Mount!

by Jilly Cooper

  The moment Cosmo rang off, he got a call from Celeste. She’d been hung out to dry, she said. She’d fought the battle against Rupert without any support. Now it was her turn.

  ‘I can’t stay with my sister for ever, Cosmo. Have you decided where I’m going to live, and when can I start work at Valhalla?’

  ‘The moment you provide me with a reference from your previous employer,’ purred Cosmo.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ squawked Celeste. ‘Rupert’d never give me a reference. He wants to kill me!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But you promised.’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cosmo, and hung up.

  Rupert and Gav, both jolted to the core, didn’t talk much on the way home in the helicopter. Rupert spent the time on his mobile, Gav wondering what the hell to do next. He must somehow pay back the money. He couldn’t endure going home, and his parents ranting on and on about how his divorce, drunkenness, and now cheating, had brought shame on the family. A loner, he didn’t want to impose on anyone. He’d have to find a bed and breakfast, terrified of going back on the booze.

  Night had fallen. Through the darkness, they could see a lit-up Penscombe.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Rupert. ‘Must be shattered. What do you think I should do about Quickly?’

  ‘I think you should employ Gala. She’s a bloody good rider, and Quickly adores her, and respects her.’ Worried that Gala might be gone by the time he was allowed back, Gav took a deep breath and voiced a fear that had haunted him for months. ‘She’s getting restless.’ Then, when Rupert glanced up: ‘Your father’s getting much more demanding, not taking her mind off things. She misses Ben and she hates the English weather.’

  ‘She’s not going to like it any more at six o’clock on the gallops.’

  ‘She loves horses. It’s her birthday next week – I was thinking of getting her a rescue Staffie puppy. Enough of them in the dogs’ homes.’

  ‘Might do better with a working Cocker – more biddable.’

  I’d settle for a working cock, thought Gav wistfully.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve got enough dogs. Christ, look at that.’

  Both were amazed by the triumphal welcome that greeted them. Balloons, flags and banners all down the drive. Most of Penscombe village had rolled up for a party, bringing bottles. The village band was playing, somewhat discordantly, ‘Here’s to the Heroes’. A great cheer and several rockets went up as the dark-blue helicopter landed. They’d all seen the telly and knew that their jobs, of which they were so proud, were secure. They had also been the recipients of appalling bitching from other yards.

  Gav, the new poster boy, had got off with a slapped wrist and would be back in a few months. The dogs swarmed out, barking, weaving and whining round Rupert’s feet, followed by an ecstatic Taggie, who hugged Gav and then kissed Rupert passionately, to more cheers. How lucky they are, thought Gala and Lark, from the shadows.

  Rupert then called for quiet. ‘We’re OK. We’re safe. Thank you for all your support over the last few months. Sorry I’ve been so utterly bloody. You probably wouldn’t have minded if I had lost my licence, but I was trying to hide the fact I was shit-scared.’

  Everyone noticed how tired he looked.

  ‘But once again, we’ve routed the Northfields, as my ancestor, Rupert Black, did back in the eighteenth century. Gav was brilliant, by the way. His evidence saved us.’

  Tumultuous cheers!

  ‘Gav’s been the fall guy, but he’ll be back in five months and from tomorrow, we’ll get back on track. Thank you for my lucky tie, Lark – I think it did the trick. If you want to push off to the Dog and Trumpet, the drinks are on me, but I want you up at the same time tomorrow. We’ve got to start the fight back.’

  Walking back to the house, Rupert beckoned Gala to follow him. Like the rest of his staff, she looked lit up with joy that he’d survived, and in addition, absolutely gorgeous in her clinging crimson Christmas party dress, showing several inches of lush cleavage.

  ‘You’d certainly win the turnout,’ he said approvingly. ‘Look, I need your help. Gav’s been through hell – bloody easy for him to go back on the booze. Can you keep an eye on him?’

  Everyone wanted to commiserate with Gav, but he’d sloped off to his rooms. On the way, he clocked Venus, glowing mockingly in the dusk. Orion the Hunter was on the march. Poignantly, he passed Dave, looking adorable in a new red Christmas rug which extended like a polo neck up to his ears, and whickering over his half door, which was covered on either side by plaques, recording his seven wins. Would they now all be ripped down?

  ‘I’m sorry, boy.’ Gav hugged him.

