Dead on Course

by Glenis Wilson

  There were rumbles of agreement from the lads close enough to the bar to hear.

  ‘Your leg holding up OK?’ Mike inquired.

  ‘Yes, guv’nor, thanks. No probs.’ Darren had been hospitalized for weeks following the car crash he and I had been involved in.

  ‘Glad to hear that,’ I said. I’d got away lightly, but he had suffered a fractured leg. I’d been consumed with guilt following the crash, quite irrationally blaming myself. Darren had been behind the wheel of the car taking me home that day. To hear him saying he had no lingering problems was a big relief.

  ‘There were some tasty nurses in that hospital,’ Darren said, a faraway look on his face and a smile lifting his lips.

  ‘Got in there, did you?’ one of the other lads shouted.

  Darren turned pink, his face clashing horribly with his carrotty-red hair. A gale of laughter rang out.

  ‘Here, have another pint on me,’ I said as he emptied his first beer, trying to hide his embarrassment.

  ‘Thanks, Harry.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m seeing Annette regular. She’s a nurse.’

  ‘Is she nice?’ I gently kidded.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said and his chest swelled, ‘she’s great.’

  ‘Treat her right. Good ones are hard to find.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I’d never hurt her …’

  ‘Whey-hey, Darren’s in luuuuurve,’ someone catcalled.

  The banter carried on.

  ‘You know what they say about nurses.’

  ‘Has she got a friend?’

  ‘Better still, tell her to bring all the girls from the nurses’ home. There’s enough lads in here to keep them going … or get them going.’

  ‘Satisfaction guaranteed.’

  Roars of raucous laughter filled the pub and Darren’s face turned from pink to crimson.

  ‘Aw, shut up,’ he said, ‘you’re just plain jealous.’

  The outer door opened and two women walked into the pub. The blast of noise was enough to have knocked them back. They stood hesitantly, scanning the packed, boisterous crowd. Heads turned as they do when strangers enter a bar and there were a couple of catcalls.

  But as the laughter slowly diminished in volume and Darren’s face returned to normal, Mike turned and saw the two women. He let out a whoop of delight. I looked at him in surprise; it was not his style.

  ‘Hey,’ he waved vigorously, ‘over here.’

  The two women spotted him and wide smiles spread across their faces. One was a middle-aged woman, a good-looking blonde. The other … the other was also blonde, younger, much younger, early twenties and quite stunningly beautiful.

  I, along with most of the lads in the pub, stared in overt admiration. If Mike hadn’t claimed them from the off, I’ve no doubt several of the lads would have made a move on them. But Mike represented their bread and butter, was one of the boss-men, and like all pack animals, the young males watched enviously from a distance.

  The women wove their way between tables and drinkers, and Mike, spreading arms wide, engulfed them both in a massive bear hug.

  ‘Wonderful to see you both.’

  ‘Mike, darling, so good to be back.’

  ‘Hi, Uncle Mike.’

  Uncle Mike? I looked at the younger one. Was it possible? How long ago was it I’d met his niece? Ten, twelve years, maybe more – probably was. I had a mental picture of a plump child with hair ribbons and bunches astride a grey pony who proudly sported a red rosette in its brow band. Had the caterpillar really metamorphosed into this imago, this gorgeous creature?

  She drew away slightly from the encircling arms and our eyes met. Apart from Leo’s, she had the most incredible green eyes I’d ever seen.

  ‘We’ve been up to your house,’ the older woman was saying. ‘When there was no reply, we knocked up the head lad’s wife. She took our bags in and pointed us over here. She also said she didn’t know what condition you’d be in as this was a celebration.’

  Mike threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘But you weren’t expected for another couple of days.’

  ‘Well, we could always push off if you’re not ready for us,’ the young woman teased.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Mike suddenly became aware he hadn’t introduced me. ‘Harry, I want you to meet my sister, Maria Chantry.’ We smiled and shook hands. ‘And this is Fleur, my niece, Maria’s daughter.’ I held out my hand and she took it in a cool, firm grip.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ she murmured.

