Mount! (20 page)

Better if Quickly and both Eddies were gelded, thought Rupert, who was furious at having lost a brilliant filly before she’d had time to race.

He wasn’t any happier with Young Eddie, who was still not cutting it as a jump jockey, and not pulling his weight in the yard, either. Eddie was mortified repeatedly, appearing in the
Racing Post
’s Cold Jockeys list, which stated the increasing number of days since he’d had a winner.

Even though the jump season had started full on in October, Eddie was not getting rides from other trainers, and Rupert’s obsession with nailing Leading Flat Sire meant he now only kept a couple of jump horses. Eddie was missing the buzz of being a poster boy, chased by all the girls.

In addition, he and Trixie were not getting on. Trixie was taking her A-levels again and got fed up with Eddie coming in late with cronies, and waking Hereward, who was teething and cried a lot. This disturbed the lads in the flats below, who had to get up at five in the morning.

Eddie was desperately trying to lose weight to ride on the flat, and Trixie’s junk food – supermarket lasagne heated up in the microwave – was a far cry from Taggie’s Dover soles and fillet steaks. Trixie, realizing how much Etta had done for her, was horrified that she was expected to cook Eddie’s dinner, make his bed, wash and iron his shirts, and do all his other laundry as well as Herry’s and her own.

Trixie felt desperately hard done by, particularly when Eddie got mad when she shrank a purple cashmere jersey, which Taggie had given him for his birthday, down to Action Man size.

‘Be an incentive to lose more weight and get back into it again,’ she snapped back at him.

No longer was there endless access to babysitters. Rupert had
made it quite clear that he didn’t want them using Taggie or Gala, ‘my father’s enough trouble,’ nor dropping in, raiding the fridge at all hours.

‘Bloody martinet,’ Trixie had stormed.

‘Martin ate what?’ Eddie had asked, not looking up from his laptop.

‘Martinet means disciplinarian, or control freak,’ screamed Trixie, just stopping herself from adding, ‘Dumdum! Retard!’

That was another thing; Eddie was a philistine, who never read a book.

In fact, Gav was the only person round here with any intellectual pretensions, except Dora, who had told Trixie that Gav had liked her a lot after they talked at Quickly’s christening, but he hadn’t made any moves, and nor had any of the other lads.

One October afternoon, Trixie was trying not to think about Seth, Hereward’s handsome, dissolute, middle-aged father, who Eddie always referred to as ‘Mr Grecian Too Tousled’, who had rung yesterday on the pretext of meeting his son sometime. Trixie had seen from the papers that Seth had just dyed his hair dark red because he had landed a huge part as Renny, the charismatic hero of Mazo de la Roche’s Jalna books. She mustn’t think of Seth, she didn’t when she and Eddie were getting on well.

‘We’re out of bog paper,’ called Eddie from the bathroom.

‘There’s a box of tissues beside the basin,’ called back Trixie.

Would she ever get to Oxford, she wondered, retaking her A-levels in Greek and Latin as well as History and English. Would they admit her if she had a baby? She was writing an essay on
The Iliad
and had never realized that, like Seth now, Menelaus had red hair. No wonder Helen had run off with Paris. She couldn’t share such reflections with Eddie. On the other hand, she was irritated by Lark’s thumping great crush on him.

Hearing cries of: ‘No, Quickly, no,’ through the open window, she glanced out to see a flat-eared Quickly, like an angry gander, chasing Lark around the paddock.

‘No, Quickly!’ Her voice rose as he caught up, poised to take a bite out of her shoulder, when a voice yelled, ‘Starp that!’ and Eddie vaulted over the fence. Sprinting across, he seized Quickly’s head collar, shaking him until his eyes watered, but still he snapped at Eddie.

‘Little fucker!’ shouted Eddie, raising his fist.

‘Don’t hurt him,’ pleaded Lark.

‘I’m only not beating the daylights out of you, little fucker,’ Eddie shook Quickly’s head collar again, ‘because your kind minder begged me not to, but you don’t deserve anyone so sweet or pretty looking after you, Quickers. Imagine if it was that lazy cow Celeste – she’d never brush your mane.’

Lark, blushing crimson at being described as pretty, stammered that Quickly was usually as good as gold; he was probably just feeling colty.

Eddie looked more closely at Lark. In that olive-green T-shirt, which matched her eyes and clung to her breasts, she had a very fetching little figure.

He couldn’t resist saying: ‘Don’t blame him. I wish you’d look after me and put quarter marks on my ass. We must have a drink sometime.’

