organized interviews with everyone. A special Cheltenham Festival preview had been arranged on Sunday evening to coincide with the meeting, where all the leading Irish trainers, owners and pundits would be holding forth and would in turn be riveted to hear Marius’s views on his horses’ Gold Cup chances.
Mrs Wilkinson still preferred to travel everywhere with Chisolm in the trailer. On this occasion Marius decided to fly her over to Ireland, believing that this would be less traumatic than a long journey imprisoned in the bowels of a ferry. Mrs Wilkinson thought differently and absolutely freaked out, trembling violently, rearing, lashing out and flatly refusing to join History Painting and Bullydozer on the plane.
When the flying groom got tough on the runway and, moving in between Tommy and Wilkie, tried to drag her on blindfolded, Wilkie completely lost it and most uncharacteristically savaged him.
‘Ouija Board did exactly the same thing on a trip to the Far East,’ observed Alan. ‘Happens to great horses.’
All the same he was pissed off. Many of the syndicate, including Etta, had been too poor to go, but those who had already booked their flights and hotel rooms were livid – particularly Alan and Tilda, who were looking forward to a five-star night alone. Unlike Pocock and Woody, Tilda was too worried about her reputation to limp trembling through the frozen grass, although, Alan teased her, she was so pretty now with her straightened teeth, not even a binocular-waving Major would recognize her.
Wilkie’s defection also meant that Tommy didn’t go to Dublin either, which broke her heart. She’d so hoped, away from home, she might learn why Rafiq, after being so angelically loving, had so suddenly rejected her. He had bitten her head off when not totally ignoring her, and seemed terrified of being seen near her in public.
Fuel had been chucked on the fire when Etta, finding Tommy sobbing into Wilkie’s shoulder, had again most uncharacteristically shouted at Rafiq for being mean. Rafiq had shouted back at Etta to mind her own business. Everyone was on edge.
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Amber was just as miserable as Tommy. Like Mrs Wilkinson, she should have backed out of going to Dublin. She felt dreadful abandoning her father when he was still so ill in hospital, but a distraught Dora had begged her to go. She’d set up so many interviews for Amber, which would really make her name in Ireland, and compensate a little for Wilkie and Chisolm’s absence. Furthermore, the generous Irish racing authorities had offered Amber the wonderful Parnell Suite at the Shelbourne Hotel.
What had shamingly tipped the balance was the knowledge that Rogue was riding in five races at Leopardstown. Amber dreamed that on his home territory they might somehow get together, and relieve the dull ache of longing that never left her. But on arrival in Dublin first thing on Sunday morning, she learnt that Rogue too was in hospital having dislocated his shoulder in a fall at Doncaster.
‘Poor sod swears he’ll be OK for Cheltenham,’ said a jubilant Johnnie Brutus, who’d picked up those of Rogue’s rides not appropriated by Killer. ‘Must be gotted. This’ll lose him the championship. All he cares about these days is winning. Used to be such a fon bloke, now he never laughs any more.’
Seeing Amber’s stricken face, Johnnie suggested she come out on the town with them that evening:
‘Dare Catswood dropped two Viagras in Awesome’s Bloody Mary on the plane out. He’s had a hard-on since he arrived – convinced it’s the Dublin air.’
‘I can’t,’ sighed Amber, ‘I’ve got to go to this preview with Marius and tell the audience about Wilkie. Mr Monosyllabic is not going to satisfy them.’
Marius was out looking at horses and the other jockeys were riding in races, so later Amber travelled out to Leopardstown with Phoebe, the Major and Debbie.
As they crossed the Liffey, blue-grey and silver, reflecting the clouds and the sun glinting through them, the taxi driver announced he used to jump off this bridge as an eight-year-old.
‘Wasn’t it polluted?’ shuddered Debbie.
‘Filthy, it was so clean you could see the mullet going through it.’ As they drove past faded russet houses, Debbie shuddered even more over the litter and the graffiti.
‘They’ve got daffies and the blossom’s much further out than in England.’
‘That’s because the air’s gentler, like the people,’ said Amber, who was surprised how much she’d enjoyed her morning’s interviews. All the journalists were so friendly and enthusiastic.
‘Where the Pony Club’s concerned, you’re a bigger icon than Jordan,’ the Irish Independent