by K. M. Peyton
Wisbey let his horse go on the course and Tom stood up in his stirrups as God Almighty took hold and bucketed away down the turf. Wisbey watched him go, then turned with Tessa to take his place with the rest of the lads. Having the favourite,Wisbey seemed to have grown in stature, almost swaggering. His red hair stood as ferociously on end as ever, clashing horribly with the jacket that matched the owners’ colours. (They had given it him as a Christmas present, much to the amusement of the yard, but he wore it proudly.)
“He’s never looked better, eh?” he said as the horses came back, cantering to the start. The big bay moved beautifully, tucking in his nose to Tom’s light hands on his mouth. He was real class; Tessa knew that Buffoon would never be admired in the same way, but held no animosity. God Almighty was to Wisbey what Buffoon was to her. She understood the feeling. It wasn’t about looks, but about character and courage. Both horses had it, far more than most.
The race was three miles and on the first circuit they came by in a bunch, twelve of them, travelling quite fast. Tom was well up, galloping on the inside, enjoying himself. Tessa knew how it was – close to – quite different from seeing it on television. The picture never got over the sense of reckless power that emanated from the field approaching a big fence; it didn’t give you the smell of fear, the look in the horses’ eyes, the vibration of the pounding turf, the crack of flying brushwood and snorting breath… all the things that made Tessa’s heart pound with the joy of it, and wanting to be a part of it, in spite of what they said about girls. To be there, close to, was the next best thing. But then they had passed by and were going out into the country, and the noise and the tension faded. Out in the country, Tom said the jockeys chatted and swore and even agreed to split the prize money if it was going to be a close-run thing between two or three. Tom said there was nothing in life to compare with riding a great horse in a good race to win.
“He loves it!” Wisbey rejoiced. “Did you see how he looked, cocking his ears at the fence? And going for a big one – flying –”
Wisbey jumped from foot to foot, his cheeks red with excitement.
Tessa never knew what caused the frisson of fear that went through her then. It was what Myra used to say – “a goose walking on her grave”. She looked at Wisbey, sick, but he was laughing.
“Come on, my son! You’re going to do it!”
On the far side God Almighty lay up in front with a horse on either side of him. But whereas the other two jockeys were scrubbing along, working hard, Tom was sitting quite still, cruising.
God Almighty’s stride was perfect for the jump. He lengthened a fraction, pricked his ears and took off. The horse on the outside of him, slightly ahead, for some unknown reason jumped right across God Almighty’s landing place, pecked and fell. God Almighty tried to avoid him in mid-air, twisted and fell heavily, turning a complete somersault. Another horse behind failed to avoid the tangle and fell too. The other horses streamed past on either side, dodging or jumping over the strewn bodies, crashing into each other, but surviving, while the three fallen horses struggled to their feet. Two of them immediately galloped on after their fellows, but the third, attempting to follow, only made a few strides and pulled up. He tried again, two strides, and then stood still.
Wisbey let out a strangled cry. He ran down the slope, shoving through the crowd and fled like a hunted rabbit along the fence, looking for a way through. Tessa stood frozen, watching. None of them had binoculars in their bunch, and she couldn’t see.
“It’s God Almighty, isn’t it?” she asked the nearest lad.
“Aye. Not too good by the look of it.”
None of them cared about the jockeys. Jockeys survived. Jockeys didn’t get put down. But the horses…
And Tessa ran too, crying now.
The crowd roared, the horses came past the winning post, but Tessa saw nothing, tumbling out on to the scored turf and across it, running fast. Perhaps only a tendon… not a fracture. Dear God, not a fracture! It was miles across the centre of the course. Two or three cars were converging, an ambulance, and the white, low-slung body of the horse ambulance. But Tessa could run as fast, spurred by fear.
