'That's why they're called b.u.t.tocks, because they get b.u.t.ted,' said Dora to howls of laughter, as a furious Major picked himself up from the mud.

Marius was on his mobile, grinning like a lottery winner.

'It's Valent,' he said. 'He saw the race, he's over the moon, it's midnight in China.'

'Oh, let me speak to him,' gasped Etta.

'He wants to congratulate his jockey,' said Marius, handing the mobile to Rafiq, 'and to know why we're all making a fuss of Mrs Wilkinson instead of hugging Bullydozer.'

'Because Wilkie's one h.e.l.l of a horse,' said Joey, kissing her. Remembering last night's talking-to, Etta said, 'And she is a very good listener.'

114.

So many lives had been ruined by the floods. As if she were truly responding to their cries for help, Mrs Wilkinson carried on winning: at Chepstow, Wetherby, Newbury, Sandown, Kempton, where on Boxing Day she pulled off an amazing victory in the King George VIth Cup to win nearly 90,000. Consequently she became so popular that wherever she raced, she put tens of thousands on the gate.

As she won, slowly the syndicate began to make money. Not huge sums because after you've taken off 10 per cent for Marius and 10 per cent for Amber, and divided the rest between ten with several people owning one share, 50,000 didn't go that far, but enough to put a smile on everyone's face.

One member who was smiling all the time was Tilda who'd at last been able to afford to have her teeth fixed. Now she could laugh and call out, 'Do your Tilda Flood face, Wilkie,' with the rest of the syndicate.

Joey had avoided the Grim Repossessor and, with his team, was repairing the all-weather gallop and, as more owners rolled up, building more boxes at Throstledown. Marius was greatly relieved to be able to repay Painswick.

Niall was blissfully happy with Woody, who by night could often be seen limping, trembling, through the frozen gra.s.s towards the vicarage. A church tribunal, tipped off by a wildly jealous s.h.a.gger, decided to overlook Niall's affair with Woody because his successful blessing of Mrs Wilkinson was such good publicity for the Church of England. The church was always packed as the congregation listened for the latest updates from Niall, who accompanied Wilkie to every race, vying with the Catholic priests who blessed the Irish horses.

Alban had a kosher quango at last: 100,000 a year to decide if sitting in front of computers all day made people obese. So far Alban had managed to avoid Martin Bancroft's attempt to forge a link with his WOO campaign.

Corinna insisted on taking a hair and make-up artist every time she watched Wilkie race, always holding up the minibus. She and Seth tried to dictate Mrs Wilkinson's campaign to fit in with their acting commitments. Marius ignored them. Bonny never came to the races, commenting b.i.t.c.hily how she envied Corinna having so much free time to witness Mrs Wilkinson's triumphs.

'Alas, I'm always working, but my trainer Marius Oakridge updates me on the phone and sends me videos.' (A complete lie.) This task was undertaken by a still star-struck Phoebe, who to Painswick's irritation had achieved her ambition to work parttime in Marius's office. She was needed to cope with Mrs Wilkinson's huge fan mail, now that even letters addressed to 'Mrs Wilkinson, somewhere in England' reached Throstledown. Vats of barley sugar, Polos and carrots poured in.

'Can't we tell fans she loves champagne?' suggested Dora.

An open-top single-decker bus had been ordered, so Wilkie could ride in triumph round the village after a win.

Now his wife was the breadwinner, an unemployed Toby was making rather a success of looking after little b.u.mp. Everyone was having bets on who would talk first.

Those around Mrs Wilkinson were also becoming stars. Amber was permanently in the gossip columns and on the cover of magazines. Tommy was interviewed for Racing Post Racing Post and photographed from a flattering angle rushing forward to welcome a winning Wilkie. Mrs Wilkinson had such clout as a crowd-puller that Chisolm was allowed to go down to post with her. Chisolm herself had already had an and photographed from a flattering angle rushing forward to welcome a winning Wilkie. Mrs Wilkinson had such clout as a crowd-puller that Chisolm was allowed to go down to post with her. Chisolm herself had already had an Observer Observer profile, and her bleat had been heard on Radio 4. Dora was ghosting a cookery book for her called profile, and her bleat had been heard on Radio 4. Dora was ghosting a cookery book for her called Goat Cuisine Goat Cuisine. When Mrs Wilkinson, coached by Dora, met the Queen, she executed a wonderful bob. Chisolm blotted her copybook, wolfing a posy of primroses just presented to Her Majesty by a little girl, who didn't stop bawling until she was allowed a ride on Wilkie.

