Mount!

by Jilly Cooper

  There was a pop, and Gropius rushed over and caught the flying cork.

  ‘Good boy, should be fielding for England. Must get you some glasses,’ said Eddie, emptying champagne into a cup and a tooth mug. ‘Gav was probably avoiding them.’

  ‘How is Gav?’

  ‘Pretty well, mortified at nearly bringing down the yard but pleased to be sorting half a dozen screwed-up polo ponies for Dad, who thinks the world of him. He’s beginning to relax.’

  ‘Wish he’d come and sort out Quickly, who’s not beginning to relax. Everyone here thinks Gav’s the only person who can deal with him.’

  Buoyed up by a second glass of champagne, Gala poured out her heart at her failure with the horses, particularly Quickly, and the sneering of Walter and Cathal.

  ‘They’re jealous,’ said Eddie dismissively. ‘I had the same problem – they resent outsiders succeeding. Gav said the secret with Quickly was to coax, not to coerce. He’s so strong-willed and got such a temper, he’ll only do something if he thinks it’s his idea.’

  ‘Walter put him in a cross noseband and he went berserk, nearly stopped breathing.’

  ‘Bloody stupid. He’s got learning difficulties, but we’ve got three months to teach him to rocket out of the stalls and on the right leg – they’re so much faster in the States – and then settle to preserve his energy, capitalizing on his acceleration for the last furlong.’

  Eddie emptied the remains of the champagne into their mugs.

  ‘This is the last drink before the Guineas. We’ll start tomorrow. I’m getting up at six every day to prove fucking Walter and Cathal were wrong. Where’s Lark, by the way?’

  ‘Gone to Australia with Dave.’

  Eddie looked appalled. ‘That is a hammer blow. Who’s going to iron my shirts and look after me? Without Lark I’ve got yearning difficulties.’

  ‘Where are you sleeping?’ asked Gala.

  ‘In the house to chaperone Taggie. What gives with this new cad on the block?’

  ‘Jan. He’s been a huge success. Taggie adores him, so does Old Eddie. Rather galling for everyone else.’

  Eddie shook his head. ‘So bloody good-looking, can’t imagine why Grandpa’s allowed a stud like that alone in the house with Taggie.’

  ‘He claims to be gay,’ said Gala. ‘He got married, then came out. Everyone’s got a yen for Jan. Like those women who were bats about Rock Hudson in the old days. He and Taggie were in hysterics the other evening because they’d both fed the badgers.’

  ‘Brock Hudson,’ grinned Eddie.

  ‘I heard you’ve won seven races – that is so amazing. Rupert pretended not to be pleased, but he was blown away.’

  Eddie looked gratified. ‘Do you think he’ll put me up full-time this season?’

  ‘If you behave yourself.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Eddie, ‘you’ve still got my Valentine up.’

  ‘Your Valentine?’ Gala just stopped herself saying in horror.

  But Eddie had been distracted by the photograph that had fallen out of the poetry book.

  ‘That bitch,’ he said, picking it up.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Bethany. Gav’s ex, crucified poor old Floppy Dick.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Gav. She called him Floppy Dick because he couldn’t get it up.’

  ‘That’s atrocious.’

  ‘Horrible, and the booze didn’t help. Women all over him in Palm Beach. Still too scared to risk it.’

  And I tried to force him into bed, thought Gala, appalled yet comforted. At least it wasn’t just her lack of attractiveness.

  Eddie drained his glass.

  ‘You sure?’ He took her in his arms. ‘I’ve always fancied you.’

  ‘And I you.’ Gala kissed his cheek. ‘Let’s have each other as a treat after the Guineas. Bloody Cathal said it would be better to by-pass the Guineas and wait till Gav gets back and go for the Derby.’

  ‘You and I are going to prove him wrong.’

  43

  Gallingly for Gala, Young Eddie was soon as captivated by Jan as everyone else. Not only did Jan jog daily with him and, as the days grew warmer, played violent games of tennis, but he also supervised Eddie’s diet so he grew stronger and fitter.

  The yard were still transfixed with interest. So Dora was dispatched to quiz Young Eddie.

  ‘Has Jan made a pass at you yet?’

  ‘Not lifted a finger, why should he?’

  ‘Geraldine was listening at the keyhole. Evidently he told Rupert he was gay and had a wife and children, but that could be just to lull Rupert.’

  ‘He’s a nice guy,’ said Eddie. ‘He and Taggie get on really well.’

  ‘Why don’t you take him down the pub, and pump him.’

  ‘I’m off the drink,’ sighed Eddie.

  ‘Have a spritzer.’

  It was getting milder at the end of March. The Dog and Trumpet inn sign swayed in a gentle west wind. Louise, Roving Mike and Walter were sitting at an outside table, and nudged and winked as Eddie and Jan, who still wasn’t used to English winters, went inside. Around the walls were pictures of dogs and fewer of trumpeters. Eddie, accustomed to girls staring at him, noticed the barmaid and any women around the bar looking excitedly at Jan as he returned with a bottle of red.

