betting slips. Killer and Johnnie Brutus were in the stewards’ room, about to be banned for extremely careless riding and interfering with Mrs Wilkinson. Killer was employing all his thespian skills to persuade the Stipendiary Steward that Mrs Wilkinson, with an inexperienced rider on her back, had been wandering all over the place. Difficult not to cut her up.
‘Listen,’ Killer kept saying, ‘listen.’
‘I’ve done quite enough of that already,’ snapped the Stipe, who was not looking forward to the blazing row he would have next, when he suspended Rogue for infringement. The groundsman had not only undone Lusty’s girths but also removed his saddle, which made it no longer possible for Rogue to weigh in or Lusty to come second.
To complicate matters, Furious’s victory, as a rank outsider running way above his handicap, was so unexpected that as a formality he’d have to be dope tested in the sampling unit after the presentation.
With two Cotswold Huntsmen flanking him, Pakistani flag around his shoulders and the broadest grin splitting his face, touching his hat shyly to acknowledge rather muted cheers, an utterly dazed Rafiq had been led into the winners enclosure by a joyful, still tearful Trixie and an ecstatic Valent punching the air.
Furious, still enchanted by all the applause, neither kicked nor bit anyone. Marius the reticent also found himself being hugged by everyone, so he hugged everyone back and, as they all posed for photographs, informed the seething media that Wilkie and Amber were both all right.
‘Tommo told me to enjoy the moment,’ sighed Trixie, hugging Valent. ‘Oh, thank you for giving me this chance.’
Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was only twenty minutes, the loudspeaker crackled.
‘Here is the result of the Cheltenham Gold Cup: first Furious; second Squiffey Liffey; third Internetso; fourth Ilkley Hall.’
A jubilant Valent, taking Ryan, Diane and the grandchildren with him, went up and accepted the Gold Cup from the Princess Royal, whom he admired because she worked as hard as he did. The Gold Cup turned out to be a gleaming golden bowl with bites out of the rim as though Furious had enjoyed a good supper out of it.
A shell-shocked Marius went up next for a smaller Gold Cup and a louder cheer for a great trainer who’d come back after too long in the wilderness. A large police presence moved in, security guards fingering their guns, as Rafiq, the first Muslim to win the
Gold Cup, received a little gold replica and told the Princess, ‘Furious is so honest.’ Finally they were joined by Trixie, in her purple and green striped jacket with her black plait unravelling, who accepted a silver photograph frame to a chorus of wolf whistles.
But as Marius stepped down from the platform, Rogue, who hated stipes because they treated jockeys like other ranks, and who had come out of the stewards’ room with the possibility of being banned until long after the Grand National, clinched the matter by ducking under the rails and hitting Marius across the winners enclosure.
‘Keep your hands off Amber, you fokker,’ he howled.
‘How dare you hit my daddy,’ screamed little India Oakridge, rushing up and kicking Rogue on the shins.
Rogue was about to be arrested by the posse of policemen watching Rafiq when he was grabbed by Rupert Campbell-Black roaring, ‘Come here, you little bastard,’ and dragging him off to perdition.
‘Nothing much wrong with Rogue’s shoulder,’ observed Awesome. ‘That cold treatment works wonders.’
Meanwhile Phoebe, who’d spent a fortune on a rocking horse for Bump, and Corinna, wearing a vast turquoise Cavalier hat trimmed with a plume of Prussian blue feathers, had fought their way back from the shops. Having earlier heard the roars of ‘Wilkie, Wilkie, Wilkie,’ they had assumed Mrs Wilkinson had won and were outraged not to be allowed into the winners enclosure.
Bonny was equally incensed. She too was denied access and couldn’t pose beside Valent to show off the debut outfit in the Bonny Richards Collection.
‘Where’s bloody Seth? I need a vast drink,’ snarled Corinna.
Bloody Seth, however, lust reignited, had accosted Trixie and Furious on their way to the sampling unit.
‘Darling, well done, how terrific you look, are you going to put my picture in that smart silver frame?’
Trixie gasped and recoiled in horror. Furious, who’d behaved well for too long, was just flattening his ears when a mud-caked Eddie Alderton swooped and seized Trixie’s arm.