  Up in his flat, he looked round at the security which he must now relinquish. He ought to pack, but he had to write notes on all the horses. He jumped at a thundering on the door. At least it wouldn’t be Celeste any more. Instead it was Gala, wafting Coco Chanel, ravishing in her crimson dress, and clearly three parts cut.

  ‘Just come to check you’re OK.’ She swayed towards him. ‘Must have been hell.’

  ‘I’m fine – lovely dress.’

  ‘I’m a scarlet woman. Let me give you a hug.’

  Gav froze as she put her arms around him, feeling the bounciness of her breasts, her scented curls, the bump of her groin. God, he wanted her. Gala herself felt liberated. Rupert had trusted her to look after Gav. His mouth was level with hers, so she kissed it, caressing his tongue with hers, murmuring, ‘I’ve always wanted you.’ One hand undoing his shirt buttons, the other creeping between his legs. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  But Gav panicked. There was no way he’d ever get it up.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, tugging away the hand that was stroking his chest, wrenching the other from his groin. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated, then, groping for a joke, ‘No one in racing is allowed to associate with me. You wouldn’t be allowed to ride out any more.’

  ‘Do I revolt you?’ asked Gala furiously.

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ He longed to level with her, but only managed: ‘It’s been a long day. Look, as I said, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. You’ve made it quite clear that you find me repulsive, a drunken old cow. Sorry I bothered you.’ Grabbing her coat, she stumbled, sobbing, down the stairs. She’d be scarlet all over from humiliation and embarrassment for the rest of her life. How could she have thrown herself at him? She’d thought he liked her. How could she have misread the signals? She must get another job at once.

  Quickly, bored and leaning out of his box, whickered as she passed. ‘You’re the only thing that loves me,’ she wept into his shoulder, ‘and you too,’ as Purrpuss slid down Quickly’s neck and butted her wet face.

  ‘You OK?’ said a voice. It was Cathal, the yard’s Orion, who’d also liked the red dress.

  ‘I’m fine – missing Ben,’ sobbed Gala, fleeing back to the house.

  After a quick catch-up and supper with Taggie, Rupert retreated to his office to think. Outside it had started to snow. What was to be done about Dave? Now officially a four-year-old, if he raced against three-year-olds, he’d be clobbered by huge extra weight, punishing for a little horse.

  The problem was sorted by a telephone call in the middle of the night from one of his most charming former owners, Australian tenor Baby Spinosissimo, the ex-lover of Isa Lovell and current boyfriend of Rupert’s brother, Adrian, who had been so livid that gay Uncle Cyprian had left the Stubbs to Rupert. Baby was presently in Sydney, where he was singing the Duke in Rigoletto and Rodolfo in La Bohème at the Opera House.

  ‘Thank God you won, Rupert, thank God you saw off that two-timing bastard, Isa Lovell, and Cosmo Rannaldini. Who would have expected such a fiendish kid to have grown into an even more fiendish adult? Poor darling Dave, such a sweet little horse. Listen, I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Rupert. ‘What if I were to send Dave over to you?’

  ‘I’ll buy him,’ said Baby.

  ‘Well, at least he can have a few months off,
enjoying the sunshine. He’s had a tough year. Then, because your seasons are six months ahead of ours, from July first he can run against other three-year-olds, and if he keeps on improving, have a crack at the Melbourne Cup in November, without having to lose form in quarantine.’

  ‘Great, he can live at my yard. Peppy Koala loved it here, shagged himself insensible. I’m not having Titus Andronicus back, mind. Tricky bastard – none of my lads have any fingers left.’

  ‘It’s a deal, Baby. I’ll send him into quarantine next week. He’s a sweet horse, deserves the chance.’

  Thus empowered, Rupert rang up his favourite son-in-law, Luke Alderton, in Palm Beach. An ex-international polo-player, Luke was now chef d’equipe of the American team. Somehow staying married to Rupert’s tricky daughter Perdita, Luke was a sort of male Taggie – tougher, but with the same stamina needed to cope with a Campbell-Black.

  ‘Hi, Luke.’

  ‘Ah’ve been meaning to ring you.’ How soothing was that warm Texan drawl. ‘So good you kept your licence – bloody stupid rule.’

  ‘Very close-run thing. We were lucky. How’s Perdita?’

  ‘She’s good. And Eddie won a couple of races last week.’

