Jump! (110 page)

Painswick and Pocock sat hand in hand outside the pub, planning their teashop. Seth and Corinna were enjoying posing for photographers and plugging work in progress. Seth was keeping one eye on Romy, who was getting bored with comforting Jude, and the other eye wistfully on Trixie, who was sitting on the edge of the duck pond, cooling her swollen feet and talking to Eddie Alderton.

‘You mustn’t feel guilty about Furious,’ she was saying. ‘He was glorious but mad, one day he’d have done something dreadful.’

‘And you mustn’t worry about the baby,’ said Eddie. ‘My mom was illegitimate and she’s done good. Let’s have dinner tomorrow.’

Whenever the disco stopped, the Greycoats children sang their song about Mrs Wilkinson, but were somewhat distracted to notice their favourite teacher snogging Mr Macbeth.

A big screen was showing the Major’s film of Mrs Wilkinson’s finest moments.

‘Pity it didn’t include her stolen service with Love Rat,’ giggled Dora.

Hanging around for Seth, Martin or Valent, Bonny noticed a beautiful youth with white-blond hair jumping out of a badly parked car and cried, ‘Who is that
most
appealing young man?’

‘My boyfriend,’ snapped Dora, briskly dictating Chisolm’s diary to the
Daily Mirror
, ‘and he’s taken.’

Chris and Chrissie, having made sure there was enough food and drink on the trestle tables, joined the party, deliriously happy that at last Chrissie was pregnant.

‘I do hope the baby doesn’t come out in a woolly hat, waving a betting slip,’ murmured Woody to Niall.

Oxford, Priceless, Cadbury, Araminta, Mistletoe and half a dozen of Olivia’s terriers, aware that the minds of their owners were on other things, had just emerged from the pub kitchen licking their lips.

On a bench beneath a cherry tree dropping white petals on to them like confetti, Amber and Rogue were locked in each other’s arms. As they broke off, Amber caressed Rogue’s face with a hand on the third finger of which glowed a beautiful sapphire.

‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I was so vile in the past, I love you so much and I take back everything I said about jockeys being rubbish in bed. And I adore the idea of Dad and Furious bonding in heaven. Dad was always great with difficult horses.’

‘If you’re denifitely going to hire Rafiq Khan as your stable jockey next season,’ Rupert was saying to Marius as they helped themselves to another mahogany whisky, ‘I’d better have Rogue back to make sure of beating you.’ Over Marius’s shoulder, Rupert raised his glass to his goddaughter.

The press were frantic to talk to Rafiq, but he had escaped to Penscombe with Tommy. They were both shell-shocked, clinging together in case the other vanished.

‘I was so terrified you were dead,’ said Tommy.

‘I was so terrified they’d kill you if I made contact,’ said Rafiq.

Overhead the moon hung like a little gilded banana.

‘Imagine Wilkie peeling it,’ said Tommy. ‘Thank you ever so much for saving her.’

As they breathed in a smell of wild garlic tempered by a faint sweet scent of bluebells, they could hear the idle stamping and neighing of Rupert’s horses. But Tommy led Rafiq on, past the tennis court to the animals’ graveyard. Her torch flickered over the names: Badger, Gertrude the mongrel, Rockstar, and came to rest on a beautiful headstone which Joey had only finished engraving that morning.

‘In Loving Memory of Rafiq’s friend Furious, winner of the Gold Cup. Allah finally called him home,’ Rafiq read incredulously, and fell down on the wet grass to pray.

The tears were still pouring down his cheeks as he rose to his feet, so Tommy wiped them away and told him, ‘There was rather a row because EU regulations don’t allow you to bury horses at home any more, but Rupert said, “Bugger Europe,” and brought him back. Joey carved the stone.’

‘Let’s return to the party,’ said Rafiq, taking her hand. ‘I would like to thank Rupert and Joey.’

Back at the village green, everyone was saying, ‘Where’s Mrs Wilkinson?’ particularly the press, who wanted to make sure she was really alive. None of them had got any sense out of Rafiq and Tommy or Rogue and Amber, so they were enchanted to witness hysterical scenes of rejoicing when Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm finally arrived in their open-top bus, driven by Joey with Etta in the passenger seat, giggling on Valent’s knee.