Mrs Wilkinson's photograph also appeared on a Glad to be Grey poster for Age Concern. Her willow-green browband was universally copied by the Pony Club. The press, revved up by Dora, nicknamed her the 'People's Pony'. How could anything so small contain such a huge heart?

Dora had also revamped an earlier refrain about the great jockey Aubrey Brabazon.

'Amber's up,' sang the fans, 'The money's down, the frightened bookies run / So come on punters give a cheer for Mrs Wilkinson.'

Marius's other horses, Furious, History Painting, Bullydozer, Count Romeo and Oh My Goodness, to name a few, were all doing well. It was hoped that Mrs Wilkinson's beau, Sir Cuthbert, after his long, long lay-off might race again soon.

Marius had notched up fifty wins by the end of January. He kept seeing Olivia at the races looking lovely and cherished by Shade. But when Mrs Wilkinson, despite carrying another 13 lb due to her successes, had her glorious victory in the King George, beating Playboy, Shade's Gold Cup hopeful, Olivia rang up to congratulate him.

'They talked for twenty minutes and Marius was so un-grumpy afterwards,' Phoebe delighted in telling Amber, who was still not praised enough by Marius.

But at least the sapphire and crimson flag was flying continually again at Throstledown. And when Marius complained that Killer and Ilkley Hall had once again cut up Rafiq and Bullydozer at Sandown, Killer was banned for a week and no stewards ignored Marius's objection because his wasn't a big enough yard.

The flip side was the press hanging around the whole time. Marius loathed this. Not only did it disrupt the peace of the yard, but he was far too superst.i.tious to enjoy p.r.o.nouncing on the likelihood of his horses winning races.

The syndicate, however, was reaping benefits. Because of his diplomatic skills, Alban had also got a consultancy job with World Horse Welfare, heading up a campaign to put an end to the dreadful transporting of live horses abroad. Ione had been invited to go on Celebrity Big Brother Celebrity Big Brother and as Green Queen was frequently asked on telly, usually to shout at tyc.o.o.ns because of their excessive carbon footprints. Willowwood's own tyc.o.o.n, Valent Edwards, had been away. Following the worldwide success of Guardi, the lit-up Guardian Angel who dispelled children's fear of the dark, Valent's Chinese factory was working on other toys. and as Green Queen was frequently asked on telly, usually to shout at tyc.o.o.ns because of their excessive carbon footprints. Willowwood's own tyc.o.o.n, Valent Edwards, had been away. Following the worldwide success of Guardi, the lit-up Guardian Angel who dispelled children's fear of the dark, Valent's Chinese factory was working on other toys.

The Major was kept busy controlling the parking of all the tourists who poured into the village. All the local businesses were prospering. The Fox, renamed the Wilkinson Arms and with an inn sign of a white-faced Mrs Wilkinson with her tongue lolling out, was always packed. A betting shop called Easy Lay had opened in the high street. The village shop and post office, threatened with closure, had to stay open to cope with Wilkie's fan mail.

Painswick and Poc.o.c.k, growing even closer and also padding through the frozen gra.s.s, were planning to move in together and spend their winnings and the money from the sale of Poc.o.c.k's house on opening a teashop.

Miss Painswick's adored former boss, Hengist Brett-Taylor, whose photographs she had taken down in the drawing room, had meanwhile become a huge television star. A second Simon Schama, he was making a drama-doc.u.mentary about the legend of Willowwood and the rise of Beau Regard the Second. He was working closely with Alan, whose publishers had suddenly become wildly excited about his inside story of Mrs Wilkinson. Both Hengist and Alan were delving into her past.

To rub acid into the wound, fans and press never failed to remind an increasingly maddened Harvey-Holden that he had let the mare who had so helped racing slip through his fingers.

