Mount! (36 page)

‘Gala, come on!’ yelled Marketa in horror. ‘The runners are already in the parade ring.’ Seizing Gala’s arm, she dragged her outside. ‘Rupert’ll get really windictive if he catches you talking to her.’

Lads formally dressed in suits and ties were walking their charges round a parade ring, crowded out with press, owners
and trainers. Geoffrey shuffled along, sleepwalking, led by Rosaria Barraclough, while her husband chatted up owners.

Among the other runners were Tommy Westerham’s Mobile Charger, Chas Norville’s Unsocial Worker, and Cosmo’s second horses, Boris Badenough and Bone to Pick. A great deal of money had gone on the French colt Leconte de Lisle, ridden by the French ace, Manu de la Tour, known as ‘Menu’ because he was always complaining about racecourse food.

Gala was walking Quickly around in his mother’s green brow band, limping where he’d trodden on her toe. Hating the rain, he was lashing his tail. Quickly’s coat would never shine like I Will Repay’s. Nor could she ever compete with the divine Sauvignon, her undulating body and endless legs encased in a black PVC jump-suit, her dark-brown pony tail flowing out of a purple Breeders’ Cup baseball cap to remind everyone of Repay’s former glories.

None of the photographers could take their cameras off her, particularly when I Will Repay won the £200 turnout, and Sauvignon smilingly accepted it.

‘Harmony should have won that,’ said Gala in a loud voice.

‘Not if you’re sixteen stone, most of it spots,’ sneered Sauvignon.

Taggie shivered in her white trench-coat, trilby and horribly uncomfortable new boots, which she’d rushed out and bought that morning, having packed two right ones.

No one looking at Rupert’s still face could guess the fury churning inside him. He felt an absolute prat in this hastily bought olive-green gingham shirt. He had already bitten Taggie’s head off for not packing his blue and green striped one – although she swore she’d put it in – the lack of which was entirely responsible for Tarqui McGall’s double and second in the first three races, and Penscombe’s horses not troubling the judges.

He could throttle little Cosmo, who was exuding complacency and triumph in the parade ring as he shared with Ruth Walton a rose-red umbrella which cast a glow over her lovely features and his normally sallow ones.

Out surged the jockeys to join their connections. Cosmo’s
red and magenta silks suited Tarqui’s suntan and lean, powerful body. He was followed by Eddie, teeth chattering, blue with cold as Rupert’s colours.

‘That’s my goal for tonight,’ leered Cathal, nodding at Sauvignon.

‘Christ, look at that girl.’ Noticing her too, Eddie forgot his terrors for a second.

‘Concentrate,’ snapped Rupert, who was trying to brief him. ‘Don’t make your run too early – Quickly thinks he’s won the race if he’s in front too long – but don’t leave it too late. Tarqui specializes in the flying finish.’

‘Where’s your lucky shirt, Rupert? You’re going to need it,’ shouted a punter.

‘Good luck, Eddie,’ chorused Taggie, Etta and Valent as Rupert legged him up.

‘Pretty mediocre race,’ Roddy Northfield was telling Channel 4. ‘When Frankel and Sea the Stars won their Guineas, they blew the other runners away like a dandelion clock.’

Dizzy from nerves and lack of food, Gala clutched on to the rail in front of the stands, where she joined Marketa, Harmony and the grooms of the other runners, so they could duck under and retrieve their charges once they’d passed the post.

On the big screen, down at the start awaiting the other runners she could see Eddie looking curiously vulnerable, limbs folded like a daddy-long-legs over the tiny saddle. Beneath him, Quickly was having a mega-strop, tail lashing, head shaking to avoid the icy wind and rain. Next moment he boiled over and took off, back round the course, covering two furlongs before a hauling, bawling Eddie could pull him up and canter back, as the last runner was being loaded.

‘Oh Quickly,’ wailed Gala, winded with disappointment.

‘Thank Christ I didn’t back him. He’s exhausted himself, hasn’t a chance now,’ grumbled Walter Walter as yard and stud back at Penscombe gathered round the television.

‘Gala and Eddie,’ said Geraldine smugly, ‘have clearly been wasting their time.’

As a stall handler in brown and blue grabbed Quickly, he took a nip at him, then pulled away, then bounded forward, then stuck in his toes, as half a dozen handlers weighed in, practically lifting him into his stall. Just nine inches more, and they could slam the gate behind him and get on with the race.

‘Move it, you bugger.’ A flustered Eddie booted Quickly in the ribs.

Tarqui, on the beautifully behaved I Will Repay in the next stall, reached out a black-gloved hand, stroked Quickly’s cheek, ruffled his blond mane and taking his rein coaxed him gently forward.

