Mount! (35 page)

In the days before the Guineas, however, strange things started happening. Despite the grass being religiously harrowed several times a day, on Quickly’s last workout big stones were discovered scattered over the track. Eddie only just yanked Quickly out of the way in time. Men with binoculars were discovered spying in the hedgerow and driven packing by Rupert’s dogs. A lone magpie for sorrow was also haunting the yard. Louise, wildly superstitious, rushed round looking for its mate.

‘Probably on her nest,’ mocked Cathal.

Many of the runners, in both first Classics, live in Newmarket and just walk through the town to the racecourse on Guineas morning. Coming two hundred-odd miles from Gloucestershire to avoid rush-hour traffic, Rupert decided to take his horses up the day before, leaving at midday. As Purrpuss and Quickly had grown increasingly devoted, Rupert had arranged with his friend Amy Starkey, the Managing Director of Newmarket, not only for Purrpuss to sleep in Quickly’s box, but also for Quickly to avoid the 2000 Guineas parade in front of vast excited crowds, and be ponied down to the start by Safety Car, who like Purrpuss had always calmed him.

Gala in anticipation had packed several tins of Whiskas and tuna fish for Purrpuss, and washed the fluffy blue rug to line his cat-basket, only to discover half an hour before they were due to leave that he’d gone missing. Normally he never left Quickly’s box except on the occasional ratting jaunt.

Soon the whole stud and yard were searching for him, calling out, banging tin plates, looking in every field, shed, stable or cottage – nothing. Quickly meanwhile had got himself into a lather, pacing his box and endlessly checking the manger, looking out of the door, yelling his head off. Gala was demented. Frightened of Forester, Purrpuss never went into the house, but Gala still searched every room.

‘We’ve got to leave,’ ordered Cathal, ‘or we’ll hit the rush hour. Safety has to leave his sheep behind.’

Gala also hated leaving Gropius who, seeing her suitcase, looked the picture of desolation.

‘I’ll look after him,’ promised Taggie. ‘Rupert and I aren’t flying up till tomorrow. And we’ll all keep searching for Purrpuss. Cats often go walkabout, we’ll bring him with us.’

Jan was sympathetic too, and carried Gala’s suitcase to the lorry, where she joined Cathal, driver Bobby, Marketa, Louise and Eddie.

A distraught Quickly proceeded to drive everyone crackers, squealing, whinnying, stamping all the way to Newmarket. Trying to deafen him with Radio 2 was to no avail.

As they trundled along, Dora amused them with anecdotes from a book on Newmarket.

‘Did you know that Gala’s hero, Charles II, was one of the few kings that ever rode a winner at Newmarket, and that the Rowley Mile, the demanding, undulating course over which both Two Thousand and One Thousand Guineas are run, was named after him, or rather after “Old Rowley”, Charles II’s favourite hack who later became a prepotent sire like himself?’

‘Like Rupert Black,’ said Eddie, chewing gum to stop himself eating the chocolate Louise was handing round.

‘The Rowley Mile,’ went on Dora, ‘is the finest, toughest test of thoroughbreds in the world. Please note, Quickly,’ as another agonized whinny echoed through the lorry.

‘Oh listen.’ Dora started to laugh. ‘William III also adored Newmarket, and won a match race there on a horse called Stiff Dick. Can you imagine the commentary? “And now Stiff Dick is coming up the inner”.’

‘Better than Floppy Dick,’ bitched Cathal.

‘Hush, he’ll be back next week,’ chided Louise.

They were nearing Newmarket, travelling down a green lane called Six Mile Bottom.

‘Good name for I Will Repay’s groom Harmony – she’s got a vast arse,’ said Cathal.

‘Oh shut up, Quickly. Should I go and check?’ wailed Gala.

‘No, we don’t want him escaping.’

Back at Penscombe, despite yard and stud being interrupted by increasingly desperate telephone calls from Gala, ‘Quickly’s doing his nut,’ there was still no sign of Purrpuss.

Taggie, wondering what to pack, which she always did at the last moment not to upset the dogs, took out a powder-blue suit, which was not really warm enough. The forecast was wet and very cold. She’d laid out Rupert’s lucky blue and green striped shirt, but couldn’t decide on a lucky tie – the lucky shocking-pink one covered in black cats would hardly match.

Sapphire, of the blonde curls and huge blue eyes, was staying the night while her mother Tabitha went to her husband Wolfie’s première in Paris. She was playing with Eamonn, Taggie’s big childhood teddy bear that lived at the end of the double bed.

‘Can I come to Nudemarket with you, Granny?’ she asked Taggie, who laughed.

‘That’s a good name for it, darling.’

