Jumping to Conclusions (47 page)

Ignoring Jemima, she turned and waved to Charlie. He raised his whip in salute and she giggled. Matt felt another surge of jealousy. Jemima held up crossed gloved fingers at him and moved back towards Gillian.

'I thought she hated racing.' Tina ran her fingers round the top of his riding boot. 'Why the hell is she in the paddock?'

Matt shuddered as the fingers travelled higher. 'Drew's idea of aversion therapy.'

The nails dug into his thigh. 'Sad little bunch, really. The bookseller, the Vicar's wife, the would-be Buddhist trainer, and the playboy jockey. Could turn it into a French art film.'

'You're a bitch.' He spoke the words quietly. Sensuously. The nails dug deeper. 'And we're supposed to be discussing tactics.'

Tina opened the saucer eyes to dinner plates. 'Oh, we are, sweetie. We are.'

With all the jockeys in the saddle, the horses were moving now. Tina, side by side with Kath, had turned into the Perfect Owner, wishing him luck, smiling sweetly. He wanted to win for her. Fucking hell – what a mess!

He plodded in line to the course, then, as the lad let go of Dragon Slayer's reins, kicked off and rode on the wind. The ground was perfect – as it always was at Newbury – the turf luxuriant with just enough bounce to ensure steady galloping progress. God, this horse was brilliant. Perfection. He wouldn't lose on him today. He knew he wouldn't. Let Ned do his worst; today belonged to Dragon Slayer. And to Tina.

He pulled up just past the grandstand, wheeled the horse round and trotted him back up the course for the pre-race parade. Vincent could go back to Milton St John and tell Ned whatever he liked. Dragon Slayer was favourite to win this race – and that was exactly what he intended to do.

The first circuit had been disastrous. Five fallers. Dragon Slayer had avoided the mêlée and had tons in hand. Matt knew he couldn't blow this one now even if he wanted to. Dragon Slayer was determined to win. The crowd had one voice, screaming encouragement each time he came to a fence.

Charlie on Bonne Nuit was scrubbing along beside him, falling a bit behind at the take-offs, but making up ground between the fences. They were on the back straight, leading the depleted field with five fences left to jump. Several of the fancied horses had fallen in the earlier catastrophe. Matt was pleased that there had been no fatalities. It was all part of the game, of course, but bloody upsetting when it happened. Charlie, he knew, cried when horses were killed. Matt never had. He put it down to being brought up on a farm. Life and death both had lesser value somehow when the animals you played with disappeared to market and slaughter on a regular basis.

'It'll have to be at the next.' Charlie was upsides him now. 'The cross fence before the home turn. You won't get away with it in the straight.'

If it hadn't been so serious it would have been funny. Like that ongoing gossiping jockey sketch in
The Harry Enfield Show
that everyone in Milton St John found so screamingly amusing.

'Piss off.'

There was a crashing, turf-shaking thud behind them as something didn't make the final fence. Matt winced and glanced over his shoulder. Philip Franklin was sprawled on the ground. His horse, untangling itself from the dangling reins, was struggling to its feet.

Charlie, sitting easily on the smoothly moving Bonnie, leaned slightly towards him. 'I know what you're up to. I haven't got a clue why – but you're going to chuck this for fucking Ned Filkins, aren't you?'

It was like a punch in the groin. Matt, his mouth already dry, and every muscle aching, sucked more air into his painful lungs and kicked Dragon Slayer forward. Charlie was having none of it. It could have been a two-horse race. The crowd thought it was. He could hear the grandstand erupting.

'Why do you need to take fucking backhanders to throw this away?'

'I'm not taking backhanders!' The words hissed out, hurting.

'I heard you, you shit. At the wedding. I fucking heard you.'

Matt closed his eyes. Dragon Slayer, getting no instructions, was doing what he did best. Racing to win. The cross fence was hurtling towards them. So was Philip Franklin's loose horse.

Delighted to be free, as dangerous as an unguided missile, it cannoned between Dragon Slayer and Bonne Nuit. Charlie managed to snatch Bonnie away from danger just in time. Matt was not so lucky.

Dragon Slayer, rising instinctively to meet the tricky fence just before the turn, put on the brakes to avoid the collision. Matt heard the yells from the grandstand, heard Charlie's shout of warning, then heard nothing else as he was catapulted from the saddle.

