Iced

by Felix Francis

  Our starter is a trio of a black truffle salad, a goose foie gras terrine, and wasabi rock lobster with mango and chilli sauce. And Susi has ordered a bottle of very expensive Chablis Grand Cru to help wash it all down, not that I’m having any of that.

  She lifts her wine glass. ‘To Foscote Boy.’

  I raise my glass of sparkling water. ‘Foscote Boy.’

  ‘Don’t you ever drink?’ Susi asks.

  ‘All the time,’ I say, taking another sip of water. ‘Just not alcohol.’

  ‘The only friends I have who don’t drink are all recovering alcoholics.’

  She doesn’t exactly ask outright if I am one, she just looks at me and leaves the comment hanging in the air, as if waiting for a response.

  ‘Poor them,’ I say.

  I am not any more forthcoming and Susi eventually drops her eyes from my face to her food.

  ‘You were telling me how you and Brenda fell out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say we fell out, as such. We just drifted apart.’ Susi takes another sip of her wine. ‘You see, we’re both very competitive. That’s the problem.’ She goes silent for a while, staring into space, before continuing. ‘As you know, I’ve had horses with Jerry for ever, but Brenda only bought her first one about six years ago.’ She smiles. ‘The whole thing is ironic, really. It was me who invited her to come along to the October horses-in-training sale at Newmarket in the first place. Before that she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in horses.’ She pauses, sips some more. ‘I love the sales. Many people use bloodstock agents to buy horses for them, but there’s a real thrill about bidding yourself in the auction. And Brenda loved it too, so much so that she stuck her hand up on that very first day and bought one there and then.’

  ‘A jumper?’

  ‘Well, it was a flat horse at the time – a four-year-old bay gelding – but I introduced Brenda to Jerry and she sent the horse to him for jumping.’

  ‘And hence you became rivals rather than friends.’

  ‘We were friendly rivals at first. We laughed a lot, but she was, nevertheless, always keen to outdo me. I think she bought more horses at the sales just so she could tell people that she owned more than I did. She even outbid me several times on the same horse.’

  I feel it must cost an awful lot to outbid Susi Ashcroft at anything. And I don’t suppose it went down well.

  A waiter arrives to take away our empty plates and then replace them with full ones. ‘Sangohachi pikeperch,’ he says, ‘with sake beurre-blanc, green radish and sorrel. Enjoy.’

  I can’t remember ever having had sorrel before but it has a sharp, lemony taste and complements the fish, which is delicious, and a huge upgrade from a döner kebab. And we still have quail and Wagyu beef to come, plus the dessert.

  ‘It’s all a big shame,’ Susi says sadly, going back to Brenda. ‘We used to have lots of fun together, but that really changed after the twins arrived.’

  ‘Arrived?’

  ‘They grew up in America with their father – Brenda’s son – but he died of cancer so they came to live with their grandmother in her big house in St John’s Wood. That was about four years ago. I think the boys were eighteen at the time.’

  ‘In what way did that change things between you and Brenda?’ I ask, taking another mouthful of pikeperch.

  ‘The twins brought their brash New York ways across the Atlantic to London with them. They were determined to get their own way at whatever cost to everyone else’s feelings. They even threatened me once. At the sales. They told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to bid on a certain lot because their grandmother wanted it. One of them even said to me – with considerable malice, I can assure you – that I had a beautiful face and it would be such a shame to lose it over a horse.’ She shivers at the memory. ‘I complained to Brenda about what he’d said but she insisted he was only joking. But he bloody wasn’t.’

  No wonder Susi and Brenda had drifted apart.

  * * *

  ‘So where is the nearest station that does have trains on Sundays?’

  ‘Lincoln,’ said the barman of the Aston Arms.

  ‘Does Market Rasen have taxis?’

  The barman sucked through his teeth. ‘Not on a Sunday.’

  I’d just have to get one from Lincoln to come and fetch me.

