I walk to the main entrance to the yard, and wait. The first lads to arrive at work, Liam and Amit, laugh when they see me at the gate.
‘Whoa, it’s Bug,’ says Amit. ‘Straight out of Night of the Living Dead.’
‘Glutton for punishment, aren’t you, Bug?’ Liam laughs as he walks on, but admiration is in his voice.
Who, exactly, is Bug?
Deej explains it to me when he arrives. It seems I have a new nickname. ‘Someone said you’d been clinging on like a limpet,’ he says. ‘Limpet became Bug. It’s a good sign, getting a nickname. Bug Barton. It could be worse.’
Angus is less pleased that I am here. He stops when he sees me, and stands, hands on hips.
‘What the blazes are you doing here, lassie?’
‘I’m working. I was hoping to ride out.’
‘After yesterday? Are you kidding me?’
‘I could ride Norewest.’
‘You’re blazing joking. He’s staying in today, thanks to you.’
‘Is he injured?’
The head lad looks away. ‘You can muck out the boxes in the back yard if you’re so blazing keen,’ he says.
After the first lot have pulled out, I walk into the main yard. The only person there is Frank, the old ex-jockey who is now the stable’s yard man. I tell him that I’m going to check on Norewest.
Frank leans on his broom, smiling. ‘Looks like you’re the one who came off worst,’ he says.
He walks with me to Norewest’s box. The horse is calmly eating hay.
‘Are you all right, boy?’ Frank opens the stable door, walks in and runs an expert hand down the horse’s front legs. ‘No warmth there. He seems—’ Grunting, he slips down on one knee and looks more closely at Norewest’s stomach. He reaches out to touch a spot behind the horse’s front legs. There is a dark stain there, where purple iodine has been sprayed.
‘Has he cut himself?’ I ask.
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Frank is shaking his head. ‘I’ve not seen this for a while. Let me see the girth you wore yesterday.’
We walk to the tack room. My saddle is on its rack as usual, but something has changed. Yesterday, there was a yellow elastic girth on it. Now it has a leather one.
Frank looks into the big wooden chest where spare tack is kept. There, on the top, is my girth. He picks it up and smiles grimly. Halfway along its length, there is a dark stain, which is still damp. He touches it, then looks at his fingertip. It is red. Blood.
‘Nasty old racing trick, that is. Someone slipped a filed-down tack into the girth sheath. As soon as the girth was tightened – well, there’s why your horse bolted. Seems like you might have an enemy in the yard,’ he says, wandering off. There’s no way he is going to get involved in any of this.
When first lot returns, I wait until the lads are leaving for their breakfast before following Angus into the tack room. He is looking at the List as I enter.
‘I’ve seen Norewest,’ I say.
‘I’d concentrate on your own horses if I were you, girly,’ he says quietly without turning round. ‘You’ve done enough harm as it is.’
‘His stomach has been injured, Angus. Where the girth was.’
‘Oh aye? You’re a vet now, are you?’ I sense a hint of concern in Angus’s voice.
I walk to the tack chest, open it and take out the yellow girth. I hold it out.
‘Someone put something sharp in the girth sheath. When I tightened it, Norewest was stabbed in the stomach. That’s why he bolted.’
Angus turns, looks down at the girth, then at me. ‘Put the girth back, girl.’ He speaks in a low, level voice.
‘I could have got badly hurt. The horse could have injured himself. It’s cruel.’
‘Pete told me the girth was twisted.’ He says the words quietly, almost talking to himself.
‘I just wanted you to know.’
‘Yes. Thank you. Let’s keep this to ourselves, shall we?’ Angus looks at me for a few seconds. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he adds, ‘Will you be all right on Manhattan for third lot?’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s good then.’
He struts away and, in my mind, I hear Laura’s words of advice to me.
Keep.
Your.
Nose.
Clean.
HOODOO HORSE
AFTER FIRST LOT has pulled out and the yard is quiet, I make my slow, painful way to Manhattan’s stable.
