The Nightingale Sings

by Charlotte Bingham

  Then before anyone could add to her humiliation Josephine whipped off her crash hat, shook out her mane of hair and hurried away to collect her horse.

  There was little to add at the post-mortem held over a pot of tea and a plate of doorstep sandwiches Mattie cut them for lunch back in his kitchen. At first Josephine continued with her sulk but soon got bored when both her mother and brother persisted in ignoring her, as they did her continued sarcasm. Finally she came off her high horse and without being prompted admitted that she had been wrong.

  ‘I was trying to be too clever by half,’ she said, ‘and so instead of winning as we liked, I ended up on the floor.’

  ‘Better now than in a month’s time,’ Cassie said. ‘Because we simply can’t afford that sort of mistake. If you don’t mind me saying, Mattie—’

  ‘You go right ahead,’ Mattie said, reading Cassie’s look. ‘You know the horse better than anyone will ever know him, and whatever you say we’d be crazy as hell to ignore your advice.’

  ‘Dexter’s really the guy you should listen to, Jo. I can only tell you what I’ve seen. He’s lived it all.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘Even so, you’ll see when we watch Peter’s video again. Nightie’s still well on the bridle when you have to snatch him up. It’s almost too good to be true. We were going some lick too, weren’t we, Mattie?’

  ‘According to Liam’s stop watch, and even allowing for the fact that the gradient on the track is nowhere near as severe as Cheltenham, Liam reckoned we were three seconds inside a comparative course’s average time over two miles. So that makes the pace not that far off a Champion Hurdle pace.’

  ‘In other words if you’d stayed on board you’d have possibly been another second in front of us which if Nightie was still only in third gear—’

  ‘He was, Mums. I hadn’t asked him anything in the way of a serious question.’

  ‘Then theoretically you’d have beaten last year’s Champion Hurdler by six lengths,’ Mattie said. ‘On the watch, that is, and as we all know stopwatch times are generally only academic.’

  ‘My elbow,’ said Cassie. ‘Your father and I both trained on a watch. Split times might not win races, but they sure as anything show you what your horse is capable of. I knew Nightie’s split times on the Flat down to a hundredth of a second, and so did Dex.’

  ‘I’m seeing Dex tonight,’ Mattie said. ‘I’m meeting him in town for dinner.’

  ‘First thing’s first,’ Cassie said. ‘First we have to decide on what we do next. Or rather whether or not the horse had a proper trial. If he didn’t, we don’t have any option but to organize another one, but—’

  ‘But that might be pushing our luck,’ Mattie said, finishing her sentence for her.

  ‘Exactly, Mattie. Besides, what would we work him against? We couldn’t give him another “race” for ten days to a fortnight, so we wouldn’t have any decent enough horses to run him against, regardless of what weight we put on them. He could give most of your and my handicappers three or four stone and still not be extended, and I’m certainly not going to heap tons of weight on his back. So what do you both think? Do you think we’ve seen enough, and more important – do you think that’s enough ring experience for him? Or will we be throwing him in the deep end without enough rehearsal?’

  ‘He’s hardly a novice,’ Mattie said. ‘All he’s got to get used to is jumping hurdles—’

  ‘With other horses around him,’ Josephine chipped in. ‘And maybe other horses falling around him.’

  ‘Agreed. But he’s taken to jumping completely naturally, and as for other horses, well – he’s had one good trial and a proper race,’ Cassie said. ‘The fact that you came off him might be the best thing that happened. To you both.’

  ‘So that’s it, then. We go to Cheltenham just as if he’d had his prep race.’

  ‘He has had his prep race,’ Mattie insisted. ‘Like I said, what happened today could have happened at either Leopardstown or Wincanton. And we’d still be heading straight for the big one without another prep.’

  ‘Good,’ Cassie said. ‘Then Cheltenham here we come. Now let’s go and have another look at the video.’

  ‘I still think you should ride the horse, Mums,’ Josephine said, suddenly sounding panicked. ‘I mean if I do make a mistake –’

  ‘You won’t, and even if you did and you go on and lose, that’s racing,’ Cassie assured her.

  ‘But so much depends on it. I’m not sure I want that responsibility. In fact I know I don’t want that sort of responsibility.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Mattie asked her.