The horse was standing, trying to jig about, but only on three legs. The off fore hung, misshapen in a horrible way below the knee. A small group of spectators had converged and Tom was holding God Almighty. Steam rose in a cloud from the horse, who gleamed in the winter sunlight as if he were posing for his portrait, ears pricked, eyes shining. Tom was distraught, wanting to be out of it. When he saw Wisbey he flung him the reins and started to ungirth his saddle. Tears gleamed in his eyes, he didn’t say anything. When Peter came up he just shook his head, put his saddle over his arm and turned away.
“Oh Christ,” said Peter.
It was all finished. The horse was shot and the great light faded from his eyes and his bright, steaming body kicked and quivered on the turf. The little group of fencemen and hangers-on stood silent. Wisbey knelt down beside the horse’s head and cradled it in his arms, sobbing, until Peter came and touched his shoulder and said, “Leave it, lad. It’s over for him now.”
Tessa stood and stared, shaking. She was numb, seeing it, never having known death before. Not like that, in the middle of brilliance, the light going out like the sun falling from the sky without warning. So fast the passage from life to death, she could not cope with it. Like Wisbey.
Peter stood hunched, looking suddenly like an old man, all his hopes and future blown away. The vet chatted to him, knowing there was nothing to comfort, but words blurred the scene – condolences, head-shaking, sympathy. Everyone was moved. Peter went off to seek his owners.
A car had whisked Tom off for the next race. The show went on. Another car took Peter and Wisbey and Tessa back, Wisbey having to be escorted bodily away from his horse. There was nothing to take home save buckets and rugs, bridle and headcollar… an empty, echoing horsebox. All the other lads were quiet and embarrassed, guessing how it felt, but unable to put sympathy into words, just showing it in their manner. The crowd, too, was quieter than at the usual finish, many of them sad for the way the best horse had been beaten. Tessa overheard their comments, but kindness made no difference. She knew it could just as well have been Buffoon, or could be in the future. She knew just how Wisbey felt. For all that he was a man, and gone twenty, he cried on the way home, and Tessa put her arms round him in the front seat, while Peter drove stonily, silently, the short journey home.
“Well, it happens, we all know that,” Sarah said miserably. “It’s not them that suffer though – it’s us that can’t bear it.”
“Our best horse…” Gilly said. “If only –”
“But even the duds… It’s the same, even if it’s a duffer,” Sarah said shortly. “I’ve never got used to it, and I don’t think I ever will. I only know that it’s a great game, they’re doing what they’re bred for and what they love doing. When they go like that, it’s fast, no suffering.”
No suffering? Tessa thought. She watched Wisbey get his bike out to cycle home, a wan, puff-faced boy. There was nothing to be said, but everyone knew how he felt – how they felt themselves, but worse, because God Almighty was his horse. The owners didn’t really come into it, although Peter said they were “sick”, and the old man cried.
Tessa walked home over the dark down, along her usual well-worn path. She was used to the darkness and the glitter of the winter stars over the black hummock of the horizon, the smell of the river below her and the crunching of the cold grass underfoot, but she wasn’t used to feeling beaten, as she did tonight. The crass security lights of precious Goldlands stunned the night ahead of her; she never felt less like facing Maurice and po-faced Greevy. Just when their luck was turning… now Maurice could gloat: she guessed exactly how he would look, sitting himself down at the dinner table with a smirky look of pity on his face… “Bad luck on your stable today” – and knowing that he was plea
sed. The love of a good horse didn’t come into it with Maurice.
What he actually said was, “I bet your owners were sick. They must have had a good bet – he was a cert, after all, with Bryant up – and then to lose it all like that.”
Tessa said, “They don’t bet. They didn’t have any money on. The old man cried.”
She kept her eyes on her dinner, feeling herself tremble. Something was happening to her, which she couldn’t control. She was aware of the whole room, as if it were waiting, all soft lamps and deep carpets, the click of Myra’s knife and fork, Greevy’s tactful silence… give him that, he didn’t gloat. The thick, rich dinner of stewed steak and dumplings on her plate made her gorge rise.
Maurice laughed and said, “I don’t know why some people go in for racing. What is it for, if you have a horse like that, and don’t bet?”
