and Harvey-Holden, and Rupert blanked Isa Lovell, who had once worked for him.
Out came the jockeys, pulling on their gloves, ashen faces in contrast to their brilliant silks. Amber, as the only girl, was comforted by the great cheer from the crowd as she joined Marius and the Willowwood syndicate.
‘Wilkie’s spot-on today,’ Marius told her, ‘but Harvey-Holden’s in an ugly mood. Tuck yourself in at the back, keep clear of the pack, stick to the inner all the way round. The bend’s under water so take it easy. Good luck,’ for a second he dropped his guard and his face softened, ‘be careful.’
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ little India Oakridge, in a blue coat with a velvet collar, seized Marius’s hand, ‘come and talk to Mummy and Shade.’
‘Not now, darling,’ said Marius, striding over to Rafiq, who, surrounded by Valent and his pack of footballers, was about to mount Furious.
‘Furious is stepping up in trip, meaning a longer race,’ Marius explained, ‘so I’m asking Rafiq to hold him up as long as possible or he’ll wear himself out.’
Harvey-Holden and Shade were now in a huddle with their three jockeys. Dora, who’d been practising lip-reading as a valuable journalistic tool, noticed Harvey-Holden’s thin lips kept widening over his teeth in a G then pursing them out in a W.
‘I know he’s telling them to Get Wilkie,’ she hissed to Etta, then leapt behind Debbie to avoid Rupert, who was not pleased to have had Chisolm’s diary switched with his.
At least Mrs Wilkinson was adoring every moment, aware of the vast crowd admiring her as she came knuckering up to the syndicate.
‘Safe journey,’ they chorused as Marius legged Amber up.
‘Just come back safely,’ cried Etta. Turning away to hide her tears, she caught sight of Valent, the turned-up collar of his navy blue overcoat caressing his suntanned cheek. Lucky coat, thought Etta, he was so gorgeous. As though drawn by the intensity of her longing, Valent swung round and caught sight of her looking so adorable in her purple beret.
‘Good luck,’ they mouthed at each other, then Valent made a drinking gesture. ‘See you in the winners hospitality room, I hope. If not please come oop and drown your sorrows in our box.’
Etta was brought back to earth by Dora tugging her sleeve.
‘Guess what, someone’s just put three hundred and fifty thousand on Wilkie.’
‘Bookies must be praying and laying,’ said Joey.
‘You better get praying to counteract them, Vicar,’ said Debbie briskly.
Niall put his hands on either side of Wilkie’s face and, as she nudged him lovingly in the belly, he kissed her white forehead and told her in a choked voice:
‘May God bless you, little Village Horse, and bring you and Amber home safely.’
‘And first,’ said Joey.
To their horror, they were then joined by Bonny. She erupted into the parade ring ravishingly understated in a little fawn check suit with a nipped-in waist, a skirt five inches above the knee and a little green trilby the same green as her owner’s badge. She’d show the Sloanes how it was done.
‘This is the first of the Bonny Richards Collection,’ she told the hovering press, who immediately trained their lenses on her rather than Mrs Wilkinson.
As the syndicate fought their way out, they met Corinna in a dark crimson picture hat, radiant from hair and make-up and signing lots of autographs, coming the other way. Then she caught sight of Bonny and promptly dragged an only-too-willing Phoebe off to the racecourse shops to buy an even more opulent hat than Bonny’s ‘stupid trilby’ to lead in Mrs Wilkinson: ‘We’ve got masses of time, they’ve still got the parade to get through. Let us through, let us through.’
Past legends watched over the paddock. Arkle from under his pale weeping willow, Golden Miller from the roof of the tote bar, Best Mate in his sea of polyanthus, the great mare Dawn Run on the chute down to the course, wished the runners God speed as they came out.
Up in the Owners and Trainers, so happy to have talked to Valent, Etta rejoiced in the wonderful panorama in its bowl of hills. Everywhere she could hear Irish accents, soft as the amethyst blur of spring on the Cleeve Hill woods. Just visible through the mist and drizzle were the three radio masts with their pointed hats.
Every woman’s hat seemed lavishly trimmed with feathers.
‘Bald ostrich day,’ murmured Alan into his tape recorder. Below he could see the enormity of the crowd, seething and bubbling like Ione Travis-Lock’s wormery.