‘You’re too late, Grandpa,’ he told Seth. ‘She’s putting my picture in that photo frame. And once she’s settled Furious she’s coming back to my grandpa’s box to celebrate, then she’s coming to the Lesters’ with me tomorrow.’
‘Am I?’ asked Trixie excitedly. Seth was looking absolutely livid.
*
Cheltenham racecourse was ringing with the sound of high words. Even Killer turned pale as Shade and Harvey-Holden bawled out him and Johnnie Brutus, who were awaiting news of the length of their bans. ‘How could you be so fucking stupid to get caught out? You’ve probably lost us the Order of Merit.’
‘If you’re not back for the National you’re fired.’
‘The hoss was exhossted,’ protested Killer.
‘Don’t make bloody excuses.’
Rupert was even more drastic. ‘You lost me the bloody Gold Cup, you cunt-struck bastard,’ he was yelling at Rogue. ‘You’d have won it if you’d kept up the momentum. You’re fired. You’ll never ride for me again and I’m going to sue you into the next county for the loss of prize money.’
Olivia Oakridge pretended to be incensed by Killer and Johnnie Brutus’s poor showing but her fury was directed more towards her husband.
‘God, Marius has got hard. Not giving a damn about poor Mrs Wilkinson, only interested in snogging Miss Lloyd-Foxe in the middle of a Gold Cup. Lost the plot completely. No wonder Rogue hit him.’
Chisolm, who’d been intending to snack on the oxblood and mushroom-pink orchids round the Queen Mother’s bronze in the winners enclosure, was even crosser.
A tear-stained Tommy, who’d been ricocheting between hell and heaven, having bandaged and settled Wilkie, was belting back to listen to the press conference when she ran slap into Rafiq, returning to check on Furious. Next moment they had fallen into each other’s arms.
‘Well done, well done, I’m so proud of you and Furious, he ran brilliant,’ cried Tommy, quite giddy with relief.
‘Oh Tommy.’ Rafiq gave a sob as he buried his muddy face in her neck. ‘Wasn’t he wonderful, I miss you so much, please be patient. One day I explain why I’m so cold, for now, please keep away from me,’ but as he reluctantly pushed her from him, from the shadows he saw Vakil leering at them both.
Valent’s box was a riot with the CD player blaring out, ‘We Are The Champions’, and the binoculars of half the men in the crowd trained on the balcony where Cindy Bolton and assorted WAGs screamed and tossed their manes in the breeze.
Etta wished she had a stable pass so she could go and console Wilkie and Tommy and congratulate Trixie, Rafiq and Furious. But even more, she longed to go up to Valent’s box and congratulate him, but he was probably still drinking champagne with Lord Vestey and Edward Gillespie in the Royal Box. If he’d really wanted to see her he could have called her on her mobile.
In an overcrowded marquee beyond the weighing room, Valent in fact was controlling the press conference. Having dispatched Rafiq before any awkward questions were asked about his past and Marius before anyone asked him about snogging Amber, Valent, who didn’t want to talk about Bonny, was winding things up.
He needed a drink. His euphoria at winning the Gold Cup had been tempered by Etta not even bothering to ring him. Perhaps she was too gutted about Wilkie.
‘Thanks, guys,’ he said, getting to his feet to a flickering firefly orgy of flashbulbs.
‘What’s the state of play between you and Bonny Richards?’ asked the
Scorpion
.
‘I can tell you,’ cried a joyful voice and in swept Bonny, looking utterly radiant in her little fawn suit. ‘Valent and I are definitely together. He’s backing me in my fashion dream.’ She did a twirl for the cameras. ‘This is the first in the Bonny Richards Collection.’
Then, floating up to Valent, she seized both his hands,
swinging round to the furiously snapping cameras and scribbling journalists: ‘I want to congratulate him on a great victory. I’ve realized I’ve made a terrible mistake. The age gap’s utterly unimportant, it’s you I love, Valent, the journey of Bonny must end here.’
Next moment, she had reached up, put her arms round his neck and pressed her smiling lips against his.
Valent’s face was inscrutable. Then, putting an arm through hers, he frogmarched her towards the exit. ‘Now is not the time or the place,’ he said grimly, ‘I’ve got a win to celebrate and guests up in the box.’