They were interrupted by Mrs Mitchell, the bossy vicar’s wife, nicknamed Constance Sprightly because of her obsession with flower arranging. She had come to pester Taggie.

‘Nice to see you in church, Lark. Your brass-rubbing is quite excellent – I hope you are coming to Harvest Supper? Hello,’ she looked at Quickly, ‘what a pretty pony, what’s his name?’

‘Little fucker,’ said Eddie.

‘Eddie!’ gasped Lark.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Mucker,’ said Lark. ‘As in, “he’s my mucker”; his real name is Master Quickly.’

‘Mucker … I must remember that,’ said Constance. ‘I’m on my way to find Taggie – hope she’ll do some desserts for Harvest Supper.’

‘She’s out,’ lied Eddie.

‘I’ll just check,’ said Mrs Mitchell firmly, setting off towards the house.

‘What’s brass-rubbing?’ mocked Eddie. ‘I’d rather rub you without a bra.’

Couldn’t be that funny, thought Trixie, as she noticed Lark going scarlet and then them both laughing. If Lark had such a crush on Eddie, then she could jolly well babysit.

Living with Trixie did cramp his style, reflected Eddie. He’d regularly enjoyed Marketa and Lou-easy. He’d got a long-distance plan for Gala, and noticing close up how cute Lark was, he’d also like a crack at her.

Now he lived with Trixie, he found he had to account for his every move. How could he possibly lose weight? Sex took your mind off food; he’d been used to pulling girls every time he went to a party. Peppy Koala shagged three times a day, so why couldn’t he?

Why then had he been furious to see Trixie had torn out a piece in the
Guardian
about Seth playing Renny, and made a bitchy remark about it ‘being a change, hearing about him landing a large part, rather than having them.’

‘Nice for Herry to know something about his father one day,’ snapped back Trixie.

The flat season was drawing to a close. Rupert looked to have won the Leading Trainer title back from Isa, and Love Rat looked all set to edge up to second place behind Verdi’s Requiem.

‘Why are you such a great trainer?’ asked Clare Balding.

‘Because I breed great racehorses,’ replied a curt Rupert.

Alas, with the endless changing fortunes of racing, Ivan the Terrorist had a huge win at Ascot on Champions Day, pushing his sire, Roberto’s Revenge, into second place below Verdi’s Requiem and knocking Rupert off the Leading Trainers spot.

Isa and Cosmo had been hugely aided by the rivalry of their two stable jockeys, Scottish Ashley McIntyre and Irish Tarqui McGall, who Rupert always referred to as ‘Sodom and Begorrah’ because Ash was gay and Tarqui went every which way.

Both jockeys were determined to end the season as Champion Jockey. Machiavellian Isa had now introduced his son Roman Lovell, who’d been cleaning up in Australia, into the equation – which made Ash and Tarqui even more competitive.

Cosmo, interviewed about nudging Verdi’s Requiem in the Leading Sire title, smiled evilly.

‘Rupert Campbell-Black is a has-been who couldn’t train ivy up a wall and Lion O’Connor, his stable jockey, must be fed up with seeing the asses of our jockeys getting smaller and smaller.’

Again, Rupert didn’t react but his determination hardened, and, once again, he agonized over who was backing Cosmo and Isa. They must be getting shedloads of money to outbid all the major players at the sales and to entirely rebuild the stud and yard at Valhalla.

The last straw was Lion O’Connor breaking and shattering his pelvis after a fall on Fleance in Japan, which meant he would be off for at least six months.

Rupert, outwardly remaining upbeat, only betrayed his despair to Valent after a third bottle of Mouton Cadet one evening.

‘I’ve fucked up. I’ve been too reliant on Lion. I hoped Young Eddie would come back to the flat and step in as second jockey with Meerkat not far behind, followed by young Jemmy as an apprentice. I like to grow my own jockeys, but this time I’ll have to poach one.’

Valent was touched by Rupert’s despondency.

‘May seem a stupid parallel, but Rachmaninov.’

‘Who?’

‘A great composer, he was hugely successful, but his First Symphony was a massive flop, crucified by the critics, took him two years to get his nerve back.’

‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘Then along comes his Second Symphony – a towering masterpiece, best thing he ever wrote. You’re going to have a brilliant year, next year. You’ve got great horses like Quickly, Dave and Touchy Filly coming up.’

‘I better have a cracking Christmas party then, to rally the troops,’ said Rupert.

The Christmas party was wild, held in the emptied helicopter hangar with champagne flowing and amazing food, including Gala’s Beef Wellington, served throughout.

