Bolton. ‘She’s taken the wrong course.’
‘Shit,’ hissed an ashen Marius, ‘oh shit, she’s broken down.’
‘Shit,’ said Seth, ‘I’ve lost a bomb.’
‘What’s happened?’ gasped an anguished Etta.
For a couple of seconds they could see Mrs Wilkinson hobbling helplessly, Amber pulling up and jumping off, and the horse ambulance hurtling towards her. Then the camera moved back to the rest of the runners, who were galloping round the bend and entering the home straight.
‘Wait for us,’ begged Etta, but Marius had vaulted over the rail, bolted across the track and vaulted over the far rail before the rest of the runners cleared the final fence and came thundering towards him. Next moment he’d hijacked a Land-Rover and set out to find his stricken charge.
‘I must go to her,’ sobbed Etta.
‘Come on,’ cried Cindy, kicking off her six-inch heels. ‘Lester can’t run in his wellies. See you later, babe.’
‘I’m coming too,’ cried Phoebe. ‘Poor Wilkie.’
‘I’m not going,’ said Bonny. ‘I’m too sensitive to witness an animal’s suffering.’
‘You’d better have a large drink then,’ said Seth.
The rest of the syndicate raced across the wet grass to the stables on the far side of the course. Phoebe and Cindy were in the lead, clutching their shoes, their macs and bags over their arms.
They were followed by a desperately panting Etta, whose hat had fallen off and been run over by the horse coming in last. She was joined by Tommy and Chisolm, who had rushed over from the finish.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Bancroft.’ Tommy hugged a distraught Etta. ‘I’m sure she’ll be OK. The ambulance will have taken her to the stables.’
The rain-dark trees hung overhead like undertakers. By the time they reached the stables, Mrs Wilkinson had been seen by the vet and her two front legs had been hastily wrapped in bright blue bandages with cotton wool spilling over the top. Her coat was dark with sweat, her big brown eye with the blue centre heavy with pain. She gave a half-knucker when she saw Etta and Chisolm and fell silent.
Her leg had evidently exploded and had swollen up hugely. The vet, who wore a bright blue shirt to match the bandages, said he had given her two shots of morphine. Etta put her arms round Mrs Wilkinson’s neck.
‘Oh my angel, my poor angel. Is she going to be OK?’
‘I’ve advised Marius to take her home and let your vet X-ray her in the morning.’
Tommy and even Michelle were crying openly, and so was Phoebe. ‘Oh, poor poor horsey,’ wailed Cindy.
Amber was sitting on an upturned bucket, her head in her hands.
‘I’m so sorry, Etta. She was jumping perfectly, going like a dream. Then she seemed to collapse under me.’
‘What’s happened, what did the vet say?’ gasped Alan, running up. He was followed by Debbie, Painswick and Pocock, who at least hadn’t collapsed from shock this time.
‘Will Mrs Wilkinson have to be put down?’ panted Debbie. ‘Will she get better?’
‘Poor horse, poor horse,’ sobbed Cindy, trying and failing to give her a Polo. ‘Has she hurt both her poor leggies?’
‘No, you always bandage both,’ said Amber.
Everyone was being gentlemanly. No one was saying, ‘I’ve paid three thousand for a share in this horse,’ when Bolton barged in.
‘I’ve just joined this fucking syndicate,’ he howled, ‘and the fucking horse has broken down.’
‘And you pressurized Marius into running her, you bully,’ howled back Cindy. ‘Poor little Wilkie, the grass was too wet and slippery.’
‘A good ‘orse can run on any ground, look at Arkle,’ shouted Bolton.
‘We’re not talking about Arkle, dickhead.’
Alan, Josephus the historian, was standing outside the box, talking into his tape recorder.
Everyone except him and Bolton was stroking Mrs Wilkinson and telling her what a good girl she was.
How ironic, thought Etta with strange clarity, that in a disaster Wilkie was being wept over, fussed over and patted in exactly the same way as when she won at Ludlow, Newbury and Cheltenham – the agony and the ecstasy of racing.
Alban, who had a bad hip, and the Major, who was scared of coronaries, had just reached the stables.
‘We should be told what’s going on. Where’s Marius?’ demanded the Major.
‘Gone,’ intoned Amber. ‘History Painting needed saddling up for the next race. The trainer and the television cameras move on.’
‘What did the vet say exactly?’ asked Alban.
‘I think we better get everyone out of the stable,’ said Tommy.
Horses were clattering past the door, going out or returning from races.
How dare you be sound? Etta wanted to shout at them.
‘Good thing I was wearing flatties for running,’