by K. M. Peyton
“And Morrison took the horse away and had it shot. A man who can do that is not just cruel. He’s not right in the head.”
“Yeah, I remember that. And his other horses were taken out of Turner’s yard and sent to Raleigh. I don’t think Raleigh knew that story when he took them on. It came out later, when the knacker-lad gossiped.”
“Well, let’s hope old Buffoon learns the job. We’ll give him every chance. Get a decent jockey next time.”
“Get Tessa to ride him!”
“She made him run all right. That’s true.”
“The girl’s got a talent,” Jimmy said.
“Pity she’s not a lad,” Peter said.
“Ah, we can’t all be so privileged…” Sarah muttered.
Tessa never gave Jimmy a chance to skive off giving her a riding lesson. She was there every afternoon (except lesson days) on whatever horse Jimmy said. She would ride all day if she had the chance. At home she did press-ups in her bedroom, and she pinched a pair of weights from Greevy to lift. Weedy Greevy’s attempts to improve his physique only lasted a week or two. She got all his cast-off equipment and worked on it religiously. She didn’t grow much, but she thought she could see her muscles rippling in the bath. And her confidence on the horses grew all the time. She even learned to master the stroppy ones now.
Because she was doing what she wanted she did not bate Maurice any more, although she hated him no less. Wisbey told her the story of Shenandoah Star. Thank God he didn’t own Buffoon! She remembered the hedgehog. She thought her mother was getting more like the doomed hedgehog every day, brought down by Maurice. He squashed her without killing her, breaking her spirit, seeming to enjoy the cruelty. But Tessa knew she could do nothing about it, because her mother didn’t seem to recognize what was happening.
But she would put it right, as soon as she was free. When she was eighteen and free by law she would change things at Goldlands. She did not know how, but she knew she would. Whatever she really wanted, she got. She was going to be a jockey, and she was going to be strong, and her body would match her fierce mind. She thought about nothing else: her ambition, and her horse.
“How old do you have to be to get a jockey’s licence?” she asked Jimmy.
“Sixteen.”
Four years!
“Don’t you want to be a jockey?” she asked Wisbey.
“No fear!”
“Why not?”
“I’m not stupid,” he said.
Tessa thought he was. She remembered the jockey on Aurora, her glimpse of his muddy, glowing face. She found out his name. Tom Bryant.
“Next time Buffoon runs, can Tom Bryant ride him?” she asked Peter.
“We can ask him, but he’s nearly always booked. I doubt he’d want to ride Buffoon.”
“You can ask him,” Tessa said.
“Cor, you take liberties, telling the guv’nor who to book!” Wisbey said.
But Peter, given food for thought, said to Tessa, “We’ll try him again, with you on board. See if you can make him run like you did before. I’ll use my stop-watch. And if he shows us anything again, I’ll try and get him a decent rider for his next race.”
“You must do it, Buffoon!” Tessa whispered to him as she groomed him in the morning. “It really matters – you must show them!”
She was trembling as they came to the start of the gallop at the bottom of the valley. Wisbey on God Almighty had a look on his face that meant he wasn’t going to be beaten this time, and Sarah was holding in Catbells’ exuberance with some difficulty. Buffoon meanwhile scratched his nose on his foreleg and yawned. Tessa hauled him in frantically.
Sarah turned and shouted, “Are you ready?” and sprung Catbells into action.
Tom Bryant! Tessa thought and slammed her heels into Buffoon’s sides. He jumped up, startled, and saw the other horses flying away from him up the hill. Peter’s Land Rover was a green spot in the far distance.
When it had happened before it had been a great surprise, but now Tessa was expecting it, it was far harder. Being a race jockey was quite different from just being a rider. Buffoon, so laid back, took time to change into fast mode, and the active Catbells was almost out of sight when Tessa at last managed to convey to her horse that he must run for his life. She felt him starting to take an interest, finding the power that he hardly knew he possessed – had so rarely been asked for – finding it and enjoying it, the ears pricking up into the wind with enjoyment. Tessa lifted her head and squinted up ahead, and saw Wisbey turn in his saddle to see where she was. She laughed. Yes, he could do it!
