Jump! (25 page)

‘Chisolm is a distinct addition to our little circle,’ announced Painswick as she handed her back to Etta. ‘At least she left me the social and television pages. How about scrambled eggs and
The Bill
this evening?’

Gradually Mrs Wilkinson grew in confidence and, despite having only one eye, gave Dora some wonderful days out. Working without realizing it, the little mare was learning her trade, discovering how to take the shortest route and to jump all kinds of fences at the gallop. She was loving every minute of it, mixing with other horses, dogs and humans and finding it both steadying and exciting.

To qualify for a point-to-point, she had to hunt six times. On the sixth occasion Dora caught flu, so a heroic Alban Travis-Lock took out Mrs Wilkinson instead. With a flask of brandy in every pocket to steel his nerves, he could hardly shrug into his riding coat. Long legs nearly meeting under Mrs Wilkinson’s belly enabled him to cling on.

Cheered on by Alan, who joined the foot followers, Alban gave Mrs Wilkinson her head and had a marvellous afternoon.

‘He ended up absolutely rat-arsed,’ Alan told Etta later, ‘sobbing, “Thank you for giving me back my nerve,” into Mrs Wilkinson’s shoulder. Must be tough living with Ione, she hasn’t forgiven him for knocking over her wormery the day hounds met at the Hall. Wilkie must be incredibly strong to carry him all day.’

The West Larks point-to-point – to be held on 21 March, the first day of spring, was drawing near. Who would ride Mrs Wilkinson? Dora longed to. She had enraged Farmer Fred and the secretary of the golf club galloping all over their land. She had spent ages teaching Mrs Wilkinson to jump. She was the perfect weight for a jockey, but only sixteen and totally inexperienced. In addition, Paris, who loved her, considered it far too dangerous.

Visiting her friend Bianca Campbell-Black, Dora sought the advice of Bianca’s father Rupert, who was watching racing all over the world on half a dozen monitors and gazing gloomily at a laptop. Despite having daughters who were brilliant event riders and polo players, Rupert thoroughly disapproved of women jockeys.

‘Paris is right. And National Hunt’s far more dangerous than flat. It’s like going off to the Front. Need to be half-mad to do it. Jump jockeys average a fall every thirteen rides – not the place for a girl. They’re not strong enough to hold horses up.’

As Dora’s face fell, Rupert suggested she try his god-daughter, Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who had ambitions to become a jump jockey. Rupert felt guilty because he’d refused to give her any rides.

Then, seeing Dora was still despondent, Rupert confided that he was having trouble writing his incredibly opinionated and inflammatory column in the
Racing Post
. If he told her what to say, would she be able to ghost it for him occasionally?

‘Certainly,’ replied Dora, perking up, ‘as long as we can split the fee and write nice things about Mrs Wilkinson.’

Dora had had a terrific pash on Amber Lloyd-Foxe, who when she was at Bagley Hall had exeats to hunt with the Beaufort, and received more letters from boys than anyone else. She was also a heroine, having broken into Parliament with Otis Ferry and scuffled with politicians over the hunting ban.

Amber, like her journalist mother, Janey, liked the fleshpots, and had consequently abandoned eventing as not commercially viable. Despite her famous father, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, who was an Olympic medallist, a BBC equine correspondent and a star on
A Question of Sport
, Amber was finding it hard to get rides, due to other trainers’ prejudice against women jockeys – although they were quick enough to offer her rides of a different kind.

Egged on by Painswick, who reasoned that if Amber rode in the point-to-point Amber’s ex-headmaster Hengist Brett-Taylor might turn up to cheer her on, Dora wrote to Amber offering her £100 to ride Mrs Wilkinson, ‘a fantastic novice mare’.

To Dora’s amazement, Amber accepted and came down in early March to school Mrs Wilkinson over some fences. These had been hastily assembled in Valent’s orchard by Joey’s builders, whose eyes were out on stalks because Amber was languid, blonde, very beautiful, and made Mrs Wilkinson look like a different horse.

Etta, who came to watch, was enchanted to see how well she was going and how wonderfully Amber rode her. With her blonde mane and long eyes the tawny gold of winter willow stems
Amber could have been Gwendolyn on a white-faced Beau Regard.

It’s an omen, thought Etta in ecstasy, but was rather disappointed when Amber pulled up and, on being introduced to Etta, pronounced Mrs Wilkinson not bad but very green and small.

