with happiness. Journalists writing emotionally and beautifully ran out of superlatives. National Hunt racing was thrilled to be so positively in the spotlight. Billy’s death only served to add a poignant and heroic dimension to Amber’s huge achievement. Rogue, another favourite son, riding to the rescue provided a comforting and happy ending.
Chisolm and Mrs Wilkinson, with her red and black John Smith’s Grand National winner’s rug still flapping round her fetlocks, because any turning up would have lopped off the word ‘winner’, went on a triumphant tour of the Cotswolds in her open-top bus adoring the adulation.
Rupert, fed up with the volume of Mrs Wilkinson’s fan mail, was contemplating returning her to Throstledown. To distract himself from Billy’s death, he was in an insufferably triumphalist mood, winding up both Shade and Harvey-Holden, who was being accused of overracing his horses at Sandown, Ayr and Perth in a desperate attempt to clinch the leading trainer’s title.
Nor was Rupert’s press entirely flattering. Charges of nepotism and racism hovered. Why had he jocked off and sacked rising star Rafiq and put up his clearly inexperienced grandson? What a tragic waste of glorious Furious.
Throstledown felt the same and found it hard to rejoice wholeheartedly in Wilkie’s and Cuthbert’s victory now Furious had gone and Rafiq vanished. Tommy kept her mobile on twenty-four hours a day, praying he’d make contact.
Etta, desperately disappointed that Valent had never rung her back, had to admit that Mrs Wilkinson’s portrait had brought the reverse of bad luck. Valent, however, had not offered it to her again, instead presenting it to Chris and Chrissie to hang in the Wilkinson Arms. And serve Etta right, thought many of the syndicate, for not supporting Wilkie at Aintree, where they delighted in telling her they’d had such a brilliant time.
‘Corinna, Bonny and Phoebe were saying you ought to be more media-friendly, Etta,’ Romy had even more delight in passing on.
The snow which had fallen on Grand National Day had melted except for the occasional frozen fragment on verges or beneath the trees across the valley. With these Etta identified – somehow she couldn’t unthaw. She was also devastated about Furious and petrified that Rafiq, on the loose with nowhere to go, might do something terrible to avenge him. And that was Valent and Rupert’s fault too.
Distraction from such sadness and recrimination was provided the following Saturday by the Equine Hero of the Year awards, known as the Horsecars, which were being televised at Rutminster racecourse after the day’s racing.
Mrs Wilkinson had been nominated, as had Rupert for his three-thousandth win, Amber for her heroic victory, and Billy posthumously for his contribution to equine sports. Votes were pouring in but Mrs Wilkinson was hot favourite. Despite tickets being like gold dust, Valent, who felt they deserved a treat after all their hard work, had managed to secure enough for both Rupert’s and Marius’s lads.
The syndicate were extremely miffed at not being invited.
‘All Etta’s fault for rejecting that picture and blacking the National,’ grumbled Phoebe.
A despairing Etta felt totally to blame.
There was still no word from Rafiq. But as Rupert was interviewed by his old friend John McCririck before the 3.15 on Saturday afternoon, suddenly behind them, amid the waving, winking punters on their mobiles to alert friends they were on telly, Rafiq’s pale, cold, murderous face appeared brifley.
142
The races were over; a rising moon was casting the dim grey shadow of Rutminster Cathedral across the course. The horses had gone home, except Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm, who, parading that afternoon and giving a display of their footballing skills, had upped the gate by tens of thousands. The People’s Pony was now housed in one of the course boxes, tended by Rupert’s laziest stable lad, Michael Meagan.
Tommy had been extremely reluctant to relinquish this responsibility, but Valent insisted that she attend the awards ceremony and have some fun, particularly as she’d been nominated for Groom of the Year. Valent had thrust a mega wodge of greenbacks into her jeans after the National, ordering her to buy a new dress. Taking herself glumly off to Monsoon, she was amazed to find herself size twelve and voluptuously curved for the first time in her life. She had stopped eating since Rafiq vanished and could now squeeze herself into a dress of dark blue lace, which enhanced her big cornflower-blue eyes, her splendid cleavage and her smooth no-longer-bulging shoulders. Embarrassed but delighted by the compliments – even Rupert had told her she looked gorgeous – wishing Rafiq could