  ‘Actually, I think we have already met, some twelve years back, though. And you have … changed.’

  She gave a gurgling laugh. ‘Less puppy fat, more curves, yes?’

  I grinned. ‘You’re spot on.’

  Mike stood, his arm around his sister’s shoulders, watching us, a satisfied smirk on his face. I shot him an I-know-what-your-game-is look, but he was unabashed.

  ‘Now then, what will you ladies have to drink?’

  With glasses charged, we found a table away from the congested bar area.

  ‘I’d better explain.’ Mike took a quick pull of beer. ‘Maria’s sold up abroad. She lived in Italy and she’s looking to buy a property in England. She lost her husband three years ago.’ He looked across the table at her, but apart from momentarily dropping her gaze, she didn’t appear to find his frankness distressing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said automatically.

  ‘Thank you. I’ve assembled all my pieces again – well, almost.’

  Fleur covered her mother’s hand with her own. The deep bond between them was obvious.

  ‘You can’t change change,’ she said. ‘You have to ride it and go on.’ She directed her words at me.

  I inclined my head. ‘Yes. But saying it’s one thing; doing it – that’s the tricky bit, I find.’

  My thoughts went back to the last but one time I’d seen Annabel, my estranged wife. I was now daily expecting to hear from her that she wanted a divorce. She’d told me she was pregnant with another man’s child. The news had rocked my already shaky foundations. That was a few weeks ago. The emotional pain had been mind-numbing. Still was. My success this afternoon suddenly didn’t matter any more. Some things were so much more important. I gulped my beer.

  ‘So true,’ Fleur replied, ‘but if life was easy, the emotions that make it worth being alive wouldn’t be deep and enduring; they’d be shallow. I’d say the other side of the coin of love is pain.’

  I raised my eyes and met hers. ‘Profound …’

  ‘Yes.’

  We held each other’s gaze and there was chemistry between us. It shook me. I knew I was still in love with Annabel – would always love Annabel – but this woman in front of me was touching some place deep within. The touch was as light as a cobweb but, God help me, it had power.

  And inside me something was responding.

  FIVE

  Five thirty a.m. Still dark, but dawn quivered on the horizon. A working day, thank God. I’d spent too many days lying in bed instead of sitting in the saddle. I slapped a hand down on the alarm clock beside my bed and a few seconds later cut off the shrill back-up alarm on my mobile.

  After a quick hot shower followed by an even quicker cold one, I was dressed and down in the warm kitchen with Leo weaving his beguiling, sinuous body in and out of my legs. No chance of getting any sustenance for myself until he’d been fed. I poured boiling water on to a teabag and ice-cold milk on to cereal. Then, contentedly, we munched away – he on the floor, me at the table – and I let the coming day spool through my mind.

  Drive over to Mike’s stables, ride out, probably three lots, no runners at any tracks today, so muck in with the lads – or, more accurately, muck out – then a light lunch down the Horseshoes … My thoughts stalled. Today Maria and Fleur would be staying at Mike’s. Not an ordinary day, then.

  I gulped scalding tea and let the picture of Fleur fill my mind. No doubt about it, she had made an impression on me.

  Mike’s delight in seeing hi
s sister and niece had been heartening. He had been my source of support for many months and I was pleased that he was enjoying seeing his only remaining family after many years of living on his own. He deserved a bit of happiness. His wife, Monica – a red-hot live wire and extrovert – had carried Mike along in her slipstream. Indulgently, he’d allowed her a long lead – unfortunately, a bit too long for safety.

  Total opposites, Mike as placid as a lily pond and Monica a raging weir, they’d attracted each other with a powerful magnetism. He had adored her.

  Since her accidental death, he’d remained celibate, never even dated another woman. I doubted he ever would. Monica was an off-limits subject of conversation and I respected his need for silence. Despite the healing years, the wound was not yet fully knitted.

