Mount! (47 page)

Rupert looked at Jan. ‘We’d better call it a day.’

‘Another time,’ said Jan, balancing his rackets across the handles of Eddie’s wheelchair, and stalking off.

Safety Car, having enjoyed another bowl of red wine, invaded
the court again and kicked a few tennis balls before laying his head on Rupert’s shoulder.

‘You still have me.’

Rupert shook his head, and grinned at Taggie. ‘You didn’t tell me he was better than Federer.’

‘I tried to warn you,’ said Gav.

‘I didn’t,’ said Eddie unrepentantly. ‘He beats me every time. Just wait till the Legends race, then you can show him what an awesome rider you are.’

Rupert dropped a kiss on Safety Car’s forehead. At that moment he decided to ride him. Gav had already been getting him fit in case Rupert wanted to hunt him. And it would be so nice for the old horse, who so loved crowds, to race again.

‘I’m going to ride Safety,’ he called out to Gav, then to the horse, ‘but you’ll have to give up the booze, old boy.’

‘You sure that’s wise?’ said Gav. ‘Owners are already lending other Legends some pretty serious horses. Isa’s bound to ride something spectacular.’

‘Safety can out-fox anyone.’

Once again the yard seethed with gossip.

‘Wasn’t Jan rude to Rupert.’

‘Serving balls at Cuthbert,’ agreed Dora. ‘Showed his true colours. Remember how he beat up Gropius?’

Back at the house, Rupert told Taggie he was tempted to fire Jan. ‘Bloody insubordinate. Could have killed Cuthbert.’

‘Oh please not, he’s so brilliant with your father and all the grandchildren. I’m sure normally you’d beat him. He was match fit while you’d just got off the plane. The light was awful.’

Rupert went out on the terrace. His staff were setting out for the Dog and Trumpet. God, he could kill for a drink. Cuthbert, who was sitting on his knee, growled as a voice said: ‘I want to apologize, sir.’

It was Jan, back in cords and a dark-brown T-shirt. ‘I’m afraid nerves got to me. Eddie said you were a great player. I got carried away, all those dogs invading the place. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I’m sorry. Just lost my sense of humour.’

‘Didn’t know you had one,’ said Rupert coldly.

Jan proved he had by laughing heartily. Then, as Rupert returned to his messages: ‘Supper’s ready.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ lied Rupert. He was damned if he’d accept anything from Jan.

‘Just steak and salad – keep up your strength for the big race, sir, and you ought to put on a sweater. Enjoy your meal,’ he urged Rupert, as he put a big plate of beef in front of him on the table.

‘Is this your way of apologizing to my dogs?’ Rupert peeled off a slice for Cuthbert. ‘All right, apologies accepted, but don’t ever touch them again.’

Gav helped Rupert by explaining that flat racing was exhausting.

‘Jump racing’s different; you can take a breather at fences. This will be flat literally out. You’ve got to be as still as possible to settle the horse, you need balance and calves of iron. When you move, squeeze with your legs and push with your arms and your whole body. You use your reins more; flat horses have much harder mouths and like to take up the bit.’

‘I know all that.’

‘I know, but you’ve never ridden in a flat race before.’

Rupert was far more preoccupied with a little chestnut two-year-old whom he’d recently bought in France. Appropriately called Delectable, she was as sweet and affectionate as Touchy Filly was snappy and permanently pre-menstrual. Rupert had entered her in a fillies race before the Legends race, about which he refused to give any interviews.

He was not unpleased, on arriving at Doncaster, however, to learn that he’d put an estimated 20,000 on the gate.

In the programme, John Sexton, the compère and a racing journalist, had described the Legends taking part as united by: ‘a ravenous will to win, a competitive streak, a pride, a passion and a burning desire to succeed’.

‘Not a million miles from Rupert,’ observed Cathal.

Stars with a thousand winners under their belts, the Legends
were euphoric to be back in the weighing room, experiencing the camaraderie and the banter, howling with laughter as cock-ups and triumphs of the past were recalled.

‘D’you remember how Charlie held up the favourite by hanging on to its tail until we nearly fell off our horses laughing?’

The Doncaster valets, delighted to see old friends again, were busy sewing on buttons. No matter if the old kit was too tight or it took endless tugging and talcum powder to pull on old boots. The Legends were rightly proud of raising more than £100,000 for charity and having a chance to shine again.

‘’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.’

