‘Nickname,’ growls Mr Wilkinson. ‘Silly girl. Treats the mare like a pet.’
‘And you say she’s going better?’
‘She’s unbelievable, your highness.’
Prince Muqrin turns towards the other two men, his eyebrows raised.
‘Goes nicely for Jay,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘When it doesn’t matter. Had her chance, sir. Let you down. On the racecourse.’
The prince is gazing sadly at his horse. ‘If only she behaved as well as she looks.’ He turns to his racing manager and the two men move away for a brief, muttered conversation. After a moment, the prince returns. ‘Jimmy’s had a rather wizard idea,’ he says. ‘Let’s see how she goes with the other two this morning.’
Mr Wilkinson looks even more irritated than usual. ‘Sir, we have only two jockeys booked. Not possible.’
A determined look has entered the prince’s dark eyes. ‘Well, perhaps young Jay here could ride her.’
There is a moment of silence, and I am aware that all eyes are on me. I daren’t breathe.
‘Saddle her up, Jay,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘What you waiting for?’
I bob my head in the direction of the prince, and lead Manhattan away. As I go, I hear his words: ‘Last chance saloon for this wicked lady.’
There is no time to lose. Drive On and Ishtagah are already in the covered yard with their pacemaker for the trial, a four-year-old called Gatekeeper. I fetch a saddle and bridle from the tack room and hurry back to Manhattan’s box.
No messing around, Hat. They’re waiting for us.
To my amazement, she is calm as I tack her up. It is as if she senses that now is not the moment for games. I get on the manger, jump into the saddle and we walk out of the stable.
Angus approaches. ‘Hang on,’ he says. He stands back, inspecting me, then fiddles with the noseband. ‘The prince’s horses have got to look right,’ he mutters. ‘Even this crazy camel.’
I look down and, possibly for the first time since I have been in the yard, I smile at the head lad.
‘Don’t let her make a fool of us, Bug,’ he says quietly. ‘Good luck.’
‘I won’t, Angus.’
I am about to walk on when he calls out, ‘You’re a work jockey this morning.’ He holds up his whip. ‘You’ll be needing this.’
‘I’m OK without it,’ I say. ‘But thanks all the same.’
We walk briskly through the main yard and into the covered yard. The three lads who are there – Liam and Amit on the two three-year-olds and Deej on Gatekeeper – look at me in surprise.
‘Manhattan joining you,’ Mr Wilkinson calls out. ‘Making up the numbers.’
We’re going to show them, Hat. They are in for the surprise of their lives.
I like the way she feels this morning. She knows that something serious is about to happen. The moment for playing, looking about her and showing off, is over.
I follow the three other horses out of the covered ride, down the path towards the heath. Liam and Amit chat to one another easily, knowing that, when we get to the gallops, they will be making way for the jockeys. Deej, who has the serious job of making the running for the prince’s horses, looks tense.
When we reach the heath we trot to the trial gallops where three cars are parked – Mr Wilkinson’s old estate car, the sleek Bentley with darkened windows which belongs to the prince and Pat O’Brian’s flashy red sports car.
The jockeys have arrived.
We circle around the group, which I notice now includes Mrs Wilkinson. All eyes are on the two stars of this morning’s show, Drive On and Ishtagah.
Liam and Amit pull in and, as Mr Wilkinson and Bucknall hold the three-year-olds’ heads, Pat O’Brian and Gary Fielding – a wiry, hard-eyed old-timer who has won a couple of Group One races in his time – are given the leg-up.
We circle in silence for a moment. O’Brian glances in my direction. Good-looking and a favourite with interviewers, he is not, according to the lads, as friendly in everyday life as he likes to pretend to the outside world.
Mr Wilkinson steps away from the group.
‘Pay attention, jockeys,’ he calls out. ‘Serious piece of work. One mile gallop. Ride them out at the end. Proper trial. See what they’re made of. Understood?’
We murmur our agreement.
‘And Deej, take them at a good, brisk pace.’
‘Yes, sir.’