Parking Floss beneath the bare branches of a twisted oak tree, Jemima stepped into the desolation of downland December. The steel of the sky threatened sleet at least, and the wind rustled through the dead grass with a mournful Greek chorus whisper. Three weeks before Christmas, and 'In the Bleak Midwinter' could have been written as Fernydown's theme song.

The grim weather didn't seem to have affected the hunt, though. They were there in strength outside the Pickled Newt Farmhouse Eaterie – which Jemima could have sworn had, until recently, been called The Plough or something equally bucolic – drinking stirrup cups. Dozens of foot followers were milling around in Barbours and checked caps, while the Master of Hounds and whippers-in sat ramrod straight on their horses, their scarlet coats a vivid insult.

Jemima took a deep breath. It was the first time she'd seen the hunt in all its glory, apart from on television or tablemats or the faded prints in the Cat and Fiddle, of course. As a spectacle, a rural tradition, it was pretty awe-inspiring. If only they could stay like that, a tableau frozen in time: the horses tossing arrogant heads, the cheeks of the participants made ruddy by a combination of mulled wine and chilled air, and the hounds, tails wagging, noses snuffling, running in skewbald circles. But within moments they'd be off, charging across the fields, braying, view-hallooing, yelling with excitement as they terrified yet another small animal to death.

Jemima squinted through her glasses. There were the James-Jordans – looking like something out of Pat Smythe – and Kath Seaward – and several of the other faces peering from beneath the gleaming black caps were also familiar. She was pretty sure she'd seen most of them in the Cat and Fiddle at some point. The bastards! She'd never ever speak to any of them again. Drew wasn't there as far as she could see – nor Charlie. Thank God.

A British Field Sports lady was eyeing her speculatively, sensing a newcomer, so shoving her hands deeper into the pockets of her reefer jacket, Jemima crossed the road towards a mass of parked cars. Far better to be considered an ignorant townie observer, she decided, than to be mistaken for a camp follower – or, worse still, have the woman in her deerstalker attempt to sign her up for a life of mass slaughter.

Of course, she could have stood her corner and argued the toss, but she was hoping that she would manage to get away with being there today without any confrontation. She certainly didn't want the Milton St John hunting contingent to recognise her and start shouting cheery greetings.

Nearly everyone in the village, seeing the poster in the bookshop, had warned her about becoming involved. Even Gillian and Glen, who were obviously anti-hunt, had explained the wisdom of turning the occasional blind eye. Jemima had considered this pretty unchristian and had said so.

When she'd crossed the road and reached the rows of four-wheel-drives, muddied Land-Rovers and gleaming saloons bearing this year's registration plates which plainly belonged to the hunt supporters, she glanced back across her shoulder. The deerstalker had given up on her, and was homing in on further prey. Relieved, Jemima slipped between a clutch of ancient hatchbacks and rusty vans bearing multitudes of animal rights stickers. These clearly belonged to the other side. She felt more at home here and wished she'd parked Floss nearer.

The more sinister-looking members of the other side, all wearing Fighters Against Racing Torture insignia, were gathered a short distance from the main branch of the saboteurs, blowing on their bare hands, stamping their DMs. The paid-up animal righters, all very studenty and Green-looking, were ignoring them, as though they disliked the body-pierced and dreadlocked crew almost as much as they did the hunt servants. Again, slightly apart from the real anarchists, were a group of the respectable middle-aged middle class, better muffled against the cold than either of the other two groups, but looking no less dedicated to the cause.

The man who had left the poster in the bookshop, and who had called in twice since to see if it was still there, was nowhere to be seen. On the second visit he'd confided in her that his name was Reynard – not his real name, of course, but the one he'd adopted in solidarity with the cause. He had not only had his ears and nose liberally pierced, but also his tongue, which had fascinated Jemima considerably.

'You want to keep neutral,' Tracy had said cheerfully, humping armfuls of' Super Gifts for Christmas' across from the stock-room. 'And he's a right weirdo. Some of them protesters is worse than the huntsmen. More violent. More nasty. You managed to beat Bathsheba Cox and her crew – why don't you just leave it at that?'

But Jemima couldn't. Wouldn't. Anyway, she wasn't particularly worried by Reynard's absence at Fernydown. It was rather a relief. He would probably be as persistent as the deerstalker in canvassing potential members. She didn't want to join any of the groups. She felt fairly confident of making her own protest without the need to resort to violence.