  ‘Of course I’m serious, you dweep.’

  ‘OK,’ Cassie said after a moment. ‘I think that’s fair enough. I guess I hadn’t thought this thing through right, not all the way. Just because it’s something I want to do doesn’t mean I have any right to force it on you, Josephine. No, it has to be your choice, too. This has to be something you want to do more than anything, and if you don’t, if there’s one doubt in your mind or you think you’re being steamrollered, then you get out. It really isn’t fair otherwise.’

  ‘Suppose I did. Who would you put up instead? I mean, why not you? You really would ride him better than me. And you wouldn’t go getting any fancy ideas.’

  ‘No, I’m not good enough. Besides, you’re a far more talented rider than I am. I’m OK text book sort of stuff, but I don’t have the flair and the natural ability that you have.’

  ‘Just look where my famous flair got me today.’

  ‘That’s because you weren’t thinking straight. You won’t make that mistake twice. But even so, if you’re having second thoughts we can easily get somebody else to ride him. As long as whoever it is rides to orders, Nightie’s just a steering job.’

  ‘You bet,’ Mattie agreed. ‘Even Bridie could ride him.’

  ‘Sure,’ Cassie said, glancing at Mattie and winking the eye Josephine couldn’t see. ‘In fact that’s one very good idea. We’ll put Bridie up instead.’

  ‘Bridie?’ Jo protested. ‘You can’t be serious! Bridie rides like a sack of spuds, Mums! And as for her hands! I mean, you should have been behind her this morning on Touch Paper. Talk about a bumper.’

  ‘She rides work very well,’ Cassie said, keeping her face straight.

  ‘She can’t race ride. She couldn’t have won on Touch Paper this morning if the rest of you had been riding donkeys!’

  ‘OK, so failing Bridie, we could put Phoebe up,’ Mattie suggested.

  ‘Now I know you’re all mad,’ Josephine concluded. ‘Anyway, you know Nightie only goes for girls.’

  ‘Careful, sis,’ Mattie warned, his tongue in his cheek.

  ‘I thought it was all over between you and Phoebe, anyway?’ Josephine said.

  ‘There was never anything to be over.’

  ‘Cough cough.’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Now then, children,’ Cassie intervened once again. ‘Let’s all be our ages, OK? But that’s a good idea, Mattie, as it happens. I saw Phoebe riding in a Bumper at Thurles the other day, and I thought she rode a very good race.’

  ‘Great,’ Mattie said, responding to the goad. ‘I’ll have a word with her tonight.’

  ‘Over my dead body!’ Jo said, getting to her feet. ‘Over my dead body do you let that lump of lard anywhere near my third of the horse!’

  ‘We could outvote you, sis,’ Mattie reminded her. ‘You only have a third to our two thirds.’

  ‘Very true,’ Cassie agreed. ‘And that’s precisely what we ought to do – put this to a vote.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Mattie said. ‘Jose? Not that you have much choice.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ she said, sitting back down. ‘You’ve all lost it completely.’

  ‘No we haven’t, Josephine,’ Cassie told her. ‘We all have a share in the horse, so we’re entitled to take a vote. We’ll do it by ballot.’ Taking hold of the notebook by the tele
phone she pulled out three of its small square pages and handed them round. Three votes per share. We write down the three names, Bridie Moore, Phoebe McMahon and Josephine Rosse – that’s if you’re still in, Jo?’

  ‘There are other women riders, you know, besides Bridie and Phoebe bloody McMahon!’ Josephine seethed.

  ‘We don’t have that much time, Jo,’ Cassie continued. ‘And since Bridie knows the horse, and we need to keep this to people we can trust—’

  ‘You think you can trust Phoebe McMahon?’

  ‘Phoebe would give her eye teeth to ride Nightie at Cheltenham,’ Mattie said, po-faced. ‘Of course she can be trusted. Anyway, as our mother was saying, sis, are you still in?’

  ‘Of course I’m still in,’ Josephine replied tartly in response to her brother’s reminder.

  ‘Then write down the three names and then record how many of your three votes you want against each name,’ Cassie instructed. ‘Fold the piece of paper up, and give it to Mattie.’

