full of gossip. The yard was going from bad to worse. Marius, drunk, had accused Collie of sleeping with Olivia. Collie was so enraged, everyone was terrified he was going to walk.
Collie, not Marius, would accompany Mrs Wilkinson to Worcester on Wednesday because Marius was running a new horse, Count Romeo, belonging to a rich new owner, Bertie Barraclough, at Rutminster. Marius had had great difficulty finding a race bad enough for Count Romeo to win.
Bertie had hired a box and invited his entire board to watch. Ruby Barraclough would also have gone ballistic if, in an attempt to persuade Count Romeo to concentrate, Marius had hidden his beauty behind blinkers.
Expectation was terrifyingly high here as well.
Race day dawned. Down at five thirty, as the constellation of the swan began her flight and Leo the lion sank into the west, Tommy loved to be first out to feed and water the horses. They were all so pleased to see her. Mrs Wilkinson, already banging her bowl, was very put out to be limited to reduced racehorse nuts, little water and no hay, so she wouldn’t be bloated before her race.
‘It’s your big day, darling,’ Tommy consoled her. ‘The honour of Throstledown is at stake.’
Yielding to her phobia of lorries, Marius allowed Tommy and Rafiq to take Mrs Wilkinson, whinnying continually for Chisolm, and History Painting, who was entered in the fourth race, to Worcester in the trailer.
Tommy drove past the great cathedral, through the town to the beautiful oval racecourse surrounded by trees and with the river running along the north side. She then felt a bit silly parking the little trailer beside huge lorries belonging to Isa Lovell, Harvey-Holden, Dermie O’Driscoll and Rupert Campbell-Black, all elaborately decorated with designs of horses jumping or loping past winning posts. Harry, the lorry park attendant, however, welcomed everyone with equal warmth.
Tommy liked to relax young horses by getting them to the course three hours before their race. Now she set about plaiting up Mrs Wilkinson.
As Mrs Wilkinson’s first race was taking place in November rather than January, the spanking new Ford Transit Chris was getting sprayed with the Willowwood colours wasn’t ready, so Alan, Etta, the Major and Debbie, Painswick, Joey, Woody and Chris piled into a hired minibus. A very subdued, dried-out Alban Travis-Lock, bossily directed by the Major, took the wheel. Etta, trying to cheer up Alban, took the seat behind them.
‘Isn’t this the most exciting day of our lives?’
If only she had something more glamorous to wear, but at least Seth wasn’t there to witness her dowdiness.
In deference to Alban, Chris was surreptitiously pouring Bloody Marys out of a thermos into paper cups and circulating them to everyone else in the bus. How proudly they read about Mrs Wilkinson in the Racing Post, which tipped her to win.
‘Probably because Marius has put up Rogue,’ said Woody.
‘He’s never ridden her before,’ protested Etta.
‘Marius believes horses need someone experienced on their backs in their first race,’ said Alan. ‘Rogue had a pony under his arse before he could walk.’
‘Got a pony under him today,’ guffawed Joey.
‘Ponies stop at fourteen two,’ said Etta indignantly. ‘Mrs Wilkinson’s fourteen three.’
It was a bitterly cold day, with the trees wrapping their remaining leaves round their bare limbs and a vicious east wind sweeping those they had shed across the course. But nothing could dim the syndicate’s expectations.
How proudly they collected their red owners’ badges at the gates to tie on to lapel or bag, how proudly they repaired to the Owners and Trainers bar, where Etta insisted on buying the first round. How proudly they took their places in the owners’ stand and watched Rogue Rogers win the 1.15 by ten lengths. He was also riding the favourite in the 1.45, so a win on Wilkie would mean a treble.
‘There’s a lot resting on your shoulders, kiddo,’ chided Tommy as she polished the pewter coat of Mrs Wilkinson, who was increasingly put out by the lack of food. An inch of water in a bucket was no substitute.
The syndicate were returning to the bar when Shagger, Toby and Phoebe arrived from London. Phoebe, looking enchanting in a little green wool suit and a fur hat, immediately cried:
‘Who’s going to buy us a drink?’
‘Have a coffee to warm you up,’ said the Major, who was getting wily.
Shagger, still sulking at not being banker and getting his hands on a pot of money, had no intention of buying a round, so Alan ordered everyone except poor Alban