High Stakes

by Dick Francis

  Charlie and I contemplated this sombre view and the others came back waving Tote tickets and bubbling over with good humour.

  ‘Here,’ Bert said, slapping me on the back. ‘Know what I just heard? Down in the ring, see. All those bleeding little bookies that we saved from going bust over Padellic, they’re passing round the bleeding hat.’

  ‘Just what, Bert,’ said Allie, ‘do you bleeding mean?’

  ‘Here!’ A huge grin spread across Bert’s rugged features. ‘You’re a right smashing bit of goods, you are, Allie, and that’s a fact. What I mean is, those little guys are making a bleeding collection all round the country, and every shop the smart alecs tried it on with, they’re all putting a fiver in, and they’re going to send it to the Injured Jockey’s bleeding Fund in honour of the firm of Scott, Canterfield, Ward, Idris and Huggerneck, what saved them all from disappearing down the bleeding plug-hole.’

  We opened a bottle of champagne on the strength of it and Charlie said it was the eighth wonder of the world.

  When the time came for the Champion Hurdle we all went down to see Energise saddled. Rupert, busy fastening buckles, looked at the ranks of shining eyes and smiled with the indulgence of the long-time professional. The horse himself could scarcely stand still, so full was he of oats and health and general excitement. I patted his elegant black neck and he tossed his head and sprayed me with a blow through his nostrils.

  I said to Rupert, ‘Do you think I’m too old to learn to ride?’

  ‘Racehorses?’ He pulled tight the second girth and fastened the buckle.

  ‘Yes.’

  He slapped the black rump. ‘Come down Monday morning and make a start.’

  ‘In front of all the lads?’

  ‘Well?’ He was amused, but it was an exceptional offer. Few trainers would bother.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

  Donny led Energise from the saddling boxes to the parade ring, closely followed by Rupert and the four new owners.

  ‘But you’re coming as well,’ Allie said, protesting.

  I shook my head. ‘Four owners to one horse is enough.’

  Bert and Charlie tugged her with them and they all stood in a little smiling group with happiness coming out of their ears. Bert’s mum, Owen’s daughter and Charlie’s wife went off to plunder the Tote, and I, with the most reputable bookmaking firm in the business, bet five hundred pounds to three thousand that Energise would win.

  We watched him from the balcony of the private box with hearts thumping like jungle drums. It was for this that we had gone to so much trouble, this few minutes ahead. For the incredible pleasure of seeing a superb creature do what he was bred, trained, endowed and eager for. For speed, for fun, for exhilaration, for love.

  The tapes went up and they were away, the fourteen best hurdlers in Britain out to decide which was king.

  Two miles of difficult undulating track. Nine flights of whippy hurdles. They crossed the first and the second and swept up the hill past the stands, with Energise lying sixth and moving easily, his jockey still wearing my distinctive bright blue colours because none of his new owners had any.

  ‘Go on, boyo,’ Owen said, his face rapt. ‘Slaughter the bloody lot of them.’ Generations of fervent Welshmen echoed in his voice.

  Round the top of the course. Downhill to the dip. More jumps, then the long climb on the far side. One horse fell, bringing a gasp like a gale from the stands and a moan from Allie that she couldn’t bear to watch. Energise flowed over the hurdles with the economy of all great jumpers and at the top of the far hill he lay fourth.

  ‘Get your bleeding skates on,’ muttered Bert, whose knuckles showed white with clutching his raceglasses. ‘Don’t bleeding hang about.’

  Energise obeyed the instructions. Down the leg-testing slope he swooped like a black bird, racing level with the third horse, level with the second, pressing on the leader.

  Over the next, three of them in line like a wave. Round the last bend swept all three in a row, with nothing to choose and all to be fought for over the last of the hurdles and the taxing, tiring, pull-up to the winning post.

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ Allie said. ‘Oh come on, you great… gorgeous…’

  ‘Slaughter them, boyo…’

  ‘Shift, you bleeding…’

  The voices shouted, the crowd yelled, and Charlie had tears in his eyes.

  They came to the last flight all in a row, with Energise nearest the rails, furthest from the stands. He met it right, and jumped it cleanly and I had stopped breathing.

  The horse in the middle hit the top of the hurdle, twisted in the air, stumbled on landing, and fell in a skidding, sliding, sprawling heap. He fell towards Energise, who had to dodge sideways to avoid him.

  Such a little thing. A half-second’s hesitation before he picked up his stride. But the third of the three, with a clear run, started away from the hurdle with a gain of two lengths.

  Energise put his soul into winning that race. Stretched out and fought for every inch. Showed what gut and muscle could do on the green turf. Shortened the gap and closed it, and gained just a fraction at every stride.

  Allie and Owen and Bert and Charlie were screaming like maniacs, and the winning post was too near, too near.

  Energise finished second, by a short head.

  It’s no good expecting fairytale endings, in racing.