‘What a lovely thought,’ said Debbie. ‘That must cheer you up, Etta. You’ll have Wilkie on your wall for ever now.’
Everyone was smiling at her.
‘I don’t want it,’ gasped Etta. ‘It’s appallingly bad luck for a horse to have its portrait painted before it retires. This’ll bring disaster on Wilkie on Saturday.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ exploded Valent.
‘Don’t be so ungrateful and ungracious,’ accused Phoebe.
‘It’s bad luck and I’m not coming to the National either,’ shouted Etta.
*
The little gold moon and the glittering stars had retreated behind a black cloud by the time she got back to the bungalow. Neither Priceless nor Gwenny could comfort her.
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she sobbed.
She knew she was being horrible and everyone was fed up with her. But Rafiq and Marius had been betrayed and Valent had only bought Wilkie to help sell his bloody stuffed Wilkinsons and Chisolms. She must stick to her principles, no longer the cowardly lion, and refuse to go.
But she wept even louder as she remembered Amber would be wearing Valent’s colours, which he’d chosen from the African violets she’d given him. Worst of all, if she were truthful, even if Wilkie won the National, it would hurt too much to see Bonny and Valent rejoicing there together.
135
Rupert always got uptight before a big race. Matters weren’t helped on the eve of the National when he sat Amber and Eddie down to watch tapes of the other runners, and Eddie, whose nerves took the form of ragging, got bored and inserted one of Old Eddie’s porn videos, crying, ‘Look how good she’s riding him.’ Rupert had gone into orbit and nearly jocked Eddie off.
Amber was as uptight as Rupert. The knowledge that Rogue would be part of the BBC team made her even more nervous, he was sure to take the piss. She was also demented with worry about Billy, who had struggled out of bed and travelled up to Aintree in the hope of watching her ride, but had collapsed and been taken to hospital. Rupert had persuaded Amber to get some sleep and fly up with him, Taggie and Eddie tomorrow.
Trying to keep down a cup of coffee the following morning, Amber was slightly cheered when Taggie dragged her to the kitchen window:
‘Look, round the bird table, look, three magpies for a girl. That must mean you and Mrs Wilkinson will be the first girls ever to win the National.’
‘Goat’s given you a good plug,’ drawled Eddie, who was reading Chisolm’s column in the Mirror. ‘“Winning the National is going to be a breeze,” she writes, “after Wilkie’s day drag hunting. When she and Amber came to a vast oxer, the horses of the master, the joint master and two whippers-in all refused. But my friend Wilkie cantered up, stood back on her hocks and cleared it easily. Look to your laurels, Bafford Playboy.” That goat is getting above herself.’
It was a good thing Chisolm had departed for Cheshire. She’d already shredded Taggie’s fur hat, eaten Eddie’s passport and regurgitated Amber’s new, new lucky pants.
Despite the quietness of the Cheshire countryside, Tommy couldn’t sleep, fretting about Wilkie and those vast fences and even more about Rafiq. He had rung once since he left Penscombe and she’d been stupid enough to express her fury at the rough way Eddie was treating Furious in an attempt to break his spirit.
She had, however, enjoyed spending time with Rupert’s stable lad, Michael Meagan, even if he did believe ‘a dirty hoss was a happy hoss’ and left her to do both Wilkie and Furious. He also had a terrific crush on Tresa, who’d no doubt be poncing about at Aintree as she led up Sir Cuthbert.
Grand National day dawned at last very cold and grey. Michael Meagan drove Rupert’s dark blue lorry, Carl Davis’s music from Champions blaring, towards Aintree. As they passed houses with boarded-up windows, decorated with surrealistic paintings of Liverpool and Everton shields, and drove down streets full of pitbulls and schoolgirls socking each other at bus stops, Tommy thought how different was Liverpool to the pastel Regency houses and lovely parks of Cheltenham.
Over in the BBC tent, Rogue, at his first production meeting, was staggered by the enormity and professionalism of an operation covering three days of Aintree, culminating in today’s broadcasting of the greatest race in the world to 600 million viewers.
More than two hundred people, including presenters, many of whom were ex-jockeys, talking heads and crew members, had been employed by