Racing Manhattan

by Terence Blacker

  It is like an unruly primary school class, but one where the pupils are big enough to kick you through a door or break your arm.

  Whenever I have a spare moment, I am down in the bull-pen with Manhattan. She has fresh bedding now, and whenever I can I leave the door to the shed open. She can see sunlight, even if it is from the back of a cattle shed.

  Her winter coat has covered up the nicks and marks left by Pete. Some horses become restless when they are groomed for too long. Manhattan loves it, as I whistle and sing while working. Once she wanted to be alone. These days, she has discovered she quite likes human company, so long as it’s of the right sort.

  ‘Routine, that’s what the horses like,’ Ted used to tell me, and it was good advice. Manhattan has had so many shocks and surprises in her life that the reassuring rhythm of things being done in the same way and in the same order seems to calm her.

  She has her own habits too. In the morning, she likes to wake slowly. I have learned that, when I arrive, I should walk quietly into the pen.

  Morning, Hat.

  I stand in front of her and gently rest my head against hers, forehead to forehead. We stay still for several seconds. It is a new day, and I am telling her that I am here, she can trust me. It is our moment.

  Later, as I muck out the pen, she can sometimes be grumpy, like someone who wants to have a lie-in. When I ask her to move over, she swishes her tail in dozy irritation and at first doesn’t move an inch.

  Hey, Hat, wake up! I’ve got three other horses to do.

  She turns her head and gives me a look under those long white eyelashes. I am getting her princess stare. It says: ‘Excuse me, are you talking to me?’

  Enough, Hat!

  I slap her lightly on the hindquarters and, game over, she moves.

  She is odd about her food, I have discovered. However hungry she may be, she will stand, looking at her manger until I have left the pen. As soon as she hears the latch fall, she moves forward to eat.

  Day by day, she is changing. The light is back in her eyes. She may be banished in disgrace to the back of a cattle shed but, in her own beautiful head, she is still special.

  Two weeks after my return, Angus surprises me by visiting the bull-pen late one morning. He watches me for a moment as I run the body brush over Manhattan.

  ‘Don’t spend too much time on the mare.’ He speaks more quietly than he used to. It is as if, now that Pete has gone, he no longer has to pretend to be fiercer than he is. ‘Remember she’s not making money for the yard.’

  Manhattan turns to look at him. Her ears are half back, but at least she is no longer rolling her eyes, baring her teeth and swishing her tail.

  ‘She’s calming down,’ I say.

  ‘Aye. So it would seem.’

  ‘Maybe I can start taking her out with second or third lot again.’

  ‘Your risk.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He looks from me to her, then gives a nod. ‘We’ll try it tomorrow,’ he says, then walks briskly out of the cattle shed, the heels of his boots echoing off the walls.

  I wait five seconds after the door has closed, then give Manhattan a hug around the neck.

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  I know she will be a handful. Since she attacked Pete, her exercise has consisted of being led around the covered ride, and occasionally taken on the walker. Although her feed is more bran than high-energy nuts, she is still a racehorse in her prime.

  When I saddle her up, she arches her back and gnashes her teeth, but by now I am beginning to understand her.

  Leave it, Hat. No messing around today.

  I clamber onto the metal manger in the bull-pen, and alight into the saddle. I let down my leathers a couple of holes, so that I am riding long and low in the saddle, like an old lady going for a quiet ride in the park.

  Out of the bull-pen, into the daylight. Manhattan stops, stands stock-still, her head high, ears pricked. She gives a slow, superior snort.

  I let her take in the sights and sounds of the day for a few seconds. Then I click my teeth. She walks towards the main yard, looking about her as if expecting – assuming – that she is the centre of attention.

  And I catch it from her, this mad pride. I sit up straight in the saddle, a big smile on my face.

  Let’s go, princess.

  The string is in the covered ride when we arrive.

  ‘What’s the big joke?’ asks Liam, on a four-year-old bay in front of me.

  ‘She’s incredible.’

  ‘Nutter,’ says Liam.

  I don’t bother to ask whether he’s referring to me or the horse I am riding.

  It is a cold day and, although it is late morning, a winter mist still hangs over the town.

