Crisis

by Felix Francis

  ‘Did Declan ride for Oliver as well?’

  ‘Hardy ever. I don’t think Ryan liked it. If he was unavailable or if there were two or more runners in the same race, Ryan told his father to engage other jockeys rather than Declan. Ryan regularly made a joke about it – only it wasn’t funny. Not for us, anyway.’

  ‘Was that why the brothers fell out?’

  ‘Not really,’ Arabella said, continuing to be wonderfully indiscreet. ‘They’ve apparently been at each other’s throats since they were kids. Ryan is the eldest son and he has always insisted on his younger brothers being deferential and submissive. But Declan won’t be.’

  ‘How about Tony?’ I asked. ‘Is he deferential and submissive?’

  ‘He doesn’t like it but he fears his riding career might depend on it, and he’s probably right. He was absolutely desperate to keep the ride on Prince of Troy in the Derby, not that that matters now. So he bows and scrapes when Ryan can see him then sticks two fingers up as soon as he turns his back. It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.’

  ‘So you think it’s sad?’

  ‘Sure it is,’ she said. ‘Brothers should be best mates, surely, especially living so close.’

  ‘Do you see anything of Susan?’

  ‘Not really. She’s too damn preoccupied with her kids.’

  ‘How old are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Five and two. A girl first, then a boy.’

  ‘How long have Ryan and Susan been married?’

  ‘Eight years. Same as us. We got married two months after them, even though we’d announced it first. It was as if Ryan couldn’t face being second in that race either.’

  ‘Do you and Declan have any children?’ I asked, all innocently.

  ‘No,’ she said abruptly, and in a manner that made me think that the whole question of children was a sore point. Perhaps that, too, had something to do with the animosity between the brothers.

  ‘Maybe you’ll see more of Susan when her kids get a bit older.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘This has gone too far for that.’

  ‘What’s gone too far?’ I asked pointedly.

  ‘All this Sheikh Karim stuff. I wish he’d never said he was moving horses from Ryan to us. Ryan is livid. So is Oliver. They accuse us of going behind their backs.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  There was something about her voice that didn’t ring totally true.

  ‘So you had no contact with the Sheikh at all?’ I said. ‘I could check with him.’

  ‘Declan and I sat next to him at the Guineas Ball last month.’

  ‘And?’ I prompted.

  ‘We asked him to consider sending some horses to us but we didn’t expect him to move two fillies already with Ryan. We would never have wanted that.’

  ‘But you agreed to take them.’

  ‘Well, yes. But they’re not here yet. We’re renovating some old boxes to make room.’

  ‘You could always tell the Sheikh you don’t want them.’

  She looked at me as if I were mad.

  ‘But why would we? Sheikh Karim is the big catch in racing. Everyone knows that. He’s the next Sheikh Mohammed.’

  ‘But Sheikh Mohammed pays millions for his horses.’ Even I knew that. ‘Sheikh Karim doesn’t spend that sort of money.’

  ‘But he might do in time. Sheikh Mohammed’s first ever winner was a filly called Hatta, and she cost a mere six thousand as a yearling. And look what that led to. Sheikh Karim told us he intends to greatly increase his involvement in the sport and we want to be part of it. He also wants to start a breeding operation.’

  Yes, I thought, with Prince of Troy as his foundation stallion. I wondered if the fire had put that plan on hold indefinitely.

  At this point Declan came downstairs and into the kitchen, his black hair still damp from his shower, and he was clearly not very happy to see me.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ he asked gruffly.

  ‘The Sheikh told me to come round and see if things are ready for his fillies.’

  It wasn’t true but Declan wasn’t to know that.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he said, as if suddenly remembering who I represented. ‘Almost ready. Just waiting for the flooring to be done. Should be finished today.’

  ‘Can I see?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t see why not.’

  We went out the back door and into the yard where his staff were still rushing around with buckets of feed or wheelbarrows full of soiled wood shavings.

