Being Alexander
Page 25
An aaaah of disappointment from the supporters.
They trot to the outside track to go around again. Alexander is missing his touch, his good contact. He is exhausted now. There is little strength left in his legs. Comet has fallen out of rhythm. He switches into canter again on cue, but with a frightened start, moving too quickly. Coming into the turn, Alexander already knows they are not going to make it. The horse turns later than the rider, awkwardly, unhappily. Alexander presses on hard, but Comet is arriving at the wrong angle and doesn’t like the jump. He refuses again, causing Alexander to slump forward against his neck, where he remains for a couple of seconds, unsure of what to do. Should they go round again? No. It’s over. He sits up, recovers the stirrup he lost, his blind toe easily finding it. He touches a finger to the peak of his hat to indicate they are finished.
The spectators clap. Well done, Alexander. Nice one, Comet.
He dismounts. In landing from the jump, the underlying hardness of the arena floor slams painfully through his soles. He is barely able to stand on his sore jelly legs.
‘Good fella,’ he whispers affectionately into the horse’s ear. ‘You did your best. I’m very proud of you.’
He draws the reins over Comet’s head and begins to lead him around to the gate, patting him on the shoulder. Alexander Vespucci is cracked right open, flooded for some reason with a big nameless love. His limbs quiver. His lips are blubbery. His eyes fill with water, which – from habit – cannot spill. Words of endearment flow from his mouth in prayers unbidden by him, drawn upward to the horse’s old ears by a strange reverse gravity, and onward from there to heaven.
‘Don’t you mind anyone now. Aren’t you the fine and handsome prince?’