  ‘You’re allowed a drink today. You must be nearly down to nine stone.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Eddie yawned. ‘I was up all the night sorting out my tax problems. The tax man’s just got wise that I’ve been earning in two countries. Thank God it wasn’t much.’

  ‘I by-pass the tax man,’ said Jan. ‘Pay most of my wages into a German bank. A mate at home gives the equivalent in rands to my ex to support the kids.’

  Eddie took a long gulp of red. God, it tasted great.

  ‘You must miss them.’

  ‘Yes, but I Skype them most days. I’ll go home for a week later this year.’

  ‘Do your parents see a lot of them?’

  ‘My mother does. She gets on with my ex.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘Afrikaans men tend to be very macho and rigid. My dad was rough on me when I was a kid. I went into the army to get away and impress him. While I was in the army,’ for once Jan’s loud harsh voice was soft and confiding, ‘I realized I was gay. Afrikaans men are very homophobic. They don’t do gays, so to please my mum and dad, I married a childhood sweetheart. We split up after a couple of years. I decided to come to England and came out.’

  ‘Hard on your wife.’

  ‘Very, that’s why I feel I must support her.’

  ‘You got a boyfriend?’

  ‘Not yet – I want to get my head straight.’

  ‘Rather than your body,’ grinned Eddie, topping up their glasses.

  Dora would be pleased with him. Appropriately, as background music, Eddie Calvert, a past and very famous trumpeter, was playing his greatest hit, ‘Oh Mein Papa’.

  ‘I’m very close to Mum,’ said Jan. ‘Dad was hard on her, went through the housekeeping bills, hated her spending too much on clothes. I used to hear her crying. That made me determined to always be nice to women.’

  At that moment Roving Mike came in from outside to top up their drinks and behind Jan’s back, held up his hand and camply dropped his fingers. Eddie tried not to laugh, he was feeling quite pissed. Wistfully, he breathed in the smell of shepherd’s pie as plates were carried past. At least his jeans were loose.

  ‘Rupert’s very homophobic, isn’t he?’ asked Jan.

  ‘Actually he’s not. Marcus, his son, is gay. Perhaps prepotent fathers produce gay sons. Marcus, lovely bloke, was terrified of Rupert finding out. It all blew up at some piano competition. The Scorpion outed him, then, despite some massive asthma attack, Marcus won the competition. He now lives with some Russian ballet dancer. Rupert adores them both. Winning helped.’ Eddie smiled. ‘Rupert regards failure as a far worse crime than sodomy.’

  ‘How do you think I should p
lay him?’

  ‘Don’t get too close to Taggie.’

  Taking out Gropius last thing, Gala heard Jan and Eddie returning from the pub roaring with laughter. Gala felt ashamed of feeling miserable that again she was losing out. First Taggie, now Eddie.

  Rupert returned in April. Fleance had won a huge race on World Cup day. Hell Bent Hal and Petruchio had also been placed in earlier races. Rupert had gone on to China and chatted up more billionaires.

  He was surprised and delighted with the progress of Quickly, who, ten days after the Dubai horses returned and were rested, was tested on the gallops against them. It was a dank, foggy morning. Setting off eight lengths behind them, Quickly’s white face emerged from the mist ten lengths ahead. Eddie pulled him up, equally white-faced.

  ‘Omigod, Quickly’s giving Fleance fifteen pounds’ (which confusingly in racing parlance meant, Quickly was carrying 15 lbs more than Fleance), ‘and he still beat him in a canter. This horse is faster than light.’

  Conversely, Rupert was totally undelighted by Jan’s ubiquity and endless Panglossian enthusiasm, referring to him as the ‘horse-bellower’ because of his loud raucous voice.

  ‘Doesn’t your dad look great in his new red cords?’

  ‘Only if he keeps them on,’ replied Rupert dismissively.

  Jan was always popping in and out of the office without knocking, charming an infatuated Geraldine.

  ‘He’s changed Taggie’s life and he’s marvellous with computers,’ she told Rupert. ‘The house is running so smoothly. Realizing I didn’t have a moment to eat yesterday, with you just back, he brought me some delicious lentil soup.’

  ‘Wish he’d bring me some earplugs,’ said Rupert.

  Rupert was annoyed by the way Jan spent any break taking photographs of everything and everyone. He was fed up with his discussing recipes with Taggie, ‘bit more chilli here, a bit more ginger there.’

  ‘He’s such a help,’ protested Taggie, ‘and having been in the army, he loves watching your father’s Old Buffer programmes.’

  ‘An officer and a lentilman,’ drawled Rupert, irritated that Taggie didn’t laugh.

  Rupert was further irritated that when he came into the kitchen, Jan tried to win him over by talking about racing. ‘You should put some horses in training in South Africa, sir. It only costs £80 a week.’ He then expressed delight that the South African stallion Blood River was proving a smooth operator, with a full book of mares.

