Mount! (44 page)

Meanwhile Eddie, who when he wasn’t off winning races, rode Quickly ‘work’, which meant exercising him at home instead of Gav. He was also eating sensibly, had given up the booze again, and was spending time in the gym dreaming about Sauvignon, who was only interested in human winners.

Gav also noticed wistfully how Gala had blossomed. Sunbathing during her break down at her new home, Lime Tree Cottage a little way into the woods, she had acquired a lovely golden tan. Weight loss had made her curves even more voluptuous. She seldom appeared without a pale coral lipstick on her full luscious mouth, which was no longer bitten and pursed with unhappiness over Ben or the tension of making good in the yard. She was glowing. If only he hadn’t pushed her away. He must seek help from a doctor.

Fleance, looking an increasingly likely stallion prospect, had left the opposition for dead in the mighty July Cup at Newmarket. Rupert was so delighted with Quickly that he took the bold step of supplementing him and Bitsy at a substantial £75,000 each in the even mightier King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Ascot at the end of July. Similar to the Nunthorpe but at one mile four furlongs, much longer, it accepted horses of all ages. Thus you had the greatest four-year-olds in the world with massive quarters and shoulders, overseas riders in their about-to-be stallion glory, toughing it out in the best middle-distance race in the world, for prize money of over a million pounds.

Gav thought Rupert was insane and said so. ‘Quickly’s too little, too young and not ready; you’ll ruin all we’ve achieved. It’s crazy to overface him.’

‘Quickly likes right-handed tracks,’ said Rupert. ‘And as Eddie’s flying, he can ride Touchy Filly and Blank Chekov in earlier races.’

The racing press agreed with Gav, and wrote of suicide missions and Quickly having as much hope as a one-legged ostrich.

After the King George and Queen Elizabeth, Rupert, who had persuaded star artist, Katie O’Sullivan, to rustle up a
ravishing portrait of Forester for a late birthday present, was also intending to fly Taggie off there and then to a romantic surprise location to make up for forgetting. He was therefore outraged when she stammeringly protested she couldn’t get away because she was manning the cake stall at the Penscombe Fete.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, your woofter boyfriend can do that.’

‘Please don’t call him that. I promised, Rupert, and a pack of grandchildren who adore the fete are all entered in the Dog Show, and Helen as well.’

‘She’s such a bitch, she’ll probably win first prize,’ raged Rupert. ‘Why in hell did you ask her?’

‘She sort of caught me on the hop, said she never saw her grandchildren.’

‘That’s because they can’t stand her.’

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know about the King George.’ Taggie didn’t dare add that one of the fete auction prizes, bullied out of her by the vicar’s wife, Constance Sprightly, offered dinner cooked by herself to the highest bidder.

Picking up the cake-stall details, Rupert read: ‘“Anything will be greatly appreciated: cakes, biscuits or tarts.” If you want tarts, why not take Bethany, Janey Lloyd-Foxe and Dame Hermione? Utterly ridiculous, putting a fete before the King George.’ And he stormed off.

‘Serves him right for all your favourite foals he’s selling,’ said Dora.

‘He’ll calm down, mam,’ Jan comforted her.

But Taggie, looking over the valley, where her parents’ house in summer was hidden by the trees, remembered how longingly she used to gaze across to catch a glimpse of Rupert before they finally got together. She stared up at the lovely portrait of Forester. She must pay more attention to her marriage.

Four days before the King George, it started to rain and kept on raining.

‘It was soft when Quickly won the Guineas,’ said Gala, trying not to be pleased that Taggie wasn’t coming. ‘Great horses can run on any ground.’

Gav shook his head. ‘But this is going to be a bog – although it’s to his advantage that so many of the overseas riders, Japs, Australian, French, much prefer quick ground.’

On Saturday, the skies lightened and the rain eased. Ascot looked sensational, with its huge pillars on each side of the entrance draped with Union Jacks, and Union Jacks like nodding horses’ heads all the way down the High Street. The parade ring and the winners enclosure were a mass of scarlet geraniums. A huge crowd had braved the drizzle to witness the clash of the Titans, particularly the mighty dark-brown Simone de Beauvoir, winner of the Arc de Triomphe and, at 570 kilos, the largest horse in the race. Notoriously cross-grained and given to lashing out with both barrels, she was forgiven because of her brilliance and the good looks of her jockey Manu de la Tour, whose breeches and silks were cut better than anyone else’s.

