Her torch flickered over the names: Badger, Gertrude the mongrel, Rockstar, and came to rest on a beautiful headstone which Joey had only finished engraving that morning.
‘In Loving Memory of Rafiq’s friend Furious, winner of the Gold Cup. Allah finally called him home,’ Rafiq read incredulously, and fell down on the wet grass to pray.
The tears were still pouring down his cheeks as he rose to his feet, so Tommy wiped them away and told him, ‘There was rather a row because EU regulations don’t allow you to bury horses at home any more, but Rupert said, “Bugger Europe,” and brought him back. Joey carved the stone.’
‘Let’s return to the party,’ said Rafiq, taking her hand. ‘I would like to thank Rupert and Joey.’
Back at the village green, everyone was saying, ‘Where’s Mrs Wilkinson?’ particularly the press, who wanted to make sure she was really alive. None of them had got any sense out of Rafiq and Tommy or Rogue and Amber, so they were enchanted to witness hysterical scenes of rejoicing when Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm finally arrived in their open-top bus, driven by Joey with Etta in the passenger seat, giggling on Valent’s knee.
Seeing so many friends, Mrs Wilkinson had to leap out and bustle round, greeting everyone. She had been far too busy to eat except for a few snatches of grass earlier in the day, so she was delighted to be offered a big bowl of bread and butter pudding from the pub. Chisolm’s long yellow eyes soon lit on the hundreds of floral tributes propped against the church railings in memory of Mrs Wilkinson and she began tearing off the cellophane.
Valent was in no mood for a press conference:
‘I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.’
For a photo opportunity, however, he did agree to stand in the village green goal posts and fend off shots from Mrs Wilkinson, Chisolm and the local children. He was just congratulating himself that he hadn’t lost his Cup final touch when Chisolm, to roars of applause, headed one into the top left-hand corner.
‘That’s enuff.’ Valent chucked the football to Drummond and turned to a watching Etta. The sight of her laughing face so filled with love made his heart turn over. Next moment, Phoebe had sidled up to her.
‘Could you possibly hold Bump for a min, Etta, so I can have a dance?’
‘Sorry, Phoebe, actually she can’t.’ Martin had strode up and grabbed his mother’s arm. ‘Can you take Poppy and Drummond home, Mother, and put them to bed? You’re hardly dressed for a party anyway. Romy and I can’t miss an opportunity with so many press and big hitters about.’
‘No she can’t,’ roared the biggest hitter of them all, so that even Martin backed off. ‘From now on,’ announced Valent proudly, ‘your mother will be much too busy putting her new husband to bed.’ Then, at Martin’s look of outrage: ‘Etta has done me the huge honour of agreeing to be my wife.’ Seizing her hand, he beamed down at Etta. ‘And we want to be together, so we’re going home.’
With the cheers ringing in their ears, Valent and Etta, followed by Chisolm, Priceless and Mrs Wilkinson, who was not letting her mistress out of sight for a second, set out for Badger’s Court, through the willow wood, where they were joined by Gwenny.
‘And into Eden took their solitary way,’ said Valent triumphantly.
‘Oh Valent,’ sighed Etta in rapture, ‘if Mrs Wilkinson has a colt, do you think Ione might possibly plant a willow for him?’
Acknowledgements
No horse staggering past the post in the Grand National can have been more relieved than I when I finished Jump! Yet I was overwhelmed with sadness that I would no longer have the excuse to devote myself solely to the heroic, thrilling, yet hugely friendly world of jump racing.
Early in my research, I was lucky to meet one of its funniest, most charming characters: trainer Richard Phillips. Over a splendid lunch at the famous Pheasant Inn near Lambourn, Richard explained that, in racing, one must regard the owners as the parents and the horses as their children at very expensive private schools, at which the trainers are the headmasters, under huge pressure to deliver the goods.
Consequently few people work harder than trainers and their wives. I was therefore hugely touched that so many made time to both talk to and entertain me. They include Martin, Carol and David Pipe, at whose glorious yard I shook hooves with National winners Comply or Die and Minnehoma.