  I took my phone out of my pocket and turned it on. It rang almost immediately – voicemail. ‘You have five new messages,’ said the computer-generated voice. They were all from Jerry Dickinson.

  ‘Miles, I’m outside,’ said the first one. ‘Ready to go when you are.’

  ‘I’ve just been told,’ said the second in a slightly raised tone, ‘that you don’t want to speak to me. I’m not surprised, either, after that performance. But I’m still waiting outside to drive you home.’

  ‘OK, then,’ said the third message angrily. ‘Make your own bloody way home.’

  The fourth was from a little later, during his drive. It was echoey and had obviously been recorded using a hands-free system. And he’d had time to build up a head of steam. ‘Now listen to me, you little shit. Jockeys don’t send officials out to tell trainers that they won’t speak to them. Not even McCoy does that. And especially not a conditional who’s in my employment. So watch your step, young man.’

  The final one was from just a few minutes earlier and was more measured, but still blunt in its meaning. ‘Miles, I’m just home. First lot goes out at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. If you’re not here then, you can collect your cards.’

  I clearly needed that taxi if I wanted to keep my job.

  But was being a jump jockey still my passion?

  Hardly. At the moment, I was hating every minute of it.

  My extended run of poor results had more than dented my confidence, it had torn it into shreds and flushed it down the toilet. But what hurt me more were the continuous, unfavourable and spiteful comparisons with my father.

  ‘Such a shame,’ one of the regular columnists had written in the Racing Post during the week. ‘Miles is devaluing the Pussett name. It would be better for everyone if this flawed son of a great champion found something else to do for a living.’

  I found the comment incredibly hurtful but maybe he was right. Goodness knows what he would say after that afternoon’s debacle.

  But I didn’t feel that I was doing anything different from eight months previously when my standard had been flying high and the very same pressman had hailed me as a possible future champion.

  Nothing different, that was, other than my alcohol intake. Maybe that was the problem, although I didn’t feel that it had adversely affected my riding. It wasn’t as if I was drinking before I went to the races – I hadn’t quite stooped to that level.

  Time to decide if I wanted to keep my job or not.

  I rang a firm of Lincoln taxis and booked one to come and get me. Next, I looked up the train times. The last train that could get me home tonight had left Lincoln half an hour ago. Perhaps biting the bullet and going with Jerry wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.

  ‘I wonder how much a taxi is to Lambourn,’ I said, counting the remaining cash in my pocket.

  ‘Where’s Lambourn?’ asked the barman.

  ‘Between Swindon and Newbury.’

  ‘Blimey. That’s bloody hours away.’

  Too many hours. Even if the taxi driver was prepared to take me all the way there at this time on a Sunday evening, it would cost more than I could afford. But could I afford not to?

  I looked up more train times and found that I could get a train from Lincoln at half past nine tonight and, after a change at Newark, I could be at King’s Cross in London by midnight. Then there were night trains from Paddington to Reading and an early-morning service from Reading would get me to Hungerford by twenty to six in the morning. I could run the eight miles from Hungerford Station to Lambourn and still be at work by seven.

  I looked at the time readout on my phone.

  20:27.

&
nbsp; I grabbed my bag and went outside to wait for the taxi. Getting to Lincoln station within the next hour might be tight.

  18

  After the first four courses at The K, I am completely stuffed. So much so that I scarcely have room to force down the Felchlin chocolate tart, together with Vietnamese coffee ice cream and liquorice caramel.

  ‘Magnificent,’ I say, leaning back in my chair and holding my bulging stomach. ‘It’s a good job I’m not riding light tomorrow.’

  Indeed, it’s a good job I’m not riding at all.

  ‘Do you ride much these days?’ Susi asks over coffee.

  ‘Only the ice,’ I reply with a laugh. ‘This morning was the first time I’ve been on a horse in over seven years.’

  ‘What do you mean by riding the ice?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t come to St Moritz for the horseracing. I’m here to ride the Cresta Run.’