  After they had recorded their votes, Mattie opened the folded slips, lifting them so on-one else could see the result.

  ‘And the result is—’ he began. ‘Phoebe McMahon – nil points. Phoebe McMahon – no points. Bridie Moore – nil points. Bridie Moore – no points. Josephine Rosse – neuf points. Josephine Rosse – nine points. So by the jury’s unanimous vote, Josephine Rosse gets the ride.’

  ‘You silly buggers.’ Josephine grinned back at the two of them. ‘Really.’

  Thirty-Three

  ‘I don’t like cheating,’ Cassie said to Mattie on the eve of the race. ‘But I don’t see any other way round it.’

  ‘This isn’t cheating,’ Mattie replied, finishing the draft of his intended fax. ‘It would have been if we’d had to have Niall sign a vet’s certificate, but now the weather’s come to our rescue we’re above suspicion.’

  ‘The point is,’ Cassie repeated, ‘that even if the ground at Wincanton hadn’t come up firm, we were going to withdraw him on a spurious vet’s certificate.’

  ‘It happens all the time,’ Mattie said, waving the fax under his mother’s nose for approval. ‘Imagine if we had run him in Somerset tomorrow and he’d trotted up as he most surely would have done, what price the Champion Hurdle?’

  ‘I know,’ Cassie groaned, ‘but it still would have been cheating to pull him out, it still would have been bending the rules.’

  ‘But this isn’t,’ Mattie assured her. ‘I had two jocks who live near Wincanton walk the course, and they both said even if the sun shines all morning which it won’t, they doubt if the frost will come right out of the ground. It’s such a drying course, you know that. Even when it’s heavy going everywhere else, it’s only on the soft side of good there, and so with this dry spell followed by these two heavy frosts – well. It couldn’t actually have worked out better. We won’t be the only horse to come out, you wait and see. Simon McNeill who’s down to ride Jay Arthur and was one of the jocks who walked the track says his will certainly come out.’

  ‘OK,’ Cassie sighed, ‘but what about the people who might have backed him tomorrow? They’re not going to take kindly to the horse being pulled out on the morning of the race.’

  ‘Small beer,’ Mattie replied. ‘I don’t mean to sound hard-hearted but they’re small beer. No-one’s going to put any sort of sizeable bet on the horse until they’ve seen him in action, and my guess is that the few people who might have had a couple of quid on him ante post will double their stakes when he runs in the Champion. Last minute withdrawals happen all the time. That’s racing.’

  ‘Not my sort of racing.’

  ‘We’re not going to throw it all away now, Ma, not now we’ve come this far. We made it clear all along we’d always have to take a good look at the ground wherever he ran, particularly if it was going to be Wincanton because as we said, we don’t want to risk jarring him up at this stage of his preparations. It’s hard luck on the track and it’s hard luck on Nightie’s fans, but really they’re only half expecting him to race. As far as they’re concerned it’s a miracle he’s alive, let alone that you’ve got him fit enough to make a comeback. So let that terrible conscience of yours rest. You’ve done so much right with your wonderful horse, I’m sure God will forgive you for pulling him out of the Kingwell.’

  ‘Do you think you’re right, Mattie?’

  ‘I know I’m right, guv. So just check this fax, will you please? This really is the time to get real.’

  Five days later Cassie met Mike Gold for a drink at the bar in the Dorchester. She was more nervous than she could ever remember being but did her practised best not to show it, just as Mike Gold put on a polite show of pretending to be glad to see her.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Mrs Rosse?’ he wondered as he settled down in front of his glass of champagne. ‘Might this be in connection with this famous horse of yours?’

  ‘It might, Mr Gold,’ Cassie said, crossing her legs and then straightening her skirt. ‘Although of course the horse is no longer mine but my daughter’s.’

  ‘My mistake,’ Gold replied with a smile. ‘Anyway, what’s the news on him? A pity he missed Wincanton, for the punters that is. I can’t say we were unhappy to see him withdrawn.’ Gold laughed, followed by a bout of coughing. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been worth risking him on that ground,’ Cassie said. ‘Obviously a lot of other trainers thought the same, seeing how many other horses were withdrawn. Karen Whiteman pulled out all four of her runners at the meeting.’