‘She can’t be fifteen hands. She also drops her off hind over fences.’ Amber turned to Dora: ‘You could try schooling her over a diagonal pole.’

You could be a bit more enthusiastic, thought Etta. She did hope Amber wouldn’t use her whip on Mrs Wilkinson.

‘Who’s she by?’ asked Amber, after Etta had rushed off to pick up Poppy from school.

‘We don’t know,’ said Dora.

‘And her dam?’

‘We don’t know that either.’

‘Christ, why hasn’t she been DNA’d?’

‘Etta doesn’t want to,’ confided Dora. ‘She’s terrified the right-ful owner might want her back, not that he’d have any right after the horrific way he treated her. Etta found her tied to a tree in the middle of winter.’

‘Well, that’s that then.’ Amber jumped off without even bothering to pat Mrs Wilkinson. ‘Didn’t you realize she can’t enter a point-to-point without a passport and a sire and dam?’

‘Oh God, we’ve registered her name with Weatherbys and got her some lovely silks, beech-leaf brown with purple stars, which will really suit you. And I’ve got a certificate from the Master to say she’s hunted six times.’ Then, as Mrs Wilkinson nosed around for Polos, ‘No one said anything about sires and dams. That’s shocking actually,’ exploded Dora, ‘like saying Paris can’t go to Cambridge because he doesn’t know who his natural parents are.’

Amber took off her hat, pulled off her toggle so her blonde hair swayed in the breeze like the willows around her and reached for a cigarette.

‘The only solution would be to enter her in a members’ race. This is limited to horses owned by local farmers or members or subscribers to the hunt. Then you could put “breeding unknown” under Mrs Wilkinson’s name in the race card. Is Mrs Bancroft a member of the hunt?’

‘Not exactly,’ sighed Dora.

‘Well, she better become one tout de suite, or there isn’t a hope in hell of Mrs Wilkinson running.’

Etta was digging her garden three days later when Dora rolled up with Cadbury, looking furtive.

‘Mrs B, I mean Etta, there’s something I must tell you. As Mrs Wilkinson’s owner, you have to become a member or a subscriber to the hunt in order that she can run.’ Then, at Etta’s look of horror: ‘It’s the only way we can swing it. The members’ race is the only one that allows horses without a passport.’

‘No,’ snapped Etta, shoving her trowel so furiously into the earth she punctured a lily bulb, ‘I’m not supporting the hunt.’

‘We don’t kill foxes any more. Oh perlease, Etta, you can’t deprive Mrs Wilkinson of a brilliant career. Amber thought her exceptional,’ lied Dora, ‘and drove all the way down here. We can’t let Amber down.’

‘I don’t care.’ Etta threw down her trowel. ‘I must go and collect Drummond.’

Fate, however, lent a hand. The following morning Dora popped in and found Etta making chocolate brownies.

‘Oh Etta, I’ve just bumped into Mrs Malmesbury in floods. A horrible fox got her goose yesterday in the lunch hour (when she’d just slipped down to Tesco’s) and plucked the poor goose alive then killed her. Feathers everywhere. Geese mate for life and her poor blind gander is absolutely heartbroken and keeps calling for her, “Ee-ee-ee-ee,” and bumping into things, “Ee-ee-ee.” Foxes kill for the hell of it.’ Seeing Etta’s eyes fill with tears, Dora pressed home her advantage. ‘Just imagine the poor old boy going sadly to bed tonight, “Ee-ee-ee,” without his wife. Foxes are bastards – “ee-ee-ee.” Please, please join the hunt.’

‘Oh, all right, but only for this season. How much is it?’

‘Only about four hundred pounds.’ Then, as Etta gasped: ‘But it’s already been paid for.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’ve had a whip-round. Alban, Alan, even the Major coughed up (but don’t tell Debbie), even Debbie (but don’t tell the Major) – Chris and Chrissie, the Terrible Trio, of course, Tilda, Painswick and Pocock. They all chipped in. Phoebe promised but I expect she’ll conveniently forget.’

‘They can’t,’ protested Etta. ‘I shouldn’t support the hunt and I can’t allow other people to pay for me to do so, they can’t afford it.’

‘We can,’ said Dora stoutly. ‘We all love Mrs Wilkinson, we’re so proud of the way you’ve brought her back from the dead. We all feel we’ve got a stake in her. She’s the village horse.’

‘I must contribute something,’ squeaked Etta, sadly bidding farewell to the lovely sea-blue suit in the Blue Cross shop she’d hoped to wear on the day.

