by Joe McNally
Barber was an easy man to recognise: in his mid-sixties, heavy, maybe eighteen stones, big red nose, prominent ears, moist blue eyes and a clump of pure white hair tucked under a tweed cap. Superstitious like many racing folk, he wore the same huge army-issue overcoat he’d worn when he trained his first winner.
‘Mister Barber,’ I said. He turned quickly, suddenly hopeful, but his features sagged when he saw it wasn’t his stable jockey.
‘Hello, Eddie,’ he said gruffly then went back to scanning incomers who were becoming scarcer as the first race drew near.
I wasn’t much good at asking for rides at the best of times and there had been so many refusals in recent months that my confidence was shot to bits. The fact that this was my last gasp didn’t make it easier.
‘Mister Barber, I heard Tommy Gilmour hasn’t turned up.’
He gave me his full attention. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Well, we sort of noticed it in the weighing room.’ I lied.
‘Any of you lads see Tommy last night?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so. Nobody mentioned it.’
He stared down the long tree-lined drive again and said, ‘Can’t understand it. He’s always been a hundred per cent reliable.’
‘It’s not like him,’ I agreed. ‘Have you rung his hotel?’
‘Rang his hotel and his house. The owner’s husband even drove to his hotel to see if he’s broken down on the way.’
‘Mister Barber, if he doesn’t appear, have you thought about a replacement?’
He looked down at me, blue eyes watering in the wind. ‘Eddie, I’ve thought about nothing else but the horse’s owner won’t have it, she wants to withdraw.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the silly cow’s convinced that nobody but Tommy can win on the horse. He’s a difficult ride and takes a bit of knowing but we’ve had a right few quid on ante-post, her husband and me, and we’re desperate to run him.’
He really got going then, gesticulating, jerking at his cap. ‘She’s a nice lady, Loretta, but she’s wrong on this one. Thinks because Tommy is Champion Jockey he’s a stone better than the rest of you. Someone else rode the horse last year and Cragrock fell and didn’t get up for five minutes, Loretta was hysterical, threatened to take the horse out of training altogether. Crazy woman.’
‘Where is she now?’ I asked.
Barber dabbed at his big nose with a hankie. ‘Back in her box. Paul, her husband’s trying to talk her into accepting a substitute but he’s fighting a losing battle. I had to get out of there before I strangled her.’
‘Do you think she’d accept another Champion Jockey as replacement?’
He stared down at me. I shrugged, ‘Okay, so it was five years ago,’ I said, ‘but it’s worth a try.’
Still morose, he shook his head then suddenly his eyes lit up. ‘You might be right, Eddie! You might just be right! Come on!’
Checking his watch he turned and hobbled into the course. An accident a few years back had left him badly lame in his right leg. Barber always claimed it had happened when he came off a horse on the gallops but Muriel, his wife, said he broke it when he ‘fell down the stairs, pissed’.
I walked alongside him conscious of the steep rise and fall of his left shoulder as he tried to hurry through the puddles. The commentary on the first race pulsed from the speakers. Barber, face beaming, kept saying quietly, ‘The very man! The very thing!’
He told me to stay by the weighing room as he disappeared into the main stand.
I waited, trying not to hope too hard. Within five minutes Barber hove back into view, his face telling me all I needed to know. Smiling wide he slapped my shoulder and said, ‘We’re back in business! I’ll send someone along with the colours and I’ll see you in the paddock.’
Stunned, surprised, delighted, I grasped his hand. ‘Hubert, I know it’s an old cliché but this means a hell of a lot to me.’
He gripped my forearm with his free hand. ‘Me too,’ he said, ‘me too. Listen, do me one favour, Eddie, try and make sure the TV cameras don’t catch your face before the race starts.’
I stared at him. ‘Why?’
He smiled. ‘Just do it. I’ll explain later.’
It took me a minute to figure out what he’d done, then I twigged it. If I lost Barber would be in deep trouble with Loretta Whitehead.