  As we make our way down the horse path towards the heath, I find I have to keep checking Manhattan, as her stride is so much longer than those of the horses in front of me.

  We cross the road onto the heath. She’s excited to be out. There is a rumbling, writhing feeling beneath the saddle, like an approaching earthquake.

  Calm, Hat. No funny business.

  We walk around the gallops, up Warren Hill, and I sense Manhattan’s impatience. When we’re about to embark on a second circuit, I call out to Deej, ‘Any chance of taking her for a canter up the all-weather?’

  The other lads look at me in amazement.

  ‘What d’you want to do that for?’ Deej asks.

  ‘She’s jumping out of her skin. It’ll calm her down.’

  Ahead of me, Laura looks over her shoulder. ‘Don’t be daft, Jay,’ she says. ‘The guv’nor will go mad.’

  ‘What difference will it make? If she’s finished anyway, it’ll just make looking after her easier.’

  We walk on. Then Deej calls back, ‘Your responsibility, Bug. Meet you at the top.’

  I peel off, and as I break into a trot, Manhattan shakes her head.

  Easy, girl. It’s just a canter.

  No other strings are on the gallop. As she feels the all-weather surface beneath her hooves, Manhattan can contain her excitement no longer.

  I gather up the reins, and we are off.

  The mare drops her head, takes a hold of the bit. We glide up the gallops. Now we are alone in the fog and the only sound is of my horse’s hooves on the track, the rhythm of her breath with every stride. For one crazy moment, I feel like a superhero riding a magical winged horse through the clouds, a girl on Pegasus. We are covering the ground fast, but she seems to float effortlessly.

  When we pull up, there are tears in my eyes, and they are not caused by the cold.

  I’m back, Hat. It’s you and me again. The old team.

  We jog down the hill to the string. As I pass the other horses to take my place at the back, Laura shakes her head, but there is a little smile on her face. I notice the lads watching us. They still don’t like Manhattan, but they know a real racehorse when they see one.

  ‘She goes all right for you,’ Liam says, trying not to let on how impressed he is.

  ‘She’s amazing.’

  He laughs and repeats his favourite word. ‘Nutter.’

  That night, when the guv’nor does his evening stables inspection and has reached my third horse, Something Fancy, I ask him whether he will be going down to the farmyard to see Manhattan.

  ‘That screw?’ He speaks dismissively and is about to leave. ‘Why? Something wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s the same as ever, Mr Wilkinson,’ Angus says. ‘Nothing to report.’

  The trainer is looking at me. ‘Cantering her second lot. Trainer now, are you?’ It is impossible to tell whether Mr Wilkinson is angry or amused. ‘Spotted this afternoon. Little girl on big grey. On her own. All-weather track.’

  I open my mouth but no sound comes out.

  At last I manage to speak. ‘I just wanted to settle her, sir. It was my decision.’

  Mr Wilkinson is staring at Something Fancy. ‘I wanted? My decision?’ he mutters the words to himself. ‘Bloomin’ che
ek.’ He turns to Angus. ‘I’ll see the mare,’ he says. ‘After I’ve finished the back yard.’

  I’ve been calming Manhattan for a good ten minutes by the time Mr Wilkinson and Angus appear in the barn. She can be at her worst, I have noticed, when a group of people are looking into her box. Now she swishes her tail when she hears Angus’s voice.

  Best behaviour, Hat. Leave this to me.

  The two men look nervously through the metal bars.

  ‘Looks better. Tidier,’ says Mr Wilkinson.

  ‘She’s still a bit light, sir.’ I slap her on the hindquarters, and the trainer and head lad step back sharply. Manhattan, after a bit of fake-fierce head-shaking with her ears back, moves over. I run a hand over her flank where her ribs are visible through her coat.

  ‘I’ve been keeping her light to calm her down,’ says Angus.

  ‘She’s eating up well,’ I say. ‘And she was as good as gold when I rode her out this morning.’