‘And I know how babies come out, but how do they go into the mummy?’

Taggie was saved from answering by Gropius who rushed in, yapping furiously, wriggling his little body, grinning and beckoning her to follow him, yap, yap, along the passage, up the stairs, yap, yap, yap, to a distant unused box room. Suddenly, over the yaps, Taggie heard a faint mew.

Tugging open the warped door, choking on the dust as she stepped over old
Racing Post
s and
Horse & Hound
s festooned with
cobwebs, the mewing increased. How could he be shut in here? Pulling open the middle drawer of an old chest of drawers, she found an outraged Purrpuss, leaving black hair over ancient tablecloths.

‘Oh poor old boy, how long have you been here?’

As Purrpuss jumped out, Gropius bounded forward to welcome him and gave a shriek, as the ungrateful cat delivered a punishing right hook. Taggie carried Purrpuss back to the kitchen and immediately left messages on Rupert’s and Gala’s mobiles. Two minutes later, Rupert called back.

‘How the hell did that cat get shut in there? Must have been deliberate. We’ll take him down to Newmarket, or Quickly’ll exhaust himself. I’ll be home in twenty minutes, we’ll leave at one.’

‘I can’t. I’ve got filthy hair and Sapphire for the night and I haven’t packed. Can I go tomorrow?’

‘No, come now. Tell Geraldine to organize the flight, and ring Noel at the Bedford Lodge – tell him we need a room for tonight.’

‘I haven’t got time,’ wailed Taggie.

Thank God for Jan.

‘Don’t worry, mam, I’ll look after Timon and Sapphire.’

‘But I haven’t fed the dogs and Gropius likes different dog biscuits and …’

‘I’ll feed the dogs and the birds in the morning and the badgers. I’m going to start a zoo.’ He smiled and Taggie began to relax.

‘I must get Purrpuss’s cat-basket.’

‘It’s in the hall. Go and have a shower, mam. I’ll pack for you.’

‘The forecast is frightful. I need my dark-brown boots.’ But she’d never looked very good in the sludge colours and khakis favoured by the racing fraternity.

Jan got a white trench-coat and a red trilby out of her wardrobe. ‘That’ll look great.’ He plonked it on her head. ‘Stunning, mam.’

‘I mustn’t forget Rupert’s lucky shirt.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Jan was shovelling underwear into the side
pocket of her suitcase. ‘That was the bra you used for Forester’s lead.’

‘I want to go to Nudemarket,’ cried Sapphire.

Somehow Jan got her packed.

‘You’re a miracle,’ gasped Taggie, hugging him.

‘Come back soon, mam,’ said Jan, holding her a little longer than necessary, listening to the pounding of her heart then, looking down at her, he planted a kiss on her forehead.

‘The house’ll be horribly empty without you.’ Holding a beaming Sapphire by the hand he waved them off.

‘Thank God Sapphy adores him,’ sighed Taggie.

‘There’s not a bird he hasn’t charmed off the trees,’ said Rupert, as he revved up the helicopter. ‘Expect he’s stolen Louise’s magpie. And how the fuck did that cat get shut in the drawer?’

Livid at having to exchange one prison for another, Purrpuss yowled all the way to Newmarket. It was then quite a rigmarole getting him into the racecourse stables. Any doubts security might have had, however, were dispelled by the warmth of the reunion. As Quickly went into a thunder of whickering, which was augmented by Fleance, Chuck-off and even sourpuss Touchy Filly leaning out of next-door boxes, Purrpuss jumped on to Quickly’s neck, purring even louder before settling down to wash his ears. Having eaten a huge supper of tuna and Whiskas, Purrpuss-full snuggled up under the warmth of Quickly’s rug and, clearly exhausted, went to sleep. Only then would Quickly agree to wolf down feed and hay, pausing every so often to give Purrpuss a gentle nudge.

‘Aah!’ said everyone, as Dora took a lot of pictures to post on to Quickly’s Facebook page.

‘Take some of Gala and Quickly,’ said Rupert, putting a hand on Gala’s shoulders. ‘You OK?’

‘I am now. Thank you so much for bringing him.’

Having checked all the horses, Rupert said, ‘Well done, everyone. Go and have a large drink on me, but only one, and I want you all in bed early and alone.’ And he went off to join Taggie for dinner.

Gala was so nervous for Quickly and Eddie, she couldn’t sleep a wink or eat any breakfast in the stable lads’ canteen. There were three big races before the Guineas, so she had time with Jemmy, Marketa and Louise to wander round and take photographs of each other in front of the statue of the great Eclipse, the founder of the English thoroughbred, unbeaten in eighteen starts.