They were polite to Rupert when he came in to hang up his kit, but slightly irked by an outsider stealing their thunder. Rupert himself felt equally out of it, isolated from the ragging. He was very tired and just off another plane from the Keeneland sales. Never needing a bucketful of whisky more, he felt he had strayed into someone else’s school reunion, particularly when he had to line up before the race for a group photograph and towered head and shoulders above the other Legends, a Great Dane among Jack Russells.

After weeks of sunshine, the rains had come with a suggestion of thunder, but nothing could dampen the spirits of the crowds on Legends Day. Doncaster was a beautiful course, a huge oval of fields and woods within the town.

Before the race, the Legends and their guests had been invited to a splendid lunch party in the hospitality block, whose roofs rose like whipped meringue. Sartorially the occasion was a challenge. Many of the ladies, excited that the Princess Royal would be present, despite the rain, had dolled up in high heels, hats and pretty dresses, only to find the sensible Princess had arrived hatless in flat boots and a warm woollen coat.

Apart from the race itself, the greatest challenge for the Legends was this party. Having wasted for weeks, desperate to psych themselves into a mood to annihilate their rivals, they were expected to sit down to a delectable fine-wine-fuelled lunch of seafood pâté, chicken poached in Madeira and frangipane tart, and then be charming to a myriad of admirers around them, giving the sponsors the chance to meet their idols.

Taggie, who’d donated her unworn Ascot hat to the auction, found herself at a table with Etta and awful Roddy and Enid Northfield, who was soon rabbiting on about ‘damsires’.

On each table were envelopes for donations and iPads with which to bid.

‘I can’t work those things,’ confessed Etta. ‘I’ll probably end up bidding millions of pounds by mistake.’

‘I’ll show you, Etta,’ said Roddy, bolder because Valent was in China, taking her hands and placing them on the iPad.

‘I’d like to bid for Fred Archer’s whip,’ said Dame Hermione, who was sitting at the next table with Cosmo, Mrs Walton, and Isa’s boyish wife Marti, who looked at Taggie without warmth. And, oh help, there was Janey Lloyd-Foxe, at the same table as vile Brute Barraclough, who had been a very mediocre jump jockey to achieve Legends status.

‘It’s a very emotional day for me,’ Janey was telling everyone. ‘My darling husband Billy died of cancer.’

Brute kept dropping his race card or the programme as an excuse, when retrieving it, to bury his face in Janey’s crotch. Meanwhile, down at the stables, poor Rosaria was getting his horse ready.

‘Do you have horses?’ Taggie asked the sponsor on her right.

‘No, I have daughters.’

‘Delicious chicken,’ said Etta, amused to see Legends all round picking at their food, while their spuds were forked up by their larger wives.

‘Where’s Rupert?’ demanded Dame Hermione, irritated by his empty place as was every other woman who wasn’t hanging around the pre-parade ring for a first glimpse.

Rupert, in fact, had glanced inside the hospitality block, seen Cosmo, Dame Hermione and Janey at adjoining tables, and Roddy and Damsire at his own, and gone sharply into reverse, as had Isa.

‘Typical bad manners,’ thundered Roddy. ‘All the sponsors have forked out to meet the Legends.’

Tommy Westerham, who’d notched up two Derbys and a St Leger as a jockey, having discovered that the sponsors to his
right and left had no interest in buying horses, was reading about his exploits in the programme.

As people bid for next year’s Cup Final tickets, visits to smart yards, lunch at Weatherbys boxes at Ascot and Taggie’s big grey hat, every table was also being exhorted to put £20 notes into waiting envelopes as they tucked into frangipane tart. Rain was lashing down the windows. On the monitor, Rupert and Isa could be seen respectively saddling up their latest stars, Delectable and Jezebella, for the fillies’ race.

Damsire, bored of Roddy doing a number on Etta, had swung round her chair to talk to Cosmo.

‘Jezebella’s definitely the standout in this race. She’s a Roberto’s Revenge, of course. I can’t think of a stallion I’d rather put a mare to than Roberto.’

‘I’d rather have a Joomper than a flat horse,’ said a fat sponsor.

‘The only joomper you’re going to have,’ said his even larger wife, ‘is one round your neck.’

There were huge cheers as little chestnut Delectable, wearing blinkers for the first time, at Rupert’s suggestion, hacked up in the fillies’ race. Threading her way through a dozen other runners, she was ridden with great panache by Eddie, whose overjoyed blue eyes could be witnessed as, once the race was over, he shoved his goggles above the peak of his hat. Rupert was hugely pleased, particularly as Jezebella had come last.