Both Manu and Guy, his father, who trained the mare, were eyeing up Sauvignon who, in a white linen shirt, crimson hot pants and a little black top hat, was sauntering up I Will Repay. Every man in the paddock had an umbrella at the ready to protect her if the rain started. Repay’s new co-owner Sheikh Abdul Baddi and his swaggering retinue, all in morning coats and black toppers, looked as though they’d like to slap a burka over her.

Other stars included Sydney Opera House, who’d won the Melbourne Cup, and a huge Japanese star, Noonday Silence, belonging to a syndicate who’d all paid four million yen a share, so the parade ring swarmed with interpreters. Noonday Silence’s star jockey Hiroshi, having paddled the course in bare feet, had told the press he’d come to win. Finally, a top American jockey, Hammond Johnson, a little smiling bald man with colossal strength, was riding a big Chestnut Breeders’ Cup winner called Dependable Guy.

‘Classic case of oxymoron,’ giggled Dora.

Penscombe’s day had started magically with Young Eddie getting a double on Touchy Filly and then on Chekov, wearing blinkers for the first time.

‘Stopped him being distracted by seagulls,’ quipped Dora.

Bao had huge bets on both of them.

‘I wonder if Ladbrokes are regretting giving him an account,’ said Dora as she, Etta and Bao gathered in the paddock for the King George. The runners’ numbers were on the outside, so the magnificent animals, mostly bay and brown, were almost indistinguishable.

‘That must be Simone de Beauvoir,’ squeaked Etta as a vast liver chestnut with a white blaze prowled by.

‘She ought to give her 15 lb mare’s allowance to the boys,’ said Dora. ‘She’s massive.’

‘I wonder how she’ll run on bottomless’ (her latest word) ‘ground,’ mused Etta.

‘She’s certainly not bottomless,’ said Dora. ‘That great arse powers her forward.’

Then, catching sight of the liver chestnut’s tackle, they decided it couldn’t be Simone de Beauvoir. Sydney Opera House from Australia was wearing a rug to keep himself warm. Noonday Silence, the Japanese horse, looked very girly in a red and white bridle, his mane done up in bell-shaped plaits and red and white bows.

Then along came Bitsy led by Jemmy and Quickly led by Gala.

‘Doesn’t he look beautiful, but absolutely tiny,’ sighed Etta.

Quickly, in colty mood, had no difficulty identifying the sex of the real Simone, edging up, mounting her and nearly getting kicked in the face.

The rain was sluicing down now, straight hair going curly, curly hair going straight. In the weighing room the jockeys were putting on long white trousers to stop the rain falling into their boots. Rain was jumping off the tarmac, appearing like frogspawn on the television screen, blurring out entire faces like victims of abuse.

‘Do we risk it? It’s softer than guacamole,’ Rupert asked Gav.

‘Yup. We’ve got this far. We can trust Eddie to pull him up if things get hairy.’

‘Nice for him to get a treble.’

Eddie was disappointed no one in the weighing room had congratulated him on his double.

‘They don’t like too much success in the young, particularly on big race days,’ warned Gav. ‘Don’t get cocky, wait for them to praise you.’

To celebrate Touchy Filly’s and Blank Chekov’s wins, Rupert, still fed up with Taggie, took Gala into the box belonging to Weatherbys, with whom he banked. Filled with flowers, it had a lovely picture of the Queen on the wall. As people joked that after two wins, his account must be looking pretty healthy, Gala sipped iced coffee and noticed, piled on a shelf, everyone’s Panama hats including Rupert’s, which had the red and blue ribbon of the Household Cavalry. Gala remembered him wearing it tipped over his Greek nose with the same off-white suit when she’d first seen him on television in Hong Kong. Had she really fallen in love with him that early? What was going to happen to her?

Back at Penscombe, the fete was well underway. Taggie had been invited into the vicarage to watch the King George, which would probably kick off bang in the middle of the auction. Husbands kept sidling up to her, saying they were going to bid for dinner with her. Thank God for Jan, who was everywhere looking after everyone, keeping Helen plied with cups of tea and, later, Pimms.

The runners were lining up for the King George. Quickly, led by Gav and Gala, and accompanied by his new friend Bitsy with Jemmy up, was behaving very well. Connections were so terrified of Simone de Beauvoir getting kicked or sexually harassed at the start, they’d insisted on an empty stall on each side of her. Quickly decided not to bother.

Up in the stands, Etta was feeling old: too deaf to understand the commentary, her eyes not good enough to distinguish the colours. Despite the ravishing view, everyone’s binoculars were trained on the big screen. Beside her, one of Noonday Silence’s Japanese owners was very quietly saying, ‘Yew, yew, yew.’