  ‘I noticed. Bloody cold here, snowing outside. I’ve got a favour to ask you.’

  ‘And I you. You go first.’

  ‘Gavin Latton’s gone through hell. He’s a loner, ex-alki, carried the can for New Year’s Dave, not allowed to stay in any racing premises here, needs a complete break. Wonder if you could use him in Palm Beach for a few months? He’s bloody good, anything that needs breaking or sorting out. Could do with some sun and a change of scenery. You’re the kind of bloke who could settle him.’

  ‘Sounds good. I’ll put him to work on the young US team horses.’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘Can Ed come back? He’s gutted he screwed up. He’s learned his lesson. He’s riding beautifully but he’s fighting with Perdita, and although you may not realize it, he thinks the world of you and Taggie.’

  ‘Probably Taggie. I need him actually. I’ll send Gav out at once, if Eddie could just stay a few days to settle him in. He’s very shy, and he can wise Eddie up about the horses. I’ve got a brilliant colt called Master Quickly.’

  Luke laughed. ‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard all about him.’

  ‘Thanks, Luke.’

  Gav agreed to go, because he couldn’t think what else to do, and because he was so bitterly ashamed of blowing out Gala. How could he have humiliated such a sweet, vulnerable woman like that? If only he could have levelled with her, and they’d just lain in each other’s arms, reciprocally comforting.

  38

  Next morning, the papers were full of Rupert, by the skin of his excellent teeth, not losing his licence. Pat Inglis and his staff were already flat out reminding nervous breeders that they had signed a watertight contract to send mares to Love Rat, and his invincibility as a sire was in no way diminished.

  None of this was helped by the Racing Post leading on Dave being stripped of his glory. ‘How is the mighty fallen,’ they wrote, and about Love Rat dropping to eighth place in the Leading Sire chart because of the loss of Dave’s prize money. There was also a beautiful photograph of Roberto’s Revenge, Valhalla’s Colossus, moving up to second place, with progeny earnings of six million.

  Meanwhile, rumours were now confirmed that Roberto’s Revenge would be the first husband of Darkness Visible, the mighty American mare, named Eclipse Horse of the Year. Rupert threw the Racing Post across the room.

  So, it rested on the twitching shoulders of Quickly to redeem the yard. In two days, Rupert would be setting off to Dubai with eight horses, in search of prize money to pay his three million wage bill.

  Word had already flashed round the yard that New Year’s Dave was off to Australia. Lark was distraught. She doted on Touchy Filly, Quickly and her fourth horse, a dark-brown delinquent called Blank Chekov, but sweet, loving Dave had compensated a little for missing Young Eddie so much. She had tried to forget Eddie. She had been crucified, learning that he and Gala had got it together. She’d been fond of Gala, but seeing her last night stealing across the yard to Gav’s flat, Coco Chanel following her like a witch’s trail, looking so gorgeous in her crimson dress, reinforced Lark’s shame at her presumption that anyone as plump, round-faced and ordinary-looking as herself could ever compete.

  Having ridden her horses round the indoor school, and groomed and fed them, she screwed up courage and knocked on Rupert’s office door, setting off a massive thwacking of tails with Cuthbert’s wriggling rump nearly sending Rupert’s iPad flying.

  ‘Yes?’ Rupert looked up. He was very fond of Lark and was surprised to see woebegone eyes and no beaming smile. ‘You OK, angel?’

  ‘Could I have a brief word?’ she said shyly. ‘I love Dave so much, could I possibly go to Australia and get a job looking after him? I don’t want him to be lonely.’

  ‘Oh Lark,’ sighed Rupert. ‘I can’t lose you. Touchy Filly and Quickly will go into a decline. Dave’s going to Baby Spinosissimo’s yard where he’ll be spoilt absolutely rotten. He’ll be going into quarantine in Newmarket in a couple of days.’

  ‘Can I go with him? He’s always tried so hard, it’s so sad he’s lost everything.’

  ‘I know, it’s awful. But he’s so good, he might have a crack at the Melbourne Cup.’

  ‘That would be very exciting,’ said Lark flatly.

  ‘Quickly needs you. Without Dave, he’ll have no one to bully.’

  ‘I know I’ll miss him, I can only give Dave a Polo if Quickly isn’t looking. I’m sorry, I’m just, I’m just …’

  Hopelessly hooked on my wayward grandson, thought Rupert.