Save, as Peter pointed out, the race was just about over when Buffoon got into gear. He passed first God Almighty and then Catbells when they had already passed Peter’s Land Rover. Wisbey said he was already pulling up when Tessa went past. Tessa didn’t believe him. Catbells was pulling up for lack of puff, but Buffoon didn’t pull up until he was over the hill and looking down into the next valley, on to the sprawling complex of Raleigh’s splendid premises. Tessa couldn’t make him stop, although she denied she was being bolted with.
“He takes a long time to stop,” she said.
“And start,” they said.
But Peter said he would try for Tom Bryant, or someone more ambitious than his last jockey.
Maurice had asked “a few people to dinner”.
“Ugh!” said Tessa.
“Listen, darling, it’s racing people. You might be interested. Mr Raleigh’s coming, and two of his other owners, and I think his jockey.”
“Not Tom Bryant?”
“Mmm, I think so. Greevy asked him.”
Tessa was stunned. Usually she ate in the kitchen on dinner party days. It was bad enough in the dining-room when it was just family, but dinner parties were her idea of hell, listening to Maurice’s fat friends talking about money for hour after hour. She never said a word, save to correct anyone who thought she was Maurice’s daughter. “Stepdaughter,” she would say icily. “My father is Declan Blackthorn.” She loved to say his name: Declan Blackthorn. Maurice hated that, she knew. She could feel his eyes on her, hating. She liked it. Nobody spoke to her after that, as a rule.
But Tom Bryant… in her very dining-room!
“Yes,” she said. “Count me in.”
“Wear a decent dress and don’t rile Maurice, to please me.”
Myra knew more about horses than Maurice and a lot about racing with her Irish past, but Tessa knew she wouldn’t say much. She was always nervous in company, waiting for the put-down which Maurice invariably delivered in front of his friends. He was pleased to introduce her as his wife, as she looked flashily attractive when she dressed herself up, but when she had had a few drinks and started to flirt and enjoy herself, he got angry with her. These days she remembered, and her nervousness was increasing. Her hands shook when she lifted her wine glass. Tessa noticed all this, and it fuelled her hatred of Maurice. Myra, who had once gone to great lengths to keep her figure, no longer had to watch what she ate. Without trying she was thin, almost haggard.
“Tom Bryant’s coming to dinner,” Tessa crowed in the tack-room.
Sarah looked worried.
“Not a word, Tessa – not a word about Buffoon! Don’t go spouting your gab to Tom Bryant, of all people.”
“But we want him to ride!”
“Yes, and he’ll be asked, when the time’s right – if that day should ever come – by Mr Fellowes, not a twelve-year-old child.”
Tessa was scorched by Sarah’s laser-purple eyes. Everyone flinched when Sarah was annoyed.
“No gossip at all!” she snapped. Then, in a resigned voice, “Not that we’ve any secrets here. No great talent to keep under wraps.” Then, with more interest, “No reason why you shouldn’t listen to their gossip, mind you, and report back.”
All the same, Tessa was excited by the thought of mee
ting Tom Bryant and studying him as to his suitability to ride Buffoon.
She spent a long time in the bathroom washing her hair and making sure there was no stable smell left about her. Apart from her hands and her short, broken nails, she thought she looked very elegant in a dark velvet dress that Myra had bought for her in London. She did not lack smart clothes, but hardly ever wore them. The imported dinner-party cooks seemed to be doing a good job, judging by the smell coming from the kitchen, and Maurice seemed to be in one of his rare good moods. Tessa thought her mother looked stunning in a black, beaded dress – perhaps her new slimness was becoming, after all – and a good deal of make-up brightened the usual wan complexion. After a couple of whiskies her old sparkle came back, and Tessa could quite see why Maurice had wanted to marry her. She remembered clearly the woman her mother had once been, bursting with high spirits, provocative and with a furious temper. The shadow of her old self was back, as she got up to welcome the guests at the front door.
Tessa held back, and for once did not contradict the assumption that she was Maurice’s daughter.
