‘We must go,’ said Etta. ‘We’ve taken up enough of their time.’
In the yard, horses were looking inquisitively out of their boxes. Those who’d not been ridden were put on the horse walker, while others were turned out for a few hours.
Tresa, the minxy blonde, was brushing History Painting in his box.
‘Where are you racing today?’ Phoebe asked Rogue.
‘Hereford, then I’m flying to Down Royal in Dermie O’Driscoll’s chopper for an evening meeting.’
‘Dermie wanted to buy Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Etta eagerly.
‘Showed good taste.’ Rogue smiled round at the syndicate. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you guys again. Must go and pick up my saddle from the tack room.’
‘Funny,’ muttered Dora as Rogue slid into History Painting’s box.
They were distracted by Marius finally emerging from his office, followed by his shy, striped lurcher who, to Etta’s delight, bounded up to her, wagging her shepherd’s crook tail.
Marius, even thinner and still deathly pale, was if not charming, at least polite.
‘We’re probably talking about a January start.’ Then, seeing the disappointment in people’s faces: ‘It takes ten weeks to get a horse to the races but for those new to the game like Mrs Wilkinson, it’ll take four months. She’ll walk or trot for a couple of months, then learn to canter and gallop in a straight line, to jump hurdles or small fences, to behave calmly in all circumstances, not to kick or bite, and to jump and turn corners while galloping. If this process is rushed, they fall to pieces.’
‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Etta, thanking him profusely.
As they walked towards their cars, Dora said, ‘Damn, I think I left my camera in the tack room, I’ll catch up with you.’ Scuttling back, she ran slap into a grinning Rogue zipping up his flies as he came out of History Painting’s box.
One of the very top jump jockeys, redoubtable, tricky, glamorous, Rogue had nearly given up racing eight years earlier after a hideous fall in which he broke his back and a leg and Monte Cristo, the beautiful and valuable bay he was riding, had to be shot. Marius had carried Rogue, visited him in hospital, kept up his retainer, restored his confidence, got him riding again and helped his struggle back to the top. There was no way Rogue was going to desert Marius now.
The little king of the weighing room, Rogue was tall for a jockey at five foot nine and at nine stone the perfect size. Any lighter, he would have to carry weights. Rogue drove owners, trainers and punters demented, holding up his horses as long as possible before unleashing his thunderbolt to mug the opposition on the line. No one drove horses harder than Rogue, but sensing a horse was beaten, unlike his cruel rival Killer O’Kagan, he put down his whip.
Rogue had adored Monte Cristo and still talked about him in his sleep. Determined never to fall in love again, he had since treated horses as a good secretary would a letter, something to be achieved perfectly but without any emotional involvement.
He was so good a rider, in all senses of the word, that trainers and women were willing to share him.
Being a jockey is like being an actor: you have to be visible to get more rides. Rogue was hugely in demand with other trainers, but always on call if Marius needed him. The bane of the stewards, Rogue deserved a BAFTA for talking himself out of trouble. After a bad ride, as a microphone approached, the words ‘Fuck off’ could be seen forming on his perfect lips. Racing put up with his bad behaviour because the sport desperately needed stars.
44
A riotous meeting that evening decided to appoint Marius as Mrs Wilkinson’s trainer.
The only dissenting voice was Shagger’s. Returning from London, still in his City pinstripe into which he had clearly sweated, he protested in his carrion crow rasp that Marius couldn’t even win races; that he’d gone 166 days and 48 runners without being in the money.
‘Asbo Andy’s unbeaten,’ protested Etta.
‘That’s because he’s never run,’ said Shagger rudely.
Then Seth, also back from London, swept in, and in the husky, deeply persuasive voice that had been selling luxury cruises to listeners, set about reassuring the syndicate.
‘What you get from racing isn’t money,’ he said. ‘Put in a hundred pounds, you’re lucky if you get twenty back. What you’re getting is fun, friendship and excitement, meeting, mixing and networking with great jockeys and owners and wonderful horses.’