by K. M. Peyton
“It was Maurice that sent them.”
“Yes. That man’s bad news. Pity he’s into horses. That San Lucar is a good one, they say.”
“Yes. Greevy says. And Tom.”
The danger over, horses were the subject. Tessa, liking her new living arrangements, came out of her depression.
Peter confirmed that Buffoon was pencilled in for the Grand National the following year.
“He can run over the National course in November – there’s a race then, just one circuit. And if he shows us he’s good enough, he can go in for the big one. I think it’s optimistic myself, but he’s the right type for it. He’ll stay four and a half miles, and he can jump. Mr Cressington’s not a complete fool.”
“If I were ninety-six, I’d want to get on with it,” Sarah said.
It was the same programme as San Lucar’s. San Lucar – or Lukey, as he was known – was the one horse of Maurice’s that was proving worth his huge price. Greevy said he was a very kind and genuine horse, and the yard was full of optimism for him. Tessa could pick him out on the gallops, a big bright bay horse exuding power, built on classic chasing lines. Another head-turner, like Crowsnest. (But Crowsnest was resting, with tendon trouble.) These immaculately built and bred horses were the ones that fetched the big money in the sales, their looks and winning relations making them valuable. But they didn’t always win.
“You get a freak like Buffoon – he might beat San Lucar. That’s racing – we’ve all seen it.”
Peter was being optimistic, not one of his notable characteristics. He laughed.
“You’ll lead him in, Tessa – you’ll be the right age by then. Think of it!”
“She’ll be on a stretcher in First Aid, passed out,” said Jimmy.
“Yeah, me too,” said Peter.
The gloom cast by God Almighty’s death was quite quickly eclipsed by thinking ahead, as always in racing. On with the next… what might happen… it kept the spirits high and the pulses racing. On a bright cold spring morning, high on the downs, facing up to the gallops, it was impossible to feel downhearted. The horses were at the peak of their fitness, the shine over their muscled bodies proclaiming their well-being, along with the bucking and pulling and eagerness to go. In spite of the setback with God Almighty, the stable was winning races with Catbells and a new horse called Gamekeeper, White Smoke and even the Littlun – properly called Cantata – who had won a claimer at Huntingdon. Peter Fellowes’ reputation was growing, and Buffoon’s appearances always caused comment, because of his ugliness and undoubted character. He walked round the paddock with a benign look in his eye, completely untroubled, showing no excitement at all, lolloping down to the start in his lazy canter, lining up as if called in for a riding-school beginners’ class.
“Takes him a couple of miles to get going.” The crowd was beginning to appreciate this, not only his jockey.
When the season finished in May, Buffoon had won four races and been placed in three. He was turned out to rest in the big field that sloped down to the river, with Lucky, two other horses and a herd of cows for company. Tessa spent hours with him in the paddock, lying in the grass with his big grey lips tearing at the grass-roots round her head, talking to him, dreaming of the days ahead. Sarah told her it was dangerous to love a horse too much.
“I know,” Tessa said, and went on loving him.
She took her exams, going into school to sit near Jackie Barstow, and finishing with good passes in everything. The Battleaxe was proud of her.
“You have a very good brain. Don’t waste it,” she said, looking round rather doubtfully at the rustic surroundings.
“No.”
Tessa asked Peter if he would apply for a jockey’s licence for her. Her sixteenth birthday had arrived: the time was ready. Peter duly got it for her.
“But it doesn’t mean,” he said sternly, “that you will get any rides. The owners won’t like it. They’ll want an experienced jockey. I will try for you though. Perhaps on the Littlun, because you know him so well. I’ll tell his owners he loves you and will do as he’s told.”
“Win.”
“Yes. And if he wins, it’ll make it easier to get you another ride. I’ll try and find the right race for you.”
“A load of crocks,” Wisbey said.
“You put it so kindly,” Sarah said.
