‘He saw the race, he’s over the moon, it’s midnight in China.’
‘Oh, let me speak to him,’ gasped Etta.
‘He wants to congratulate his jockey,’ said Marius, handing the mobile to Rafiq, ‘and to know why we’re all making a fuss of Mrs Wilkinson instead of hugging Bullydozer.’
‘Because Wilkie’s one hell of a horse,’ said Joey, kissing her. Remembering last night’s talking-to, Etta said, ‘And she is a very good listener.’
114
So many lives had been ruined by the floods. As if she were truly responding to their cries for help, Mrs Wilkinson carried on winning: at Chepstow, Wetherby, Newbury, Sandown, Kempton, where on Boxing Day she pulled off an amazing victory in the King George VIth Cup to win nearly £90,000. Consequently she became so popular that wherever she raced, she put tens of thousands on the gate.
As she won, slowly the syndicate began to make money. Not huge sums because after you’ve taken off 10 per cent for Marius and 10 per cent for Amber, and divided the rest between ten with several people owning one share, £50,000 didn’t go that far, but enough to put a smile on everyone’s face.
One member who was smiling all the time was Tilda who’d at last been able to afford to have her teeth fixed. Now she could laugh and call out, ‘Do your Tilda Flood face, Wilkie,’ with the rest of the syndicate.
Joey had avoided the Grim Repossessor and, with his team, was repairing the all-weather gallop and, as more owners rolled up, building more boxes at Throstledown. Marius was greatly relieved to be able to repay Painswick.
Niall was blissfully happy with Woody, who by night could often be seen limping, trembling, through the frozen grass towards the vicarage. A church tribunal, tipped off by a wildly jealous Shagger, decided to overlook Niall’s affair with Woody because his successful blessing of Mrs Wilkinson was such good publicity for the Church of England. The church was always packed as the congregation listened for the latest updates from Niall, who accompanied Wilkie to every race, vying with the Catholic priests who blessed the Irish horses.
Alban had a kosher quango at last: £100,000 a year to decide if sitting in front of computers all day made people obese. So far Alban had managed to avoid Martin Bancroft’s attempt to forge a link with his WOO campaign.
Corinna insisted on taking a hair and make-up artist every time she watched Wilkie race, always holding up the minibus. She and Seth tried to dictate Mrs Wilkinson’s campaign to fit in with their acting commitments. Marius ignored them. Bonny never came to the races, commenting bitchily how she envied Corinna having so much free time to witness Mrs Wilkinson’s triumphs.
‘Alas, I’m always working, but my trainer Marius Oakridge updates me on the phone and sends me videos.’ (A complete lie.)
This task was undertaken by a still star-struck Phoebe, who to Painswick’s irritation had achieved her ambition to work parttime in Marius’s office. She was needed to cope with Mrs Wilkinson’s huge fan mail, now that even letters addressed to ‘Mrs Wilkinson, somewhere in England’ reached Throstledown. Vats of barley sugar, Polos and carrots poured in.
‘Can’t we tell fans she loves champagne?’ suggested Dora.
An open-top single-decker bus had been ordered, so Wilkie could ride in triumph round the village after a win.
Now his wife was the breadwinner, an unemployed Toby was making rather a success of looking after little Bump. Everyone was having bets on who would talk first.
Those around Mrs Wilkinson were also becoming stars. Amber was permanently in the gossip columns and on the cover of magazines. Tommy was interviewed for Racing Post and photographed from a flattering angle rushing forward to welcome a winning Wilkie. Mrs Wilkinson had such clout as a crowd-puller that Chisolm was allowed to go down to post with her. Chisolm herself had already had an Observer profile, and her bleat had been heard on Radio 4. Dora was ghosting a cookery book for her called Goat Cuisine. When Mrs Wilkinson, coached by Dora, met the Queen, she executed a wonderful bob. Chisolm blotted her copybook, wolfing a posy of primroses just presented to Her Majesty by a little girl, who didn’t stop bawling until she was allowed a ride on Wilkie.
Mrs Wilkinson’s photograph also appeared on a Glad to be Grey poster for Age Concern. Her willow-green browband was universally copied by the Pony Club. The press, revved up by Dora, nicknamed her the ‘People’s Pony’. How could anything so small contain