  Susi looks at me quizzically, so I explain to her how grown men, wearing skin-tight Lycra sliding suits, hurl themselves head-first down a frighteningly steep ice chute at speeds close to eighty miles per hour just for the fun of it – no pay or prize money – with the daily risk of concussion, broken bones and even death.

  As I speak, her big eyes get even bigger and her eyebrows climb steadily towards her hairline.

  ‘How often do you do it?’

  ‘As often as I can. The Cresta season runs from the week before Christmas until the first week in March, give or take, depending on the weather conditions. The ice is not artificially cooled so, when it gets too warm, the ice melts and the season’s over. But I’m usually long gone by then. I’ll only be here for a few more days this year.’

  That’s actually because my money is running out rather than any change in the temperature, but I decide not to tell her that.

  ‘But do you ride the ice every day you’re here?’

  I nod. ‘Several times a day if I can. Unless the weather’s too bad – heavy snow or fog are the worst. Tower has to be able to see that the track is clear before allowing someone to start. It’s too dangerous otherwise.’

  She shakes her head in disbelief.

  ‘I only didn’t ride it today because I was at White Turf, but I’ll be there tomorrow morning trying to go quicker than I did yesterday, or the day before. A little bit faster every day, that’s my aim, and I love it.’ I smile at her.

  ‘You must be mad,’ she says.

  Indeed, I am, but my madness long preceded my first visit to the ice in St Moritz. Zipping along the ice at eighty miles per hour is therapy for, not the cause of, my mental health problems.

  They are the result of other factors.

  * * *

  I made it to Lincoln Station with only a minute to spare, having unsuccessfully implored the taxi driver to go a bit faster.

  ‘More than my job’s worth to get a speeding ticket,’ he replied dryly as he drove along sedately at twenty-five miles per hour.

  At that rate, even if he had been prepared to take me all the way to Lambourn – which he wasn’t, I’d asked him – I’d probably have arrived too late anyway.

  I paid him with no tip, then jumped out of the taxi and ran into the station, skipping through the open ticket barriers and onto the single-carriage train only seconds before its doors closed.

  I was laughing. At least I’d won that race by a short head.

  We set off and I began to feel a little better.

  I took out my phone and looked again at my journey details. I had twenty minutes to change trains at Newark. I’d buy a ticket there.

  But I never did.

  It was meant to be a half-hour journey between Lincoln and Newark, with three scheduled stops, but the train actually made four, grinding to a halt in the middle of nowhere with only darkness visible through the windows.

  After about ten minutes of inaction, the driver came out of his cab into the coach to inform me, plus the other three people on the train, that there was a signalling problem and he couldn’t move until he received the go-ahead. ‘The tracks cross just ahead,’ he said with a laugh, ‘and we don’t want to be run into by the Edinburgh to London express on the main line, now do we?’

  Personally, I’d have taken the chance, as the Edinburgh to London express wasn’t due to arrive yet and it was the one I needed to catch from Newark, but the driver wasn’t shifting in spite of my pleading. The train remained resolutely stationary for the next half an hour.

  Eventually we trundled slowly into Newark North Gate station but, by this time, the horse had already bolted, departing five minutes previously for King’s Cross.

  Could anything else go wrong for me today?

  ‘What time’s the next train from here to London?’ I asked forlornly, already knowing the answer.

  ‘There isn’t one. Not until half past six tomorrow morning,’ said the driver. ‘In fact, there are no more trains to anywhere from here tonight.’ He was totally unapologetic, almost as if he was quite enjoying my discomfort. ‘But, if you send your ticket in, you’ll get your money back.’

  How about my job? Did I get that back too?

  He walked off, whistling happily, his work over for the day.

  The other three passengers had already drifted away and I now followed them out through the exit onto the road, wondering where I should go now.

  There were no taxis waiting on the rank to take me anywhere. Why would there be with no more trains?

  I sat down on a bench outside the station building. I was cold, hungry and miserable. Everything I had done on that day had been a disaster. But I knew that sitting there feeling sorry for myself was not going to make things any better. It may have been August but the nights were still chilly in rural Nottinghamshire and I was only wearing a thin waterproof jacket over a short-sleeved shirt. The only thing I could be sure of was that it would get colder as the night went on.