  ‘You don’t use shredded paper then?’ I asked, trying to sound knowledgeable.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Declan replied. ‘Depends on the price. I’ve recently switched from shredded paper to wood chippings. It’s cheaper at the moment. Also it doesn’t blow around as much. Less mess.’

  ‘I always thought that straw was used for horse bedding.’

  ‘Used to be universal but it’s so difficult to get good-quality straw these days. It has too much dust in it for my liking, and it can be full of spores. Not good for their respiration.’

  Everything, it seemed, was determined by what was good for the horses.

  ‘How many boxes do you have?’ I asked.

  ‘Fifty-six, plus the four being renovated.’

  ‘Are you full?’

  ‘Bursting at the seams. The four new boxes are already allocated and I’m thinking of putting up temporary stables round the back as an overflow. I have several owners on a waiting list to increase their strings. Lack of space is my main problem.’

  ‘Did the Sheikh jump the queue?’

  ‘Of course he did,’ Declan said with a smile. ‘I’d have cleared someone else out completely if I’d needed to. He’s what I’ve been crying out for to finance a move to a bigger yard.’

  ‘So why have you kept his fillies waiting?’

  ‘Only by a few days. They’ll be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Your father and brother don’t like it,’ I said.

  He snorted, but with amusement rather than distress. ‘Tough.’

  In spite of what his wife had said, I wondered if Declan had actively encouraged the Sheikh to move the fillies from Ryan.

  We continued to walk past the row of stables, the equine occupants sticking their heads out over the half-doors to inspect us. Declan went over and patted a few, including a big brown horse with a black mane.

  ‘This is Orion’s Glory. My best horse by far.’ Declan took a carrot out of his pocket and gave it to the great beast. ‘Three-year-old colt by Sea The Stars.’

  I must have looked blank rather than impressed.

  ‘Sea The Stars won the Two Thousand Guineas, the Epsom Derby and the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe all in the same year.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘Only horse ever to do it. One of the best there’s ever been.’

  ‘Better than Prince of Troy?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ll never know,’ Declan replied, without showing any emotion. ‘His death is a huge loss to racing.’

  ‘And to your brother.’

  He snorted again. ‘He was bloody lucky.’

  ‘Surely you mean unlucky?’

  ‘He was lucky to have had the horse in the first place,’ Declan said with passion. ‘And lucky not to have then ruined him.’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked.

  ‘Ran him too often. Six races as a two-year-old are far too many.’

  ‘But he won them all.’

  ‘Yeah, that was the problem. Ryan was so desperate for winners that he kept going back to the same well time and time again. He was bloody lucky he didn’t burn the horse out before he even started in the Guineas. Golden Horn and Galileo, both Derby winners, they ran only once each as two-year-olds, and then not until October. Ryan was just being greedy.’

  ‘How about Orion’s Glory?’ I asked. ‘How many races has he had?’

  ‘Two last season and only one so far this term. His next
race is the Derby, isn’t it, my boy?’ He again patted the taut muscular neck of the horse. ‘Should have a damn good chance too, now that Prince of Troy won’t be there.’

  How convenient, I thought.

  Declan and I made it down to the far end of the yard where two workmen were busy laying a new floor in the last box.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Declan asked.

  ‘Nearly done,’ said one of the men. ‘Just sticking the last few mats in place. All finished by this afternoon.’

  ‘Good,’ Declan said. ‘Well done.’ He turned to me. ‘I’m trying rubber. It’s meant to cause fewer injuries than concrete, and be more thermally efficient. And it had better be at this price.’

  ‘Only the best for the Sheikh’s horses,’ I agreed.

  Declan shook his head. ‘His two will be in the main part with the other fillies. These will be for colts. They’re the ones that usually do themselves damage by kicking the floor.’

  There was no doubt in my mind that Declan knew his business. He was polite but firm to his staff and he showed a genuine affection for his horses, patting each one in turn and dispensing carrots from a seemingly never-ending supply in his coat pockets.

  ‘Here,’ he said, offering me a carrot outside one box. ‘You give him one.’

  I hesitated and Declan must have seen the look on my face.