She stands with her head in the corner, resting one leg. Her ears go back as I enter the box but, when I ignore her, she returns to her sad, sleepy state. I lay a hand on her neck.
We’re both alone, aren’t we? And no one quite gets us.
She tenses slightly. She has seen too much of human beings to trust any of them, but there is something about me today – maybe my voice, perhaps the slow and painful way that I move – which seems to calm her.
That’s my girl. We’re in the same boat.
I’ve taken my grooming kit with me. When Mr Wilkinson does his evening inspection, I’ve noticed that he never spends long at this stable. All the other horses have been groomed so that they shine when their lad takes their rugs off. Because the trainer never casts more than a glance at Manhattan, Pete hardly bothers with her.
There you go. This will make you feel better.
Every move makes me wince, but I fetch a bucket and stand on it so that I can reach the top of her back. Gasping from the pain, I run a dandy brush over her. I start gently and, after a few minutes, the aching in my muscles eases. Manhattan allows herself to be groomed, almost as if she can sense that I am in no state to deal with her mad-dragon act.
Soon the stable is thick with dust and dirt. The gleaming colour of her coat begins to come through as I pick up the body brush. Her body is dark with small, delicate blotches of lightness, like the sun shining through thundery clouds, and her tail goes from black at the top to the palest grey at its tip. Her head and mane are a lighter colour, and she has a wild blaze of whiteness between her eyes and spilling down to her nose, as if someone has thrown a pot of paint at her. She has the longest eyelashes I have seen on any horse, and they are pure white. She is the most beautiful horse I have ever seen.
You like being pampered, don’t you?
Her eyes, dark against the whiteness, half close as I run the brush over her.
You’re tired of being fierce. You don’t want to fight everyone.
When I reach for the curry comb, and start working on her mane, she sighs wearily. Perhaps she is thinking of what her life should have been.
Since Pete told me that she was going to be put down, I have asked around. I now know the sad story of Manhattan.
One of the lads, Liam, has told me that she is the best-bred horse in the yard. Her pedigree goes way back to a horse called The Tetrarch, another dark grey, who was a brilliant colt a century ago and became one of the greatest stallions in the history of racing. Fillies bred from The Tetrarch, or from his equally brilliant daughter Mumtaz Mahal, share the dark dappled grey colour and are big, strong and fast.
She was bred by the yard’s best owner, Prince Ahmed, who was a member of the royal family in Saudi Arabia. The week that she was born, the prince had a heart attack. He died a week later.
When she came to the yard as a yearling, she belonged to Prince Muqrin, Ahmed’s son, a man in his twenties. The lads remember how she was bigger and stronger than any other yearling that year. Mr Wilkinson gave her to one of his best lads, a man called Charlie, to break in. He was leading her up in the covered yard when he was found unconscious. When he came round, Charlie couldn’t remember anything that had happened.
Her owner had died. Her lad was badly injured. People in racing are superstitious, and the big yearling began to get a name for bringing bad luck. She had a jinx on her, the lads said. She was a hoodoo horse.
Trouble, I was told, followed her. She was too strong for most of the lads on the gallops. She went mad when the vet or
the blacksmith came near her. She was somehow different from any other horse, and usually in the worst possible way.
But she had talent. Before she raced as a two-year-old, the stable thought it had a future Classics winner. Even at that age, she was fast and strong and could gallop other horses into the ground. But when she first appeared on the racecourse, she sweated up in the paddock, reared up on the way to the start, and raced with her ears flat back. She finished ten lengths behind the rest of the field, tailed off. She ran three times as a two-year-old, each time worse than the last.
There was a rumour that something was wrong with her. She has a strange way of walking and trotting, even now. Her front legs swing outwards – ‘plaiting’, it’s called. Whatever the problem, whether it was in her body or her head, the result was the same. She was a big, expensive flop.
Manhattan. It’s a great name, but I’m going to call you ‘Hat’.
I have finished. Her coat gleams. I want to put oil on her hooves but she lifts her feet nervously as soon as I go near them, and I’m not in the mood to insist. I put on her rug. She takes a carrot from me, and I tug at her light grey velvet ears. I stand back to look at her.