Tessa thought she was going to be sick. But, instead of being sick, she voided her wild feelings by snatching up the table cloth, lifting it and shooting everything on the table into Maurice’s lap – including her dinner, not to mention Myra’s and Greevy’s. It was like the custard tart in Jackie’s face – brilliant, a release of pressure that made her sane again. Seeing Maurice covered in thick gravy, hot steak and pureed potatoes, screaming as his lower body got burnt by the contents of the gravy-dish, was marvellous.
She got up from her chair and ran out of the room before he should kill her.
“Is it true, that you attacked your father with a steak and kidney pudding and he had to go to hospital for burns? That’s what everyone is saying.”
Tessa didn’t want to talk about it, even to Tom Bryant.
“He’s not my father,” she said.
“I’d love to have seen it,” Tom said. “You’ve made yourself the most popular person in racing. You could get a job with Raleigh any day.”
“I don’t want a job with Raleigh.”
It was hard to get much out of Tessa suddenly. She had lapsed into her silent ways. Maurice had ordered her out of his house, and she had gone back to Sparrows Wyck, for there was no other place she knew. Sarah had taken her into her caravan, and that was where she lived, until she was “sorted out”. The social services people were on the trail, Myra was hysterical with fear she was going to get taken away.
Tessa kept thinking it might have been Buffoon. She could not get it out of her head: the way the light went out of the horse’s eyes. She felt the light had gone out of her own, with these things that were happening to her. Tom saying… about Buffoon’s sight. She asked him again about it, but he said, “Oh, forget it, my imagination.” She watched Buffoon all the time, for signs, but only saw his clumsiness. Was his clumsiness inherent, or a sign of bad sight? She could not speak of it.
And the social services people…
Sarah said, “They’ll take you away from here over my dead body.”
Sarah’s toughness extended to protect Tessa. Nobody said anything, but Tessa was not so preoccupied that she did not sense the closing of ranks around her, to save her from punishment. Maurice was saying she should be put away… “Put her down,” said Tom Bryant. “That would suit him nicely.” And they all laughed.
The Battleaxe came to Sarah’s caravan to continue the lessons. Sarah sat in the bedroom end, smoking and reading the Racing Post. The Battleaxe didn’t seem to mind. She said Tessa was to sit for her GCSEs in the summer, and she expected her to do well.
“You’ve a very good brain.”
“I’m going to be a jockey.”
“I should think you need a lot of brain to be a good jockey.”
“Not exams though.”
“Exams are always very good to have, whatever. Jockey or not.”
Tessa liked the Battleaxe. The Battleaxe never lectured her, just accepted – even the attack on Maurice. She said Mrs Alston had laughed when she heard, then remembered that she was a magistrate. They both thought a steak and kidney pudding was preferable to a knife.
When she had gone Sarah would emerge to make a cup of tea. She drank a lot of tea. Jimmy used to come in and they would sit drinking cups of tea and rolling cigarettes and talking, and Tessa would sit curled up in the corner, listening, watching, not saying anything. She preferred this way of living, but was terrified it was going to be stopped by Maurice’s conniving with the authorities.
“Why should they change anything?” Sarah asked. “We’re all happy now, even Maurice, getting you out of his hair.”
“He hates me. He wants to put me away. He can too – till I’m eighteen.”
“Rubbish! Not if you behave yourself. Anyway, it’s sixteen, surely? And that won’t be long.”
“Eighteen.”
“Oh well. Keep your head down till then. Keep out of his way,” Jimmy said.
Sarah said, “We all know Peter’s long-term plan is to run Buffoon in the Grand National. Mr Cressington’s potty for it – before he dies, he says. But that’s also Raleigh’s plan for that horse Maurice paid a fortune for, San Lucar. You might be on a collision course there, should it all pan out.”
“That’s looking miles ahead,” Jimmy said. “Anything could happen before then.”
“Yes, we all know that. But the plans are laid.”
“Who will Tom ride?” Tessa murmured.
“Interesting point. He’s talking about leaving Raleigh, going freelance.”