  ‘Prince Muqrin. Soft spot for her,’ Mr Wilkinson says to Angus. ‘Shouldn’t look too ribby. Even if she is for the high jump. Feed her like the rest. Nuts. Oats. Vitamin supplements.’ He pauses, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him. ‘Bull-pen. No place for a racehorse. Put her in the back yard tomorrow. Make her respectable. For the prince.’

  Before.

  She.

  Goes.

  INSTRUCTIONS

  THE NIGHT BEFORE my first ride in public, I am summoned to Edgecote House after evening stables. Over the past month, I have managed to persuade myself that maybe I misunderstood what I was told the day that Poptastic’s owner visited last year. Or that there has been a change of plan.

  It would be a race like any other. We shall be there to win.

  ‘Jay. Come. Race tomorrow. Talk.’ It is Mr Wilkinson who opens the front door. He trudges down the corridor, and I follow. In the sitting room, he slumps into his usual chair beside a blazing fire. A glass of whisky is on the table beside him.

  He waves vaguely towards the sofa. I sit down.

  Mr Wilkinson reaches for a copy of today’s Racing Post on the table beside him, and tosses it onto the sofa. It is open on tomorrow’s racecard at Lingfield. The name of one race has been highlighted in red.

  The Albright Apprentice Handicap.

  And a line of blue is through one runner.

  POPTASTIC (C. Wilkinson) 3 8-12 J. Barton (7)

  ‘Look good?’ The trainer actually smiles at me.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now. Need to talk about the race. Tomorrow.’ Mr Wilkinson takes a sip of whisky and looks at the glass in his hand. ‘Give the horse a couple of runs. Unplaced. Know what I mean? Time comes, horse trots up. Good odds at the bookies. You get a winner. Owner makes money. See you all right afterwards. Way it goes in racing. Always has.’

  I know where this conversation is going, but pretend to look confused.

  Mr Wilkinson gives a little twitch of irritation, as if I have said something which has annoyed him. ‘Owner likes a bet. Nothing wrong with that. Your orders. Do badly first two races. Win the third when no one’s expecting it.’

  ‘You want me to lose the race?’

  ‘No. Not lose. Just not win. Difference. Make it look good. Part of the skill of being a jockey. Thought you’d know that by now.’

  ‘I could get into trouble.’

  ‘Leave that to me. Takes as much skill not to win a race as it does to win it. Owner important to this yard. Mr Lukic. Wants winners.’

  ‘I think he could have one tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘Wants them when he says! Not when some raggedy-pants yard girl goes glory-hunting!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Seen it before. Lads. Got promise. Go mad. Ignore instructions. Over-excited. Win races when it’s not their day. Never heard of again. Unprofessional, d’you see?’ He holds my eye, and I look away too slowly for his liking. ‘Want the ride or not, Barton?’

  I nod. ‘I want the ride.’

  ‘Do what you’re told then. Not Poptastic’s day. Have you got that?’

  I look him in the eye, and I say the words which at that moment I really do believe.

  Yes.

  Sir.

  Got.

  That.

  FIRST TIME OUT

  ‘IT’S NO SWEAT to lose a race.’ Deej sits across the table from me at the lads’ canteen at Lingfield races. There is noise all around us, almost drowning his words. ‘You can be slow out of the stalls and never quite catch up with them. You can make sure that, accidentally on purpose, you’re boxed in by the other runners so that you can’t get your horse out to make its run until it’s too late. You can pump your elbows out as if you’re riding your horse out. If you’re any good, you’ll know how not to win.’

  ‘I guess.’ My words sound as gloomy as I feel. For most of my life, I have dreamed of riding my first race as a jockey. I somehow never imagined it would be like this.

  There are nine runners in my race, the Albright Apprentice Handicap. Two of them, Minstrel Games and Divo, are previous winners. A couple of others, Whatadandy and Firefly, are nicely bred and come from large, successful yards. How difficult can it be to come in a respectable fifth or sixth?

  ‘Can’t think what you’re worried about,’ Deej says, smiling. ‘All you’ve got to do is finish down the field and you’ve done your job. Where’s the pressure there?’

  I nod. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ I say.

  Mine is the fourth race of the afternoon. I watch the first two from the lads’ stand, and then go to get ready.