The papers were really dissing Quickly. ‘“Under the shadow of nearly losing his licence last year”,’ read Dora gloomily, ‘“and a poor start to the season, Rupert Campbell-Black is unlikely to redeem his reputation when his only classic contender today is the temperamental Master Quickly, off the track for seven months for lying down in the stalls at Rutminster. One wonders at the wisdom of running him without the benefit of a prep race or even a racecourse gallop, and putting up a jockey whose main claim to fame is being Rupert’s grandson. Master Quickly is 33–1, will he start? With a vast crowd, unlikely”.

‘Good thing Quickly can’t read,’ Dora sighed.

By contrast, the well-behaved I Will Repay, winner of the Craven Stakes and two Derby Trials, was a massive favourite at 1–2. Dark brown, with his sire’s upside-down L-shaped white blaze between his big, kind brown eyes, he adorned the cover of
Racing Post
with a headline ‘R
EPAY
B
ACK
T
IME
’.

‘Everything has gone to plan,’ said his normally taciturn
trainer Isa Lovell. ‘He is simply the best horse I have ever trained.’

Never missing an opportunity to gloat, Cosmo had taken a page in the race card, showing Roberto’s Revenge – ‘The most exciting stallion in the world’ – then devoting a second page to his latest and classiest foals.

‘Sleep well, Quickly,’ tweeted I Will Repay.

Flaunting a Dubai suntan, wafting Bleu aftershave, Isa’s jockey Tarqui McGall drifted into the weighing room to find valets polishing boots and hanging up silks, and jockeys in various states of undress. Chucking down Louis Vuitton bags, with a clatter of deodorant and diet pills, Tarqui got out gel to coax up dark hair flattened by a helmet, and proceeded to tell a Channel 4 interviewer there was no way I Will Repay could be beat. Glancing at the television screen, which listed the runners in the next race, accompanied by little photographs of their jockeys, he grumbled: ‘That’s a shit picture. I need a better one.’

Then, catching sight of Eddie in his underpants, ‘Hello, pretty boy. Grandpa’s put you up, has he? Only way you’ll get a ride in a Classic. Not that you will, because Quickly won’t go, particularly in front of this crowd. Hope you’ve given him lots of black coffee.’

‘Don’t rise,’ murmured Geoffrey’s jockey, Dermie O’Driscoll. ‘He’s deliberately winding you up, knowing it will stress Quickly.’

Once dressed, Tarqui’s clothes were weighed down by sponsors’ names. Above his coccyx were painted the words
American Bravo
, which was Cosmo’s father’s record company.

‘Ought to say
Tradesman’s Entrance
, with an arrow pointing downwards, the goddam faggot,’ spat Eddie.

The goddam faggot proceeded to get a double in the next two races.

Rupert, as has been said, had got permission from his friend Amy Starkey, Newmarket’s Managing Director, for Quickly to miss the Guineas parade where, led by I Will Repay, whose odds had shortened to 1–3, the fifteen runners would walk in numerical order past the stand and then go straight down to the start.

The course was well named Nudemarket. On a bitterly cold day, the flat landscape stretched to infinity, punctuated by pylons, a few brave trees and a sense of history. A vicious crosswind fretted flags, ruffled manes and thrashed the yellow gorse flowers. It had started to rain an hour before the big race, silvering the grass, driving off the punters, red, yellow and blue umbrellas shooting up like magic mushrooms. Clare Balding was diving under brollies to interview luminaries.

‘How’s Master Quickly?’ she asked Etta and Valent.

‘Working well at home. He’s more furnished and mentally mature.’ Using her latest phrases, Etta crossed her fingers.

Having polished Quickly to a pitch of silver perfection, Gala nipped into the Ladies to do her face, putting concealer on the dark circles under her eyes. Even though the rain would wash it away, she wanted to look good for Rupert. She was wearing the regulation Campbell-Black waterproof navy-blue jacket and trousers, and a blue bandeau to hold down her shaggy, tawny curls. Her hands were shaking so much she was just repairing the damage caused by a deviant mascara wand when she heard sobbing and Harmony, I Will Repay’s bulky stable lass, stumbled out, blowing her nose on loo paper.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Gala.

‘I’ve fed, groomed, mucked out and cared for Repay since he was a yearling. I’ve taken him to every race, got him up lovely today, and now he’s going to be led up by that bitch Sauvignon,’ Harmony’s tears doubled, ‘because Cosmo doesn’t like fat, ugly girls.’

‘You’re not ugly,’ stormed Gala. And, although she knew Rupert forbade his staff to consort with the enemy, she put her arm round Harmony’s huge, heaving shoulders. ‘You’re not ugly at all, you’ve got lovely eyes, and Repay will hate someone else leading him up.’