Better, Hat?
What Pete said was right. Her career is over. She is now five, quite old for a flat-racer. Most owners would quietly sell her off to go hurdling or to race in Hong Kong or somewhere, maybe breed from her. But the Saudis are great believers in bloodlines. No bad blood, or dodgy genes, should be passed down to future generations of thoroughbreds.
Manhattan has had her chance. It is just a matter of time before she is taken away to be destroyed.
I won’t let it happen, Manhattan. We’ll be in this together.
Later that morning, we join the six other horses in the yard for third lot. Laura’s there, and Deej, Tommy, Amit, Liam and one of the younger lads, Fergus.
They glance at me, surprised, as I enter.
‘Giving us another show today, are you, Bug?’ Tommy calls out.
‘Nah, I think I’ll take it a bit easier,’ I say.
‘She’s almost as tough as you, Laura,’ says Amit.
Laura smiles at him, but avoids looking at me. ‘Don’t mess with the girls,’ she says.
The guv’nor walks in, hands in pockets, and stands in the centre of the ride, watching us.
‘All right, Jay?’ he calls out.
‘Yes, sir. Fine.’
‘Angus spoke to me. Said business with Norewest not your fault. Horse spooked by something. Got a bit of a saddle sore. Noticed last night.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Glad you’re back. In one piece.’
When the string files out of the yard into the sunlight, I pull Manhattan aside and let the others pass so that she can take her normal place at the back.
Today I find that I no longer have to coax and kick her along to make her walk out. I talk to her as we go. She relaxes, looking about her and taking an interest in what is going on.
There is a surprise on the gallops. The trainer is standing by the rails about halfway up the all-weather track.
‘We’re doing a half-speed,’ Deej calls back. ‘Keep twenty lengths between you. Bring Manhattan up last. If she won’t start, we’ll meet you back here.’
We circle at the start of the track. One after the other, the horses set off. Ahead of me, Liam looks over his shoulder.
‘She won’t go, Bug. Last time she dug her toes in.’
Four horses left, three. I feel Manhattan tense beneath me. I lay a hand on her shoulder. I trace the heart.
Liam calls back, ‘See you back here, Bug.’
All right, girl. Our first canter. Let’s make this good.
I lead her towards the track. Her ears flick back uncertainly.
Forget the memories, Hat. This is different.
She is walking stiff-legged now. Liam is ten lengths ahead of us. I gather up my reins and, for a moment, Manhattan stops in her tracks.
Come on, girl. For me.
I click my teeth, as I used to with Dusty. The ears go forward. With an unladylike grunt, Manhattan sets off.
Her head is low and she takes a strong hold of the bit. There is a sharp twinge in my back from the fall yesterday. She has such a giant stride that it takes me about fifty metres before I realise that, even though she is only cantering, we are closing on the horse in front.
Easy, Hat.
I take a pull on the reins and she slows, as graceful as a ballet dancer. By the time we pass Mr Wilkinson, standing on the rails, a smile is on my face, the aches in my body forgotten.
It is only a canter but, at the top of the hill, Manhattan behaves as if she has just won a race. She shakes her head like a two-year-old, jogs sideways.
You like stretching your legs, don’t you, girl?
Ahead of me, Liam shakes his head, ‘Are you giving that horse drugs?’ he says. ‘I’ve never seen her do that before.’
She has calmed slightly by the time we file past the trainer on our way back down the hill.
‘All right, Deej?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tommy?’
‘Yes, sir.’
I’ve noticed that when Mr Wilkinson asks how a horse has gone, he is not looking for conversation. Unless the horse has coughed or gone lame, there is only one answer he is looking for.
‘All right, Liam?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right, Jay?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The trainer follows Manhattan with his eyes. He murmurs something to himself, then turns to walk back to his car.
‘All done.’ That’s what I think he said. Or it might have been, ‘Well done.’