  So I picked up my holdall and went to investigate what Newark had to offer me at eleven o’clock on a Sunday evening.

  The answer was not much, other than pain and despair.

  * * *

  The Fenton twins, Declan and Justin, aka Ronnie and Reggie, are waiting for me outside when I exit the Kulm Hotel after my dinner with Susi Ashcroft.

  I don’t notice them at first but they fall into step with me, one on either side, as I walk down the hill from the hotel.

  ‘Hello, boys,’ I say, without stopping. ‘What can I do for you?’

  They don’t answer. They just walk with me towards the town centre.

  Even this late on a Sunday evening there are plenty of people around, tourists coming out of the bars and restaurants, making their way back to their accommodations. Should I call out to them for help?

  A door opens right in front of us and a group of half a dozen or so spills out onto the pavement. I decide that action is required and make a sharp left to go in through the still-open door.

  Ronnie and Reggie are ready for me. They must have sensed my slight change in step. They each grab me by an arm and lock theirs through mine, frogmarching me forwards.

  ‘We wanna talk to you, Pussett,’ says Tweedledum on my right, his rich New York accent sounding slightly incongruous here among the Swiss chalet architecture.

  But I don’t want to talk to him. I take a deep breath to call out to the group for help but it’s cut short by a vice-like squeeze on my left bicep.

  ‘If you shout,’ Tweedledee hisses with real menace into my ear, ‘you might get seriously hurt.’

  I stay quiet.

  ‘Just shut up and walk,’ says Tweedledum. It sounds like ‘wark’.

  So the three of us stride, arm in arm, through the town centre and on down towards the frozen lake. Am I, like Jerry, destined to end up face down on the ice with a bloody face and a hyphema in my eye? Or maybe worse?

  The twins turn me down a side street away from the bright lights. Is this it? But why? What have I done to them?

  Round another corner and we are well away from any witness
es.

  They stop and push my back up against a wall so I’m facing them.

  ‘Now then, Pussett,’ says one. ‘We wanna ask you some questions.’

  ‘What about?’ I ask, trying unsuccessfully to keep a nervous quiver out of my voice.

  ‘We wanna know why our grandma’s horse didn’t win.’

  ‘That’s simple,’ I say. ‘It didn’t win because some of the others were faster.’

  ‘But, before the race, that Dickinson guy said her horse was a sure thing.’

  I almost laugh. Jerry had a habit of saying his horses are a ‘sure thing’ before races, especially to their owners. Except, of course, in this particular case, it wasn’t true. Their grandmother’s horse couldn’t have been a sure thing because it had been carrying an overweight breast girth and chain-mail boots, to say nothing of the needlessly heavy bridle bit.

  I decide not to mention those. Not least because these two morons would think that I was responsible.

  ‘Racehorses are not machines, you know. There’s no such thing as a sure thing in racing. Perhaps your grandmother’s horse was having an off day.’

  ‘We think Dickinson fixed it,’ says the other twin, ‘with your help.’

  Whereas he might be right about the first bit, he is wrong about the second. I had nothing to do with it until after the event. But if I confirm the first, would they believe me about the second? Not a chance. So I just shrug my shoulders and bluster on.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say. ‘Both Jerry Dickinson’s horses were clearly trying to win. Sometimes in racing things just don’t turn out as you expect.’

  And I rather hope that this encounter doesn’t turn out as I expect either.

  I begin to think that I’m convincing them, but maybe not.

  ‘We don’t believe you,’ Tweedledee says suddenly. ‘Dickinson as much as admitted it when we saw him earlier.’

  I wonder if that was before or after they beat him up.

  ‘And what does your grandmother think?’ I ask.

  They are suddenly angry. ‘It doesn’t matter what Grandma thinks,’ one of them retorts loudly. ‘We are the ones who look after her interests.’