  Conversely, he was always encouraging me to get back together with my estranged wife. Or had been until Annabel said the words that killed any hopeless hopes I myself had in that direction. I shook my head; I didn’t want to think about Annabel. Mike’s wound wasn’t the only one that hadn’t yet formed scar tissue. Scar tissue forming on me? I was kidding myself. Blood – hot and scarlet – was still running out.

  I knew I owed a big debt to Annabel for her help in my speeded-up return to health. Even the world-weary hospital specialists had been surprised and impressed. As a qualified spiritual healer, she had given me amazing hands-on treatments. But she’d also gone the extra mile and spent a lot of her precious spare time after finishing her day job sending me absent healing. How many treatments I had no idea, but I would have guessed at daily ones. As this would, if successful, end in my return to race riding – something she could never come to accept because of the intrinsic pain and injuries the inevitable falls inflicted on me – it said everything about the depth of her unselfish care. She was a woman in a billion.

  So why had I found Fleur attractive?

  I finished my tea, turned on the tap and ran hot water over the empty mug.

  The stable lights were on, bright patches illuminating a contained racing community that emphasized the surrounding countryside stretching away dark and empty. Small, highly active figures flitted to and fro between the individual stables, all committed to doing their own particular three, maybe four, racehorses, the welfare of each of utmost importance. The relationships built up between the stable lads and their horses were deep and emotionally fulfilling. The lads would never openly admit it, but they all loved ‘their’ horses and cosseted them like babies.

  The horses, sensitive and intuitive, responded to the care being poured out upon them, giving of their best efforts in races and proudly accepting the accolades and adulation when they won.

  I could say Mike was lucky to have stable staff who worked as a team, but it wasn’t luck. It was Mike’s leadership and positive personality which transmitted itself to each lad and resulted in a smooth-running, efficient workforce that achieved results.

  I went to join them, breathing in the intoxicating smell of warm horseflesh, combining with the reek of ammonia, hay, leather … my world … and I was grateful beyond words to be there. Even for Annabel, I wouldn’t – couldn’t – give it up. Yes, it was a dangerous way to earn a living, the infrequent rewards of winning races scarcely justifying risking a serious injury, even death, but there was nothing else on God’s green earth that I would choose to spend my life doing.

  I closed my mind to the inescapable fact that one day, not too far into the future, I’d be too old to race ride. Until then, I was doing what I’d been born to do. I’d live in the present and appreciate every precious moment.

  I went to collect a saddle and bridle for White Lace. I was riding the mare first lot. The overpowering smell of saddle soap and leather flowed over me as I stepped through the door of the tack room.

  ‘Mornin’, Harry. How’re y’doin’?’ Joe, the head lad, ducked under the line of dangling bridles.

  ‘Good, thanks. Seems I’m on White Lace.’

  ‘Yep.’ He lifted down the saddle from a tree, reached for a bridle, looped up the reins and dropped it over the pommel. ‘There y’go. Can you ride back marker in the string? Let the others take the lead and give her time to settle. She’s been a bit spooky and restless. Reckon she might be coming into season. Safer if she’s at the back.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I took the tack out across the yard to the mare’s stable. Speaking soothingly, I tacked her up, but she seemed quiet enough and obediently followed me out the door. Whilst I waited for the other lads to bring out their mounts, I checked the tightness of the mare’s girth. One of the other riders came up to me.

  ‘Glad to see you again, Harry.’

  I looked up – then did a double take. A girl stood in front of me, dressed in riding gear, complete with crash cap sporting jaunty red-and-black quartered silks. A tiny tendril of blonde hair had managed to escape and helped to confirm my surprised recognition. It was Fleur.

  ‘Are you riding first lot?’ I asked stupidly.

  ‘That’s right,’ she grinned. ‘But I think Uncle Mike’s given me the stable hack. He’s very protective, isn’t he?’

  ‘Er … yes.’

  ‘There’s really no need,’ she laughed softly.

  ‘If he thinks you need looking after, I’m sure he’s right,’ I said diplomatically.