We canter down to the start of the gallops, Gatekeeper at the front, followed by the two three-year-olds. The professional jockeys are chatting away as they go, but now and then they glance back at me. I can imagine what they are saying.
At the start of the gallops, we walk in a circle. I stop to check my girths. Then, slowly and firmly, I trace a heart on Manhattan’s shoulder. We need the heart trick today.
O’Brian trots past me. ‘Just don’t get in the way, right,’ he says in a quiet, threatening voice.
I nod, and at that very moment Gatekeeper has gone, followed by Drive On and Ishtagah. Unprepared, I haven’t gathered up my reins and Manhattan is left flat-footed. As we pass the first furlong pole, we are already ten lengths adrift of the other three.
I settle on Manhattan, my hands moving down her neck, my body in the low crouch that I now find natural when I ride. The mare is going easily within herself. It is as if she has been waiting for a serious test, and knows that now is her moment.
Yeah, that’s it. Easy, girl. This is where it’s all going to change for you.
We pass the four-furlong pole. Halfway. We are now only five lengths behind the two three-year-olds who are closing on Gatekeeper.
Three furlongs. Gatekeeper is losing ground. His job as pacemaker is done. Drive On and Ishtagah ease past him. I notice that O’Brian has begun to niggle at Drive On. Fielding has yet to move on Ishtagah. Manhattan is still as relaxed as a pony going for a canter on a beach.
Two furlongs. I pass Gatekeeper as if he is standing still, catching Deej’s startled look as I go. I’m upsides Drive On. O’Brian glances across at me, almost doing a double-take as he sees that I have yet to move on my horse. One furlong. Ishtagah is a length in front of me and Gary Fielding is riding him out, going for home. I change my grip on the reins, and suddenly it is as if Manhattan has decided to get serious.
She lengthens her stride, and I feel a surge of astonishing power beneath me. For the first time, I experience what she is like at a full gallop. In a matter of yards, we are at the front of the field.
Manhattan’s ears go forward. She is like a caged animal who has tasted freedom after a lifetime of waiting. She stretches her sleek body and – I can’t help it – I give a whoop of joy as she accelerates.
Go, girl!
As we flash past the group standing at the end of the gallop, I take a quick look over my shoulder. Ishtagah is a good five lengths behind me, and Drive On is well beaten, several lengths behind him. Manhattan is moving as if she fancies going another mile.
That’s it, Hat. Easy now. They’ve got the message.
I pull up and turn to canter back towards the trainer and Prince Muqrin. Fielding and O’Brian pass me on the way, staring straight ahead, as if I don’t exist and that getting totally hammered by Manhattan was all part of their plan.
Suits.
Me.
Just.
Fine.
PAYBACK TIME
MANHATTAN IS NOW in the main yard. I ride her out every day with first lot. Even when one of the lads, trying to provoke her, bumps against us in the string, or waves his hand in her face, she is as dignified as a queen might be if one of her subjects had behaved badly in front of her.
That’s my girl. That’s my Hat.
She trusts me. As long as I am with her, she is above it all. Together we grow stronger and more confident every day.
Sometimes, just for old times’ sake, she misbehaves for a few seconds while working, throwing her head about like a yearling being broken, or pretending to take a bite out of a horse galloping too close to her
.
Cut it out, Hat!
And she settles down. It is as if, hearing my voice, she remembers how life used to be before I looked after her.
Deej and I laugh about how quickly the lads have changed their attitude towards her. Group memory loss, he calls it. Once I was a funny little Bug who fell off horses and Manhattan was something out of a zoo – the crazy camel, the psycho giraffe, Nelly the elephant.
Now the joke changes. My name is still Bug, but no one quite remembers why. They call Manhattan ‘the big mare’. One morning, when we make our entrance into the indoor school, Liam calls out, ‘Here they come, the darling divas.’
Manhattan pricks her ears and shakes her silver mane in a way which, I have to admit, has a touch of the film star to it.
I smile. For most of my sixteen years, I have done everything I could to stay out of sight. Yet here I am, riding high, a darling diva.
Then, one evening, I get a call at Auntie’s.
