Without another word, she strides towards the park gate.
‘And thank you,’ I call out.
Without turning round, she gives a small wave over her shoulder.
I sit there on the bench, after she has gone.
The game we have to play. The way the world works. Those words echo in my mind.
I think of the men who have played a part in my life. Uncle Bill. Mr Wilkinson. Prince Muqrin. Angus. Bucknall. Dermot Brogan. Pete. Even Deej. Then I think of those of us on the other side of life’s great dividing wall. My mother. Mrs Wilkinson. Laura. Michaela. Auntie. Manhattan. Me. It is as if we are all part of some great male plan, and the best we can hope to do is to fit in with what they want.
And in that moment, I know what I have to do. I have never played the game according to other people’s rules before, and I am not going to start now. An idea has been lurking at the back of my mind for days, but I have been trying to ignore it.
Until now.
No.
More.
Games.
SQUARE PEG
SHE CAN TELL. When I ride her out the next day, Manhattan is quieter than usual, as if she knows what I have decided. Although we are at the head of the string as usual, her ears are half back. There is no spring in her step.
You’ll be all right, Hat. You have a future now. You’ll be a great mother. Whoever owns you will look after you.
Back in the stable, I rub her down for the last time. Even when I wash under her stomach, she hardly reacts. She accepts a carrot from me, but moodily.
After I have put her rug on, I pat her, tug one of her ears.
I’ll be back this afternoon, girl.
Late that morning, I catch Laura as she is on her way to lunch. I walk with her for a while. I must be a bit quiet because she asks if everything is all right.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘But I need to ask you a big favour.’
She looks at me, raising her eyebrows. ‘Now what?’
‘We’re friends, right?’
She laughs. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘It’s about Manhattan.’
During the early afternoon, I write some notes and put them in envelopes. Mr and Mrs Wilkinson. Prince Muqrin. Deej. Even Angus.
Downstairs, Auntie is catching up on some daytime TV in the kitchen. When I appear at the door, she glances up, sees the rucksack over my shoulder and the look on my face, and says, ‘No, Jay.’
I nod. ‘I need to go home.’
She switches off the TV. ‘What happened? Are you in trouble?’
‘Not really. I think I’ve discovered that racing isn’t for me. Too rough.’
‘But you’re good with horses.’
‘It’s not the horses. It’s the humans.’
Auntie shrugs. ‘Humans are human, what can I say? They can be a tricky business.’
In my mind, I see Pete, a pitchfork in his hand. I see Bucknall, leaning back in his chair. Jyaaasmine. Angus watching me, eyes narrowed. Mr Lukic, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched angrily, as I ride into the winners’ enclosure on Poptastic. Dermot Brogan looking down at me as I lead Manhattan up at Ascot. Uncle Bill, his face close to mine, in his tiny car. Mrs Wilkinson smiling sadly on the park bench.
Hatred, amusement, suspicion, rage, pity, contempt, disappointment – I have seen too much of them all. When I was meant to lose, I’ve won. When I should have won, I’ve lost. I’ve lied and spied and let people down.
‘To tell the truth, Auntie, I feel a bit broken right now.’ I sniff, wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
‘You’re not broken, Jay.’ Auntie smiles. ‘You’re just a bit cracked.’ She puts her hand on mine, holding tight as I try to pull away. ‘You know what they used to say about my Jas?’ She looks into my eyes. ‘They said he’s a square peg. I didn’t understand then, but now that I’m older I think I do. The world is full of round pegs with their sharp edges smoothed off, but we need a few square pegs too. Where will you go?’
‘Back to my uncle’s place. I need to talk to him and sort things out, then move on. New chapter.’
Auntie stands up, and does what I feared she was going to do. She puts her arm around me. I lean away but she holds me closer and, after a few seconds, I give up resisting and relax.
‘You’re such a good girl.’ The words are in my ear. I try to tell her that I’m not, I really am not, but the words won’t come. ‘You’ve done so well. Are you saying there will be no more horses for you?’
‘Probably not. For the moment anyway.’
