She sat, still staring at the Chair. Last year, she'd ignored the Grand National coverage, dismissing it as cruel and a complete waste of time and money. Then she'd had absolutely no idea what it really entailed to be a jockey facing those obstacles. Charlie and Matt – and Liam and Philip and all the other men who she'd met in Milton St John – risked their lives doing this every day. And today more than ever.
'That outfit really suits you – oh, I say ... You all right, duck?' Maureen, absolutely dazzling in black-and-gold lurex, leaned across the table. 'You've gone as white as a sheet.'
'Fine. I'm fine, thanks.'
'Right exciting all this, don't you think? And so kind of Gillian to get us into the toffs' enclosure.'
Jemima nodded. The jumps drew her back with horrifying fascination. What about the horses, though? They had always been her main concern. The jockeys had a choice – but no one asked the horses, did they? She'd spent enough time in Milton St John now to know that no one forced the horses to jump: it came naturally. And the horses entered for the Grand National were trained specially to cope with these mountainous fences. She knew how much training went into getting horses like Bonne Nuit and Dragon Slayer absolutely ready for today. She knew all this – but it still worried her.
'They're off!' Maureen roared along with about three million other people, craning her neck to see the start of the first race on the screen. 'Pull your chair round, duck, and get a better view.'
'No, thanks. Honestly, I'm fine here.' Jemima tried very hard not to listen to the commentary; she didn't want to hear the roars or the gasps or – even worse – the shocked silence which obviously marked a tragedy. She closed her eyes and prayed that Matt got round safely.
Jockeys' wives, she reckoned, must die a thousand deaths.
'Here we are.' Vincent put the tray on the table just as the whole bar erupted. Maureen was practically hanging out of the window. 'Took a bloody age to get served. Just in time. Did you – er – have any money on young Matt, then?'
'No, of course not. And I hope you didn't, either.' 'Me? Not a penny.' Vincent sat down and squinted through the window. 'Which is probably just as well, because he's come in fourth of five ...'
At least he was still alive.
'Have you seen the prices for the National, then, love?' Vincent sat back in his chair sipping his vodka-and-lime.
She hadn't. Somewhere, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of gold. Looking up quickly she was just in time to see Maureen's vigorous shake of the head.
'Why? Should I? Is Bonnie favourite?'
'Ten to one and going in all the time.' Vincent clanked the ashtray across the table and span it round. 'The big Irish horse, Jack's Joker, is favourite. Probably the housewives' choice because of the name. Can't think of any other reason. He hasn't got much form to speak of. Maybe he'll be another Foinavon.'
'Who?'
'I don't think Jemima wants to know about Foinavon, Vincent, duck.' Maureen was quivering iridescently.
Jemima thought she just might. 'Who was he?'
'Oh – a horse. Rank outsider. Hundred to one. Won the National in 1967. Practically the only one left standing after a multiple pile-up at the fence after Becher's.'
Jemima felt sick again. 'What? They all fell? All the horses in the field?'
'Most of 'em.' Vincent's eyes gleamed at the memory. 'Just a couple left, I think. Foinavon was plum last, so he avoided the carnage, see? What?' He glanced at Maureen who was nodding towards Jemima like an automaton. 'Oh, right – but of course, that sort of thing doesn't happen nowadays. No – there'll be nothing like that today.'
'Of course there won't be,' Maureen said briskly. 'Now, who says yes to another tipple?'
Jemima pushed her glass forward. What would she do if that sort of thing happened again? How could she just sit and watch while horses and jockeys were trampled underfoot? How could she bear it if it was Charlie?
... so Bonnie could end up second favourite – or even joint ..Vincent was still playing with the ashtray.
Again, Jemima was aware of Maureen almost imperceptibly twitching her head.
Gillian would be over the moon if he won. She'd put a lot of her Fishnets money on him already. She was bound to pile even more on today. And she didn't need to lose it again now that she'd come out, did she? 'What about Dragon Slayer?'
Vincent dropped the ashtray with a clatter. Maureen snatched it away and put it on the next table. 'Thirty threes,' she said tersely. 'And lengthening. Now go and get those drinks, duck. I'm fair parched here.'
