‘You look gorgeous, Debbie, that is a serious hat. You must lead Mrs Wilkinson in,’ raved Phoebe as the scarlet sombrero blew off for a third time and Woody scuttled away to retrieve it.
‘What a pity Trixie and Dora aren’t here to add a bit of glamour for the telly,’ continued Phoebe, who actually loved being the baby of the party, ‘but at least they won’t shout at me for wearing fur. You look stunning too, Miss Painswick. I couldn’t sleep a wink all night, I was so nervous.’
Etta, who hadn’t slept either, felt sick. The hurdles suddenly looked huge and she felt so responsible for all these friends who’d kept having even bigger bets.
Having cheered on Rogue to win his second race, they hurried down to the pre-parade ring, gathering round an open stall to watch Tommy and Rafiq tacking up Mrs Wilkinson, who gave a thunderous whicker of welcome when she saw Etta and her friends.
Before a race, to check the girths aren’t pinching, a horse’s forelegs have to be stretched out one at a time.
‘Aaaaaaah,’ went the syndicate, as Mrs Wilkinson, without any prompting, proffered each leg in turn to Rafiq.
Tommy meanwhile was sponging her face and mouth with water. ‘Because she’s not allowed to drink anything,’ she explained.
Like me, thought Alban wearily. He could murder a quadruple Bell’s.
Rafiq had his arm round Mrs Wilkinson’s neck, constantly stroking and calming her. Tommy, in a dark blue jacket and black trousers, her face red from exertion, her unruly dark hair restrained by a blue scarf, waited until she was about to lead Mrs Wilkinson up to the paddock before whipping off her tail bandage, undoing six little plaits and applying a squirt of mane-and-tail spray, so Mrs Wilkinson’s tail exploded in a crinkly white fountain. Even Shagger cheered.
She looked wonderful in the paddock but very small, which elicited more jokes about Shetlands and ‘shrunk in the wash’. As she led Mrs Wilkinson round anti-clockwise, the public ringing the rails could see that Tommy had hung a black patch over her blind eye.
The favourite was a lovely bay mare called Heroine, who was trained by Harvey-Holden. H-H’s ferret-like face contorted with fury as he caught sight of Mrs Wilkinson, then turned into a sneer, his upper lip curling more than the brim of his brown felt hat.
‘What’s that pony’s handicap?’ asked Heroine’s owner.
‘Having Marius Oakridge as a trainer,’ snarled Harvey-Holden. ‘Her odds, for some unaccountable reason, are even shorter than her legs.’
On the bookies’ boards and on the big screen, Mrs Wilkinson was now second favourite at 5–1. Etta felt even sicker.
Tommy won the turnout.
‘Pity she can’t do something about her own appearance,’ said Michelle, who was about to tack up History Painting for the next race.
The jockeys were flowing into the paddock.
‘Don’t our silks look lush on Rogue?’ sighed Phoebe, as in emerald green with a pale green weeping willow back and front he was waylaid by photographers and television presenters.
Etta noticed the contrast between the slim, emaciated jockeys with their ashen, often spotty faces and frequently cut lips, polite and formal as little corporals, and the fat, shiny-suited owners flushed from hospitality.
Rogue looked different. For a start he had a tan, his hands were as big as a prop forward’s, his shoulders huge and muscular. On his collar was printed the words ‘Venturer Television’, on his breeches it said ‘Bar Sinister’.
‘I’d like to sponsor Rogue’s thighs,’ giggled Phoebe, as he strutted towards them, speculative eyes turned turquoise by the Willowwood colours, slapping his whip against muddy boots, going for the treble.
‘Connections’, as owners, trainer and stable lad belonging to an individual horse are grandiosely known, hung on his every word, straining to hear, as if he were George Clooney or Prince William.
‘I’ve studied the video, she’s a decent hoss,’ lied Rogue. ‘I’ll settle her mid-division and hont her round.’
‘Please don’t hit her with that whip,’ Etta couldn’t help saying.
‘Shhhhhh,’ hissed the horrified syndicate as though Etta had farted in church.
‘Rogue needs his whip to guide her,’ snapped Alan.
‘We mustn’t wish you good luck, it’s unlucky, so break a leg,’ called out Debbie heartily.
On their way to watch the race, Etta bumped into Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who was riding in a later ladies’ race and looked very upset.
‘I should be riding her,’ she pleaded to Etta, ‘please put in a good word.’
Up in the Owners and Trainers, aware that owners invariably hug each other if their horses win, Shagger