Little figures miles away … and they were off. Like a Wimbledon ace, Quickly exploded out of the stalls on to the right leg, staying on the outside, led by Bitsy at exactly the correct speed to settle him in the early stages, so no mud was kicked in his face. Eddie, meanwhile, showed what a beautiful rider he’d become, his body low over Quickly in perfect rhythm, shoving, pushing, hands in Quickly’s ears.

Ahead of him, having travelled all that way with all that prize money and reputation at stake, the Goliaths battled, barging, realigning, swearing in different languages as they fought for supremacy.

Whips cracking, they swung round the bend for home. At the three-furlong pole, Bitsy quietly moved out and Quickly slid past him, fresh as a daisy, past I Will Repay, and Eumenides, past Sydney Opera House, Simone and Dependable Guy, past Noonday Silence in his red and white bridle, Quickly’s little muddy legs going faster and faster, showing he could not only trounce his elders but win at any distance.

‘Come on, you geriatrics,’ yelled Eddie. ‘Get out your Zimmers!’ And as if in answer, both Simone and Noonday Silence rallied, and drew level again, making the crowd bellow in anguish.

But a second later, Quickly detached himself, and it could be seen that the clever little scamp had merely been giving himself a breather as he bolted away to win by five lengths … and the audience broke into an ecstatic roar.

Simone de Beauvoir came second, Noonday third, I Will Repay fourth and Dependable Guy fifth. For once, Eddie had no difficulty pulling up, as Quickly swung straight round and cantered back, looking for Bitsy.

Trumpets could hardly be heard for the deafening applause following Eddie into the winners enclosure. Led by an overjoyed Etta and giggling, tearful Gala, Quickly still called plaintively for Bitsy. Jumping off, Eddie was greeted by a jubilant Rupert.

‘Bloody marvellous, well done.’

Having hugged Eddie and patted Quickly, Rupert turned to Gala. ‘We won, we did it!’ they both cried simultaneously,
gazing at each other for a moment. She looked so adorable; before Rupert could stop himself, he was kissing her on and on, oblivious of the cameras and an utterly transfixed crowd, lips devouring, pulses drumming, knees giving way. Gala could only stay upright by clinging on to him. Heaven in her arms.

‘Half time, half time,’ reproved Valent, tapping Rupert on the shoulder. ‘We need a photograph, and Eddie needs to weigh in.’

‘Red card, red card,’ grinned Eddie.

An outraged Gav, who’d been tipping the bucket away from Quickly so water wouldn’t get up his nostrils, was about to chuck the rest over Rupert and Gala, who were still smiling as they broke apart.

‘So sweet, the way he always kisses his wife,’ said an old trout.

‘Not sure it is his wife,’ said her friend.

Nor were the photographers. They had abandoned Sauvignon, who was looking livid, as was Mrs Walton.

‘Who is she? Who is she?’ rippled the crowd as a half-moon of journalists gathered round Rupert.

‘Quickly’s shown he can win at any distance,’ he told them. ‘He’s a little horse, with a huge heart and a massive engine, and he’s extremely resourceful.’

Quickly, who’d snatched a mouthful of red geraniums, agreed.

‘I’ve been abroad,’ added Rupert. ‘Gav, Eddie, Jemmy and Gala have been working on Quickly and Bitsy – they’re all total stars.’

‘Who were you kissing, Rupert?’ asked Matt Chapman from
At the Races
.

‘Quickly’s stable lass, we were celebrating.’

Taggie had insisted on going into the vicarage to watch the race. She had wanted to take just Jan, but Helen insisted on coming too, bringing Sapphire. Taggie was yelling her head off, clutching Jan as Eddie romped past the post, then with tears of joy, watching Eddie and Quickly come into the winners enclosure, being particularly delighted that Rupert was
hugging and praising Eddie. Then he was kissing Gala on and on and on and on and on.

‘Oh God.’ Taggie fell silent.

‘Bastard, don’t look,’ snarled Jan, his arm closing round her, murmuring, ‘don’t worry, mam. This is one of the biggest races in the world, incredible victory for Quickly, just euphoria, darling mam, don’t be sad. Look, everyone’s kissing everyone. Etta’s hugging Gala. Look at that beautiful girl Sauvignon kissing Eddie – he looks pleased, but that won’t please Cosmo. Don’t be sad.’

‘Why was Grandpa kissing Gala?’ demanded Sapphire.

Helen turned to Constance Sprightly, saying, ‘Could you take the little people outside for a moment?’ Then, putting a hand on Taggie’s arm: ‘I’m so sorry, Taggie. I’m afraid Rupert’s just reverting to type. Bound to happen sooner or later. I should know.’