Seeing so many friends, Mrs Wilkinson had to leap out and bustle round, greeting everyone. She had been far too busy to eat except for a few snatches of grass earlier in the day, so she was delighted to be offered a big bowl of bread and butter pudding from the pub. Chisolm’s long yellow eyes soon lit on the
hundreds of floral tributes propped against the church railings in memory of Mrs Wilkinson and she began tearing off the cellophane.

Valent was in no mood for a press conference:

‘I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.’

For a photo opportunity, however, he did agree to stand in the village green goal posts and fend off shots from Mrs Wilkinson, Chisolm and the local children. He was just congratulating himself that he hadn’t lost his Cup final touch when Chisolm, to roars of applause, headed one into the top left-hand corner.

‘That’s enuff.’ Valent chucked the football to Drummond and turned to a watching Etta. The sight of her laughing face so filled with love made his heart turn over. Next moment, Phoebe had sidled up to her.

‘Could you possibly hold Bump for a min, Etta, so I can have a dance?’

‘Sorry, Phoebe, actually she can’t.’ Martin had strode up and grabbed his mother’s arm. ‘Can you take Poppy and Drummond home, Mother, and put them to bed? You’re hardly dressed for a party anyway. Romy and I can’t miss an opportunity with so many press and big hitters about.’

‘No she can’t,’ roared the biggest hitter of them all, so that even Martin backed off. ‘From now on,’ announced Valent proudly, ‘your mother will be much too busy putting her new husband to bed.’ Then, at Martin’s look of outrage: ‘Etta has done me the huge honour of agreeing to be my wife.’ Seizing her hand, he beamed down at Etta. ‘And we want to be together, so we’re going home.’

With the cheers ringing in their ears, Valent and Etta, followed by Chisolm, Priceless and Mrs Wilkinson, who was not letting her mistress out of sight for a second, set out for Badger’s Court, through the willow wood, where they were joined by Gwenny.

‘And into Eden took their solitary way,’ said Valent triumphantly.

‘Oh Valent,’ sighed Etta in rapture, ‘if Mrs Wilkinson has a colt, do you think Ione might possibly plant a willow for him?’

No horse staggering past the post in the Grand National can have been more relieved than I when I finished
Jump
! Yet I was overwhelmed with sadness that I would no longer have the excuse to devote myself solely to the heroic, thrilling, yet hugely friendly world of jump racing.

Early in my research, I was lucky to meet one of its funniest, most charming characters: trainer Richard Phillips. Over a splendid lunch at the famous Pheasant Inn near Lambourn, Richard explained that, in racing, one must regard the owners as the parents and the horses as their children at very expensive private schools, at which the trainers are the headmasters, under huge pressure to deliver the goods.

Consequently few people work harder than trainers and their wives. I was therefore hugely touched that so many made time to both talk to and entertain me. They include Martin, Carol and David Pipe, at whose glorious yard I shook hooves with National winners Comply or Die and Minnehoma.

At Paul Nicholls’s yard, I had the excitement of watching Denman and Kauto Star skipping over huge fences in a tiny school like gymkhana ponies. I even stood beside the sublime Venetia Williams when her horse Mon Mome won the National.

I am also eternally grateful for the help and inspiration given me by Nicky Henderson, Nigel Twiston-Davies, Bob and Nell Buckler, Charlie and Susannah Mann, Sally Mullins, Tom and Sophie George, Kim and Claire Bailey, Tom and Elaine Taaffe, Carl Llewellyn, Philip Hobbs and Alan King.

Writing a novel is not unlike wading through a raging river. On blissful occasions you stumble on a stepping stone that helps you on your way. One such stepping stone was meeting the insouciant
Henry Ponsonby, who invited me to join one of his super racing syndicates. This involved taking a share in a lovely dark bay called Monty’s Salvo, trained by Nicky Henderson.

Soon I was watching Monty thunder up the gallops, studying the meticulous expertise with which Nicky brings on his horses and setting out on joyful jaunts to the races with other syndicate members. At Worcester we felt ecstasy when Monty only lost by a whisker in a photo finish, followed by the agony of him breaking down irrevocably on the same course a week or so later. One of the saddest days of my life, however, became a poignant chapter in
Jump
! and convinced me to base my story round a syndicate. I would therefore like to thank Henry and his girlfriend Kish Armstrong and the rest of the syndicate, including particularly Bernard and Glenys Cartmel, for all the wonderful fun we had.