‘Don’t touch my horse,’ spat Eddie as the gate slammed behind them.

‘Don’t be ungracious, pretty boy, one can do anything with kindness,’ mocked Tarqui. Nearby jockeys grinned.

As Quickly reared up dangerously, the other runners pawed the wet ground, the last handler scuttled to safety, the gates flew open and they were off. First Classic of the season, £178,000 to the winner. Quickly, frantic to escape, shot out ahead of the field. Down the straight course, Gala could see the runners approaching like tiny scrabbling ants.

Slotted in on the rail, behind Boris Badenough, Quickly was not amused to have mud kicked in his face. Eddie was pondering whether to swing out of the line of fire, when Isa’s son Roman Lovell, riding Bone to Pick, moved up on his right, hemming him in, galloping along beside him so he could neither overtake nor accelerate without ramming Bat Out of Hell up the backside.

‘Lemme out, you bastard!’ yelled Eddie.

‘That’s team tactics,’ shouted a furious Gala.

‘Perfectly legitimate,’ said Sauvignon, who was putting on lipstick.

Next moment, the field had plunged into the famous Rowley Mile dip which is like an extra step at the bottom of the stairs – unless a horse is perfectly balanced, which Quickly was not, particularly as the track then shot steeply upwards. Losing momentum, he dropped swiftly back into twelfth place.

At the very same moment, Repay roared past with an astonishing burst of speed.

‘This is how to do it, little tosser,’ yelled Tarqui insolently, looking back through his heavily sponsored thighs for non-existent rivals as he went six lengths clear to thunderous cheers, scarlet and magenta colours vanishing like a setting sun.

‘Wait, Quickers, wait,’ begged Eddie, reluctant to commit too soon. There were nearly two furlongs to go. The other jockeys were going crazy with their whips; the bookies were slitting their throats.

‘Get your ass into gear,’ howled Rupert, his race glasses misting over.

‘Too late for wictory,’ moaned Marketa as she and Gala inconsolably watched Repay streaking up the near side.

Then Eddie squeezed Quickly: ‘Go for it, Buddy.’

And swifter than an arrow from an Amazon’s bow, or a cheetah after an eland, faster than light, Quickly took off from the back. Dark legs a blur, with Eddie’s jubilation growing, body thrusting suicidally forwards, hands touching Quickly’s Purrpuss cleaned ears, belting up the far side, passing runner after runner, joyously yelling: ‘I’ve got you, I’ve got you,’ wiping the smug victory smile off Tarqui’s face.

Immediately Repay rallied and fought back, but Quickly, having none of that, found another gear and hurled himself past the post a half-length in front.

Total silence, a bewildered moment of disbelief – and the crowd erupted. Even if they hadn’t backed Quickly, the punters recognized class and were overjoyed Rupert had won. They liked the way he had stood up for Gav and been saddened by his poor season. The King was back. Overwhelming their love of money was their love of racing.

Instantly the camera tracked the euphoria stealing across Rupert’s aloof, deadpan face, as he turned to kiss Taggie. ‘Sorry I’ve been a bastard.’

Jockeys were gathering round Eddie shaking his hand. Gala, on the rail, was screaming her head off, crying unashamedly, being hugged by Marketa and even Harmony, picked up and swung around by Bobby and Cathal. All around her, people were thumping her on the back and shaking her hand. She couldn’t speak as, panting and gasping for breath, she ran down the course.

Thank God there was a long pull-up area and Eddie was able to swing round Quickly now, as brown with mud as I Will Repay, cantering him back to hug a sobbing, ecstatic Gala. ‘Don’t
forget we’re going to bed later,’ he said. His wide white smile, splitting his beautiful mud-spattered face, reminded everyone of Rupert.

Emma Spencer, of Channel 4, in short white mac and high-heeled boots, had to run to catch up with him.

‘Well done, well done, Eddie. What a victory – he’d already run halfway before the race began.’

‘Quickly’s only small but he’s got the heart of a lion,’ said Eddie, remembering to pat him, ‘and he’s been brilliantly trained by my grandfather Rupert Campbell-Black and looked after by Gala Milburn.’

‘You’ve just won your first Classic; tell us, what is going through your head, Eddie?’

‘Well, I’ll probably be able to pay my tax bill and,’ Eddie grinned down at her pretty face, ‘I’d love to shag the ass off you, but Mick Fitzgerald was right – winning’s better than sex.’

‘Eddie,’ gasped Gala, appalled.

Did he really say that? The Channel 4 talking heads looked at each other in amazement. ‘He’s as outrageous as Rupert was. Terrific ride though.’

