Taking the Fall

by A. P. McCoy

  ‘He can come here any time he likes,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I think he would like to ask your advice about one or two things. He’d love for you to go down. Says he’ll send a car to collect you if you’re willing.’

  ‘I’ll not, son. The old back has been playing me up a bit. It’s a long time sitting in the car.’

  ‘He mentioned a troublesome mare. You should have a look at her for him.’

  ‘You tell Petie he’s welcome at my door any day of the week.’

  ‘He can hardly bring his mare to Grey Gables, now can he?’

  ‘Switch that radio on, would you, Duncan? Get a bit of evening news.’

  With Charlie, Duncan felt like he was bringing a horse to a birch fence. But this time there was no way of getting him to jump over it. He switched the radio on. The Ayatollah Khomeini had seized power in Iran. For some reason Charlie found it amusing to just say the words Ayatollah Khomeini. He said he’d once trained a horse called The Ayatollah.

  ‘Really?’ Duncan said.

  ‘All right,’ Charlie said. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What? He says what. I know you too well, son. Come on now: either piss or get off the potty.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Well, I can’t make you speak.’

  ‘How much do you trust me?’

  ‘Trust you?’ He extended his arm in front of him. ‘If you asked me for that hand I’d give it you. What are you talking about, trust?’

  ‘If I said to you I was riding a horse owned by Cadogan and trained by Osborne, would you trust my reasons?’

  Charlie glazed over at the naming of his enemies. He gazed beadily at his son. Then he reached over for a samosa and bit it in a clean snap.

  Ludlow wasn’t all fun. Duncan came second in the fourth race for Petie on an expected winner. Maybe he’d been distracted by the Pinkland Insurance Handicap Chase and all that went with it. It wasn’t that it was a big race: it wasn’t. Fourth rate, with ten runners of mixed ability, it should have been bread and butter to him.

  But he had to find a private spot before the race to go and vomit.

  William Osborne didn’t help. He hadn’t wanted Duncan on his horse, and though he didn’t actually say so, his face made it plain. He wouldn’t even look Duncan in the eye, in the paddock or anywhere else. Cadogan had overridden his objections.

  Osborne, his face as hard as new saddle leather, bustled around in the paddock, barging Duncan out of the way. The show of public disrespect was obvious to anyone who happened to have been watching. Bite your tongue, Duncan said to himself, bite your tongue. Finally, pretending to check the horse’s girth and still without looking him in the eye, Osborne said, ‘This goes one way and one way only, and that’s on the inside. All the way. You hang inside, I don’t care what happens. That’s what Parisa does and that’s what you’ll do.’

  Duncan heard himself saying, ‘Maybe we should have a cup of tea and a chat about it?’

  Osborne looked at him for the first time. His eyes were boiling. He turned and walked away. One of the stable hands helped Duncan into the saddle.

  Duncan cantered down to the start feeling the adrenalin start to pump. His muscles were unusually tense and he felt Parisa pick up his anxiety. The horse spooked at a passing spectator and bucked twice. Duncan cursed. He knew he should be relaxing the animal and showing his authority, but he felt his experience draining away. Get a grip, he told himself, get a grip.

  Parisa hung back at the opening of the race and Duncan in his anxiety failed to push him on to get a good position. He would have liked to have tucked in about third or fourth, but the pack had settled on the inside and he was pretty much boxed in most of the way round. But he felt that Parisa had the strength to muscle through, come the ask, if only he could stay focused. You’re riding like an amateur, he thought. He was travelling in a thicket of jockeys. He knew he had to get out, make space, make daylight. Twice he did see daylight, but on the outside rather than the inner. He would have gone for it, but he needed to stick to Osborne’s instructions if he was going to be allowed to ride for Cadogan again. While his instincts screamed at him to chase the daylight, he hung on the inside.

  He was getting jostled and he knew it was time to do the jostling himself. He had to find the strength to make it happen. Trying to press forward, he was nudged by a muscular grey. Parisa stumbled on a divot and lost his advantage. Duncan knew the error was his own but he cursed Parisa on.