The sun is shining on the heath, skylarks are singing in the blue sky. On our way home, the lads include me in their chat. I’m Bug, I’m one of them. Quietly, so that no one except my horse can hear me, I sing one of the songs that my mum used to love.
Row, row, row your boat, Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is but a dream.
I’m still humming as we walk down the horse path towards the main yard. I loosen Manhattan’s girths and give her a pat on the neck but, as we get closer to the stables, her ears flicker back and the spring goes out of her step.
There is a movement in the shadowy passageway leading into the back yard. Briefly, I see the outline of a figure carrying a pitchfork.
Eyes.
Watching.
Us.
RED FIRE
THE WOUND ABOVE my eyes grows crusty. The scab comes off. The scar grows paler until it becomes a slash of white on my sunburned face. Summer passes.
Now and then, when I’m feeling lonely, memories of the past appear in my mind like uninvited guests. Drawing back the curtains in my room to see Dusty looking up at me from the stable yard. Riding across the fields with Michaela. Being driven home from pony-racing by Uncle Bill. The voice of Aunt Elaine from the next-door room. Jay might as well be a horse. It is strange how distant it all feels.
Because now I am a real stable lad in Newmarket. Somewhere along the line, the idea that I am a kid on trial has faded like the morning mist on the heath. This is my new life.
My body is getting stronger. These days I ride out with all three lots. I have taken to spending an hour every evening at the Racing Centre in the centre of the town. There is a gym there where I keep fit. I work out on the running and rowing machines. I do weights. I spend time on the racehorse simulator – a mechanical saddle which helps you strengthen the muscles used when riding a racehorse at speed.
Not that my life is easy. ‘Teasing is part of racing,’ Laura once told me. ‘Having a laugh is how we get through the early mornings, the cold, the long days. And sometimes the laughs are at someone else’s expense.’
‘Particularly if that someone is a girl?’
‘You got it.’
I’m not only a girl. I’m young, skinny. I’m often annoyingly cheerful when I’m with the horses.
Soon after the Norewest incident, Tommy tells me that some new protective gear has arrived for the lads. When I open the chest in the tack room, watched by several of the other lads, I find a padded bra. There are jeers and laughter and shouts.
‘Bug in a bra!’
‘Put it on!’
‘You need it, girl!’
Then the niggle is about Manhattan. In the early days, I find myself getting a bit annoyed when someone uses her nickname ‘Nelly’. Big mistake. From then on, the tune of ‘Nelly the Elephant’ follows me around – hummed, whistled, sung. Some of the lads even take to calling me Nelly too.
Sometimes, as we ride out, one of the lads tells me a crude joke about women. It is a test that I can’t win. If I laugh, I’m going along with the sexism. If I don’t, I can’t take a joke and I get teased even more.
So it goes on, day after day. Now and then, I catch Laura’s eye while this stuff is happening. She shows no reaction – not a smile, not a laugh, not a look. It is a useful lesson which over that long summer I begin to learn.
Don’t let them get under your skin. Refuse to play their game. Ignore.
Angus has taken to putting me on different horses for first lot. At first, I think it is because I am the youngest person working here and have to fit in with the others, but gradually I realise that I am being given the experience of different rides – the mad, the lazy, the tricky, the scared. It is the Wilkinson yard’s rough and ready version of training.
On third lot, I am always on Manhattan. It is the best part of the day. She has discovered that she likes being out, stretching her legs, looking about her, feeling the warmth of the sun on her beautiful coat. I keep her at the back of the string where she has her own space. She walks briskly, occasionally shaking her head like a two-year-old.
My hope, my dream, is that one day Mr Wilkinson will see how she is changing, how her giant stride eats up the ground on the gallops, but it is me he watches. His old turtle eyes look away from Manhattan, as if she reminds him of something bad – failure, perhaps.
Pete is still her lad. When I ask Deej whether I should ask Angus if I could do Manhattan, he shakes his head.
‘Give up on the mare,’ he says. ‘She’s finished. Look after yourself.’
Racing Manhattan Page 8