  ‘Not frightened of him, are you?’ he said, with a mixture of amusement and mischief.

  ‘No, of course not,’ I replied. It was not so much ‘him’ that I was frightened of, just his teeth, a row of huge white tombstones that were noisily crunching a carrot into a pulp. I had no desire to look any horse in the mouth, gift or otherwise, but Declan wasn’t giving up that easily.

  ‘Hold your hand flat with the carrot resting on it and the horse will take it.’ He demonstrated. ‘Go on, now. You do it.’

  He clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer so I held out a carrot as instructed and forced myself to move my right hand closer to the beast while leaning the rest of my body away from it at the same time.

  I could feel the horse’s breath on my skin as it placed its muzzle down onto my hand, providing a ticklish sensation. The carrot was swept up into the animal’s mouth more by the actions of its lips rather than the tongue as I had expected, leaving my hand dry and empty.

  Declan laughed.

  ‘Have you not been with horses before?’ he asked, the incredulity thick in his tone.

  ‘Never,’ I said, silently counting my fingers to ensure that none had gone the same way as the carrot.

  ‘Not even with a pony as a child?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  In truth, I had always been terrified of horses, ever since I was six and had witnessed one go berserk during the annual Totnes town carnival. The rider had been thrown onto the road and then dragged along, his foot still caught in the stirrup. The vivid mental image of the poor man’s head bouncing on the tarmac all the way down Fore Street remained with me even now.

  ‘I’m slightly allergic to horses,’ I said. ‘Asthma.’ And I did my best to wheeze a little.

  It wasn’t true, but it was the white lie I had employed for many years to keep me away from them. It usually worked.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, although for what I wasn’t sure.

  We continued along the line of stables.

  One we passed was empty, the door hanging wide open.

  ‘Jackbarrow,’ Declan said, by way of explanation. ‘He runs this afternoon at Beverley. Left at dawn this morning.’

  ‘Are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘No way,’ he said firmly. ‘I sent my travelling head lad instead.’

  ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘I go to the local Newmarket tracks and all the big meetings, of course – Ascot, York, Epsom, Chester, Goodwood and so on – but that’s mostly for exposure and PR. My job is to train the horses, not sit in a car for three hours each way just to put on a saddle. I’m better employed here.’

  ‘Don’t you have to give instructions to the jockey?’

  ‘Did that last night on the telephone. And I’ll be watching the race on TV, to make sure he follows them.’ He smiled broadly at me and I was certain he’d said the same thing to the jockey in question.

  ‘Another coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Lovely.’

  He didn’t, however, lead me back to the house but into his yard office, a space clearly converted from the end two stalls of one of the stable blocks.

  Outside the door was a large blue plastic barrel half full of carrots.

  ‘Bella’s brother is a carrot farmer in Norfolk,’ Declan said. ‘These are the ones too bent to make it to the supermarkets.’

  He leaned down and replenished his coat pockets before going in. I followed.

  ‘Hi, Chrissie,’ he said. ‘This is . . .’ He paused. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Harry Foster,’ I said.

  Chrissie was a large woman of about fifty who was sitting behind one of the three desks. She stood up and we shook hands as Declan put on the kettle and spooned instant coffee into mugs.

  ‘Don’t be offended,’ Chrissie said. ‘He often forgets who I am too. Never forgets a horse’s name, mind. I often think he’s half horse. Speaks to them in some language or other that they seem to understand.’

  She smiled broadly and glanced admiringly at Declan before going back to the task in hand, placing coloured magnetic strips on a plastic-covered metal board. Each coloured strip had a name printed on it in black capital letters.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked her.

  ‘Tomorrow’s lots,’ she said. ‘Who rides what, where and when. The blue strips are our lads plus the work riders. The reds are the two-year-olds, white are the threes, and the yellows are older horses.’

  There were far more red and white strips than yellow ones.

  ‘What happens when the horses get older than three?’ I asked.

