with the titles, horses crossing the course. We go back to the runners and riders, followed by film of old winners and heroes, all contributing to the sense that we’re about to witness something special.
‘After this meeting, Rogue, we’ve got a job we know you’ll enjoy, interviewing some Liverpool lovelies.’
Clare Balding smiled at Rogue:
‘Did you know there are more sunbeds per capita in Liverpool than anywhere else in the world?’
The syndicate had reached Aintree on Friday, and Debbie had gone straight to heaven when she was awarded a Citroën car as a prize for the Best Dressed Mature Lady.
Where would the Major find room to park it?
Everyone was frightfully excited to be staying at the pukka Radisson Hotel. Alan, however, made a note for his book that outside the vast Littlewood’s building opposite, the sculpture of its founder, Sir John Moores, a big, smooth-featured, handsome man whose eyes looked straight through you, bore a spooky resemblance to Shade Murchieson.
*
‘Do you think this is too see-through?’ asked Tilda as they set out for the racecourse next morning.
‘No, it’s Liverpool,’ said Alan.
136
Having dropped in on Billy at the Royal Liverpool Hospital, Amber found him conscious but drowsy from a morphine injection to kill the pain.
‘She’s the People’s Pony, darling, just bring her and yourself back safely. God, I wish I was calling you home.’
It had started to snow as Amber took a taxi back to the course. The driver pointed out the Catholic cathedral known as Paddy’s Wigwam and the Church of England cathedral topped by vertical spikes, as though coaxed up by the product Billy had always refused to use on his hair. As they drove past red houses, purple dustbins, shivering flowering currant, an off-licence called Quencher and the Co-operative Ireland Funeral Parlour, the driver told Amber that as a child he used to watch the Grand National from the roof of the pub belonging to his father, who had drunk and gambled away all the family money.
As Amber leapt out, he asked for her autograph and wished her and Mrs Wilkinson good luck. ‘And good luck to your dad, a lovely man.’
A somewhat optimistic sign by the entrance to the course said: ‘John Smith thanks you for drinking responsibly.’
‘Amber!’ Despite the bitter cold, a swarm of half-naked orangeskinned girls in huge hats and party dresses came tottering towards her on six-inch heels, cuddly Wilkinsons in one hand, glasses of champagne in the other.
‘Can we have your autograph? We’ve all backed Wilkie. Girl Power.’ They punched the air, sprinkling champagne. ‘Is Chisolm here too?’
Amber was warmed by their friendliness but overwhelmed by the hugeness of Aintree. The stands were like vast chests with their drawers pulled out and already overflowing with people. The John Smith Stand, layered with hospitality boxes, soared like a glass mountain. Cheltenham was the country; Aintree the town. The Check Republic was less in evidence here, Alban wouldn’t know everyone, but there was a terrific atmosphere of jollity and camaraderie, like a huge party where everyone spoke to everyone.
At the prospect of 600 million people watching him fall at the first fence, even Eddie’s chatter was stilled, as he walked the course with Amber and Rupert.
‘Get a good gallop across the Melling Road until you come to the first,’ Rupert told them at the first fence, ‘then stand well back on your hocks.’
They came to Becher’s. A terrifying five foot high with a sevenfoot drop, it was composed of piled-up branches of spruce, on which the snow was settling, which were already scattering pine needles. Amber broke off a sprig to take back to her father. Rupert advised them to jump near the middle where the drop was least.
‘Go wide at the canal turn,’ he continued, as they reached another bogey fence. ‘It’s a right angle, if you cut the corner you can easily get interfered with by the people going wide. But don’t go too wide, particularly in the second circuit, or you’ll lose too much ground, then straighten up and go hell for leather for Valentine’s.’
Seeing television cameras everywhere, Amber kept looking for Rogue.
‘Don’t forget two fences are missed out on the second circuit. Crucially – are you listening, Amber?’ snapped Rupert – ‘don’t pick up your whip until you get to the elbow,’ the slight bend into the home straight. ‘Unless you’ve got a fifth gear you’re fucked. It’s the longest run-in in the world.’
Noticing how white she’d gone, Rupert bore Amber and Eddie off to look at Red Rum’s grave, on the