left of the winning post. It was scattered with bunches of red tulips and daffodils and the Polos he loved so much.
‘He won three times and second twice,’ exclaimed Eddie. ‘That is cool!’ and he helped himself to a Polo.
‘Eddie,’ cried Amber, shocked, ‘fans gave Rummy those. What does it say on his grave?’ She crouched down to read.
‘Respect this place, this hallowed ground
A legend here his rest has found
His feet would fly, our spirits soar
He earned our love for ever more.
‘God, how sweet,’ she sobbed into Rupert’s coat, ‘I just wish Dad was calling me home.’
For a second, they clung to each other.
‘Come on, let’s go and have a drink.’
Getting across Aintree with Rupert was rather like taking Muhammad Ali to a boxing match. The crowd mobbed him all the way, asking after Wilkie and Furious and how Taggie was.
Rupert took them to the Old Weighing Room, which had now become a bar and a shrine to heroism.
‘It used to be the old unsaddling enclosure as well,’ said Rupert as he handed them both tomato juice. ‘You’re supposed to see ghost horses at night.’
On the walls of the bar were photographs of former winners, their silks, saddles and whips.
‘Oh look, there’s Red Rum’s maroon and yellow colours, and there’s Foinavon,’ Amber told Eddie, ‘a rank outsider, one of a handful that finished in 1967. And there’s the huge saddle of gallant Crisp, ridden by dear Richard Pitman. He gave Red Rum twenty-three pounds and led all the way round, only giving in to Rummy in the run-in. So Wilkie could beat Bafford Playboy.’
So much history, she thought, I want to be up there too. Then, overwhelmed by the enormity of the task, she fled to the Ladies, throwing up only tomato juice and then bile.
But on the wall on the way out she noticed a 1930 plan of the Grand National course. Along the bottom of the green picture frame had been listed the names of all the thirteen winning mares including Charity, Miss Mowbray, Jealousy, Sheila’s Cottage and Nickel Coin, ten of them in the nineteenth century, only three in the twentieth, the last way back in 1951, and none in the twenty-first.
‘We’re going to change that, Wilkie,’ said Amber grimly.
No lady rider had ever won the Grand National. History said top weight never won either. Bugger history, thought Amber.
If only she had a ride in an earlier race to distract her. It had started to snow again. Coming out of the bar, they went slap into Rogue interviewing wildly excited Liverpool ladies.
As it was the north, many of the horses running were still in their winter coats. The ladies were not. They were showing acres of cellulite, tattoos everywhere, visible panty lines, mobiles instead of earrings, and an inch gap at the heel of their stilettos in case their feet swelled up. Hailstones were now bouncing off their gooseflesh.
‘Who have you backed?’ Rogue was asking them.
‘Mrs Wilkinson,’ came the reply, ‘she’s the People’s Pony. It’s girl power, innit.’
‘You all look stunning,’ Rogue told them, ‘but aren’t you frozen and aren’t those shoes killing you?’
‘To be in fashion you’ve got to suffer pain,’ said the blondest and prettiest, who was eating scampi out of a cardboard box. ‘I bought my outfit back in August.’
‘Paintree,’ laughed Rogue. ‘Jump jockeys are the same. No gain without pain.’
‘Why aren’t you riding in the National, Rogue?’ they asked him. ‘You’re the best jockey.’
‘It’s rather a long story.’
‘Will you come to our party tonight?’
Rogue was very dolled up in a lovely pale grey suit, a sky-blue shirt and pink silk tie covered in blue elephants. He was also wearing television make-up. His curls were brushed flat, he looked gorgeous, thought Amber, and as usual surrounded by girls.
Catching sight of her, he yelled out, ‘Amber.’
‘Not today, thank you,’ snapped Rupert, frogmarching her back into the crowd.
Alban knew fewer people than he did at Cheltenham, the Major was fretting about who to lean on to get planning permission for a second garage for Debbie’s new car, but they were utterly compensated by so many ravishing half-naked girls everywhere.
The men who drove the horse ambulance had parked near the crossing by the Melling Road, so they could have a laugh as the stilettos of more ladies pouring into the ground got stuck in the thick sand. They needed a laugh. Later they might have the grim task of fatally injecting some beautiful horse that had fallen.
At least Chisolm was enjoying herself. While Wilkie was in the