“If Buffoon carries on the way he’s going, Tom will choose him,” Sarah said.
Tessa knew that plans in racing nearly always went awry, but the possibility outlined by Sarah made her blood race. To beat Maurice in the Grand National! That would be the biggest prize of all. Even if they didn’t win (that was an impossible dream) – but just to beat San Lucar, to show Maurice. Dreams indeed!
Jimmy and Sarah were already talking about something else, showing how remote the chances were of the outlined meeting taking place. Tessa half-listened, hugging her arms round her knees, the ideas jostling in her head… what might or might not happen. The rain beat on the windows, the cigarette smoke made a thick haze, mingling with the steam from Sarah’s washing which hung over the glowing stove. It was a slum but, to Tessa, far more inviting than the hot, plush wastes of Goldlands. What was Myra doing without her? she wondered – the needle-sharp thought that spoiled the fleeting satisfaction. Why didn’t her stupid mother get a job in a racing stable and get happy? Maurice hypnotized her, Tessa thought. She was scared of him, scared of running away. Scared because he had convinced her she was stupid. Tessa knew how it felt, being scared.
But, if she hadn’t known Sarah before, she now appreciated the strength of Sarah’s support, the feeling that she was in good hands. Sarah did not suffer fools gladly, and made no attempt to be popular. But she was a staunch friend, and totally committed to her job, with an instinctive understanding of her horses. She was like Jimmy in that respect.
With her looks and style, she could have done anything. Tall, with long legs, she would look superb on a horse if she didn’t cramp herself into racing-length stirrups. She rode with strength and grace. Jimmy said she was wasted out of the dressage ring: any horse would “piaffe” himself silly with Sarah’s legs telling him what to do. “Dressage! Much too much like hard work!” Sarah laughed. She was totally committed to racing, the daughter of a rich bloodstock breeder who had – it was said – run away from home at the age of sixteen with one of her father’s grooms and been disowned. Gilly said she had had a baby, who would now be about twelve, but could not vouch for it. Gilly said one day Sarah would be legging up a jockey in the paddock and the jockey would look down at her and say “Mummy!” and fall into her arms. This tack-room gossip was intriguing, but Tessa knew it didn’t do to believe everything Gilly said. She believed the bit about Sarah running off and being disowned – that was fairly well known – but the baby… ? And who was the groom? Nobody knew, not even Gilly. Sarah, at sixteen, must h
ave been gorgeous, with her mass of chestnut curly hair and her violet-purple eyes, before her features hardened and her skin roughened. Now she was more handsome than beautiful, with an unquestionable authority about her – a good person to have on your side, Tessa thought. She wasn’t going to ask her about the groom, not ever – it would be too dangerous. She loved Sarah. If she had been a boy she would have been in love with her. Sometimes she thought Jimmy loved Sarah, but with Jimmy it was hard to tell, he never revealed anything about himself. They were well matched in that respect. When they were together, talking, in the caravan, they never made Tessa feel unwelcome. She did not feel an intruder.
But Jimmy said, “If you’re going to stay, we’ll have to get you a caravan of your own. Show those council people you’ve got a home.”
He brought one home the next day, behind the Land Rover, and parked it next to Sarah’s. Everyone helped furnish it, and Tessa fetched her precious things from her den in Maurice’s Home Farm, including her photo of Shiner, and for the first time in her life felt she belonged somewhere. Her small space was her own, all she needed, secure and private. Even Maurice could not touch her here.
But his long arm reached out, sending down the social services people. They didn’t like it, but were overwhelmed by Tessa’s support group and the Battleaxe’s good report. Sarah stood over them, exuding moral virtue, and there was little they could find to argue with. She was not employed by Peter Fellowes; she did not receive a salary; her mother paid for her keep; she was not in danger of sexual abuse; she was a hard-working pupil… “What better can you ask?” as Sarah bluntly demanded.
When they had gone, Sarah said, “They have your record – violence, that knife, being excluded from all those schools. You mustn’t blot your copy-book any more, it all goes down in writing.”