  With two fences to go, he was still boxed in. Parisa cleared the birch nicely, showing no sign of his tricks or hesitation. But there was no way through unless Duncan took him out wide. Approaching the last fence, he gave Parisa a squeeze. It should have been impossible, but the brave horse surged forward and pushed its way between two other runners. Duncan’s heart leapt: suddenly he could see that beam of light again. Coming into the final jump, he battled again for space and landed sweetly on the other side. It was all going to be on the run-in. Parisa was giving everything, the crowd was roaring, but he just didn’t have enough to take him past the two lead horses and came in third.

  Duncan was pissed off. He knew Parisa was a fine animal and could have won that race on the bridle. Osborne’s instructions had held him back. The question was: could Duncan keep his mouth shut?

  He knew exactly what was coming.

  Osborne was waiting in the paddock. ‘You fucked the start. You lost it from the off.’

  ‘A good trainer would sort that out,’ Duncan said mildly.

  The argument was bullshit both ways, and Duncan knew it. Any horse could get off to a slow start and you couldn’t always figure why. He got down off Parisa, gave him a good pat and held his head to show he was happy with him. He took the saddle off him and went off to the Weighing Room without another word to Osborne.

  Petie sidled up to him. ‘You should have gone wide.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’

  ‘So why didn’t ye?’

  Duncan gave him the look.

  ‘Ha!’ Petie said. ‘Fuckin’ trainers, eh? Ha ha. Well, get those colours off your back and mine on.’

  But the final race of the day was a crash. Three quarters of the way round, the girth snapped and Duncan had to pull up.

  It was disappointing all round. But he’d ridden for Cadogan, he’d ridden as he’d been asked and – more less – he’d kept his wild mouth shut.

  Mission accomplished.

  Duncan and Kerry found a decent flat to share in Banbury. It was close enough to Petie’s yard across the border in Warwickshire and it was a good central point from which to get to most racetracks. It was located in the centre of town, close to the pubs and shops. It was also just a few doors away from a Chinese takeaway called Two Lucky. Kerry, a great fan of Chinese food, couldn’t stop going on about how they wouldn’t even have to cook. They could live out of silver-foil containers for the rest of their days.

  The very first time they went into Two Lucky, they were recognised by the owner. He was an avid gambler and he’d seen their faces on TV. Mr Lee’s lips were pulled back in what seemed to be a permanent smile. ‘You two jockey!’ he shouted at them with glee.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  Mr Lee had just a few strands of black hair combed back over his head, and black-framed spectacles with thick lenses. Behind the lenses his dark eyes swam with happiness. ‘You no pay!’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes, we pay,’ Kerry said.

  ‘No, you no pay! You gimme gootip!’

  Despite their protests, Mr Lee gave them their chow mein and beef in black bean sauce – and a lot other things they hadn’t ordered besides – and wouldn’t accept a penny. The same thing happened every time they went in.

  ‘We’re going to have to give him a lead sooner or later,’ Kerry said.

  ‘We can tell him this or that horse I’m riding has a good chance,’ Duncan said. ‘Jeez, this black bean sauce is good.’

  ‘One chow mein,’ Kerry taun
ted, ‘and you’re in Mr Lee’s pocket.’

  They were in the Banbury Cross one evening, eyeing up the local talent. ‘What’s going on with Roisin, then?’ Duncan wanted to know.

  ‘She’s a grand lass.’

  ‘I know that. But I think she’s gone a bit sweet on you, Kerry.’

  ‘Never mind sweet. What about yourself with this Lorna Cadogan? You keep buying her presents. A silk scarf here. A bracelet there. I’ve seen the way she looks at you with those puppy eyes. She wants your little jockey babies, so she does.’

  ‘I like the girl.’

  ‘I know you like the girl. You’re not after fucking her around, though, are you? Just to pick up those rides?’

  ‘I told you: I like her.’

  ‘Only that wouldn’t be good, now would it, Duncan? If that’s what you were doing?’

  ‘Hey! We were talking about you and Roisin! How did you switch it to me?’

  ‘Look now,’ said Kerry. ‘What do you think of those two at the bar? We’ve got to christen this new pad, haven’t we?’

