see her, she was now getting tanked up and singing, ‘Here’s to you, Mrs Wilkinson’, in the bar with the rest of the lads.
It had been noticed that special red rush matting had been laid up to the podium, which could mean that Wilkie … expectations were sky-high.
Gossip also centred around how the hell Tresa, on a lad’s salary, could afford a slinky black dress, cross-laced back and front and saved from indecency by strategically placed ostrich feathers, and secondly, whether the nasty cuts on Johnnie Brutus’s pretty face, which had needed stitches, had been caused by a fall into barbed wire or by an enraged Harvey-Holden slashing him with a bridle after the demise of Ilkley Hall in the Grand National.
Michael Meagan, meanwhile, was fed up with being left down at an otherwise deserted stables with Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm. His crush on Tresa had increased since the National. He wanted to be beside her in the bar, fending off competition. He was disconsolately reading the evening’s programme, salivating over the details of the three-course dinner. Frankie Dettori had been nominated. Tresa was nuts about him. He had just seen Zara Phillips, Alice Plunkett, Claire King and Katie Price rolling up.
Michael’s sense of injustice intensified. God, he needed a drink. Suddenly Mrs Wilkinson gave a whicker of welcome, Chisolm an excited bleat. Looking up, Michael crossed himself as Rafiq padded up on panther feet.
‘How’d you get in here?’ asked Michael.
‘Hung on to my stable pass when Rupert sacked me.’
‘Everyone’s looking for you. You’ve been nominated for Conditional Jomp Jockey.’
Rafiq didn’t seem interested. He appeared about to lose it as he patted Mrs Wilkinson, who nudged him lovingly in the belly. Chisolm bounced the football to get attention.
‘Sorry about Furious,’ said Michael, noticing how Mrs Wilkinson tossed her head and winced as Rafiq’s fingers clenched her neck. ‘Eddie didn’t get anyting out of the horse, who was in a terrible state without you, ran his race before it started, completely different animal to the Gold Cop horse. I’d never have run him but Rupert was distracted. Billy Lloyd-Foxe died that afternoon.’
‘That was after the race,’ said Rafiq bleakly.
‘Rupert’s terribly cot op.’
‘Good.’
‘Great party going on up there,’ said Michael, wistfully. ‘They’ll be going into dinner soon.’
‘Why don’t you nip up there for half an hour?’ suggested Rafiq idly. ‘I’ll look after Wilkie.’ He smoothed her silken mane, which smelled agonizingly of Tommy’s shampoo. ‘She’s not Furious but I got very fond of Wilkie. I’m leaving England soon and I’d like the chance to say goodbye. What’s that button on the side of the stable door?’
‘Some security device, I guess,’ said Michael, getting out a comb, dipping it in Mrs Wilkinson’s water bucket and slicking back his hair. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure. Go on, hurry,’ urged Rafiq. ‘How’s Tommy?’
‘Heartbroken, can’t stop crying over Furious. She’s coming out later to relieve me and if Wilkie wins she’ll lead her up.’
‘Give her my best, love, no, my very best love, now hurry.’
Rafiq shook hands formally, but in the lights from the conference centre Michael could see how much weight he had lost, how wildly his hollow eyes burned and how his emaciated face was green-tinged and glistening with sweat. Cock ruling his head, Michael ignored these signs.
‘Are you giving an award or getting one?’ celebrities were asking each other as Michael slid into the hall.
Green candles on every table flickered on pink tulips and roses and on ice buckets full of pink champagne, as diners tucked into smoked salmon and prawn timbales. Beautiful girls with gleaming brown bodies and waterfalls of shining hair were everywhere. Flat jockeys seemed to attract them. Stroppy little buggers, always getting into fights like Jack Russells, thought Michael dismissively, but they certainly pulled the girls.
Tomorrow was Good Friday, one of the few days like Christmas Day when there was no racing, so they could all get plastered, away from the tyrannical treadmill of win, win, win or, for those less fortunate, the awareness of not getting rides.
The jump jockeys were a different breed, bigger, more muscled, comrades united in war. Conscious of their superior courage, they were watching clips on a big screen of the year’s worst spills and thrills, fascinated by the falls of others. The audience, who were not jump jockeys, put their hands over their faces with horror. There were Furious and Ilkley Hall tipping up in the National, there was Wilkie falling in the Gold Cup.