The wildly cheering crowds roared even louder; there was a flourish of trumpets, as Gala and a tearful but thrilled Etta, flanked by a beaming Valent, led Quickly into the winners enclosure.

‘We’ve had vintage years with Sea the Stars and Frankel,’ called out Clare Balding on the loudspeaker, ‘but please show your appreciation of an extraordinary racehorse. Master Quickly is up with the greatest, particularly as he’s just smashed the course record created by Mister Baileys, trained by Mark Johnston way back in 1994, winning the race in one minute thirty-five seconds.’

‘Three cheers for Rupert Campbell-Black,’ bellowed a voice, and the applause rang out.

Quickly, hardly blowing and now wearing a joke rug thrown over his winner’s rug, saying,
Ha, ha, I won
, was suddenly enjoying himself, pricking his ears, arching his neck, posing for the photographers.

Nothing meant more to Eddie than the smile on Rupert’s face.

‘Fucking marvellous, well done, timed it perfectly, quickened twice, mugged them on the line.’

Then Taggie was hugging him. ‘Your parents and Gav have just rung, and they are so, so excited. Darling, clever Quickly.’

Rupert had turned to Gala, holding out his arms, which tightened round her protecting her as the crowds shoved them together. For a second their eyes met, for a second he was about to kiss her, she melted … then in one panicky moment of self-preservation, the road not taken, lost for ever, she ducked her head away, so his lips landed on her cheek. Still he held her, murmuring into her drenched hair, ‘Well done, we did it,’ until Valent tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Channel Four want a word.’

Rupert, with his arm round Quickly, then faced an army of press.

‘This is the greatest comeback since Lazarus,’ he told them. ‘My grandson Eddie knows how to ride horses. Look at his pedigree, look at Quickly’s. Love Rat, his sire, is the most exciting stallion in the world. His dam, Mrs Wilkinson, won the Grand National; his damsire Peppy Koala the Derby. Gala Milburn,’ he drew her forward, ‘has been working on him for months. She’s a total star – she and Eddie have made the horse together. Frankly, he can be a little bugger, but he came good today.’

‘Derby next?’ asked Marcus Townsend of the
Mail
.

‘Have to see how he comes out of today.’

‘He’s happy,’ murmured Cathal to Marketa. ‘He had twenty grand on Quickly at 35–1.’

Tarqui was not faring so well.

‘What happened to the greatest finisher in racing?’ hissed Cosmo. ‘
You’re
finished. You blew it, started your run too bloody early. You got mugged.’

Sauvignon, still attracting the photographers, was walking I Will Repay round.

‘Well done, Eddie,’ she called out, as she passed.

‘Thanks. How about a drink later?’

‘Don’t treat with the enemy,’ snarled Rupert.

‘Well done, Rupert,’ called out Sauvignon.

Rupert glanced round, then laughed. ‘You’re right, she is pretty.’

Taggie was ringing home to see if everyone was all right. Jan had found her boot, said Geraldine. ‘Forester had taken it into the flowerbed, and evidently Sapphire had wandered off with Rupert’s lucky shirt.’

‘I don’t expect he’ll take off the green gingham one he wore today,’ laughed Taggie. ‘Wasn’t Quickly wonderful?’ In the background, she could hear the lads cheering.

It had started raining again, and I Will Repay had had enough. On his way back to the stables, he caught sight of his beloved Harmony. Giving a whicker of joy, he charged towards her, pulling Sauvignon in her high-heeled boots flat on her face in a puddle.

‘You did that deliberately,’ screamed Sauvignon, as two lads leapt forward to pick her up. ‘I’ve twisted my ankle.’

‘Repay did it,’ said Harmony happily.

‘Such a well-mannered horse,’ mocked a passing Gala.

Her Robin ringtones were chirping like a summer morning, with messages from people she hardly knew – Walter, Dennis the landlord of the Dog and Trumpet, Pat, Gee Gee, Geraldine. Jan texted: ‘Always knew you could do it.’

Gav also texted her: ‘Marvellous, well done.’ He’d watched it with Eddie’s parents, Perdita and Luke, who sent equally overjoyed messages. They’d be coming over for the Derby.

Back in his box, the mud washed off, Quickly, who’d been hollering for his tea, was snatching mouthfuls of feed and then hay as Gala dried him down. Purrpuss was looking for a dry spot on which to curl up.

‘Wonder where Sauvignon’s staying,’ said Cathal.

‘Cosmo can’t be sleeping with both her and Mrs Walton,’ said Eddie.

‘Wanna bet?’ said Cathal. ‘Let’s go out and get legless.’