  Maybe girls thought they would get something exciting in the saddle; or maybe it was just the novelty. But being able to say you were a top-flight jockey was good pulling power. Kerry went up to get another couple of drinks and happened to fall into conversation with the two girls at the bar. He had the ability to make a girl laugh in the first two minutes of talking to her.

  He brought the pair of them back to the table and introduced them to Duncan. The boys shot the perfectly true line that they were new to the area and needed to hear about where to go. Then they let slip that they’d like to stay away from places that might have paparazzi around, since they were both top jockeys and needed to keep their names and faces out of the newspaper. Even if they’d already figured that the paparazzi were as likely in Banbury as titties on a bull.

  ‘Champagne!’ said one of the girls, a willowy brunette with giant eyelashes and pink lipstick.

  ‘It’s slimming,’ Duncan said.

  ‘I never knew that,’ the other girl said, heavier built but very pretty, with a scoop blond haircut like a wave under her chin.

  ‘It’s just what we tell people,’ Kerry said, smiling. ‘Would you like a glass or shall we just talk about it till it goes flat?’

  ‘Where do you girls work?’ Duncan wanted to know.

  ‘Electrical goods,’ said one.

  ‘Electrical goods,’ said the other.

  ‘Ah! Vibrators!’ said Kerry, and for some reason the brunette snarfed champagne bubbles down her nose.

  Right, at least you’re in then, Kerry, thought Duncan.

  When the girls went off to the pub toilets together, clutching their handbags, Kerry said, ‘Mine’s the brunette. Yours is good-looking too.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Duncan said. ‘She’s got more chins than a Chinese telephone directory!’

  ‘You’ve got shit in your eye from that last race! She’s beautiful. We can’t all be whip-thin. Come on, we’re on for christening our new flat.’

  ‘I dunno, Kerry, I’m not up for it.’

  ‘Up for it or not, you better play my wingman. Look, here they come again.’

  It wasn’t long before Kerry had invited the girls to come and look over their new pad, where he promised there was more bubbly and music on his shiny new Bang & Olufsen stereo system. The flat was about ten minutes’ walk from the pub. Back there they popped a new bottle, talked for a bit and danced a little. Pretty soon Kerry had manoeuvred his brunette into his bedroom.

  Duncan and the other girl chatted for a while, until she started looking at her watch.

  ‘You want me to call you a taxi?’ he said.

  ‘That would be great. Will my friend be okay?’

  ‘I’ll vouch for Kerry.’

  After the girl had gone, Duncan got ready for bed. Kerry and his new girl were whipping up a storm in Kerry’s bedroom. The girl was giggling and laughing. Whatever was happening, they were having a lot of fun in there. The sort of fun Duncan had just denied himself.

  There was a reason why he hadn’t wanted to be with that girl, and that reason had surprised him. It was Lorna. He hadn’t wanted to be unfaithful to her. Christie, on the other hand, had barely crossed his mind. He was screwing Christie to get back at Sandy Sanderson, pure and simple. With Lorna it had started out that way too: a way of getting at Cadogan. But something had changed along the way. In a process that he could never have predicted, he had started to get real feelings for Lorna. She was fun and she was clever, but there was also a wild streak to her, and at the moment she was pouring all that wild energy into her relationship with Duncan.

  He stood in the bathroom, watching himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. Oh quit being so bloody wet, he said to himself.

  The next morning being a Sunday, with no race meetings or work, Duncan was enjoying a lie-in until he heard the phone ringing in the hall. He got out of bed draped in a sheet and answered the call. It was Roisin. She’d gone to the supermarket, she said, and she guessed they’d have nothing in the new flat so had bought a whole mess of bacon and bread and ketchup and she thought to drop round and they could christen the flat with bacon sandwiches.

  ‘Christen the flat,’ Duncan repeated dumbly. ‘With bacon sandwiches.’

  ‘Sure,’ Roisin said cheerily. ‘I’ll be half an hour. Tops.’

  ‘Okay,’ Duncan said. ‘Okay.’

  He put the phone down and knew he was going to have to wake Kerry. Roisin’s relationship with Kerry had become semi-serious. He knew for a fact they were having sex. If Roisin got there to find a girl in his bed, there would be fireworks.

