himself. Why the hell was he endangering this darling horse? No wonder Etta hated him.
‘Hello, Valent, got butterflies?’ said a hearty voice. It was Martin Bancroft, who with Romy had flown up last night with Harvey-Holden. Both of them were avid to meet Rupert.
‘Where’s the syndicate?’ asked Romy.
‘Oop in my box. Only room for Niall and Dora in the parade ring,’ said Valent.
‘Mother up there too?’ demanded Martin.
‘Couldn’t make it,’ Valent said grimly, ‘doesn’t approve of the Grand National.’
‘What!’ exploded Martin. ‘Thought she was definitely coming. If we’d known we’d never have bothered to fork out a fortune for a sitter.’
‘I’ll phone her and tell her to hotfoot over to Harvest Home and relieve Sarah,’ said Romy, edging out of the mob and switching on her mobile. She was back a minute later, crimson in the face. ‘Your mother told me to bugger off, she was watching the National.’
Valent grinned broadly, and seeing him looking more approachable, Clare Balding sidled up:
‘Mrs Wilkinson’s looking well.’
Forty horses were now circling the parade ring. The uptight ones, principally Furious, were causing logjams as they jigjogged into the backs of those who were calmly walking.
Bafford Playboy and Ilkley Hall both looked magnificent and very large. Vakil, leering in an even sharper black suit, looked very sinister.
‘Michelle must be sleeping with Harvey-Holden,’ whispered Dora to Bianca, ‘for him to allow her to lead up Ilkley Hall in stilettos. I’m sure it was her or Tresa who let Chisolm out this morning, Michael Meagan’s so besotted with Tresa he wouldn’t have noticed.’
Niall was praying his heart out to compete with the Catholic priests and their rosaries, who were busy blessing Dermie O’Driscoll’s Squiffey Liffey and the other great Irish horses.
‘Squiffey is even plainer than Not for Crowe,’ said Dora. ‘I wonder if they’re related.’
‘Squiffey’s very full of himself,’ Dermie was telling Clare Balding. ‘Hopefully he’ll be thereabouts, but the race is going to be a triller.’
The paps were everywhere, hoping for a fight. Would Shade punch Marius for getting Olivia back, would Marius punch Rupert for taking away his best horses?
Marius was giving last-minute instructions to Awesome Wells: ‘Don’t fiddle with Cuthbert, just sit still and let him make his own way. Give him plenty of daylight, start picking them off in the second circuit.’
‘I will,’ said Awesome, who was the colour of the tiny leaves thrusting out of the sticky buds overhead.
‘I’d give instructions to Cuthbert, he knows his way around,’ murmured Lady Crowe, Marius’s most loyal owner.
Sir Cuthbert was so old that the grey dapples on his coat had turned white. It had taken years of sweat and vet’s bills to get him right. Despite her gruff exterior, Lady Crowe adored her ancient horse as once she’d loved Marius’s father.
‘Good luck, old chap, come back safe,’ she said, scratching Cuthbert’s neck with a claw-like liver-spotted hand. ‘And good luck to you,’ she called out to Awesome, as Tresa led them off to join the parade.
‘That horse’ll need a Zimmer to get round,’ yelled Harvey-Holden.
Awesome for once was paying enough attention to turn round and give him a V-sign.
Winning trainers were being grabbed by BBC presenters and asked for their take on the race. Rogue, in the studio, had been asked for his most iconic National moment.
‘Now, today,’ he’d replied in a choked voice. ‘Mrs Wilkinson is the smallest horse carrying the most weight, a brave and beautiful girl on her back,’ and 600 million viewers cheered in agreement.
The crowds bubbling over with excitement, the clattering of police horses’ hooves and the fanfare from red-uniformed trumpeters with radio mikes on the end of their instruments shredded the horses’ nerves as they set out in the parade led by Mrs Wilkinson carrying the top weight.
The BBC had each horse’s details ready in order, but everything was screwed up by Furious, who was used to having Rafiq on his back and going straight down to the start. Catching Michael Meagan off guard as he gazed at Tresa, Furious took off, taking half the runners with him.
‘What would be going through your mind at this moment, Rogue?’ asked Richard Pitman.
‘Irritation at the hold-up, wanting to get going,’ said Rogue.
It was eerie and very cold at the start. The huge crowd had gone so quiet you could hear the distant cries of the bookies as punters scurried to put on last bets. Treaders edged in final divots. Spotters checked their walkie-talkies.
Dora had gained the scoop of a lifetime, riding along in a car with the BBC camera crew filming