Jemima managed, by the same method of steadfastly not looking or listening, to avoid watching the following Red Rum Chase and the Aintree Hurdle. Neither Charlie nor Matt had been riding, and she'd clenched her hands beneath the table each time she knew from the intake of breath that someone had fallen.
'Up on their feet,' Maureen said, patting her hand. 'All safe and sound and hunky-dory.'
She still wished that she hadn't brought Floss and could have drowned her nerves in a gallon of gin-and-tonic.
'We making a move then?' Vincent said, as the tannoy announced that the jockeys had weighed in from the last race and that the Grand National preparations were now under way. 'We want to get down there and get a good view of them in the ring, don't we?'
Jemima didn't think she did, actually. But she was determined not to let Vincent out of her sight. Although, she thought as she pushed back her chair, he certainly hadn't had any money riding on anything so far. She'd recognise the signs if he had. She'd seen them often enough. Vincent had stayed calm and detached throughout all three races.
Not now though. He was simply buzzing. Firing on all cylinders. And why, she wondered, following them out of the bar, had Maureen been giving him semaphore messages throughout the discussion on the Grand National?
She shook her head. He was an old rogue. Well, he'd have her to deal with if he thought he was going to go within sniffing distance of a bookmaker this afternoon.
They stood on the rails and watched the horses parading prior to the big race. Thirty-nine of them. Jemima hoped they'd all be alive at the end of it. Gillian and Glen, with Levi and Zeke, were standing with Drew and Maddy in the middle of the ring. Everyone waved.
Then the jockeys spilled out. Oh, they looked so glamorous! So young. Debonair. Like knights about to joust, Jemima thought. Matt was sauntering boldly towards the tall fiery black Dragon Slayer. Tina Maloret, again all in black, was smiling at him. So was Kath Seaward in her trench coat and maroon beret. Matt didn't turn his head. His eyes seemed to be fixed on Tina. Jemima wondered if he still disliked her as much as he had. She hoped not. It would be nice if they all got on. She hadn't expected him to look for her, of course. He had no idea that she would be there.
Still, she thought as she stared at Tina, her bets must be well and truly hedged. Matt riding her horse – and Charlie ... Well, Charlie would be marrying her – or at least announcing his intention of doing so – probably right after the race. Jemima felt her hands tighten on the white rails.
She was, she realised, as jealous as hell of Tina Maloret.
'There's Charlie.' Maureen nudged her. 'Dead glam, isn't he?'
Oh, God. He was. Totally, totally, bloody gorgeous. He was signing autographs all the way into the paddock, smiling, flirting, with no apparent trace of nerves. Jemima devoured him with her eyes. He didn't know she was there, either.
The horses were led into the centre of the ring by their lads. The tension was mounting. Adrenalin fizzed around the course like fireflies on an August night. Bonne Nuit, so much smaller than Dragon Slayer, with his sweet face, nuzzled up against Charlie. Charlie kissed his nose which brought a roar of laughter from the crowd.
Lucky, lucky Bonne Nuit, Jemima thought, sighing.
At some unheard given signal, the jockeys were all legged-up into the saddles. Everyone sucked in their breath and prepared to move to their allotted vantage points.
Not long to go now.
Jemima continue
d to stare at Charlie as Bonne Nuit plodded round the ring. Oh, God, she prayed, please, please let them be all right. I'll never lust over him again, or be jealous of Tina, or, well – anything – as long as you let them get round safely ...
He was walking towards her now, leaning down, whip in one hand, adjusting his stirrups. As he straightened, he saw her. His grin was broad and beautiful and wildly infectious. He stared at her, still grinning crookedly, then winked and blew her a kiss.
Blushing from her head to her toes, she watched Bonne Nuit's gleaming quarters disappear towards the course.
'I'm going to break the habit of a lifetime,' she beamed at Vincent and Maureen. 'I'm going to put a tenner on Bonnie.'
There was a stunned and strange silence. All around them, people were rushing away, eager not to miss a second of the action on the course.
'I wouldn't, duck.' Maureen spoke softly. 'He ain't going to win.'
'What?' Jemima was still as high as a kite from Charlie's smile and the air-kiss. 'Are you psychic or something? He's got as good a chance as any.'