3
Emotions bubbling, brain buzzing with plans and hopes, high on the prospect of showing thousands of racegoers and millions of TV viewers I could still cut it, I strode back into the changing room, grabbed Tom, my valet, by the shoulders, shook him and said, ‘I ride Cragrock in the big one!’
He stared at me. ‘By the looks of you you’d think you’d already won it!’
Wearing green and blue colours, Bill Brandon, one of the veterans, saw my smile as he passed and said, ‘You look as if you’ve won the pools, Eddie.’
I fought to contain my excitement. ‘Hubert Barber just asked me to ride the favourite in the big race.’ I had tried to say it calmly but it came out loud and boastful. Most of the jocks heard me.
Bill looked puzzled. ‘Where’s Tommy Gilmour?’
I shrugged. ‘Hasn’t turned up. They weren’t going to run him but they’ve had a few quid on and decided to have a go.’
‘Good luck to you, then,’ Bill said ungrudgingly. Then Con Layton’s furtive Irish tones came from behind me. ‘Gilmour could handle that horse, Malloy, but you couldn’t ride one side of him. You’ll make an arse o’ yersel.’
I turned to face Layton, it hadn’t taken him long to recover from our earlier scrap. I stared at him and got back the usual taunting look from his small, pale, close-set eyes.
I said, ‘Well, you’d certainly recognise an arse before most people, Layton, since you see one when you’re shaving every morning.’
Everyone heard. The place went silent. They watched Layton who’d lost his mischievous look and was glaring at me. He spoke, trying to sound menacing. ‘Pretty full of yourself, Malloy, on the strength of one good ride, ain’t you? Pretty full of yourself for a has-been.’
I smiled warmly just to irritate him. ‘I’d sooner be a has-been than a never-was.’
‘Listen, Malloy – ‘
‘You listen! How long does it take you to learn a lesson? How many second prizes have you got to get?’
Realising he was quickly losing this round too he was sensible enough not to risk further humiliation. Obviously raging, he growled, ‘You’ll get yours, Malloy!’ and marched out. One of his sidekicks, Ben Meese again, a swaggering little runt with bad skin, tried a bit too theatrically to fill the brief silence by pointing the end of his whip at me and saying, ‘You’d better be very very careful, Malloy!’
Taking two strides toward him I bent over till our noses were almost touching and said, ‘Meese, if the organ-grinder doesn’t scare me, what chance has the monkey got?’
He didn’t care for that nor for the burst of laughter from the lads. He reddened, glared at me, then turned and whacked my saddle hard with his whip before scuttling away after Layton.
Ten minutes before the off, three of us stood in the paddock feeding off each other’s tension. I was on edge, aware it was my big chance. Barber’s money was on the line along with his judgement in letting the horse run. Paul Whitehead had a big financial stake too and he stood close as Barber gave me riding instructions, Paul repeating them, nodding, tugging at his ear-lobe.
‘Where’s Mrs Whitehead?’ I asked.
Barber said, ‘Eh, we persuaded Loretta to watch it on telly. Muriel’s under instructions to keep her occupied.’
I smiled up at him. ‘You told Loretta Tommy had arrived, didn’t you?’
Barber said, ‘Ask no questions, hear no lies. A Champion Jockey’s a Champion Jockey. Just get out there and ride like you used too.’
At the start, Fred Harbour, the assistant starter, moved among us checking girth straps which always became loose as horses stretched on the canter
down the track. Fred was an ex-jockey staying in touch with the game as best he could. Accumulated injuries had forced him into early retirement. Fused vertebrae and dislocated shoulders had slowly curled his nine stone body up till he looked sixty rather than forty.
It was the horses he loved; he spoke little to the jockeys, resenting the fact that he wasn’t one of us anymore. He moved toward me and I pulled Cragrock to a halt. Fred twanged the girths to test for slack. ‘How are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Okay.’
From up here you only ever saw the top of his cloth cap. His injuries made it difficult for him to straighten his neck. Fred grunted as he strained to get my girths one hole tighter then, head still down, he said, ‘Watch yourself, I think Layton and Meese are going to try and put you out of the race.’
It was the first time he’d spoken more than two words to me.