‘Will you come back and see us?’
‘Of course.’
She stands back and looks me in the eyes. I manage a smile.
‘Bye, Auntie,’ I say.
The yard is quiet when I arrive. I go to the tack room, and leave the envelopes on the central table. I take one last look at the List.
1st Lot
MANHATTAN Bug
She is having her afternoon nap as I enter the stable. I put down my rucksack, walk up to her, drape an arm over her neck, then push my face against her, feeling her warmth, breathing in the smell I have come to love.
This is it, Hat. From now on, you’ll have a new lad. Laura. You like her, don’t you?
She stirs slightly, and for a few moments I think of the journey we’ve been on together, the dramas, the gallops, the ups and downs. I see us together, alone on the heath, a skylark singing high above us, when we were happy.
Manhattan turns to look at me, surprised by all this emotion in the middle of the afternoon.
You’re right. It’s your sleeping time. I should go.
My eyes are wet. I wipe my face on her neck, then stand back. Slowly, I trace a heart on her shoulder. I look at the mark my finger has left on the beautiful dappled coat.
Remember this. Remember this for ever.
Then I smooth it over. Life moves on. I have a train to catch. Manhattan nudges me. I give her the last carrot in my pocket, pat her neck and leave the stable, glancing back at her as I go.
Just.
A.
Horse.
HEARTBROKEN TEEN
CODDINGTON HALL HAS changed since I was last here. The stables are empty and quiet. The only sign that there have been horses there is the manure heap. Grass is growing on it already. The fields need cutting, the hedges are whiskery. Harry, the farmer next door, used to look after them but now that there is no money to pay him, they are neglected.
The house is silent too, with odd gaps where the best bits of furniture used to be. Michaela is away, staying with a friend from her old school whose parents have a house in France. Uncle Bill wanders the place, holding onto a mobile phone which these days never rings. He is away from the house a lot more often than he used to be, and there is a bad atmosphere between him and Aunt Elaine.
She is now the resident victim at Coddington, mooching about the place occasionally putting things in boxes. She no longer bothers with make-up and has decided to let her dark hair, which used to be dyed crow-black, grow grey.
She was not exactly thrilled by my return. ‘Oh great, that’s all we need,’ she said when I appeared on the doorstep late one evening.
I gave her the £130 I have saved while I was in Newmarket. ‘Household expenses,’ I say. She nods and, without a word of thanks, walks off to put the money away somewhere.
Why are you back? I see that question in her eyes, and it is one I ask myself. To her, I’m an unwelcome outsider, Uncle Bill thinks I have let him down, and I remember too well what Michaela once thought of me.
The fact is, I have little choice. The cash I have just given to Aunt Elaine would hardly have kept me in food and rent for a week. There is nowhere else for me to go.
Rest. Think. Plan. Then move on as soon as possible. That is what I shall do.
‘You’ll need to find some paid work,’ Aunt Elaine says soon after I return. ‘You can’t sit around here all day.’
She is right about that. I think about it every
day in that first week as I go for my early-morning run. Somehow my body can’t get used to my own life. I wake up at six and I know I have to tire myself out, just to keep sane.
What job? My Racehorse Management apprenticeship must have come to an end when I left the Wilkinson yard. I wonder if I could become a vet and work with animals. No. I’d need to go to college for that.
I try not to think of Manhattan, or what is happening in the yard where I worked. It is the past. That door is closed.
One evening, about two weeks after my return, Uncle Bill knocks on the door of my room.
He has been in London and throws an evening paper on the bedside table. I look up from Great Ladies, which I happen to have been reading.
‘You’re in the news, doll,’ he says.
I look down. There is a photograph of me riding out on Manhattan, and a headline: HEARTBROKEN TEEN QUITS RACING.
I pick it up, and read the article.
The last-minute decision of Newmarket trainer Clive ‘Magic’ Wilkinson to replace the young apprentice Jay ‘Bug’ Barton with the more experienced Dermot Brogan on Prince Muqrin’s Manhattan for last month’s prestigious King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes has ended the teenager’s career. The 16-year-old has left her job at the Wilkinson stable, vowing never to work in racing again.