‘You must get changed,’ Gav urged him. ‘You’ve got to weigh out. Safety Car and Marketa are already in the pre-parade ring.’

But Rupert had been distracted by a row in the unsaddling enclosure.

Jezebella, Sheikh Baddi’s latest extremely expensive purchase, had been running for the first time in his colours. The Sheikh, in a suit which glittered like a pale-grey moonlit sky, had assumed he’d go into the winners enclosure to welcome her home.

Jezebella had been ridden by Tarqui McGall, the go-to jockey, who because of his contumely had been jocked off by Isa and Cosmo, but who had been given a chance of a comeback in this
race. On form, Tarqui ignited horses – but despite every effort, he couldn’t galvanize Jezebella.

Leaping off her, turning to Isa, Cosmo, the Sheikh and his entourage, he yelled: ‘This horse is focking useless! Isa, why are you wasting my time on such a focking awful yak?’ which even Sheikh Baddi and his retinue, who included his second wife and daughters, understood.

‘Not all Qatari on the Western Front,’ grinned Rupert. As he sprinted towards the weighing room, he noticed how white were Isa’s knuckles as he gripped Tarqui’s muscular arm.

‘That’s the last horse,’ Isa was telling him, ‘you’ll ride for me till you learn to behave.’

‘What about the Leger?’

‘Roman can have your ride, and you can bloody well apologize to Sheikh Baddi.’

‘For not shifting a yak? Not bloddy likely.’

And Tarqui stalked off into the weighing room.

Rupert had only seconds to pull on breeches, boots and body protector.

‘You need a body protector down to your ankles to guard you from those ravening women, dearie,’ quipped his valet.

As he helped Rupert on with his blue and emerald silks and tied his hat ribbons, he reflected that Rupert had the perfect lean features for a helmet.

Pleased to weigh out at eleven stone, Rupert handed his saddle to Gav. Huge cheers greeted him as he sprinted down to join Gala, Bao and Marketa, who’d been leading up Safety Car, who was revelling in almost more applause than Rupert.

‘I can’t give myself instructions,’ Rupert told them, ‘so I’ll leave it to Safety.’

Isa, having finished roasting Tarqui, was being legged up on to the magnificent dark brown Eumenides.

Only when Rupert mounted did he realize that the breast girth was missing. This was a second strap attached to the saddle and running round the horse’s chest above his front legs to stop the saddle slipping back.

‘Christ, where is it?’ Rupert asked Marketa.

‘I put it in the spares bag. I saw it there,’ said Gala.

‘So did I,’ said Bao.

‘Where the hell is it now? Someone must have stolen it.’

‘Come on, Rupert,’ said a steward, ‘you’re holding everyone up. We’re running five minutes late.’

The other Legends had in fact got down to post earlier than usual because their calmly parading horses had leapt out of their skins when Dame Hermione launched into ‘Here’s to the Heroes’.

‘Use her instead of starting stalls,’ growled Tommy Westerham, desperately trying to stop his mare, Auntie Depressant, carting him. ‘Put that horse whisperer Gary Witheford out of business.’

To watch the race, Gav and Gala decided to go down to the rail near the finish. From here they could see it on the big screen. To not lose her as he led her through the huge excited crowd, Gav took her hand. It felt nice, thought Gala, and a good way to make a first move. She was so nervous for Rupert, and Gav was such a calming influence on everyone.

Without the breast girth, feet out of the stirrups, Rupert hunted Safety down to the start. Irritated to be kept waiting, the other Legends were circling.

‘Come on, Rupert,’ yelled Tommy Westerham. ‘You in the next race?’

‘That’s why they call him the “bank robber”, because he holds everyone up,’ sneered Brute.

Nerves had finally got to Rupert: mouth dry, legs trembling. As they lined up he could feel Safety also trembling, his heart pounding through his ribs.

‘It’s OK, boy, I’ll take care of you,’ and they were off.

Rupert kept as motionless as possible, but found it hard to balance on the little racing saddle at high speed. Safety Car’s dinner-plate feet were soon raking up the divots. Like Quickly, not liking mud in his face, he surged forward, enjoying powering through other horses, overtaking first Tommy and then Brute, and Gay Kelleway, Mick Kinane, and Kevin Darley.

Isa and Eumenides were still ahead. Rupert gave Safety a pause as they turned the corner so the horse could take a big gulp of oxygen, and as they surged into the long home straight
he could hear an explosion of cheering. The sun was in their faces but they were gaining on Isa’s black shadow.