Because Rupert was second in the Leading Trainer charts, there was plenty of pool money to divide between the yard staff, and to encourage those who worked in the stud, Rupert was offering them a half per cent of the price of each foal or yearling they sold – which, when many were making six figures, was a tidy sum. So the party was brightened by optimism.

Lots of bad behaviour occurred, with people vanishing into loose boxes and feed barns. Opening a tack-room door, Rupert discovered Roving Mike going down on a mostly naked Celeste, and without missing a beat, called out: ‘Good lad, that’s the spirit,’ before slamming the door.

‘He never recognizes any of his staff with their clothes off,’ giggled Dora.

Lou-easy, gorgeous in plunging midnight-blue velvet, who paid the vet and the farrier with services rendered, was slightly stretched when they both rolled up at the party. Fortunately, Marketa was only too happy to help her out.

‘Please God,’ prayed Lark, ‘but only if You think it right, God, make Eddie dance with me.’

‘I didn’t know Lark had tattoos all over her arms,’ observed Jemmy Carter, the apprentice, as he bopped with Clover, the youngest stable lass.

‘No, they’re bruises from Quickly,’ said Clover.

Trixie, looking stunning in backless black, drank far too much and was just about to ask Gav to dance when Roving Mike, returning from Celeste and the tack room, swept her on to the floor. Here she watched beadily as Gala, who’d definitely won the turn-out in a beautiful red silk dress that Old Eddie had given her the money to buy for Christmas, had a long sexy dance with Young Eddie, who then pulled her behind a pile of hay-bales for a kiss.

‘I have the hots for you, Mrs Milburn. You’ve got to promise to sleep with me when I get down to 122 pounds.’

Meerkat longed to dance with Gee Gee, he told Eddie, but was too embarrassed to ask because he only came up as high as her boobs.

‘Worse things to talk to,’ quipped Eddie, ‘and lying down, it doesn’t matter.’

Gav, ordered by Rupert to be present, had lurked in the shadows until sought out by a ravishing but plastered Trixie, whereupon he’d fled to the stables where he talked to Quickly, who’d turned on the light outside his box and was furious not to be allowed to join the party.

‘It’s going to be your year, boy,’ said Gav, scratching Quickly’s
neck as Purrpuss tightroped down his mane, ‘and you’ve got your own black cat to bring you luck.’

Soon Quickly, Touchy Filly, whose sire was Titus Andronicus and whose nickname was PMT, and New Year’s Dave would go into training as two-year-olds. New Year’s Dave had turned into the most adorable colt, as gentle and loving as Quickly and Touchy Filly were tricky. His dear chestnut face with the big white star adorned Rupert and Taggie’s Christmas card this year.

But there remained the smouldering gun of Celeste, La Prima Donna on her mobile, wildly jealous of Lark and Gala, who were always discussing horses with Gav, nor did she feel appreciated enough by Rupert or Cathal Gogan, who was also happy to shag her but not prepared to take her on trips abroad.

From time to time, Celeste looked at the bloodstained crumpled record of Dave being foaled on 31 December which was hidden under the lining paper of her bedroom drawer. She knew the disgrace it would bring on Penscombe if the truth came out.

Now she left the office party and joined Gav and Quickly in the yard.

‘We must remember to send Dave a Happy Third Birthday card on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Shut up!’ hissed Gav, going ashen.

‘I think you owe me a nice New Year’s Eve dinner after Christmas,’ cooed Celeste.

Loathing himself, Gav agreed. Never had he been more tempted to go back to the party and drink himself insensible. Seeing them both set off on New Year’s Eve, with Celeste looking fabulous, Gala was surprised how very sad she felt.

Rupert had never trained his horses on communal gallops, like those at Lambourn or Newmarket, where everyone could roll up and assess what everyone else was up to. He preferred privacy, disliking the press and never making any attempt to ingratiate himself with them, which in turn added to the mystique.

Horses had always thrived at Penscombe because there were masses of steeply sloped turn-out areas, full of wonderful grass so they could build up bone and muscle, which was further strengthened by working on equally steeply-sloping gallops.

And because these gallops were not overlooked by other yards, security had always been tight, producing an element of surprise when one of Rupert’s new horses burst on to the public.

None could be more unpredictable than Quickly. If a pheasant went up on the gallops, you’d end up in Cotchester. ‘Cough-and-you’re-off’ joined ‘Little Fucker’ as his nickname. Quickly’s favourite game was ‘dump the lad’ but slowly, slowly and with infinite patience, Gav was bringing him on, settling him, relaxing him, taking him endlessly back and forth through starting stalls, which Rupert deliberately built narrow, so horses would feel a freedom when they entered stalls at an actual racetrack.