Tipped as a future professional jockey by racing insiders, Barton was ‘devastated’ by her boss’s change of heart, according to a close friend. ‘Bug’s a proud person and she was particularly humiliated by having to lead Manhattan up at Ascot as a lad. That was the final straw as far as she was concerned.’
A spokesman for the Wilkinson yard confirmed that Barton no longer works there, but claimed that she was taking a temporary break from racing.
I throw the newspaper back on the table.
‘Keep it as a souvenir, babe.’ My uncle wanders towards the door.
‘Why are you avoiding me, Uncle Bill?’ My question sounds more aggressive than I intended. I really am just curious.
He stops at the door. ‘What you talking about, girl?’
‘I’ve been wanting to say I’m sorry about your losing all that money on Manhattan. I think she would have won if I had been riding her.’
He gives a little laugh, which is not entirely friendly. ‘I got to give it to you, doll. You don’t doubt your own abilities.’
I look down at my book. ‘I just wanted to say that, so you know. You were right. I do owe you a lot for what you’ve done since Mum died. I’ll leave here as soon as I’ve found a job and we can all get on with our lives.’ I frown, pretending to read, and turn a page.
To my surprise, Uncle Bill walks back and sits on the side of the bed. ‘We could have made a good team.’ He says the words in a quiet, gruff voice, staring ahead of him.
‘I couldn’t do it any more.’ I stare at the book. ‘The tips. The secret calls. The spying. It made me hate myself.’
‘The thing is, doll, we’re not that different, you and me. The rage thing? I get that. Winning? That’s me too.’
‘Was that why you didn’t phone the Wilkinsons like you threatened to do? Because you thought we could carry on, like a good family team?’
My uncle is staring at me. There is an expression in his face which I have never seen before. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’
‘Get what, Uncle Bill?’
‘You won. You took me on, and you beat me. It may feel as if you’ve lost, but you’ve won.’
‘I haven’t won anything.’
‘I really thought I could get you to do what I wanted, just like I can do with everybody else. But I couldn’t.’ He laughs, shaking his head. ‘It’s true, I was going to put the call through to old man Wilkinson. I thought I could – I’m Bill Barton – but it turned out I was wrong.’
‘Why?’
‘I remembered my sister Debs. I thought about you. How you’ve kept going. I suddenly knew I couldn’t take you down with me. I told myself that it was because you’re a kid, but the truth is simpler. You’re tougher than I am.’
I shrug, feeling weirdly embarrassed by what my uncle is saying. ‘I don’t feel tough.’
Uncle Bill looks at me. I can tell that he has already said more than he wanted to say. ‘You’re going to be all right. Proud of you, doll.’
Without another word, he gets up and walks to the door.
‘Uncle Bill,’ I call after him. ‘There was just one other thing.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m not a doll.’
He gives a bark of laughter, and is gone.
I have thrown the newspaper away. Am I a heartbroken teen? Not really, but I am numb. I am tired. For these past few days, I have been telling myself it is time to grow up, to forget my mum’s crazy dreams for me. They have brought nothing but trouble. Earn a living. Get by. Move on. Don’t look back.
It is beginning to work. I am becoming a new, more realistic Jay Barton. No longer riding high in the saddle. Grounded.
Then something happens which changes my life for ever.
When Michaela returns from her holiday, she is tanned yet weirdly distracted. France was great, she says, but she’s glad to be home – particularly now that I’m here. Our first evening together, she tells me that she needs to show me something.
After supper, we go to her room. She sits at a little table, and switches on her laptop.
‘Prepare yourself for a bit of a shock,’ she says as the computer comes to life.
‘Is this your family heritage project again?’
‘Hm, sort of.’ Michaela is never more annoying than when she’s got a secret, She taps at the keyboard. A file marked ‘JDad’ appears on the screen.
‘JDad?’