Even more wickedly, Dora had taught Mrs Wilkinson to yawn for the cameras every time Harvey-Holden's name was mentioned.

115.

Stardom, however, invites jealousy. Morale may rocket in a yard that brings home winners, but Josh and the other lads, who considered themselves far better riders than Rafiq, were irked by his success. It was worse now Dora had got to work, organizing features in the nationals, which led to a piece in h.e.l.lo h.e.l.lo! that included moody, s.e.xy photographs of Rafiq, the tigerish 'Shere' Khan of racing. This resulted in a lot of ragging, but also some snazzy clothes and a small car, thanks to Dora. She had craftily explained that, if Rafiq were given money, he'd send it straight home to Pakistan.

Furious was also becoming a cult figure, an alpha mule captivating the crowd with his wayward antics. In big races he was now allowed to miss the parade before the start because he bit and kicked both people and horses. Having refused even to be tacked up at Ascot, his finest hour had occurred in the Larkminster Cup, his prep race for the Cheltenham Gold Cup, when as the tapes went up, he turned, sending the man with a whip leaping for his life, and bolted in the other direction. Hauled round after a furlong by a screaming Rafiq, he changed his mind and belted after the high-cla.s.s field. Horrified to find himself among them, he overtook the lot to beat l.u.s.ty by a length, to scenes of hysterical laughter and adulation.

Like Mrs Wilkinson, he was a character and whenever he ran, the public flocked to the track to watch the bad boy of racing. Rafiq adored him more than ever, wandering round the yard and the fields without a lead rein, Furious following him like a big dog.

'Amazed h.e.l.lo h.e.l.lo! got a word out of him,' snarled Josh. 'All he ever talks to or about is Furious.'

Rafiq now prayed to Allah that Marius would put him up on Furious for the Gold Cup in March. He had stopped praying for Amber to return his love. Even if his career continued to soar, like Buraq the flying horse who carried the Prophet to paradise, their backgrounds were too different. Even if he came 'singing from Palestine', Amber, his lady love, would never welcome him home.

Hearing him singing his mournful songs round the yard, however, Dora had opened negotiations with a record producer. 'Rafiq's so beautiful, he's got such a lovely voice, he could easily become a pop star.

'Honestly, Rafiq,' she sighed later, 'with me around you don't need an agent.'

When Etta met Hengist Brett-Taylor she thought he was one of the most gorgeous men she'd ever encountered and totally understood Painswick's crush. He was so amused and amusing and couldn't stop laughing about his old secretary's new love.

'I cannot believe the old duck's got a drake at last, or rather a Poc.o.c.k. I must tell Sally,' and he rushed off to ring his wife.

Etta also loved Hengist because he rolled up with a beautiful white greyhound called Elaine, with whom Priceless fell madly in love, and even more because Hengist insisted on having Rafiq, his gaol-mate, in his drama-doc.u.mentary. Dora's boyfriend Paris was playing Sir Francis Framlingham. Rafiq, in a blond wig, plumed hat pulled down over his nose, was acting as Paris's standin, cantering across Larkshire on Mrs Wilkinson to recreate Sir Francis going to war on Beau Regard.

Hengist was also using Rafiq in the doc.u.mentary to put for- ward the Muslim point of view. There was a touching moment when they were filming in the church, as a bristlingly defensive Rafiq had gazed down at the stone effigy of Sir Francis for a few moments before murmuring, 'He too went a long way for his religion.'

Rafiq had mellowed. As a Muslim he had learnt that human life was sacred, but, steeped in the ideology of the terrorist training camp, he had come to believe that his own life should be sacrificed for the cause in the holy war to wipe out non-believers. But gradually he had found himself growing to love nonbelievers. Not just Hengist, who had protected him in prison, or Marius, who had bought back Furious and given him a chance as a jockey most lads could only dream of, or Etta and Painswick, who'd mothered him so kindly, or Valent, who'd tipped him so generously and fought his corner. There was also his dear friend Tommy, who worked so tirelessly on his horses, advised him so tactfully and had contributed so much to his dramatic rise to fame.