But Tessa knew all this without having it spelt out. She knew how incredibly difficult it was for a female to make it as a jockey. And to make it good enough to ride Buffoon – her life’s ambition – was hardly on the cards at all, not now Buffoon was a winner and the public put their money on him. The public expected him to have a top jockey.
“I will help you all I can, but expect nothing.”
“No,” said Tessa.
But in her heart she expected to become a good jockey and for Buffoon to win the Grand National. That was all.
Her first race… she was trembling so hard she had to clench her teeth to stop them clattering. But it was cold – call it shivering. All the jockeys had white, pinched faces. She was the only girl. The men looked sideways at her, but when she weighed out Tom Bryant came over and put an arm round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
“Good luck! Keep out of trouble.”
He wasn’t riding in her race, which was for apprentice jockeys, but his kind words were noticed by the others, and Tessa recognized the respect in their eyes. The top jockey was her friend. Her teeth stopped chattering.
“Once you’re aboard out on the course, you forget about being nervous,” he said. “It’s the same for us all.”
Well… maybe. Tessa smiled. She was riding Cantata – the Littlun – and she knew him as well as she knew Buffoon, so it wasn’t like being thrown up on a strange horse. Jimmy had elected to be his lad, and was leading him round the paddock, a taut little liver-chestnut gelding with the wind in his tail. His price was twenty-to-one.
“There are some reasonable horses in this race, and much more experienced riders than Tessa. Don’t expect too much.”
Peter was in the paddock with the horse’s owners, a kindly pair of old hunting ladies who believed in “giving the gel a chance”.
“We’ll all have a nice drink together afterwards, whatever,” they said. “What a jolly day!”
Imagine Maurice saying that! Tessa thought, speechless, when they shook her hand. She tried not to show how terrified she was.
Jimmy legged her up.
He said, “Winning’s not everything. Keep safe, that’s the main thing, for the horse too.”
“Have a lovely time, dear,” said the owners.
She rode the Littlun – Cantata for now – every day, after all. He had no bad ways and as soon as she was on his back she felt her confidence soar, just as Tom had predicted. Jimmy led her out, wished her luck and let the horse go. Cantata was a pony compared to Buffoon: he felt so different, slippy and spry. Riding Buffoon out on to a gallop was like taking a bus out on to a motorway, knowing there was miles of room to get going in the fast lane, in many ways easier than handling the nippy little hurdler who was now showing a great keenness to get on with the job. Tessa sat tight and held him in against the rails, terrified of being carted before the race had even begun. But she wasn’t the only nervous rider. Cries of alarm and swearing echoed all round her. It was a big field and many of the riders were far less well trained than she was.
Everything she thought she knew went out of her head once the race started. The astonishing power of the galloping horses all around her was overwhelming, the pounding of hooves and the crack of brushwood when they jumped… placing the horse, seeing a stride in that mêlée – even seeing the jump – was beyond her. Stay on, stay there… that was all she could think of. The wet mud flew in her face, spattering her goggles, but the little horse knew what to do. The field thinned out ahead as Cantata galloped on and by the time
Tessa heard the noise of the crowd above her own panting breath there were only two horses ahead of her.
Another one was close, coming up fast. She glanced round and saw a furious red face beside her, then there was a crack on her knee, and she was flying through the air with the horse apparently vanished from beneath her.
She never knew what happened. Even on the video, afterwards, it looked like a collision over the last jump, but the other jockey escaped unscathed and came third. Tessa knew she should have been third, might even have been second or first, but for the ignorant rider who barged her. But the pain in her wrist was too agonizing to bother about objecting. She walked back, trying not to cry (Tom Bryant never cried), choked with fury and disappointment. Jimmy had caught Cantata and said cheerfully, “No harm done. Great race – you’d have been in the frame.”
The old ladies were full of praise, even Peter was smiling. Tessa couldn’t understand them at all. She could not speak, she was so angry. Yet they were praising her. She wanted to kill that jockey… She would make sure to find out his name… The pain flooded up her arm so that she almost cried out loud.