  She sobered instantly. ‘I do understand the reason why. It’s because of Auntie Monica.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘Blames himself, doesn’t he? Like, if he’d taken a pull, not allowed her to play wild, she might still be alive.’

  ‘Do you always speak your mind?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It cuts through the dross. Saves wasting time. Life’s precious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is indeed.’

  Around the yard, other riders were all mounted now and our conversation ended as we, too, swung up into saddles.

  White Lace snorted and skittered sideways, and I shortened the reins. Could be Joe was right. I circled her round the stable yard and gave the other horses time to string out in front before tacking myself on at the back.

  Before we’d gone a couple of strides, I felt her muscles tense and knew what was coming. To a spectator, it probably resembled a child’s rocking horse being ridden, but this was no game. White Lace bunched her powerful quarters and put in a massive buck. If I hadn’t been anticipating it, she would have pitched me straight over her head. But feeling the propulsion from her back legs, I rose in the saddle and forced my weight down hard into the irons. All the same, it was spine-jarring and I fervently hoped my left knee would withstand the shock waves.

  For a couple of minutes, it resulted in a test of will power between us as she continued to buck. Then, quite suddenly capitulating, White Lace stopped playing up, dropped back on to all four hooves and went into an extended trot, catching up with the rest of the string.

  We trotted on in single file, reached the end of the stable drive and walked out on to the tarmac road, hugging tight to the left-hand side of the pavement edge. A short way further on, the pavement ceased altogether where a wide grass verge replaced it, and we trotted on smartly, leaving no chance for dropped heads reaching for a pick of grass.

  Feeling the turf under her hooves, White Lace started to play up again, swinging her rump sideways and tossing her head around, and my whole attention was taken up with controlling the mare.

  After a quarter of a mile, we swung off to the right on to the gallops. But the mare seemed to have got rid of the flies in her feet and, after a warm-up canter, moved into a beautifully smooth gallop upsides Lenny on Mud Pie. She was a delight to ride and I found her very responsive to hands and heels. Her hooves thudded rhythmically into the turf beneath me and I felt the chill wind whip my cheeks. With every minute in the saddle, my spirits rose. It was like a drug. Riding gave me a sense of complete freedom, yet, conversely, I was totally hooked for life.

  Walking her round to cool down after the gallop, I was able to watch Fleur riding Pipsqueak
, as she had said, the stable hack. But hack or not, under her control he turned in a pretty slick performance. No doubt of it, the girl could really ride. I found myself nodding in appreciation of her riding position and obvious expertise. She’d been quite right, and I’d have to have a quiet word with Mike. There was no need for him to be so overprotective; she could very ably take care of herself, at least in the saddle.

  Mike himself, having allowed the string time to get up the gallops, had driven his vehicle after us to watch the morning workout. With binoculars trained on the horses, he was now intent on each one’s performance over specific distances. The knowledge of what each was capable of was vital when it came to choosing which races to enter them in.

  Finally, satisfied, he waved the string back to the stables and drove away. This was first lot; there would be two more trips up the gallops with different horses during the morning.

  The horses reassembled into a single line. As before, I tacked on at the rear and we began the hack back. We’d covered perhaps half the distance to the stables when I heard the heavy drone of a tractor coming towards us. A bend in the lane and I could see the tractor was also pulling a trailer loaded with huge, round bales of hay. The tractor chugged steadily towards the horses and I felt White Lace begin to quiver and tremble. Taking a hand off the reins, I ran it soothingly down her neck and withers.

  ‘Steady girl, steady; you’re all right.’

  But she most certainly wasn’t. Her trembling increased as the tractor drew level.

  She suddenly dropped a shoulder, catching me unawares, and I found myself out the side door and hitting the unforgiving tarmac with a hefty thump to my crash cap and right shoulder.

  White Lace, free now of any restraint, reared up and whinnied loudly before coming down with a crash of steel-shod hooves. She took off as though she was entered for the Derby. The other horses, upset by her actions and the noise, were milling around, the lads trying to calm them down.