‘Thanks,’ I said. He didn’t acknowledge, just patted Cragrock’s neck and moved on. I looked around. The others circled me, chatting, trying to discover each other’s tactics, who was going to make the running, who would be dropping out early. Layton and Meese were together. Layton laughed harshly, rolling his head back. Meese smiled up at him.
The starter called us into line. I moved Cragrock toward the rail. Someone barged up my inside, shoving me to the right. I glanced across. It was Layton, pale smiling eyes watery-looking behind his goggles. I glimpsed to my other side. Meese was there, smiling too.
They knew Cragrock had to be held up in the middle of the field and they’d obviously decided to waste no time in trying to intimidate us. I had a little surprise planned.
4
I watched the starter. His fingers tightened on the lever and as he opened his mouth to call ‘Okay, jockeys!’ I kicked Cragrock hard in the belly. The tape flew up, Cragrock’s ears pricked, Layton cursed and after the first six strides we were four lengths clear of the rest.
Cragrock was confused. Used to his jockey fighting to hold him back, his ears flicked as he tried to figure out why he was being not only given his head but pushed along. He was still thinking by the time we reached the first fence and he took off a stride and a half too soon but we sailed over and landed just as far the other side, balanced and running.
We went ten lengths clear.
Coming to the second, his blood was up. Going too fast. No time for adjustment. He took off way too soon. Jesus! His front hooves barely cleared it. His hind legs hit the fence smashing birth twigs out like feathers from a shot pheasant. I sat back expecting him to pitch forward but the effort of the leap and staying upright brought only a short grunt from him as he sucked in air trying to regain full steam.
Before he could, I took a determined hold of the reins and managed to break his stride. He accepted restraint and slowed to the easier pace I wanted. We were beginning to get an understanding.
His initial exuberance gone, Cragrock settled to a steady pattern, his fluid stride beating out that rhythmic thud on the turf, all the more noticeable in the eerie silence afforded a front-runner. Each leap brought a brief suspension of the hoof beats and another fix of the exhilaration which had made an addict of me from the beginning.
As we approached the last in the back straight, four from home, they came after us. It sounded like a group of three. Ten strides from the fence Cragrock sensed them closing on him and suddenly his rhythm altered and he guessed at the take-off. There was nothing I could do. At full stretch I saw the birch coming up fast to meet us ...
We ploughed into the guts of the fence. Cragrock’s shiny black front hooves were momentarily higher than his head as he stretched trying to save himself then came that awful vacuum as his half-ton body hit the tight packed birch ... The weird feeling of being in a snapshot, waiting for the punch of the momentum to catch up ... As always, it did.
And it smashed Cragrock onwards and downwards, thumping the air from his lungs in a long despairing rasp. A fraction of a second before being catapulted forward I saw a blurred mesh of bay, chestnut and grey horseflesh flash past in a graceful arc. Cragrock, still doing everything to stop himself crashing into the ground, was trying desperately to get a leg out and the effort caused his big frame to buckle then straighten under me throwing my legs and backside higher than my head as my face was forced into his mane. No brilliant recovery, I was on my way out over his head when suddenly he found a foothold, got his undercarriage down, then scampered along like a crab before raising his neck, belting me in the face with his head and pushing me back into the saddle.
Stunned and bloody-nosed I tried to collect my senses as the horse found his stride again and galloped on.
My head cleared. Three to jump. We lay fourth twelve lengths off the leader. But Cragrock was getting his second wind, running on again. He rallied as we rounded the bend into the straight. Ahead of me three pairs of white breeches pumped in union.
Because of their crouch I couldn’t see the colours but you get to know a rider’s style and build. One of those in contention, Meese, I recognised by his weightlifter’s thighs.
Halfway round the home turn, Layton ranged alongside me, his almost toothless grin telling me he still thought he had plenty of horse under him. The running rail was on my left, Layton on my right. He moved his horse, Machete, a big powerful grey, across to lean on us. Cragrock hadn’t much fight left.
‘Layton! You bastard!’ I hissed.