James Raleigh was, close to, a large, handsome man with a strong presence. Tessa could imagine everyone jumping to attention in his yard, as they all jumped to Sarah at Sparrows Wyck. He had a sharp-faced, extremely beautiful wife called Diana who was well known in the eventing world, but rather more reserved in her manner than her husband. Tessa got the impression that she was attending in the line of duty – in fact, as the evening got under way, she realized that all the guests were there for a purpose: a big sale of horses in training was coming up and Maurice was planning to buy. He wanted advice. As well as the Raleighs there was an Irish couple who seemed to have a lot of know-how about the horses on offer, and Tom Bryant’s father who was a well-known bloodstock agent. Tom Bryant was there more as a companion to his father than in his jockey capacity, Tessa deduced, for he was put at the bottom of the dinner table next to her, and – like her – did not speak unless he was spoken to.
Tessa was bubbling with curiosity and excitement but had to keep all her faculties well under control. She could see that Tom Bryant was not in the same league as the older people, in spite of the fact that, when they had spent their thousands on buying and training the horses, he was the one on whom it all depended to make the expenditure worthwhile. What a responsibility! thought Tessa. Especially when the owner was someone as rapacious and ungenerous as her stepfather.
“He’s not really my father, he’s my stepfather,” she said to Tom Bryant when the others were all talking.
Tom said, “Lucky for you.”
“I hate him.”
Tom grinned. Tessa realized that he wasn’t all that much older than she was – eighteen, perhaps – and was lean and hard as whipcord, and extremely good-looking in spite of a bent nose and a scar across one eyebrow. He was well spoken and obviously well educated, and had come to prominence in point-to-point racing very quickly: he was the present whizz-kid jockey. Jimmy said jockeys could go down as quickly as they came up and said that Tom Bryant’s rise to fame was well deserved, but dangerous. “Once you’re up there, there’s only one other place to go, and that’s down. He’s very young to take that sort of responsibility.” Tessa studied him to see if the responsibility rested heavily upon him, but he seemed quite careless of it to her, more bored and impatient with his companions than respectful, glancing at his watch occasionally. He yawned several times.
Tessa was tongue-tied, not knowing what to say to him. But her mother, lifting her glass of wine to her lips, called gaily across the table, “Tessa goes down to Sparrows Wyck to ride, Tom. I expect you’ve seen her on the gallops.”
“That string of hacks! We’ve seen them,” Greevy said.
Tessa scowled at him. She had been hoping, lately, that Greevy was improving under Mr Raleigh’s influence, away from his father, but every time she thought this he ruined it by his sneering and doing-down. If they didn’t hate each other so they would get on, having a lot in common. He looked very presentable, she had to admit, in his formal party suit, his spots going through a good phase at the moment. She supposed he was jealous of glamorous, successful Tom. Anyone would be.
“Mr Fellowes’ horses?” Tom asked.
Tessa said, “Yes. Jimmy gives me lessons.”
“Jimmy Fellowes? You should be good then.”
Tessa wanted to say, “Yes, I am,” but didn’t think it would be right.
“I want to be a jockey,” she said.
Greevy laughed and Tom said, “You’re mad. It’s really tough for a girl. Even taught by Jimmy Fellowes. Trainers don’t like ’em.”
“I know.”
“Who do you ride? There’s only one good horse down there, the one with the Gaelic name.”
“God Almighty. That’s Wisbey’s.”
“And a new one.”
“Buffoon?” Tessa couldn’t help herself, her face lighting up.
“No. Catbells – that was good on the flat.”
Raleigh, catching the conversation, asked her across the table, “Who’s the chestnut job we’ve heard rumours about? That’s a new one, I understand.”
Tessa panicked, remembering Sarah’s eyes.
“I – I don’t know –”
“You said a new one – Buffoon, was it?”
“No! Not Buffoon! He’s useless!”
Tessa nearly choked, saying this in front of Tom Bryant. She wanted to die, betraying her darling.
But Maurice said, “It’s rubbish, Sparrows Wyck, a load of no-hopers. The girl just amuses herself.”