‘Hi, Jay.’ Michaela has never been one to hide her feelings. Now she manages to get more despair into those two words than in all the miserable books and songs and plays ever written. ‘How’s it going?’ she croaks.
‘I’m fine. What is it, M? You sound terrible.’
‘I’m not going back to school.’
‘But it’s holidays now.’
‘Ever,’ she says tragically. ‘No more Lodge. Ever.’
‘What? Have you been expelled? Was it the Jean-Paul thing?’
She gives a bitter laugh. ‘No. Just for a change, Jay, it’s not my fault. It’s Dad. He says he can’t afford the fees. I’ve got to go back to the high school.’ Her voice cracks. ‘I hate that school, Jay. And you won’t be there either.’ She starts crying.
Uncle Bill? Can’t afford? Those two phrases don’t even belong in the same sentence.
‘Everything’s different around here,’ Michaela mutters. ‘Ted’s going. All the horses are being sold. We might have to get rid of the house.’
‘But what happened?’
And out it comes, between sniffles and sobs. Uncle Bill has had ‘business problems’. Something about some tax which hasn’t been paid. The police have become involved.
‘He has to pay back this humungous amount or he’ll end up in court. He wanders around the house saying things like “I’m finished” and “We’re wiped out”.’
For some reason, a phrase Uncle Bill liked to use comes into my mind. Another one bites the dust.
‘What about Elaine?’
‘What about her? All she’s worried about is that she might have to go back to work. As if that’s the biggest tragedy on earth.’
‘Oh, Michaela.’
‘Come home, Jayster. We need you back here. You’re good when life is crap.’
I pause for a moment, trying to work out whether this is a compliment or an insult. Either way, I know my answer.
‘I can’t, M. I’ve got a job. It’s—’ I am about to tell her that my work is going well, but I sense that’s not the news Michaela wants to hear right now. ‘It’s important to me.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she says bitterly. ‘Horses always have to come first, right? I’d better go. I just thought you’d like to know.’
And she hangs up.
Concentrate. Don’t get distracted. The news from home is upsetting. It worries me that the world of Uncle Bill, the sunny security of Coddington Hall, is in danger of being shattered, but I tell myself there is nothing I can do.
At times like this, I think of my mother when she was in hospital. I remember the advice she gasped out to me when I was alone with her at the hospital.
Uncle. Bill. Survivor. Gets. By. Do. Like. Him. Own. Life. Be. Strong.
One day in April, I am on Manhattan and, with the rest of first lot, we are circling around Mr Wilkinson, having just done a half-speed gallop up to Warren Hill.
The trainer seems to be taking a special interest in Manhattan. Suddenly he calls out to me, ‘Going to run the mare.’
At first I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘This mare?’
He gives a brisk, impatient nod.
We continue to circle. I try to keep the smile off my face. Be professional.
‘Changed?’ The trainer could be talking to himself. ‘We’ll see. She’s a mare. Don’t hold your breath.’
I ride on, saying nothing.
‘York meeting. Mile and a quarter. Middleton Stakes. Group Two. For fillies and mares. Four-year-olds and up. No point in putting her with rubbish.’
‘No, sir.’
We continue to circle in silence, while Mr Wilkinson seems to have drifted off into a world of his own. Then he looks at me sharply, almost as if I have insulted him in some way.
‘Got nothing to say?’
‘About what, sir?’
‘The mare. The race.’
‘Sounds good, sir. I think she’ll run well.’
The trainer looks more displeased than ever. ‘You’re up,’ he mutters.
At first I think my ears are playing tricks on me. Up? It is an old-fashioned term but I know what it means.
‘Me?’
‘You deaf, girl? Putting you up. In the bloomin’ saddle. For the race. Must be blinkin’ mad.’
Yes, yes, yes.
I lay a hand on Manhattan’s shoulder. It is all I can do to stop myself leaning forward and hugging her around the neck. I’m aware that the other lads are staring at me.