  ‘OK, you can go. And if Dave comes back to England, you can come with him. Your job will always be open. I’ll ring Baby. He’s fun, you’ll like him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ stammered Lark. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  Outside, the snow was covering the landscape. It was bitterly cold. Reluctant stallions were being led around, getting fit for the covering season, starting on the day after St Valentine’s next week. An even more reluctant stud hand was lunging Titus in the indoor school, wondering how soon Titus would lunge at him.

  Rupert called a meeting of his senior staff, including Cathal, Bobby Walker the lorry driver, Simmy Halliday the Estate Manager, Roving Mike and Walter. All poleaxed with hangovers from last night’s celebration, they staggered in, clutching bottled water and cups of black coffee, trying to find chairs or sofas that weren’t taken by dogs.

  Rupert was back to his usual form. ‘Two sheep have strayed on to the gallops,’ he said sharply. In addition, he’d noticed a filly on the horse walker without a rug. ‘No horse must travel without a bridle, and must be checked hourly.

  ‘Now, OK, this is the state of play. Dave, as I’m sure you know by now, is off to Australia, so he can race as a three-year-old from July one. So, we’ve lost our best horse. Gavin, on the other hand, has always claimed Quickly is the better horse – if we can sort out his head. Unfortunately, the rider who could sort him out, Gav, is off to Palm Beach for five months to work in my son-in-law’s polo yard.’

  ‘Lucky sod,’ said Roving Mike, ‘escaping this bloody winter.’

  ‘Which is a disaster for Quickly.’ Rupert glared at Mike. ‘Another setback is Lark, who has just been in here, begging to go into quarantine and to Australia with Dave. So in several words, Quickly, Touchy Filly and Blank Chekov will be without Dave to bully, without their stable girl, Lark, and without Gav to prep them for next April. Quickly, also outlawed for failing his stalls test, will miss all the Guineas trials, and the Guineas is less than four months away.’

  The television was turned to At the Races at Southwell, where the snow was pouring down, and jockeys, bulked out against the cold, could be seen going down to the start for the first race.

  ‘I also heard this morning that Lion’s doctors have advised him not to ride again f
or six months, if at all. Agents have been jamming the telephone with offers all morning. I know some of you aren’t fans, but my grandson, Eddie Alderton, will be back in a couple of weeks. He’s been winning races in America, and has promised to mend his ways.’

  ‘For starters, he owes £1,500 in fines for coming in late,’ snorted Walter. ‘If he can’t settle bills, how can he settle a horse?’

  ‘Who’s going to do Lark’s horses, and ride them?’ asked Roving Mike.

  ‘The person Gav was keen on joining the yard was Gala,’ replied Rupert, then, looking at the sceptical faces, ‘She’s a beautiful rider and knows how to settle horses, but won’t stand for any nonsense.’

  ‘Gav’s keen on Gala, full stop. She’s an amateur and too fat,’ grumbled Walter, who’d been turned down too often by Gala, as had Cathal, who agreed.

  Simmy Halliday, however, looked up from the Daily Mail crossword. ‘I agree with you, Guv. She’s a great rider.’

  ‘She’s getting restless here,’ said Roving Mike. ‘Louise heard her ringing up her carer agency this morning.’

  ‘Get another carer who can do mornings,’ suggested Pat Inglis. ‘Free Gala up to ride out. It’d be worth it. Quickly’s such a monkey, he could go to pieces without Gav.’

  ‘And my father’ll go to pieces without Gala. You’ll never keep him out of the yard. OK. I’ll talk to Taggie.’

  Back in the kitchen, shoving a couple of slices of smoked salmon between two pieces of brown bread, Rupert asked Taggie: ‘Can we get another carer to free up Gala to work in the yard?’

  ‘More than she is already?’ Taggie nearly snapped back, but instead she said, ‘I don’t know what happened last night, but her face is really tear-stained this morning, although she wouldn’t talk about it. It’s her birthday tomorrow. I’ve found her a lovely bottle-green polo neck from us, which might cheer her up, and I must ice her cake.’

  Next day, it turned blissfully mild, with a blinding low sun returning and melting the snow. Word had got around it was Gala’s birthday. When she went down to the yard on her break, to thank everyone for signing her card and giving her a beautiful brown scarf decorated with horses, Roving Mike, Cathal and Simmy Halliday gathered her up and chucked her into the icy cold water-trough.