‘You can pay the entry fee and Amber’s cap if you insist,’ said
Dora kindly. ‘God, these brownies are yum. That’s only a hundred pounds.’

And the dashing blue stetson as well, thought Etta.

After she’d given the children their tea, Etta rang Alan, who’d contributed more than a hundred pounds to her membership fee. ‘Oh Alan, Sampson so disapproved of racing, he’d have died at the thought of my being an owner. And I’m so anti-blood sports I feel I’m going to pieces in every way.’

‘Paris is worth a mass,’ said Alan reassuringly. ‘And Willowwood’s so excited. Mrs Wilkinson’s given us all an interest.’

Race day dawned cold and breezy but still without rain.

‘We’re going to win the turnout prize if nothing else,’ vowed Dora to Etta as she plaited up Mrs Wilkinson. ‘That mane and tail conditioner made her mane so thick and shiny. No, darling,’ she added as Mrs Wilkinson irritably thrust out a foreleg for a snack, ‘you’ve got to hoist yourself over those fences. And I mustn’t forget to take water away an hour before the race.’

Mrs Wilkinson gave a whicker of welcome and Chisolm bleated in excitement as Painswick bustled in with the
Racing Post
.

‘Look, you’re all in the paper. Here we are,’ she said as the pages blew around. ‘“Number 13, Mrs Wilkinson, grey mare”, dear little soul. “Owned by Mrs Etta Bancroft, trained by Miss Dora Belvedon.”’

‘Well, someone had to,’ mumbled Dora, going rather pink and concentrating on the last plait.

Oh goodness, what would Romy and Martin say if they saw the race card? Etta turned pale. Thank God they’d taken Poppy and Drummond away for the weekend.

As Painswick got an apple out of her bag, Mrs Wilkinson brightened, but Chisolm rushed forward and grabbed it.

‘Afraid she mustn’t eat before the race,’ said Dora. ‘What are the odds?’

‘Fifty to one. Doesn’t she look lovely?’

‘So do you,’ said Etta.

Painswick was looking very flash in a dashing blue hat with a feather, to pick up the blue in Hengist’s scarf.

‘I just dropped in to say I won’t be needing a lift,’ she said smugly. ‘I thought poor Old Mrs Malmesbury needed taking out of herself after the wicked fox killed her poor goose,’ Painswick
looked straight at Etta, daring her to try to chicken out, ‘so I invited her to join us at the races. She’s driving me.’

‘God help you,’ muttered Dora.

‘I’ve brought some supplies for the picnic.’ Painswick waved a carrier bag which Chisolm eyed with interest as she edged forward to be petted.

‘Who else is in Wilkie’s race?’ asked Dora.

‘Family Dog and Crowie, of course,’ said Painswick fondly.

‘And Rupert Campbell-Black’s son Xavier, who was at Bagley with Amber, riding an old soldier called Toddler. Harvey-Holden’s got Judy’s Pet, and Bafford Playboy ridden by Olivia Oakridge.’

‘That’ll win,’ said Dora.

‘Don’t be defeatist,’ reproved Painswick. ‘I’m sure Amber will ride Mrs Wilkinson to victory.’

Mrs Wilkinson, however, had other ideas. When Joey and Woody rumbled up in the lorry already containing Not for Crowe and Family Dog, even when her buddy Chisolm bounded up the ramp, Mrs Wilkinson flatly refused to load, going into a quaking, rolling-eyed, rearing and plunging panic. It took all Dora, Woody, Joey and Etta’s strength to stop her hurtling off across Valent’s orchard.

Coaxing with nuts had no effect, nor did Dora trying to ride her into the lorry, and when everyone including Painswick tried to hoist her up the ramp, she went crazy, kicking, striking out with her foreleg crashing to the ground, and flailing in panic.

‘Stop it,’ yelled Etta, flinging her arms round Mrs Wilkinson, trying to still her violently trembling body. ‘You can’t make her go. She was just like this when I found her, only she was too weak to struggle. This could set her back permanently. She’s not going to run.’

‘Then I’ll hack her there,’ cried Dora, rushing past a stable door covered in good luck cards to fetch her tack. ‘It’s only five miles to Ashcombe.’

‘She’ll be far too tired to run.’

‘We’ve gotta declare in half an hour,’ said Joey, who was fast losing his temper. ‘I’ve put everyone’s money on. Half Willowwood has had a punt. Let Dora ride her.’