She could not hide it. She had to go to hospital and be X-rayed and be told her wrist was broken. She wouldn’t ride for six weeks. When she was alone on a trolley in an empty corridor she let go the tears that choked her and sobbed into the hospital linen. Six weeks! To make such a hash of her first race!
“Only a Tom Bryant could have sat that mistake,” Jimmy said when he collected her later. “The horse went right down on his knees. What are you so cross about? The arm, yes, that’s a shame, but it wasn’t anything you did wrong. You’ve got to learn to take it.”
He was stern with her, but Tessa could not take such failure. She would not speak, and slammed into her caravan without even going to see Buffoon.
“Oh my!” said Gilly. “Our prima donna’s back. I suppose I’ve got to do her horses?”
“I’ll see to the Littlun,” Jimmy offered.
They left her alone, hoping the sleeping pills she had been given were doing their work. There was no light on in her caravan. They tapped softly on the door but there was no answer and they went away.
But Tessa sat on in the dark, the pills untouched. Her arm hurt, but not so much as her spirit. Maurice would know what had happened; Greevy would tell him; how they would laugh! The thought made her shiver with pure rage. She thought she didn’t mind being beaten, but the humiliation of the day overwhelmed her.
The stables were done and it was silent outside, Wisbey’s noisy motorbike having departed. Only later, just before bed, Peter would come out and with his torch look at every horse in the stable, to see that it was calm, eaten up, and well. Sometimes Jimmy. Tessa liked to see the torchlight flickering from box to box, hear the soft voice talking to the horse. She often went out to Buffoon in the evening, and sat in the straw talking to him, fending off Lucky who always thought she might have a titbit. She liked to see the two of them lying down together, nose to nose. They did not get up when she entered, but Buffoon’s nose would quiver with a soundless whicker of affection. He loved her above all others, she knew that.
But the way things had gone today, she knew she would never ride him in a race, her great ambition in life. She would never be good enough. She hadn’t been able to handle anything at all, just let it happen all round her. She cried.
From the lane came the sound of a car approaching. It came into the yard and stopped. Some one for Peter, Tessa thought. But suddenly there was a loud knock on her door and a shout.
“Hey, anyone in? You dead?”
The door was yanked open and a figure entered, tripped over the doormat, swore and groped for the light switch.
Tessa blinked and leapt to her feet. It was Tom Bryant. She gaped.
“Came to see how you were,” he said, smiling. “All nice jockeys enquire after the wounded, did you know? And you aren’t on the phone, so I called round. What are you doing sitting in the dark?”
Tessa shrugged, shook her head. He no doubt saw the tearstains on her face and was taking in her bedraggled despair.
“Oh, come on, it’s all good practice,” he said. “It happens to us all. If you can’t bounce back, you might as well give up now. Imagine it happening – the last fence in the Gold Cup, when you’re five lengths ahead–”
That had happened to him, Tessa knew, a couple of years ago. She had to admit it did put it in proportion. She gave a shaky smile. She was astonished at his visit, knowing he had had five rides that afternoon and was probably pretty tired. Yet he was bothering…
“You shouldn’t have come. I’m all right.”
“They said your wrist is broken.”
“Yes.”
“Bad luck. You’ll have to learn to fall off properly. It’s all part of the trade.”
He sat down on the end of her bed and grinned cheerfully. Tessa wasn’t used to seeing him in social mode, not since the dinner party at home, and had never guessed that he might include her in his circle of friends close enough to take this sort of trouble for. It was balm to her despair, to be cared about by Tom. Tom was the best, and handsome with it, but quite free of conceit.
“The way you are,” he said, “so single-minded – potty – you stand a chance. Of making it. You’re really mad now, aren’t you? Furious with yourself. Want to get on again – show them – it’s the right feeling. To be angry. If you’re not angry with yourself you’re no good.”
That was news to Tessa.
“The others think I’m stupid.”