  ‘I keep a few good ones in training aged four,’ Declan said, ‘and one or two might go straight to stud, but the rest get sent to the horses-in-training sales. Most are sold to race in Europe and some go to jump yards. Flat racing here in the UK is mostly about the two- and three-year-olds.’

  ‘So you’re always having to find new ones.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Nearly half my yard turns over each year. Hence I spend a huge amount of my time at the yearling sales finding the next crop. It’s perhaps the most important part of the job.’

  I watched as Chrissie continued to position the strips in place. The blue human name labels were down the left-hand side and then there were three distinct vertical groups across the board representing the three lots of equine partners.

  ‘Some trainers now do it on a computer,’ Declan said, handing me my coffee. ‘But I prefer the old-fashioned method. No horse gets left off by mistake as it’s dead easy to see if a strip hasn’t been allocated to a rider.’

  ‘Do all the horses go out every day?’ I asked.

  ‘Every day except Sunday,’ he said. ‘If you can’t do it in six days, you’re not going to do it in seven.’ He laughed. ‘Our runners for Monday and Tuesday will get a pipe-opener on a Sunday morning but that’s it. Day of rest for the remainder.’

  ‘Do the horses ever go out in the afternoons?’ I asked.

  ‘I occasionally have horses out later in the day. Often depends if there’s someone available to ride them or if I want to avoid the touts.’

  ‘The touts?’

  ‘Newmarket is a Mecca for betting tipsters – the touts. They stand and watch the horses on the gallops – they learn them all by sight – and then they sell tips to gamblers on premium phone lines. The place is crawling with them, especially on Wednesday and Saturday mornings.’

  ‘Work days,’ I said.

  He looked at me sharply. ‘You learn fast.’

  ‘Oliver told me.’

  ‘But I don’t hold by that. I work horses most days.’

  ‘To avoid the touts?�
��

  ‘Not really. I just find it more convenient to spread them out rather than engage a mass of work riders twice a week. If you really want to avoid the bloody touts, work a horse when none of them are watching.’

  ‘At night?’ I said.

  Declan laughed. ‘I’m not that crazy. Galloping fast in the dark is inviting disaster. Best leave that malarkey to Dick Turpin and Black Bess. No. You do what I did ten days ago. Staged my own Derby trial on the Limekilns gallop at exactly three thirty-five in the afternoon. Pitched Orion’s Glory against my two best four-year-olds over the full mile-and-a-half. He went away from them near the end as if they were going backwards, and the touts, plus everyone else for that matter, were all at the racecourse admiring Prince of Troy as he was winning the Two Thousand Guineas.’ He laughed again at having outwitted the enemy. ‘Keep that to yourself, mind.’

  ‘Why was it so important not to be seen?’

  He stared at me. ‘Because of the price, man.’

  I looked at him blankly.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Suppose I think that Orion’s Glory is a very special horse, so special, in fact, that he might well win the Derby. Which I do. He’s come on in leaps and bounds since he ran at Doncaster last month. Really filled out behind. The last thing I need is for a bunch of bloody touts to tip him to everybody and bring down the starting price, perhaps even make him favourite now that Prince of Troy is dead.’

  I assumed it was because he wanted to bet on it, but it seemed that that wasn’t the only reason.

  ‘Other trainers will make plans to foil you if they think your horse has a good chance. I want Orion’s Glory to be the surprise package of the race – to sneak up and win when no one’s expecting it, when all the favourites are busy covering each other.’

  ‘We’re one work rider short for tomorrow,’ Chrissie said, interrupting. ‘Second lot. Jamie has to go to York. He’s riding in the first.’

  ‘Call Bob Cox,’ Declan said. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘Already have,’ Chrissie replied. ‘He’s laid up with an ankle injury.’

  ‘Have you tried Colin Noble?’

  Chrissie picked up her telephone.

  ‘Who are the work riders?’ I asked.

  ‘Mainly current or ex-jockeys. Most trainers have their regulars but there’s always a group waiting on a Wednesday morning down near the entrance to the Rowley Mile course hoping for a spare ride, and a payday. I use them sometimes if I’m short. May have to do that tomorrow.’