Rafiq was keeping his nose clean. He was extra careful because he was sure the police were watching him and tapping his telephone calls, hoping this would lead them to his cousin Ibrahim, who he believed was still hiding out in the lawless badlands on the borders of Pakistan.

To up their incomes, Josh and the other lads all pa.s.sed on tips to punters. 'It's a lovely day in Willowwood' was code for a horse likely to win, while 'It's raining in Willowwood' indicated one that hadn't a chance. Rafiq had stopped even giving free tips to the friends he had made in gaol.

Tommy, meanwhile, who looked after Wilkie, Romeo, a rapidly improving Bullydozer, and Furious when Rafiq was away, was well ahead in the Throstledown points system that allocated a groom three points for a win and one for a place.

Tresa and Mich.e.l.le (even though she now worked for Harvey-Holden) were wild with envy. They were a thousand times prettier than Tommy, but they didn't get the fan mail, weren't pestered for autographs or have their pictures in the Racing Post Racing Post. Owners pinched their bottoms, but they didn't thrust fistfuls of tenners into their jeans pockets for racking up wins and turnout prizes.

To Tresa and Mich.e.l.le, Tommy was the school swat, always working, always putting the stupid horses first, because she had nothing else with which to fill her life. They couldn't appreciate that the public adored Tommy because she always smiled and although no one hugged and patted her horses more enthusiastically when they won, she comforted them and their jockeys equally lovingly when they lost.

116.

This festering jealousy erupted one late January evening after the Larkminster Cup, when traditionally jockeys and stable lads and la.s.ses from neighbouring yards joined up at a Larkminster club called Electric Blue for a party.

On this occasion, the drinking was very heavy, both to celebrate Furious's victory and to blot out a hideous death. Harvey-Holden had run the lovely little mare called Gifted Child, who had never really fulfilled the promise she had shown when she was trained by Marius. He had therefore instructed his hired a.s.sa.s.sin, Vakil, who had so terrorized Bullydozer, to slip Gifted Child a bucket of water before the race.

As a result, she broke a blood vessel and her off fore, landing clumsily six out. Struggling up, she collapsed trying to jump the next fence. Her stable la.s.s had gone home in tears. Vakil, unmoved, had pocketed 300 from Harvey-Holden, and this evening was intending to lay a stable la.s.s or at least a prost.i.tute. 'Why you no kiss me?' he was asking Tresa.

'Because you're not a good kisser,' she snapped back.

Vakil worked forty-eight weeks a year and sent his wages home to support his wife and four children in Pakistan, whom he boasted would one day become dentists and lawyers and keep him in his old age. Tonight he was planning to enjoy himself.

The party from the racing yards was seated at a long table looking down on a dance floor filled with writhing couples and surrounded by more packed tables. As well as Tresa and Vakil, the racing party included Josh, Mich.e.l.le, little Angel and jockeys Johnnie Brutus and Dare Catswood, who'd had a second at Larkminster, and Dare's brother Jamie. Jamie was Harvey-Holden's new pupil a.s.sistant, who claimed he wanted to train horses but was really more interested in getting up at midday and s.h.a.gging stable girls.

Jamie had a loud voice, wore red cords and a striped scarf a prat in a cravat and was accepted because Mummy had horses in training and rich Daddy was a member of the Jockey Club. Jamie was good with owners and at opening champagne bottles, and it was agreed H-H needed someone like that.

The group were all shouting with laughter. Yelling to make themselves heard over Lily Allen and the pounding of the disco, they gazed through visibility much thicker than the fog at the races earlier, in order to play a game called Snog-a-Trog. Snog-a-Trog involved each person in the party picking out a really unattractive member of the opposite s.e.x which was often hard through the gloom and seeing how quickly they could snog them. Jamie, whose new job it was to time horses on H-H's gallops and who was already very drunk, was randomly timing progress with a stopwatch.

Mich.e.l.le, looking s.e.xually predatory in tight red-leather trousers and a red see-through shirt with a red bra underneath, had kicked off. She had approached a bespectacled geek in shortsleeved crimplene and with a mullet, who'd been dancing around waving his arms like an over-adrenalized tic-tac man, only to be primly told he was engaged. Josh was now across the room dancing with a girl with a turbot's face and a huge bust, which rather precluded him getting close enough to kiss her.