Raleigh said quietly, “They know their job, just haven’t had the luck.”
“You make your own luck,” Maurice said confidently.
“Up to a point. But in racing –” Raleigh shrugged. “Ask a jockey.” He looked across at Tom and smiled.
They went back to talking about the horses for sale, and Tessa, in spite of Sarah, whispered to Tom, “Buffoon isn’t useless. I had to say that. But he isn’t. Remember that. But you mustn’t say.”
Tom looked at her pointedly. He had wonderful very blue eyes.
“You mean, if I remember, it might be lucky for me?” Although he was teasing her, Tessa thought there was a serious meaning to his question. It was the way he looked at her, sharply, asking.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” Then, remembering Sarah, “But you mustn’t say anything! Promise?”
“Promise,” he said. And laughed.
At the top of the table they were talking about the Grand National.
“I want a National type,” Maurice was dictating. “Long distance, tough. Heart. It doesn’t matter about the looks.”
“You can’t tell heart from looking,” the Irishman said. “Only by doing.”
“I want to win the Grand National.” Maurice made it sound like an order, fired at his minions.
“Don’t we all?” said Tom.
He spoke quietly, meaning it for Tessa, but it plopped into a sudden silence and everyone heard it plainly. Tom blushed as Maurice turned angry eyes on him.
“What’s wrong with that, young man? Do you think I’m foolish?”
“No, sir, not at all.”
“When I have the horse, you might want to ride it. Remember that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tessa saw that Raleigh was amused, trying not to show it. Maurice didn’t talk like an ordinary human being, she thought. It was all brow-beating stuff, telling everybody. Maurice never listened. He had all the expertise round the table, but asked no questions, just told them.
Myra, now full of confidence in the company she enjoyed, turned to Maurice and said, “He’s a star, darling. By the time you have your horse, you might have to beg him, on bended knee.”
Even Tessa could see that this was an extremely silly thing to say to Maurice. She could tell by the look
on his face that he was going to say something terrible to Myra, and she couldn’t bear it. She shot out her hand and knocked Tom’s full glass of red wine into his lap, and shrieked.
Myra shrieked too. “The carpet! Oh, Tessa!”
Tessa dropped on the floor with her napkin, mopping frantically, and everyone got up and looked helpless.
“Salt – you put salt on red wine to take out the stain,” said Diana Raleigh, and Tom dropped down on his knees beside Tessa with the salt-cellar.
“I did it on purpose, to stop him,” Tessa whispered.
“Stop him what?”
But they were surrounded by feet and helpers and Tessa had to retreat. Salt was fetched from the kitchen and ladled on the stain. The party resumed. The sale catalogue was discussed, scribbled on, the plates cleared away by the hired maids. Six of the best horses in the sale had been marked and the optimum price scribbled in.
“He’s some spender, your father,” Tom whispered to Tessa.
“Stepfather.”
“Sorry. Hope he’s good at choosing winners.”
Tessa could see that Raleigh was really pleased at the prospect of having these good horses in his stables, and was being charming to Myra at his side, and buttering up Maurice. Maurice was loving it, seeing his power over these people. Myra, responding to Raleigh’s charm, was bound for disaster, Tessa could see, and there was nothing she could do about it. She had a vivid memory of seeing her mother, after too much to drink, sitting on the lap of Declan’s best friend and kissing him heartily, and Declan tipping the chair over so that they all fell on the floor, after which a great punch-up ensued. She could remember her mother laughing and shrieking and joining in, and herself crying in her high chair and nobody taking any notice. She remembered it now, seeing Myra turn to Raleigh, eyelashes aflutter, and saying, “Perhaps I could have a horse run in my name if you would train it for me? I’m sure Maurice would love that, don’t you think so?”
Tessa saw alarm bells registering in Raleigh’s brain, as he laughed awkwardly.
Maurice came to his rescue by saying brutally to Myra, “Don’t make such a fool of yourself, Myra.” And to Raleigh, with a laugh, “Her education lets her down, I’m afraid. It’s like the horses – you choose them by their looks, but they let you down in public.”