‘Valent, Valent, Bonny, Bonny, Bonny,’ screamed the photographers.
Outside, Valent had to put his arms round her to protect her from the scrum.
Seeing his stony face, Bonny whispered, ‘I just miss you so much. We need to talk. Can’t we go back to London?’
‘I’ll give you a lift. We’ve got to look in at the box first.’
Battling their way through the crowd, Valent didn’t notice a hovering, stricken Etta.
Still incandescent with rage at having lost the Gold Cup, Rupert dropped into the box in search of Valent and found his letcherous old father Eddie in situ and surrounded by WAGs, including a drunken Cindy Bolton. ‘I got a Casanova for
Little Miss Muff Diver,
Eddie,’ she was screaming, ‘and another for
Juicy Snatch
.’
‘I got a Casanova for
Scottish Girls Wee in Glasgow
,’ countered a Celtic Rover WAG in a micro-kilt, ‘and for
Splash Gordon
.’
‘Oooh, there’s Rupert,’ squawked a third.
‘Rupert, Rupert,’ they all cried, tottering towards him on their six-inch heels.
Christ, thought Rupert, deciding it was better to laugh than cry. Next moment a thunderous-looking Valent entered the box.
‘I’m pushing off,’ Rupert called out to him.
‘Not just yet,’ said a laughing voice. ‘We haven’t met yet, but I’m enchanted to meet you, Rupert – I’m Bonny Richards.’
Marius told Tommy, Trixie and the rest of the lads that they’d all go out to dinner on Monday and celebrate Furious’s victory, but for the moment he was going to take Amber back to Throstledown and put her to bed. They both felt shell-shocked. Rogue had hit him very hard and the medical officer said Amber would be very sore tomorrow. They both needed some peace.
*
Marius’s syndicate meanwhile were most unhappy. They had no box to ply them with free drink. Euphoria that Wilkie was safe had given way, as they came down from champagne, to rage. They’d each lost a fortune. A share of the Gold Cup takings would have brought some of them as much as £20,000, not to mention money from winning bets. Joey with his white heather was the only one who’d backed Furious big time. Would Valent honour his offer to buy Wilkie now she had lost? After the King George, everyone had taken their picture and clamoured to interview them. Now no one seemed interested. How fleeting was fame.
‘I’d never have paid such a fortune for that rocking horse if someone had told me Wilkie hadn’t won,’ wailed Phoebe.
‘Rocking horse’d have more chance,’ snarled Shagger.
As they were leaving, Etta saw Bonny and Valent hurrying towards Valent’s red and grey helicopter and tried not to cry. It had been ridiculous to assume they wouldn’t get back together again.
On their way out, kicking tins, crunching plastic glasses underfoot, avoiding drunks, the syndicate passed the entrance to the stables, where a crowd was hanging over the rails. Reluctant to bid farewell to the festival for another year, they were watching horses being loaded up for the journey home.
A great cheer went up as Furious sauntered out in his black rug which said ‘Totesport Gold Cup Winner’ in big gold letters. His ears were pricked, his eyes confident. ‘I am the king,’ he seemed to say as he looked round at the crowd before bounding on big bandaged legs up the ramp of Marius’s lorry. Here, Trixie tied him up with his head near the driver so his long upper lip could nuzzle Rafiq’s ears.
Then Tommy led out Mrs Wilkinson. For once her white face wasn’t covered by lipstick. She looked bewildered, utterly deflated, her head and tail hanging down.
‘I am the one who gets the praise, the clapping, the patting, the hats and race cards thrown in the air,’ she seemed to say. ‘Am I written off completely?’
For once she loaded instantly, so as not to cause any trouble, but Etta could see her one eye, huge and sweet, anxiously gazing out of the window.
‘She should have been allowed into the winners enclosure,’ wailed Etta, longing to run to her. ‘She looks so sad.’
‘She didn’t bloody win,’ snapped Corinna.
As they walked back through the drizzle to the minibus, which had been parked in Wellington Square to avoid traffic jams, the
crowd going the same way were muted, as is usual when a favourite is beaten. With rain in their dry throats, the birds were singing so sweetly that spring was on the way.