placed himself next to Woody. Etta was shivering so uncontrollably, Alban put his greatcoat round her shoulders so it fell to her ankles, like Mrs Wilkinson’s rug. God, she’s sweet, he thought wistfully.
Everyone had their mobiles poised to report victory.
Back in Willowwood, the whole of Greycoats was now watching on the school television. Dora and Trixie were watching at Bagley Hall. Joey rushed downstairs to put on another hundred for himself and Woody. If she won at 5–1, that would pay the mortgage and the gas bill.
Through his binoculars, far down the course on the left, the Major could see the jockeys circling. For once the piss-taking Rogue was the butt of their humour, as they patted him on the head from the superior height of their horses.
‘Oh Daddy,’ said Debbie, taking the Major’s hands, ‘this is a dream come true.’
‘Good thing to have a grey,’ Alban told Etta, ‘always identify them.’
Through her shaking binoculars, Etta could see only that Mrs Wilkinson wasn’t happy, her coat white with lather as she gazed longingly in the direction of the stables and the lorry park.
‘I can’t look.’ Phoebe put her hands over her eyes. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘Are you ready, jockeys?’ called the starter. ‘OK, then off you go,’ and encouraged by a steward cracking a whip behind them, off they went.
Except for Mrs Wilkinson. Feeling her hanging back, Rogue gave her a couple of hefty whacks. Next moment, she’d veered left, ducking under the rails, scraping him off as, with lightning reflexes, he kicked his feet out of his irons, and depositing him on the grass before scorching off to the lorry park.
‘Hurrah,’ yelled an overjoyed Harvey-Holden from behind the stunned syndicate, ‘that’s one less horse to beat.’
‘I can’t look,’ cried Phoebe. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Bugger all,’ said Chris as the rest of the runners thundered by on the first circuit.
Harry, the lorry park attendant, grabbed Mrs Wilkinson as she hurtled towards him. By the time Tommy caught up with her, the race had been won by Heroine and a gloating Harvey-Holden.
Collapse of stout syndicate.
Everyone was flattened with disappointment.
Etta was in tears. ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry.’ Alan and Miss Painswick gave her their handkerchiefs.
Alan tried to comfort her. ‘Lots of owners never get a winner.’
‘We should have brought Niall with us,’ said Woody. ‘He’d have prayed us into the frame.’
Everyone, to Etta’s white, horrified face, was very sympathetic.
‘I must go to her.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Rogue shouldn’t have hit her. Why didn’t Marius tell him?’
‘Jockeys are paid to use their crops,’ spluttered the Major the moment Etta ran off down the steps. ‘Rogue’s had two wins already. Proof of the pudding. This has cost us three thousand plus a hundred and eighty-five pounds a month.’
‘I wasted a day’s holiday,’ pouted Phoebe.
‘We came back from Lanzarote,’ grumbled Debbie.
‘I’m sure she’ll win next time,’ protested Painswick. ‘I expect something frightened the poor little soul.’
‘All trainers go through lousy seasons,’ said Shagger contemptuously, ‘but Marius is having a lousy decade. We should have gone to Harvey-Holden,’ he added. Looking down, they watched a returning Heroine being clapped back to the winners enclosure.
At least I won’t have to fork out for the champagne and I’ll have lots of people to interview about depression, thought Alan.
‘What happened to Mrs Wilkinson?’ cried the children at Greycoats.
Major Cunliffe’s committee, who’d stopped proceedings to watch the race, had a good laugh to see ‘a most familiar face’ looking absolutely livid.
50
Rogue returned from the race with only his pride hurt. Temporarily denied his treble, he needed to collect his saddle and pull himself together for the big race on History Painting. On his way he bumped into a jubilant Amber.
‘Aren’t you going to debrief connections?’ she mocked. ‘I was taught to work out what happened in a race and why it happened, so you can talk positively to the owner and trainer.’
‘Fuck off,’ snarled Rogue, disappearing into the weighing room to change silks and receive more mobbing up.
Etta found Mrs Wilkinson in the stables, head down, trembling violently from head to foot, with Tommy hugging, stroking and desperately trying to comfort her.
‘Rogue said he’d watched the video.’
‘He says that to everyone.’
Etta’s mobile rang. It was a spitting Dora.
‘It was all Rogue’s fault for giving her those reminders.’
Back in the bar, a grey-faced Joey downed a treble whisky. Having already lost £500 on Mrs Wilkinson, he was just wondering whether to try to recoup his losses by backing History Painting in the next race when his mobile rang, and he