  The changing room for women jockeys adjoins the larger one for the men. There are only a few women riding today, including Sally Jeffreys who has had over seventy winners in her career, and none of us is the conversational type. Now and then, the noise and laughter from where the male jockeys are changing can be heard through the wall.

  I am the only girl in the lads’ race. When I am called to weigh out, I ignore the curious stares of the male apprentices as they wait by the scales. One nudges another and laughs. Even in a race for apprentices, it seems that I look ridiculously young.

  Beyond them, I see Mr Wilkinson in a baggy old brown suit. He studies his racecard, until I have weighed out and hand him my saddle and weight-cloth.

  ‘Right, Jay?’ His small, glistening eyes gaze at me intently.

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Ride your race. You know what to do,’ he says, and is gone.

  Ride my race. Sitting in the weighing room, I think of those words. The race he wants me to ride for Mr Lukic is not mine, but his.

  We are called to the paddock. The other apprentices seem to know each other and chat easily, all fake grown-up and cool, as they make the walk from the weighing room, some of them casually slapping their whips against the side of their boots in the way they’ve seen proper jockeys do.

  I walk behind them, alone. I’m distantly aware of the tannoy announcements, the feel of silks on my back, the whip in my right hand, the nervous emptiness in my stomach.

  For one panicky moment, entering the paddock, I can’t see anyone I know and stand alone, looking lost, as the other jockeys walk confidently to their trainers and owners.

  At last, I see the broad back of Mr Wilkinson and, beyond him, my owner Mr Lukic, with an outsize pair of binoculars around his neck. Hanging on his arm is his girlfriend Paloma in a clinging orange outfit.

  It is she who notices me first, and gives me a girlish wave.

  I walk towards them, tip my hat.

  ‘Got your instructions, Jay,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘Just remember them.’ When I glance towards Mr Lukic, he gives an odd, twitchy wink which I’m hoping the cameras don’t pick up.

  Poptastic is sweating up, but looks good. He has a touch of class to him.

  ‘Been a bit of late money on our horse,’ Mr Lukic says as we watch him walking around, led by Deej. ‘I’ve got to admit he’s the pick of the paddock.’

  The bell goes. I am given the leg
-up. The gateman lets us out onto the track. Leading me round, Deej looks up and gives me an encouraging smile.

  ‘Good luck, Bug.’ Deej unfastens the lead rein and sends me off. As we canter gently to the start, Poptastic pulls hard against me. The sights and the sounds of the racecourse slowly fade behind us.

  We circle behind the stalls. Poptastic is one of the first to be put in. I sense his nervousness. Slowly, firmly, I trace the shape of a heart on his shoulder.

  ‘Ready, jockeys,’ the starter calls out.

  There is a mechanical click in the stalls which distracts Poptastic so that, when they open with a clatter, he is back on his heels and makes a slow start.

  The eight horses ahead of me spread across the track, and for a few strides are advancing like a cavalry charge going into battle. Soon, they bunch up. Some, on the racetrack for the first time, are looking about them, wandering first to the left, then to the right.

  Easy, Tassy. This is just another gallop, right?

  Poptastic has settled. Three-quarters of a length behind the last horses in the field, I would need only to steady him for a few paces for the gap between the two horses in front of us to close. We would be covered up, safely out of the reckoning.

  Ride my race. I let out a notch on my reins so that we are almost upsides the horses in front of us. Somewhere, in my jockey’s brain, a decision has been reached. It is almost as if there is nothing I can do about it.

  As we pass the three-furlong pole, the two horses beside me begin to lose ground. I look to my left. On the rails, a length ahead of me, three horses are being ridden out, stride for stride.

  You want to win, don’t you, Tassy? I can feel it.

  We can hear the crowd now but, within me, I am aware of a niggling, nagging voice.

  Not his day. Not his day. Not his day.

  ‘No.’ I say the word out loud.

  Come on, boy. Let’s go.

  Poptastic’s strength is beginning to tell. A furlong out, there are four of us in a line. With every stride nearer the winning post, the voice of caution, protesting within me, grows fainter.

  Poptastic drops his head and drives for the line. He is a battler, and so am I.