After the syndicate had been photographed collecting Mrs Wilkinson’s cup and Marius had been awarded a framed cartoon, Rafiq a photo frame and Amber, as winning rider, a glass tankard, they floated through a solid oak door into the building containing the Royal Box. Etta thought she had gone to heaven. The walls were papered in her favourite sea blue and crowded with wonderful photographs of the Queen in a flowered print dress and the Queen Mother in crimson.
‘Hardly wearing camouflage to blend into the countryside,’ hissed Dora.
Up the stairs they found more photographs of George V and Queen Mary and the Duke of Edinburgh at the races, of Best Mate and Galway Bay winning the Hennessy, and some adorable Shetland ponies with their tails trailing on the ground.
‘Do you think Horace should grow his hair?’ giggled Trixie.
‘Oh God, this is bliss,’ sighed Etta, as they reached a room with more leaping horses, and a gilt looking glass and a tariff from the olden days, when whisky was ten old pennies a tot.
‘We wouldn’t pay the rent on that,’ laughed Chrissie, clutching Joey’s arm.
As they were handed the most delicious glass of champagne in the world and watched the video of the race, all they could think was that Mrs Wilkinson, their beloved village horse, had come good.
‘Look at the way she stands orf, looks at the fence and really picks up her feet,’ said Alban, accepting a glass, feeling he couldn’t not on such an occasion.
Everyone cheered as Pocock, looking pale, and Painswick, looking pink after receiving a congratulatory text message from Hengist which she would never wipe, returned from Casualty. They were also persuaded to have a restorative glass. Everyone cheered even more when Amber arrived.
‘Not just a pretty arse,’ said Seth, hugging her.
‘I’ve had text messages from Rupert and Taggie, Dad and Mum and my old headmaster, Hengist Brett-Taylor. He sent love to you, Miss Painswick, and to Rafiq,’ crowed Amber.
Etta, in a daze of happiness and confusion – she still hadn’t spoken to Valent – wandered across the room and up on to a little platform where Royalty must have stood so often to watch a race through a huge window.
The jockeys for the next race were going down to post, idly chatting to each other. It seemed like midnight. The huge course which Mrs Wilkinson had conquered stretched below. The witches who parked their broomsticks had put a good spell on her.
Aware of a footstep on the carpet, she turned, then started. It was Valent, who had been in Darwin mining ore to sell to the Chinese at massive profit but was far more excited by Mrs Wilkinson’s victory.
‘I’m sorry, Etta, I was so rude to you, I’m bluddy ashamed of myself. I was bluddy out of order,’ he added, blushing all over his square suntanned face. ‘I just lost it. I’d grown very fond of Mrs Wilkinson. I wanted to be part of her future.’
‘I only sold her to the syndicate because I couldn’t afford to keep her on my own,’ stammered Etta.
‘Should have come to me.’
‘I didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t want to abuse your colossal generosity.’
Valent led Etta back into the room where the Royal Box, impressed by such an illustrious guest, had been persuaded to show the video again.
‘Look at her little legs in a blur,’ said Valent ecstatically. ‘Look at the way her ears are pricked the moment she passes the post.’
Marius was also watching the video.
‘Why did you do that?’ he accused Amber. ‘Why didn’t you look round? You nearly let Johnnie up the inner.’
‘Oh shut up, Marius,’ called out Alan. ‘Don’t be so bloody ungracious. She rode a dream race. Have a drink, darling.’
‘She’s got to drive the lorry home,’ snapped Marius and bore Amber off.
‘Bloody paranoid,’ said Seth. ‘He’s so snarled up and suspicious about his staff getting close to owners, terrified they’ll take them away to other yards, when they only leave because he’s so tricky.’
‘I like Marius,’ reproved Phoebe. ‘Must remember his wife’s just left him, poor chap.’
‘Oh shut up,’ muttered Trixie.
‘And two fingers to Shagger and Toby for not bothering to come,’ said Dora.
56
‘Let’s party,’ said Valent, bearing everyone off to the Owners and Trainers bar for more champagne. Here owners, trainers and jockeys sat round tables on wicker chairs conducting past-the-post mortems, watching the races on two screens and gazing hungrily at Valent, who had to be good for at least a hundred horses.