flapping, was in eighth place, leading the second group.
Amber was dying of pride, as she crouched over the neat grey plaits, watching the grey ears twitching, listening to every word of encouragement. Now Wilkie was grinding her teeth in her determination to catch the leaders.
‘You can do it, Wilkie, you can do it.’
One furlong to go, two horses crashed at two out. Only Squiffey Liffey, Sir Cuthbert and Playboy were ahead. Then Julien Sorel, who’d unshipped Dare Catswood at the open ditch on the second circuit, lumbered past like a maddened buffalo determined to influence the race, and did so by spurring on Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Come on, Wilkie,’ roared the ecstatic crowd, as she overtook him.
Killer, bounding up to the last fence, a four-foot-six cliff of green, was so convinced he was going to win, he lost concentration and let Playboy take off too early so he banked the fence, scattering spruce, losing ground.
Reaching the elbow, he moved his whip into his right hand to guide Playboy to the left and into the home straight. Deafened by another roar, he glanced between his legs, arched like the John Smith horseshoe, and was flabbergasted to see his nemesis, a white face in a green browband, bearing down on him.
Never had a roof of blue sky been so raised at Aintree. Watching the huge bay and the little grey battling it out was like seeing a father racing his child. The difference was that Killer, mad with rage, was thrashing the life out of Bafford Playboy.
‘Such a fight to the death,’ yelled Jim McGrath from his commentary box. ‘This is the battle of the sexes. First time a mare’s won for nearly sixty years, first time a woman’s ever won it, making history in the battle of the sexes.’
Mrs Wilkinson was so exhausted, humping her great burden of weight, she could scarcely put one foot in front of another. She’d given her all. Would the post never come?
In the BBC control room, they could see the Liverpool ladies screaming in ecstasy, the stewards leaving their polished table and running cheering to the window. Even the policemen in their yellow flak jackets turned round to smile and cheer as Wilkie pulled ahead.
‘Mrs Wilkinson is about to join the great legends of the winter game,’ shouted Jim McGrath. ‘She’s coming up on the inside rail, she’s scraping the paint, this is un-be-liev-able.’
This is the longest time I’ve ever been on a horse. Keep asking, keep asking, Amber told herself.
Foam was flying from Wilkie’s mouth, the veins on her grey coat stood out like pipelines, but she pricked her ears and, still with a little left in the tank, she thrust her head forward.
But Killer, riding with balls of steel, bringing his whip down again and again, was coming from the right again. He was ahead.
‘Get your bat out,’ Amber could imagine both Rupert and her father yelling. She could hear the crackle and slap of whips behind her. How many horses were going to overtake her? Glancing round she could see Squiffey Liffey and Sir Cuthbert bearing down.
Kicking and kicking with her heels, thrusting her body forward and forward, she caught sight of the post and Red Rum’s grave on the left, ‘Earning our love for ever more.’
‘Rummy’s calling you, Wilkie.’
As if by magic, Playboy’s cavernous nostrils were receding, now level with Wilkie’s ears, now with her sweat-darkened withers.
With a supreme effort as though her heart would ‘burst the buckles of her armour’, Mrs Wilkinson hurled herself past the post.
All heart, all heart, all heart.
Aintree erupted.
‘This is focking unbelievable, focking unbelievable,’ yelled Rogue to the delight and horror of the BBC’s 600 million viewers. ‘The smallest horse, a little mare with one eye carrying a young girl and 20 lb more than Bafford Playboy. We knew she had gots, like David, she’s dispatched not one but forty Goliaths. What a marvellous ride, well done, Amber darling.’
‘That’s enough, Rogue,’ said a not unamused director into Rogue’s earpiece.
All over the course there was pandemonium – hats, scarves, cuddly Wilkinsons and Chisolms being thrown into the air. Even people who hadn’t backed Mrs Wilkinson were yelling their heads off.
A second later, to Amber’s amazement, Killer was shaking her hand and kissing her cheek.
‘Well done, baby, great ride.’
Next moment Awesome, ecstatic at coming third on Sir Cuthbert, had cantered up, hugging Wilkie and pulling her ears:
‘Brave little girl.’
He was followed by the handful of jockeys who’d managed to finish, hugging, kissing Amber, banging on her helmet. She’d joined the