He looked across, boring harder into us now and spat at my face. The wind carried the gob and it splatted greasily on my goggles as we were forced into the rails. The white plastic shattered sending out a spray of shards. Cragrock broke stride and Layton, laughing, eased his horse away and kicked on toward the third last fence.
I pulled my smeared goggles down and hauled Cragrock off the rail. He came quickly back on an even keel as we approached the fence and met it on a beautiful long stride, landing far out on the other side, feeling as though he’d never left the ground. After going at such a hectic pace maybe the enforced breathers had actually helped him.
I was closing though Meese was travelling best of the four in front. Layton, seeing his friend creep through on the rail approaching the second last fence, eased his horse right handed, squeezing the chestnut in the middle onto Meese’s bay as they all took off. Unbalanced, the bay scrambled over then disappeared for a moment before I saw his hind legs come up as he somersaulted.
Cragrock soared over and I looked down to see Meese lying under the rails as his horse slid on its side along the grass.
Up ahead, Layton was working on his next victim, intimidating the little chestnut alongside him.
We were three lengths off them, still closing. With Layton still squeezing out his rival they were flat to the boards and drifting right coming to the last, close together, leaving me more than half the fence. Layton met it dead right. His challenger finally chickened out putting in two short strides, losing his impetus.
Cragrock met it spot on, jumping with no wasted effort, and landed running at Machete’s quarters. Layton looked over his left shoulder and he mouthed a curse as he saw me. I smiled.
He knew he was in trouble. The shape of the run-in at Haydock means jockeys need to quickly take a diagonal line left after jumping the last, or risk running into a set of wooden gates dolling off the no-entry section.
Layton, believing he was home free, had left himself little time and space to get across. Now I was blocking him
As the gates loomed, Layton hauled violently at his tired horse, Machete, trying to pull him left.
Machete was tired. So was Cragrock. Both breathing hard, sides heaving, muscles straining, nostrils flaring as they snorted huge lungfuls of air. I was running out of energy too, panting as I scrubbed and pushed.
But Cragrock was running straight. Machete, with Layton pulling hard on the left rein and desperately hitting him down the neck and shoulder, was totally unbalanced.
And the black and white gates were coming closer.
I was a neck off him which gave hi
m a few final seconds of hope before he realised he was trapped. They ran into the first gate and by the sound of his curse and howl, Layton’s right leg had taken the full impact. He hit the next three like skittles, only they didn’t fall down.
He stopped riding. I went a length up, feeling a pang of sympathy for Layton’s brave horse but none for him. The race was over. I eased Cragrock past the post becoming aware for the first time of the roaring crowd.
Glancing round at Layton as we pulled up I saw him slip his feet tenderly from the stirrups. His right boot was torn, blood dripping from the toe, staining his horse’s foreleg.
I was elated. A couple of hours ago I’d been almost suicidal, now I’d won one of the biggest races of the season and beaten Layton at his own game.
Barber hobbled to meet us, showing a mixture of relief and annoyance. He said, ‘What were you two silly bastards up to?’
‘All down to Layton,’ I said. ‘He did me on the home turn.’
Barber said, ‘And you tried to get your own back! On the bloody run-in of all places!’
‘I held my line, Mister Barber, that’s all.’
Still looking surly he said, ‘You shouldn’t have retaliated.’
‘If I hadn’t you’d probably be leading in the second.’
He nodded then looked up at me again. ‘Other than that,’ he said, ‘you rode a bloody brilliant race!’
I smiled and shook his hand. ‘Thanks.’
We walked in to the winner’s enclosure to loud applause. I’d forgotten just how sweet it was. As I dismounted the loudspeaker’s message of ‘stewards’ enquiry’ turned the welcoming cheers into sighs.
Barber, seeing his stake money once more in jeopardy, looked worried. ‘I don’t need this, Eddie. Don’t need it,’ he said as we stopped in the winner’s berth. ‘I’ve had enough hassle for the day.’
I undid the girths and the saddle pad squeaked keenly as it slid from the back of the sweating horse. Turning to Barber I smiled confidently. ‘See you soon for the presentation,’ I said.