  ‘At least he’s not gay,’ said Rupert, not looking up from his iPhone.

  ‘Don’t be mean, Rupert,’ murmured Taggie.

  Next morning, Jan took Old Eddie down to the gallops to watch second lot, greeting everyone at the top of his voice. Spying Gala, trying to remember which wife she was, Old Eddie lurched out of his wheelchair, falling flat on his face in the mud and spooking Touchy Filly, who took off.

  At which point, Rupert flipped, yelling: ‘Get him off the gallops, take him fucking home. I don’t want outsiders down here or in the yard or the stud. You’ve got the whole of fucking Gloucestershire to choose from, so take him there.’

  Gala still fought jealousy, particularly when she glanced in at the kitchen window and saw Young Eddie, Taggie and Jan chatting together. Then after one taxing March morning at the yard she returned to her rooms in the lunch-break to find Jan waiting with a big brown envelope in his hand. ‘For you.’

  ‘Must be my notice,’ observed Gala sourly. Then she gasped as she drew out a dozen different photographs of Ben: adorable and flaxen-haired at primary school, purposeful, clear-eyed in cricket and rugby teams at Prince Edward’s, clutching a baby rhino on his appointment as game warden, surrounded by dogs and Pinstripe the zebra, and at his happiest and most handsome in a wedding photograph with Gala.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’ The tears spilled over, which she kept wiping away to stop them falling on the pictures. ‘Oh my God, these are fabulous, how d’you get hold of them?’

  ‘I emailed Prince Edward’s – they were so happy to hear from me. They’d been trying to trace you; they were so sorry. Atty Graham, the headmaster, a great bloke, said he’d taught Ben geography and what a fine young man he was. He gave me the email address of friends of Ben’s and his primary school, and they all came up with the goods.’

  He put a hand on Gala’s heaving shoulders.

  ‘I can see why you loved such a good-looking bloke.’

  At last Gala managed to stammer out a few words.

  ‘I cannot believe this. You went to all that trouble. You are so unbelievably kind. I’m so sorry I misjudged you,’ she mumbled into his dark-blue fleece. ‘I was so jealous of you. Rupert didn’t give me time to adjust to the change. Penscombe had become my home, living with Taggie.’

  ‘I know. She’s marvellous. Please drop by more often. She misses you.’

  ‘And you really wrote to all those people. I’m so, so touched.’

  ‘They were all delighted to know you were doing so well in England and hope to see you again.’

  ‘I didn’t have time to say goodbye. When the Chinese mafia commit a crime they want to bury any witnesses. I knew my days were numbered, so I fled.’

  Gala started leafing through the photographs again. ‘These are miraculous. I’ll never be able to thank you. Sorry I’ve been such a bitch. This has really brought back Ben to me. I somehow don’t feel I’ve lost him any more.’

  Looking up, she saw in return how genuinely thrilled Jan was.

  44

  The 2000 Guineas, the first classic of the season, approached. With £400,000 prize money and £178,000 for the winner, Young Eddie in anticipation had really pulled himself together, cutting out drink, rising at six every morning to ride, winning half a dozen lesser races and poring over the videos of the other runners.

  Despite being nearly six foot, he now clocked the scales at eight stone eight, helped by a tiny saddle more suited to Sapphire’s rocking horse, which only weighed half a pound and required immaculate balance.

  ‘Probably fall to pieces if Quickers starts playing up.’

  Eddie had been hugely helped also by Gala. Quickly had usually jumped straight out of the starting gates and exhausted himself battling for his head. Now he settled into a steady rhythm, had stopped weaving from right to left like a drunkard, and ran in a straight line. He was also much stronger, and had filled out in the right places.

  ‘You’ve worked wonders, both of you,’ said Rupert, and put Eddie up on Quickly in the 2000 Guineas, and on Touchy Filly in the 1000 Guineas.

  There were snide remarks within the yard, particularly from Walter Walter, which hardened Eddie and Gala’s resolve to prove they would triumph without Gav.

  Dora moved in to improve Eddie’s image.

  ‘You never pat your horses after you’ve won,’ she told him sternly, ‘and you should rake their manes, pull their ears, and kiss them when you get off.’

  ‘Whatever for? Formula One drivers don’t pat their cars.’

  ‘They probably thank their mechanics. The public love jockeys who love their horses and reward them. You must also praise the horse and the team when you talk to the television, and always flatter the interviewer by using their Christian name – and thank Rupert for putting you up. And try and well up after a win to show you care, or at least run your fingers along your cheekbones after a victory. The public love tears.’

  Then when Eddie put his fingers down his throat: ‘You’re already the handsomest jockey in England, this will make you the most lovable and a poster boy. The more visible you are, the more other trainers will want to put you up, which will galvanize Rupert into giving you more rides.’

  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.