She opens the file. A list of documents scrolls down the page. I see the words ‘Genealogy’, ‘Letters’, ‘Helldawgs’, ‘Crazy Jerzy’, ‘Fan sites’, ‘Jim’, ‘Polish builders’.
‘What is this, M?’
‘Right.’ Michaela turns towards me. ‘Confession time. I wasn’t really doing a family heritage project for school.’
‘No. You mean you lied to me?’ My best I’m-being-totally-sarcastic voice goes right over her head.
‘I just thought, after the whole Jean-Paul thing, I owed you one. We all owed you one really.’
I’m still suspicious about where this conversation is going. ‘Are you telling me you found out something?’
‘I asked my father about our grandparents. And about their childhood. And your mum. I said it was for my project. He gave me a big folder from his filing cabinet, marked “FAMILY”. It was full of photographs and letters and quite a bit of legal stuff about their will after their parents died. Then there were some letters from your mum to my dad.’
‘I never knew.’
‘The letters are quite short, and not exactly friendly. When I started asking questions, Dad suddenly realised what he had given me. He took back the folder and locked it up.’ Michaela’s eyes are sparking with excitement. ‘But not before I made a discovery. Seventeen years ago, she mentioned Jerzy – that’s your dad, right?’
I nod.
‘He was a musician in a metal band. She writes about the “Jerzy problem”, how they had been a bit careless. There’s something about “my little accident”.’
I begin to see where this is going. ‘Seventeen years ago. The accident is me.’
‘There’s nothing more from your mum for a while, but there is a copy of a letter from my dad to a Mr J. Turkowski.’
‘My father.’
Michaela nods. ‘It says that if Mr Turkowski agrees to leave the country immediately he will not be reported to the police.’
‘Reported? For what?’
‘My dad discovered that he was in this country without the right papers. He was an illegal alien – it was before Poland was part of the EU. He could have been in big trouble.’
I’m confused now. ‘So why didn’t my mother tell me any of this?’
‘Because she didn�
�t know.’ Michaela gives a little embarrassed wince. ‘In the letter, it says that if Jerzy agreed to leave the country immediately, my dad would support you and your mum. All Jerzy had to do to give you security in the future was to go home – disappear. He couldn’t tell your mum because she would want to go with him.’
‘You mean he did it for us?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘So all that stuff about him being a coward and running away was a great big lie?’
‘Maybe his life back in Poland wouldn’t have been such a great life for a young English mum and her baby?’
Suddenly I feel overcome with sadness – for my mum, for me, for my Polish dad who just wanted the best for his family. Even Uncle Bill probably thought he was doing the right thing. ‘It gets better,’ says Michaela, as cheerful as ever. ‘I became a detective and started searching online for Jerzy Turkowski. It turns out he was in a Polish heavy metal group called the Helldawgs that was quite successful at the time. Your mum and Jerzy must have met when the band were touring in England. I got on to one of those chat forums. Someone had asked whatever happened to “Crazy Jerzy Turkowski of the Helldawgs?” I scrolled down and found this.’ Michaela taps a link to a website called metalchat.com. ‘Jerzy is now an American citizen and works as a builder in Oregon under the name of Jim Thurston. No longer on the music scene.’
I sit in silence. I’m really not sure I like the direction that Michaela’s Sherlock Holmes act is taking us.
She clicks on the keyboard. Two photographs appear on the screen. One is of a rock band, posing moodily for a publicity shot, all long hair and make-up. The lead singer, a little dark-haired guy trying to look tough, is at the front, sneering at the camera. The second photograph is of a thin, balding man in his forties. He has a neat moustache, and his arm is around his wife. In front of them stand two boys, aged about ten and eight.
It is the eyes which tell the story. Everything else is different – clothes, hair, attitude – but they have remained unchanged. The Crazy Jerzy of the Helldawgs, and Jim Thurston, the family guy in America, are the same man.
I am looking at my father.
Over the next few days, we find out more about Jim Thurston. There is a website for his building business, with other photographs of him – standing in front of a newly-built house, or looking at some plans, or up a ladder in a hard hat.
Racing Manhattan Page 21