‘Mare goes for you,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘We can use the claim. Apprentice on board. She gets seven pounds less to carry. Missus says you should be given a chance.’ He stalks off, hands deep in his pockets.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I call out. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ he mutters as he gets into his old car, slamming the door. As soon as he has driven off, the lads start on me.
‘Ooh, yes sir. Anything you say, sir,’ Davy puts on a sweet-little-girl voice. The others coo and trill like a flock of pigeons.
‘She’s blushing,’ says Liam.
I laugh. Then I clench my fist, like a boxer. I shout, ‘Get in there!’
‘The Bugster’s back,’ says Deej.
Manhattan is jogging restlessly at the back of the string. On an instinct, I pull out and trot past the other horses.
‘Where’s she off to?’ Davy says as I pass.
‘It’s diva time,’ says Liam.
When we reach the front of the string, I slow to a walk. Ahead of the other horses, Manhattan points her toes, pricks her ears, and takes us home.
‘Where we belong,’ I call over my shoulder.
That night, before I go to sleep, I read about Petite Etoile in my copy of Great Ladies. The book says that ‘like all females, the grey had her little foibles and moods’. One of her habits, according to the author, was that she would sulk when out with the string unless there was a grey horse in front and behind her.
It sounds mad to me. The man who wrote it was always going on about the ‘ladies’ and their ‘foibles’ and their ‘moods’. I wondered if he would write the same about the ‘great gentlemen’. Then I think of how much happier Manhattan is when she is at the head of the string, and the other habits that she has – how she likes to stand for a moment or two outside her box before joining the string in the covered yard, how she frets if I am too silent in the stable, and is also sensitive to noise, how she doesn’t like her feet being touched, how she hates it when other horses get too close to her, how she distrusts men.
The lads kid me about how I treat Manhattan but, in their hearts they understand. Horses may not be the most intelligent of animals but they are sensitive, and have a memory for what has been good and bad in their lives.
Manhattan senses that things have changed. Now in the main yard, she is the lead horse of first lot, she is more settled, more focused on the job. On our way out or back from the heath, people look at her.
On the gallops, she pulls hard against me, but settles down easily. It is as if she has
decided at last to behave like a serious, grown-up racehorse.
I am changing too. All that is in my mind is the big race at York, the Middleton. Every night I am in the gym at the Racing Centre, doing circuits, getting fit. It becomes a bit of a joke down at the centre, the time I spend on the machines, the way I drive myself to exhaustion every evening, but now it no longer worries me if people laugh at me or find me strange.
There is just one thought in my mind. York. Manhattan. If she runs a good race, her life will be saved. Nothing else matters.
Perhaps that is why when something unexpected happens two weeks before the race, it worries me less than it should.
I am on my way home after finishing my workout at the centre. A Mini Cooper with darkened windows is parked by the side of the road. As I approach it, the door of the car opens.
‘Watcher, Jay.’ It is a familiar voice.
I hesitate for a moment. The man leaning across and looking up at me is unshaven and wears dark glasses. But there is no mistaking who it is.
‘Hullo, Uncle Bill. What are you doing here?’
‘Step in, doll. We need a word.’
I get into the car. Close the door. It is odd seeing my uncle in a tiny car. He looks uncomfortable, like a man who is wearing a suit that is a couple of sizes too small for him.
‘How’s it going, girl?’
The voice is rougher than it was, and Uncle Bill looks older. He is unshaven and, behind dark glasses his face glows pale and grey in the dashboard lights of the car.
‘New motor?’ I say.
He looks almost embarrassed. ‘Old motor,’ he says. ‘I decided to downsize a little.’
‘Michaela mentioned something about that.’
‘She did?’
‘Just that things were a little tough right now.’
‘Tough.’ He shakes his head, as if trying to get rid of a poisonous thought in his brain, then looks me hard in the eye. ‘Remember what I said to you last time? About you owing me?’
I nod, a cold chill of dread in my heart.
‘You’re doing well now. Going places. Wilkinson says he’s giving you another ride.’
‘There’s this horse, Manhattan—’
‘You. Owe. Me.’ He points a finger at me, stabbing the air.
Racing Manhattan Page 15
