Mrs Wilkinson also took a while to recover but fortunately, like Valent, she could always see a gap. This time it was in the huddled-together quarters ahead and, trusting Amber, displaying incredible courage, she pushed through despite Killer riding right across her.
‘Get off her line, you bastard,’ screamed Etta, as Killer, his face even whiter and crueller, his reins deceptively loose in his left hand, thrashed the hell out of Ilkley Hall with his right and, as a fiendish trick, at the same time let the whip repeatedly catch Mrs Wilkinson’s good eye as he thundered once more up the inner, pushing her wide on the bend, as they swung into the home straight.
Although wincing and blinking, Mrs Wilkinson’s blood was up.
Even though snow was now clogging her good eye, she challenged again, darting back up the inner, stripping the paint off the rail. Killer, enraged, swung Ilkley Hall deliberately left, bumping her, denying her running room. For a second she reeled from the bump but held steady and pushed through.
‘Bastard,’ screamed Etta, ‘lay off Mrs Wilkinson, you fucker.’
‘Granny!’ said Poppy in horror.
‘Get your arse into gear,’ screamed Drummond.
‘Drummond!’ said Poppy, appalled, then, ‘Go on, Wilkie, fucking do it,’ she screamed as Mrs Wilkinson stuck her white head out, drawing level with Killer as they crossed the line.
Ilkley Hall had won four races since the season began. Mrs Wilkinson had been to the seaside.
‘Well done, Amber. If that’s not Ride of the Week, I’ll eat my hat,’ said Derek Thompson, thrusting a microphone under her nose.
‘Photograph, photograph, she was robbed,’ yelled Etta and everyone else, clocking the way Michelle had thrown a rug straight over Ilkley Hall to cover excessive whip marks.
‘Photo, photo,’ echoed the commentator.
Ding dong, ding dong, went the airport sound, followed by the loudspeaker announcing a stewards’ inquiry.
There was no shaking of hands between the contestants.
‘You bastard,’ hissed Amber, about to slash Killer’s evil, mocking face with her whip.
Mrs Wilkinson had no such reserve. Lashing her tail, flattening her ears, stretching out her neck once more, she bit Ilkley Hall sharply on the shoulder.
‘Stop that.’ Michelle raised a black leather fist to punch her.
‘Don’t you dare,’ shouted Tommy.
The crowd in the lit-up stands cheered Mrs Wilkinson all the way back to the winners enclosure, where without hesitation she took up her place by the number one post, refusing to let Ilkley Hall anywhere near it.
Etta choked back the tears as she saw the syndicate swarming round and Mrs Wilkinson disappearing under the same hail-storm of joyfully patting hands. Then Etta’s heart stopped, for there was Valent, his jaw rigid with muscle, determined not to break down, pulling Mrs Wilkinson’s ears, hugging her, gathering up Chisolm to stop her being trampled to death and putting her on Mrs Wilkinson’s back so the press got their picture.
For a second the cameras rested on Harvey-Holden’s face, so evil that Etta crossed herself in terror.
Then followed an agonizing wait while Killer protested his innocence to the stewards with a conviction that would have earned him a scholarship to RADA.
‘If you have to count every time you smack a horse, you’ll be done for non-trying because you’re not concentrating,’ he grumbled.
‘He cut across me, pushed me into the rail, took me wide, and repeatedly hit Wilkie with his whip on her good eye,’ stormed Amber.
Rogue, having observed things from behind, backed up Amber.
‘Killer interfered with her again and again.’
Merchant of Venus had come third. On television, Etta could see a delighted Rupert giving Amber a congratulatory kiss. I would have met him, she thought wistfully, then winced as she thought of Seth. She must stop lusting after younger men.
Finally, after an interminable wait, ding dong, ding dong, and the crackle of the loudspeaker: as a result of the stewards’ inquiry, Killer O’Kagan would be suspended for ten days for interference and excessive use of the whip, and the winner was number eight: Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Why are you crying, Granny?’ asked Drummond.
‘Because she’s happy,’ said Poppy.
Both she and Drummond were even happier when Etta fumbled for her purse.
‘I backed Mrs Wilkinson for both of you. Here are your winnings,’ and she handed them £20 each.
Mr Marcel, popping in to see if everything was all right, was thrilled to hear of Mrs Wilkinson’s victory. Filling up Etta’s glass and pouring a quarter each for Poppy and Drummond, he said Mrs Wilkinson was ‘très petite et tout coeur’.
On the television they could still see the Willowwood syndicate ecstatic in the winners