Addicted to syndicates, I was delighted to be asked shortly afterwards to join Thoroughbred Ladies, a local group of delightful, larky women, whose syndicate is run by Sophie George from a glorious yard overlooking the Slad valley. Since then we have had the intense excitement of seeing our horse Island Flyer, with Paddy Brennan up, win three times on the trot. I would like to thank Sophie for her wonderful hospitality and the other ladies for their friendship.

Others who inspired me were Eddie Kearney, who belongs to a riotous local syndicate, and James and Nicky Stafford, who run the highly successful Thurloe Thoroughbreds. At one of their splendid evenings where newly acquired horses are named, I met Compton Hellyer, who stylishly, on two pages of my diary, set out the basic finances of running a syndicate, which proved absolutely invaluable. I also spent a miraculous day at Highclere, mecca of syndicates, run by Harry Herbert, where I watched a wonderful parade of stallions and their offspring, and enjoyed a fabulous lunch.

Without owners there would be no racing. As a very new owner I was knocked out to be allowed into the Owners and Trainers bars and stands and to meet and form close friendships with other owners. These include dear Jim Lewis, owner of Best Mate, and his lovely new wife Jennifer Harrison. The wonderful Liz and Peter Prowting entertained me endlessly at Cheltenham, as did the very generous Nigel and Penny Bunter.

David and Caroline Sebire, Roger and Carol Scan, Jim Jarvis, the ebullient greyhound lover Harry Findlay, Laurence and Elaine Nash, Piers Pottinger, Jenny Allen, Baroness Arlington and many others were all willing to share hilarious and heroic anecdotes about their horses.

It would be impossible to over-estimate my admiration for jump jockeys, that band of brothers, putting their lives on the line with every race, yet always able to banter and joke in the face of danger. For all their inspiration and help, I would like to thank: A. P. McCoy, Tom Scudamore, Choc Thornton, Paddy Brennan, Andrew Tinkler, Sam Thomas, Rhys Flint, Felix De Giles, Barry Geraghty, Timmy Murphy (for a brave and touching book), Hannah Grizel and Alex Charles-Jones.

Before I began
Jump
! I was privileged to count among my friends three times champion jockey Richard Dunwoody and ace amateur jockey Brigadier Andrew Parker Bowles who heroically finished the Grand National with a broken back. Retired from racing, these amazing men have worked tirelessly to raise money for charity, particularly when related to injured jockeys or the welfare of race horses. I salute them both and thank them for all their help.

There are many heroes in National Hunt racing, not least the stable lads and lasses who labour unceasingly and devotedly looking after their charges. I would particularly like to thank the gorgeous Lorraine Hunt, Leroy Jones, Rachel Field and Michael Kissane and the excellent head lads Corky Brown, Clifford Baker and Gordy Clarkson for all their wisdom.

Among the unsung heroes are the redoubtable trainers’ PAs, whose job resembles that of Horatius holding the bridge. Not only do they manage incredibly busy offices and keep everything running smoothly, but they also ensure that owners, jockeys and their often extremely demanding bosses are happy and at bay. I am hugely indebted to Rowie Rhys-Jones, Jo Saunders, who gallantly read the manuscript, Georgina Philipson-Stow, Clare Jones and Lauren Thompson.

I was very lucky that my son Felix is mad about racing and gallantly accompanied me to many horsey events. We had a heavenly time at different racecourses, particularly at our local course, Cheltenham, truly the jewel in the National Hunt crown. I cannot begin to thank Edward Gillespie, its managing director, and Simon Claisse, Clerk of the Course, for their intense kindness, inspiration and willingness to answer my questions while constantly providing dazzling spectacle and loving care for both horses and their connections.

My thanks also go to the chairman of Cheltenham racecourse, Lord Vestey; Andy Clifton, head of communications; Tim Partridge, manager of buildings and facilities, and Liz Cole, who so charmingly holds sway over the ladies’ loo.

I am devoted to Worcester and its splendid welcome provided
by Jenny Cheshire and Sue Page, and Henry Pratt who runs the lorry park. I must also thank Marilyn Peachey and Tricia Cavell for splendid Ladies’ Day lunches at Worcester in aid of the wonderful St Richard’s Hospice. Two other favourite courses are Ludlow, where I must thank Clerk of the Course Bob Davies for his help, and Stratford, where Steven Lambert, Clerk of the Course, also helped me and where chairman Captain Nick Lee conducted a splendid auction.