'No he hasn't, duck.' Maureen's blonde hair, tucked beneath the black-and-golden hat, was falling in brittle strands across her forehead. 'Has he, Vincent?'
Jemima looked at her father in complete bewilderment. 'Dad? I don't understand.'
'Tell her, Vincent. Tell her.' Maureen touched his arm with tenderness. 'Tell her what's going on. It's been keeping you awake at nights for too long. And Jemima's got a right to know.'
He told her.
She stood, transfixed, unable to believe it. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to kill Ned. And she definitely wanted to kill Matt.
Apparently some of it was news to Maureen, too. 'You never said that, Vincent. You just said Dragon Slayer would win the National.> You never said he'd bump Charlie out to do it. I wouldn't have condoned that. And I've put all my holiday money on Dragon –‘
'Sod your holiday money!' Jemima howled, grabbing Vincent's shoulders. 'What about Charlie and Bonnie? Charlie could be hurt _ he could die – Bonnie could die! You stupid, stupid, greedy bastard! You've got to stop him! You've got to tell someone! Oh – if you won't, then I bloody well will!'
And gathering up the borrowed coat, she tore towards the course.
'Can't get through here now, madam.' The steward barred her way. 'They've all gone down to the start. Race'll be off in next to no time. You best find yourself a good viewing spot – if there are any left. Don't want to miss any of it, do you?'
Jemima stared up at the Star Vision screen as Charlie and Bonnie circled round with the other horses, taking a look at the first fence, then cantering back towards the start.
She had to warn him. To tell him what Matt was going to do.
They were lining up now. The starter had raised his flag. She had to tell him. She simply had to ...
'They're off!'
A scream of excitement rocked Aintree as the tape flew away cleanly and thirty-nine horses cavalry-charged towards the first fence.
Chapter Thirty-nine
A year. A whole year on. And it was so different. Charlie sat, crouched over Bonne Nuit's burnished-conker neck, knowing that he was strapped aboard a rocket. If he'd thought Dragon Slayer was the best horse he'd ever ridden in last year's National, Bonnie, in this, had got the beatings of him hands down.
Having endlessly discussed various strategies, winning formulae, and plans of action, with Drew, and after watching hours of video tape, he'd elected to start in the centre of the pack. This way, both he and Drew felt that if there were fallers ahead, it would give Bonnie two directions in which to swerve to avoid a pile-up. So far it had worked well.
One circuit completed. Half the horses already out of the race. The Chair – the most hazardous fence to occur only once on the circuit – had been successfully completed, and he still had bags in hand. Bonnie was a star.
Halfway round the course. Exhaustion was setting in. Muscles were aching. He'd have to pace himself for the final two miles if he was going to have anything left for that tortuous run-in.
Coming up to the twenty-first now, and several of the greener horses ahead of him who had survived the first round, belted away across the Melling road and immediately came to grief. Charlie winced. Bonnie met the fence just right. Up and over. They were lying about ninth or tenth and cruising. It was a brilliant feeling. Jack's Joker, the big Irish horse, was still thundering on up front, leading as he had from the start. Charlie was sure that if Bonnie got round safely, he'd have the beating of him for speed on the run-in. Dragon Slayer must be behind – perhaps he'd fallen – perhaps he'd pulled up ...
Matt hadn't spoken to him. Charlie had asked cheerfully if he'd intended to chuck this race away too, and had been met with a snarl. He'd taken that as a no.
Concentrate. The end of the straight and Becher's Brook coming up for the second time. Nice position. Nice pace. Just right. Jump fast. Jump fast enough to clear the fence, clear the brook on the other side, be on course for the next two bends ... Bonnie was well tuned in to the telepathy. They were charging towards Becher's like a train. Now – and up ... Charlie felt the wind punching him, felt it whistling ... Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Bonnie landed just right, seeming to cope naturally with the huge drop. Charlie wanted to kiss him again, but had to concentrate on the twenty-third, and then, almost immediately, the problems thrown up by the Canal Turn. The twenty-third fence – the seventh first time round – was the jockeys' spectre. It was the only fence of the Grand National's thirty that wasn't higher on take-off than on landing, built as it was into a natural hollow.
If you'd got a horse that could pace and jump the seventh, they always said in the changing room, then you'd got a horse that could win the whole race.