  ‘So the plan remains unaltered,’ Gold said. ‘The horse still heads for Prestbury Park without the benefit of a prep race.’

  ‘That is his trainer’s intention,’ Cassie replied. ‘Although he would have been happier getting a race in him. No-one’s ever happy to be going to Cheltenham with a horse who’s not only a maiden over hurdles but untried.’

  ‘On the racecourse.’

  ‘On a racecourse.’

  ‘On the racecourse, Mrs Rosse. I’m sure your son, rooky trainer though he might be, is well enough advised not to send a horse to the National Hunt Festival without giving him some racing experience.’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Gold,’ Cassie agreed. ‘The horse has been working alongside a number of horses. It wouldn’t be very professional to send him to Cheltenham without some pretty intensive schooling.’

  ‘Certainly not, Mrs Rosse.’ Gold took a drink of his champagne and then shot his cuff to look ostentatiously at his gold Rolex, the tic in his cheek twitching twice as he did so. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Rosse, but I have a luncheon appointment in twenty minutes so if we could get to what this meeting is about—’

  ‘Of course.’ Cassie put her own champagne down and made another minimal adjustment to her skirt. ‘Your advertisement in the racing papers has The Nightingale at ten to one ante post for the Champion.’

  ‘That is perfectly correct, Mrs Rosse,’ Gold nodded without ever taking his eyes off Cassie in her Chanel suit.

  ‘Hardly the most generous of odds if I may say so, Mr Gold. After all, the horse has yet to race over hurdles.’

  ‘He has yet to race over hurdles in public, Mrs Rosse.’

  ‘He has yet to race over hurdles, Mr Gold, period.’

  Gold nodded again, but this time slowly blinked his eyes while again the tic tweaked his cheek.

  ‘Your rivals have the horse at twelve to one, and the Tote has him on offer at fourteens,’ Cassie reminded him.

  ‘Then if you’re looking for a bet and there’s better value elsewhere why not take it? That is if you are looking for a bet, Mrs Rosse?’

  ‘It would appear from the odds on offer generally at the moment that if I was, I would be one of only a few. Before Wincanton the best you could get was fives across the board. So somebody’s whispering.’

  ‘As far as gossip is concerned, Mrs Rosse, I’d say racing beats even show biz, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘As I thought,’ Cassie nodded. ‘People are saying there’s
something wrong with the horse.’

  ‘There isn’t any confidence in the market. When there isn’t confidence in the market, that is usually because there isn’t confidence in the horse.’

  ‘Yet you still have him two points worse than the other big bookmakers and four points worse than the Tote.’

  ‘Possibly because I’m a better bookmaker, Mrs Rosse, and the reason why I’m a better bookmaker is because I have a better information service. Now if you want to do business, please come to the point, because I really do have to leave in a few minutes.’

  ‘I want to back the horse, Mr Gold.’

  ‘Very well, Mrs Rosse – and why not? That’s your privilege. But since you’re not happy with my odds—’ Gold shrugged and tapped his cigar on the edge of the ashtray, neatly knocking off a good inch of ash.

  ‘I’ll take your odds, Mr Gold,’ Cassie persisted, ‘because I particularly want to back the horse with you.’

  ‘Could this be something personal?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned this is something utterly impersonal.’

  ‘I see.’ Gold breathed in very slowly and then out very slowly. ‘What sort of wager do you have in mind, Mrs Rosse?’

  ‘I want one to win ten, Mr Gold,’ Cassie replied.

  ‘That makes perfect sense, Mrs Rosse,’ Gold said. ‘Seeing the odds on offer. One hundred to win a thousand? Or a thousand to win ten?’

  ‘A hundred thousand to win a million,’ Cassie said. ‘Tax paid.’

  Gold’s expression changed completely. He cleared the husk again from his throat and shook his head slowly. ‘Nobody would lay you such a bet,’ he replied, in his flat, rasping voice. ‘Least of all myself.’

  ‘When we last met you told me you once laid five hundred thousand to an even five hundred thousand,’ Cassie replied. ‘I’m sure that was a while ago now, so given inflation, what’s half a million more? I’m prepared to lodge the money with a stakeholder.’