She was so nervous, she could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down her sides. She took a huge gulp of champagne.
‘Here’s Wilkie,’ shrieked Poppy. ‘Doesn’t she look lovely.’
Etta had to fight back the tears as Mrs Wilkinson came dancing out in her patchwork rug. Chisolm, in a red Christmas bow, followed, irked that the public were warming their hands on cups of coffee or soup rather than eating ice creams. Etta was so pleased to see the crowds clapping and smiling as they passed: ‘Welcome back, Wilkie, Happy New Year, Chisolm.’
She knew she was being sentimental but as Wilkie jigjogged past, ears pricked, she kept turning her head as though she were searching for Etta, wanting to give that rumbling thunderous whicker of pleasure.
‘You’ll see her again soon, Granny.’ Poppy took Etta’s hand.
Oh, there was Lester Bolton, shaved head covered by a brown trilby, and Cindy smothered in white furs like the Snow Queen.
‘This is boring,’ grumbled Drummond, grabbing the remote control.
‘Don’t you dare,’ snapped Etta.
‘Oh look, there’s Rupert talking to Rogue, who’s riding Merchant of Venus.’
Then she gave a gasp of horror as the list of runners and riders came up, and she realized Killer O’Kagan, back in circulation after his year-long ban, had flown in from Ireland at the last moment to ride Ilkley Hall. The young Irish jockey Johnnie Brutus had been demoted to Last Quango and Dare Catswood jocked off altogether.
Because she in turn had been off since June, Mrs Wilkinson had never come up against the dreaded Killer before.
Oh God, what evil schemes might Shade and H-H be cooking up? For a minute into shot came Olivia in blond furs and Shade in a black fur hat, both richly brown from skiing. By contrast Killer, skeletal thin but huge across the shoulder, his thumb constantly caressing his whip, was white as the snowflakes tumbling down. Malevolence gave a green tinge to Harvey-Holden’s ratty little face. What a terrifying quartet, plotting, caballing.
Etta caught a glimpse of Marius ignoring his ex-wife as much as Amber was ignoring Rogue. Etta had no idea how hopelessly Amber had been thrown earlier in the day to see Rogue lounging, muscular thighs apart, on Channel 4’s programme The Morning Line.
Although Merchant of Venus had a spectacular turn of foot, Rogue had told the panel, Ilkley Hall would probably win the race. Mrs Wilkinson, he went on, didn’t have his cruising speed, but it was nice to have her back and her jockey Amber Lloyd-Foxe would certainly win the beauty stakes. He’d then gone on to talk about the likelihood of his retaining his champion jockey title.
Rafiq, watching at Throstledown, had nearly kicked the television in.
Both Killer and Rogue had already notched up a hundred winners.
‘You beat me last year, but I’ll have my title back by April,’ taunted Killer as they set off down to post at Cheltenham.
Snow was falling faster, mist coming down. Marquees, stands, rails, wings to the fences, wheeling seagulls on the lookout for chips dropped by hungover racegoers, the jockeys’ breeches and Mrs Wilkinson’s dear white face and Ilkley Hall’s zigzag blaze were among the only things discernible through the gloom.
As the jockeys, wearing thicker clothes and gloves, gathered at the start, Amber gazed stonily into space as Rogue circled beside her cracking jokes. Mrs Wilkinson looked so much smaller than any of the others.
Little donkey, little donkey, don’t give up, pleaded Etta.
Even Drummond looked up from his computer game, and they were off.
Last Quango went straight to the front, setting a punishing pace for the first few furlongs, then Mrs Wilkinson overtook him, trundling along like a little train, jumping so carefully and, as she cleared each fence, looking ahead for the best place to jump the next one, doing the thing she loved most, racing and listening to the sweetest sound in the world to furry ears on a dank, freezing New Year’s Day: the Cheltenham crowds calling her name, ‘Come on, Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘Mrs Wilkinson is taking them along,’ said the commentator.
Etta squeezed herself in joy. ‘Taking them along’, what a lovely phrase.
‘Wilkie’s travelling really well,’ she told the children.
Too well for Killer, who moved up the inner, galloping beside Mrs Wilkinson so she couldn’t see the rails out of her good eye.
Confused, losing her bearings, she took off a stride too early and stumbled on landing. Amber managed to stay in the saddle but by the time she’d righted herself Internetso, Ilkley Hall, Merchant of Venus and