This caused as much mirth as the fact that Awesome Wells, who had been expected to join the party after whizzing up to Wetherby, had afterwards got into the wrong private jet, fallen asleep and ended up in Dubai.

Amber, who was also riding at Wetherby, and Rogue, who was riding at Fairyhouse, were expected later, as was Rafiq. After his great win in the Larkminster Cup, Rafiq was doing a television interview about being the latest role model for young Muslims.

Great excitement was caused by the arrival of Eddie Alderton, a very blond American flat jockey who had grown too heavy and tall to do the weights, and was trying his luck as a jump jockey at Rupert Campbell-Black's yard, Pens...o...b... He also turned out to be Rupert's grandson, far more beautiful and drunk than anyone else, and he was buying most of the booze.

'I wanna play Snarg-a-Trarg, I wanna play Snarg-a-Trarg,' he kept saying.

'You gotta girlfriend?' asked Tresa, licking her lips.

'Ah got five.'

'Five?' shrieked Mich.e.l.le disapprovingly.

'That still leaves two days free a week, if you're up for it,' said Eddie. 'Snarg-a-Trarg.'

Lily Allen was followed by Michael Jackson, then by Lady Gaga.

'He settled beautifully, switched gears going into the last, you'd think he'd just jumped in at the start,' Johnnie Brutus was telling himself.

'I'm going to have a crack at that tarty blonde,' announced Dare Catswood, and came back very shaken. 'It's a bloke, tried to drag me into the Gents.'

'Here's Rogue,' sighed Angel, 'isn't he gorgeous?'

Rogue had had a treble at Fairyhouse today and was riding there tomorrow, but had come back for the party.

To match his eyes he was wearing a kingfisher-blue sweatshirt which said, 'I rode work for Rupert Campbell-Black and survived. Could you?'

As he walked in, girls nudged each other, tossed their hair and rucked up their dresses. Rogue glanced round, waved at Johnnie Brutus, scowled at Dare Catswood, then, clocking that Amber wasn't at the table, made his way over to Tommy. She was sitting in a dark corner, making herself as inconspicuous as possible.

'Hi,' he said, kissing her. 'Where's Amber?'

'So sorry, she's not coming.' Then, as Rogue's face fell, 'She's just texted me, she's gone to see her dad who's in hospital in London.'

'Do you know which hospital?'

'I think she said the Marsden. She didn't know you were turning up here.'

'D'you want a lift home?'

'I'm waiting for Rafiq.'

'OK, see you.' Ignoring the yells of 'Rogue, Rogue,' he was on his way to the door when Johnnie Brutus swayed after him.

'Where you going?'

'Back to Ireland.'

'You just arrived. You're working too hard, relax. I'll find you a slapper, there are a couple at our table.'

Rogue glanced at Mich.e.l.le and Tresa. Having just discovered he was Rupert's grandson, they were laughing uproariously at Eddie Alderton's jokes.

'I've had them both and they were rubbish,' said Rogue bleakly, and he was gone.

'Where'd Rogue go?' protested Eddie. 'I wanted to talk to him. I want to ride l.u.s.ty in the Gold Cup but I guess Grandpa'll put up Rogue. Thinks a lot of Rogue.'

'Thinks a lot of himself,' snapped Tresa.

'Who was he talking to?' drawled Eddie.

'Tommy Ruddock, works in our yard.'

Eddie got out a pair of binoculars and stared through the gloom at Tommy.

'That's my Trarg.'

Mich.e.l.le and Tresa screamed with laughter.

'Have a crack at Lotto Briggs,' advised a returning Johnnie Brutus. 'Dare peeked into the ladies' changing room at Cheltenham, said she wears grey underwear, has a forest down there and her girlfriend would geld you. But you'd win first prize, Eddie, you can't get uglier than that.'

'No, I'm going to try that Tarmy,' insisted Eddie, 'she might know something I don't know about Rogue.'