“No. The others might say that, but they respect you for it. They none of them want to suffer, do they? Jimmy doesn’t, yet he’d be at the top in no time if he chose – he’s such a horseman. A natural.”
“He likes eating, he says.”
“Yes.” Tom’s face dropped. “I can’t eat. At least you’ll never have that problem. That’s the worst one.”
Tessa looked sideways at Tom. His face was drawn, she noticed, and had lines in it that made him look thirty, not twenty-two. He was fair and blue-eyed, the classic English public schoolboy, the sort you read about in old books. The only one she knew.
“Why did you become a jockey?”
“Oh, horses are in my family. Hunting, point-to-pointing. I rode point-to-point and my dad had some good horses so I won and got noticed. I never wanted to do anything else, not ever.”
“What if you’d been no good?”
“I’d have kept trying, I dare say. Lots of them are hooked on it, and not good enough, or lucky enough, to get the rides, but they keep on trying. They ride duff horses and get hurt. I admire them. I’ve had it easy.”
“I want to ride Buffoon.”
Tom laughed. “We all know that! Highly unlikely, I’d say. I want that ride!”
When Tom had gone, Tessa sat on, dreaming. She wondered if Tom liked her, in a soppy way. Why had he called? She found it hard to understand kindness. She did not think of boys, in the way other lads talked about sex – she never listened, or cared. There wasn’t room in her head, and her feelings were used up on anxieties, ambition, Buffoon… “You never relax, do you?” Wisbey said. “You never laugh.”
“What is there to laugh about?” she retorted. She remembered Wisbey rolling his eyes. Was there something wrong with her?
Yes, her wrist was broken and her career in ruins before it had started. She got into bed and lay awake, staring at the stained ceiling of her caravan.
Buffoon hitched his massive quarters on to the edge of his manger, sighed gustily, rested one hind leg and stood staring into the square of twilight through the open top door. What do horses think about, creatures of little brain as they are said to be? The large unfathomable eye, bright, blank, gazes giving back no clue. In the depths of Buffoon’s eyes an almost indiscernible shadow lurks. He is aware of it, does not know that other horses do not have it, do
es not wonder when he stumbles over small jumps which he scarcely sees. He hears the word “clumsy” in reproach and doesn’t know its meaning. It does not worry him. Horses at rest do not worry. They do not think of things they should have done, ways of improving themselves, what is going to happen to them when they are old. The unfathomable eye registers nil. The horse is well fed, worked only to a pleasant sufficiency, feels well, has his friends within sight. His mind is blank.
Buffoon is sometimes asked to work very hard. He is surprised but, when coerced, finds he enjoys it. Not something he would do without – coercion – but, willing and friendly beast that he is, he will do it to oblige. They seem to want it. When he comes back they pat him and kiss him – that girl kisses him – and he knows he has pleased them. He likes them. They feed him and are kind to him. He is contented. He doesn’t know what it’s all for, save it comes up regularly. His mane is plaited (boring!) and he is led into the horsebox and after that he knows exactly what is going to happen: a drive, long or short, a new stable yard, strange companions, a lot of bustle and tension, to which he responds, becoming a bit fidgety, anxious to be out there, to be where it’s all happening, out on that wide river of green grass where he can take hold of his bit and go. This seems to be what they want of him. He likes it, it comes naturally, it’s bred in him. If he didn’t like it, they couldn’t make him do it. He knows that, so do they.
Does he think of it when he dozes in the evening? No, he only thinks: Lucky is there, everything’s all right. Take Lucky away and his life would fall apart. Great horse friendships are tedious for owners. Mostly owners try to wean friendships away, to avoid difficulties, but racehorses are allowed their foibles. Racehorses are special. They get the best of everything in life in exchange for the test of courage, the asking of all they can give, as often as the trainer sees fit. They live as herd animals and run as herd animals, their natural way of life, and very few would rather be riding-school hacks or ladies’ pets.