  He pulled on his jeans and gently opened Kerry’s bedroom door. The occupants slept, Kerry snoring lightly. An empty champagne bottle lay on its side at the foot of the bed. Duncan tiptoed to the bed and tried to rouse Kerry. Kerry didn’t stir, so Duncan pinched his nose. Kerry snorked and opened his eyes. Duncan pressed a finger to his lips and beckoned his flatmate out of the room.

  ‘You’ve got twenty-five minutes before Roisin gets here,’ he told the buck-naked Irishman.

  Kerry’s eyes flared wide open. ‘Holy Mother of God! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Roisin will string me up by the balls! Look, you’ll have to get in bed with the girl!’

  ‘That won’t work.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Okay, don’t panic. Here’s an idea.’

  Five minutes later, Kerry was dressed in full jockey kit. White poloneck undershirt, jodhpurs, boots, gloves, helmet, set of goggles hanging from his throat. He even held a riding whip as he shook the girl awake.

  ‘Huh?’ she said as she blinked at him.

  ‘I’m off to work,’ Kerry said.

  ‘It’s a Sunday.’

  ‘Oh, we jockeys don’t take a day off, didn’t you know that? Now if you’re quick out of bed I’ll give you a ride home in the car. To wherever you live.’

  ‘No breakfast?’

  ‘Breakfast? Ha ha! We jockeys don’t go in for breakfast. I’ll have to hurry you, though, my darlin’, because I’m already a wee bit late. For the first race. Training. Gallops. You know.’ He slapped the side of his riding boot with his stick for emphasis.

  From the hall Duncan shouted, ‘You’d better get a move on, Kerry. You know what that bastard is like if you’re late!’

  The girl swung her legs out of bed, frowned and found her bra and knickers. Within five minutes Kerry was driving her across town.

  When he got back, Roisin was already in the flat, cooking breakfast. Kerry marched in and kissed her warmly. At least he’d taken his helmet and goggles off.

  ‘What the hell are you kitted up for?’ Roisin said.

  ‘New stuff. You know. Just giving it a stretch. Awfully tight.’ He held aloft a jar of instant coffee. ‘Plus I nipped out for coffee. Thought you might forget it.’

  Roisin wrinkled her nose and turned back to the lean bacon sizzling in the pan.

  ‘It’s beautiful!
’ Lorna said when she opened the package. She held the scarf to the light so it could shimmer on the mulberry silk.

  ‘It’s silk,’ Duncan said.

  ‘It’s not just silk! It’s the design. This is a Daniel Hanson silk scarf. I’ve seen them in Harrods. They cost a fortune!’

  ‘I’m not much good at picking out gifts for women. No practice.’

  This was true. Duncan’s mother had never been around for him to buy gifts for at Christmas or on birthdays. But that was something they had in common. Lorna had been brought up by Cadogan and a series of nannies. Cadogan had never remarried, though he’d had a series of girlfriends, some of whom Lorna even called Mummy. The absence of a close mother had shaped Duncan and Lorna in similar ways.

  ‘It’s way too expensive. You can’t afford this. I’ve got all the fancy things I want. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘You don’t want it?’

  ‘No, I love it! It’s gorgeous. But what I’m saying is that an hour in your company is more to me than anything you could buy me. I mean that.’

  It was Sunday afternoon and they were going out for a hack on two quiet mares that Cadogan stabled near the house. The sun had broken out and it was perfect hacking weather. Along the way Duncan broke the story of Kerry in his full racing kit. Lorna laughed. She asked him if he too had had someone in his bed, and when he said no, she accepted it, and he liked that she did. In return she told him a couple of stories about her father being caught with his pants down by potential stepmothers.

  It was a fine afternoon. When they were unsaddling the mares afterwards, Lorna said, ‘This has been the best day of my life.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ said Duncan.

  She told him that Cadogan kept a yacht moored in Brighton Marina. She suggested they go down there for a couple of days when he had a space in his calendar. He said they would.

  But it wasn’t to be Lorna with whom Duncan took his next break; it was George Pleasance.

  George called him up one night. ‘Got your passport in order?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How’s your golf swing?’