It had been a very strange week.

Matt had been released from hospital the day after the Hennessey. Slight concussion and a dislocated shoulder, along with massive bruising, would put him out of action for some tune. Strangely, Jemima thought, Vincent had reacted extremely badly to this news. Maybe she'd misjudged him. Maybe he really did like Matt. She'd been touched by her father's concern and his apparent need to know every detail of Matt's progress.

To this end, Jemima had called at Matt's house most days, staying to chat and make tea. Matt had seemed grateful, but hadn't wanted to talk much. She wasn't surprised. She was just glad that they were friends again, the embarrassment of the non-seduction night a fading memory now.

Dragon Slayer, however, had fared far better than his jockey: once Matt had been dumped, he'd gone on riderless and beaten Bonne Nuit to the winning post by a short head.

Bonne Nuit actually winning the Hennessey had passed her by in a sort of blur. Gillian, who had one minute been weeping noisily about Matt, was suddenly whooping joyously and had belted off to the winner's enclosure to congratulate Charlie.

The whole thing had become farcical after that. Drew had to remind Gillian that, firstly, she was not supposed to be in the winner's enclosure if she wanted to remain anonymous and, secondly, that as a vicar's wife she should refrain from chewing Charlie's face off. Tina had been strangely distracted, seeming more concerned about Matt's accident than Charlie's victory. Vincent and Maureen were practically doing cartwheels, but stopped when Jemima had said, rather frostily, that she hoped her father hadn't put any money on Bonne Nuit.

'Course not, duck,' Maureen had said quickly. 'We're just dead pleased for Charlie and Drew. That's all.'

Then Jemima had asked Drew where Matt was likely to be and had been directed to the medical centre. By the time she arrived he was being loaded into an ambulance. Tina, surrounded by a posse of paparazzi, was giving some sort of press statement. She'd raised an eyebrow as Jemima panted to a halt.

'It's all right. We don't both need to go with him.'

'No, we don't,' Jemima had said, pushing her way through the viewfinders and scrambling into the ambulance. Matt, still in his breeches and jersey, was blinking dazedly and stared straight through her.

'He'll be fine,' the paramedic said. 'Tough as old boots. Bit confused at the moment, I'd say, and bruised to buggery. Still, we'll whip him off to X-ray just to be on the safe side. Are you coming with him?'

'There's no need.' Tina had lifted her world-famous legs on to the top step. 'He's my responsibility. He was riding my horse.'

Recognising her, the paramedics ignored Jemima completely and started on further intricate explanations of the treatment he'd need. Jemima found herself bundled out of the ambulance with all the ceremony of someone putting out the weekly refuse sack.

'Mustn't crowd the patient,' they'd said, slamming the doors. 'Ring the hospital later for a progress report.'

Feeling completely out of sync, she'd drifted back to the winner's enclosure, because she had no idea what else to do. Charlie and Drew were being interviewed by Channel 4 Racing, and somehow Fizz Flanagan was in there too, looking bewildered.

'They think he owns the horse,' Gillian had said. 'I couldn't really say anything, could I? How's Matt?'

'They've taken him to hospital. Tina's gone with him.'

'Nice of her. Poor boy. That was quite a tumble.' She turned to Jemima and hugged her. 'Wasn't that just the most amazing thing you've ever seen?'

'Not really. I thought he was dead.'

'Not Matt, silly. They all fall at some time or another. No – I meant Charlie's win. Goodness! I couldn't believe it. I thought I'd just burst with excitement.'

And that, Jemima thought as she walked across Fernydown Common to take up a stance somewhere between the Greens and the woolly hats, was where the really peculiar part had kicked in. She had actually found it the most tremendous experience of her life. The whole race, except the pile-up when so many horses went down and she'd felt sick, was completely thrilling. She hadn't removed her glasses as she had honestly thought she would. She had been riveted to every heart-thumping minute.

When the first horse fell she'd held her breath, stuffing her fingers into her mouth as others were caught up in the catastrophe and the crashing, slithering mass of legs gathered in momentum and size like an equine snowball. She'd prayed as the huge glossy bodies thumped to a turf-shuddering halt, and then prayed again as they'd scrambled unsteadily to their feet. True, the first prayers had been for the horses. But the second had been for Charlie and Matt.