Bonnie had managed it twice in copybook fashion.
Charlie exhaled and swept round the sharp left-hand bend on the Canal Turn. This horse was an angel. Pegasus wasn't in it. A dream come true. Jack's Joker was still rampaging away, almost stepping over the fences as if they were pony-club cross-poles. A couple of the horses ahead of him went at the Canal. Tangling their legs on take-off, trying to co-ordinate turning a bend at speed and immediately taking off, proved too much. Charlie and Bonnie, in their central position, managed to avoid the m£16e, and jumping crabwise, landed safely.
Shit. Valentine's next. Last year's undoing. His swan-song fence ... Still, he'd managed it once this afternoon – he could do it again. He almost laughed. He'd blown it last year because he'd been thinking of Tina. He hadn't been thinking of her this year. Maybe Matt had... He allowed himself one further brief delightful thought that Jemima was here, and watching him, and would be there to congratulate him afterwards....
Okay, fine. Now concentrate. No distractions. None.
Valentine's ... He could hear horses gaining on him, but couldn't see them yet. Still no problem. He kicked Bonnie onwards, almost holding his breath. Lightning striking twice and all that. . . The take-off was perfect; the soaring, lung-bruising leap absolutely immaculate. The adrenalin rush was stronger than ever.
'Oh, please God let him stay on his feet...
Bonnie slithered, pecked a little bit on landing, but regained his footing almost immediately and was racing again before Charlie had drawn breath. He lifted his head and looked. They'd kept their position.
Brilliant. Brilliant. Brilliant.
Three fences left in the back straight and then the sweep on to Mildmay and the last two. Then a charge to the elbow and that gruelling, killing, nearly five-hundred-yard final run-in – and the winning post. He was going to do it. He knew he was.
Four horses left standing ahead of him, and Bonnie picked his way fastidiously round the not so lucky balled-up jockeys and the sprawling equine legs. Jack's Joker made a mistake and lost ground. Another faller. Three to pick off. No sweat. He wondered if Jemima was watching him on the screen.
Stop thinking about Jemima.
A monochromatic flash to his right caug
ht his attention. Matt, in Tina's black-and-white colours, was upside him. Great. They could have a real duel now – and Matt was obviously going all out to win. Thank God for that. Charlie grinned across. Matt was staring straight ahead.
'Great ride.'
Matt said nothing. He didn't even look at him. Charlie saw him pull his whip through, watched him yank at Dragon Slayer's reins. It was all done so quickly that he thought he'd imagined it.
Shit – now what was he doing? Dragon Slayer's pumping muscular legs were dragging the huge black body sideways, coming ever closer.
'Keep him fucking straight!' Charlie yelled, pulling his own whip through to keep Bonnie on course, the words almost too much effort. His lungs and his throat were screaming, 'Keep him away from me!'
Matt didn't appear to hear. Dragon Slayer was on a diagonal collision course with Bonne Nuit, matching him stride for stride. Charlie tried to steer Bonnie towards the rails, trying to increase his speed, looking for a gap. It wasn't ideal: the ground had been badly cut up on the first circuit – but it was better than trying to battle it out.
'Fuck off!' he yelled again, as Matt pushed Dragon Slayer ever nearer. 'You'll have me over the rails!'
Jesus – the horses' shoulders were almost touching now. Charlie could sense Bonnie's bewilderment and there was a fence coming up. He had no choice. There was no time to set him at the jump. Instinctively he gathered Bonnie up, felt the muscles tighten, felt him leap.
Airborne at the same time as Dragon Slayer, his stirrups and Matt's could have entwined.
'Get him off my line!' The words thumped out of him as Bonnie thudded over the fence. No artistic merit on that one – but at least they were still on their feet. One of the three in front hadn't been so lucky, and another was tiring rapidly. That left Jack's Joker still ploughing on. Just Jack's Joker to beat on the run-in ... and Dragon Slayer.
There was no daylight left between Bonnie and the rails. If he'd looked down he'd have expected to see sparks. The crowd, unaware of any danger, were loving it – screaming their appreciation – and all the time Matt kept pressing Dragon Slayer even closer....
Jumping to Conclusions Page 46
