by K. M. Peyton
Not that Buffoon knows anything about a different way of life. Not yet. He accepts. He yawns. He is at peace.
He doesn’t know he is going to run in the Grand National.
Tessa told him, every day, while she was grooming him, but it meant nothing to him. Her voice was soft and loving, and he listened with one long ear held back, liking the sound. Her ant-like energy had worked up a golden burnish on his pale coat. He stood patiently, unlike some, not even minding the ticklish places behind his elbows and up round his stifle. She washed his mane and tail more times than any other horse had its mane and tail washed in the stable, and he stood happily, not minding. She hosed his legs off after exercise and rubbed them dry with a supply of elegant towels filched from Goldlands and, if it was cold, wrapped them in warm bandages. No horse could be given more.
Peter the trainer was nervous as a coot about the Grand National. Old Mr Cressington was adamant that the horse should run but Peter thought next year would be better.
Jimmy said, “But you’ll say that next year as well. Don’t be so funky. The old man might be dead next year. It’s not like running a horse which isn’t capable just to please the owner. Buffoon is capable all right.”
“He’s not ready.”
He had missed a preliminary race over the National fences because of a bruised foot at the time, which troubled Peter. But it didn’t trouble Jimmy.
“He’s ready. He’s made for that race. Stays for ever, great jumper, great heart. Stop worrying.”
But all trainers worried. How could they not?
Tessa worried. She did not see how she would get through the great race, watching. Her heart would give out, beating so hard. Wisbey said she would pass out in his arms. She could not put God Almighty out of her mind, and the fear that Buffoon might –
“Horses get killed in potty little hurdle races if they’re unlucky,” Sarah said harshly. “It’s stupid to think a horse like Buffoon is any more at risk – he’s learned to get his legs together, he never panics, he’s as safe as they come. You’ve got to get your brain round this, Tessa. You’re in the wrong business if you can’t take it.”
Tessa knew all this. They told her all the time. It made no difference.
Buffoon, the ill-made, bad-coloured, ugly son of Shiner, was now a racecourse favourite, a freak horse on his long, ungainly legs who never ran a bad race. He didn’t always win, but he never let anyone down. The longer and tougher the race, the more likely he was to come home in front. For all these reasons he was high in the betting for the Grand National. Not the favourite. The favourite was Maurice’s horse, San Lucar.
“Of all the likely scenarios, this is the craziest coincidence,” Gilly said in the tack-room, after exercise. “That Tessa’s horse – in the biggest race of all – is going to come up against Mucky Morrison’s.”
“They’re first and second favourite in the paper this morning,” Wisbey said.
“Buffoon’s first and Lukey’s second,” Sarah said.
Tessa found this hard to believe. “Buffoon first!”
“It’s a housewife’s thing – the people who don’t know anything are putting their money on him because he looks like a giraffe. For a lark,” said Wisbey.
There was an element of truth in this, but Tessa hit Wisbey with a metal curry-comb and cut his cheek.
“Tessa!” Sarah was furious. “It’s time you grew up! For God’s sake, can’t you take a joke?”
“You know she can’t. Not about Buffoon,” Gilly said.
“It’s lucky you live on your own in that caravan. If you’d still been at home with Mucky and Greevy … I wonder…” Sarah’s eyes sparkled. “I bet they don’t like playing second fiddle to our old Buffoon.”
Tessa herself had wondered about this. Was Maurice as furious as she hoped he was, that his great horse was ranked with hers? She thought she might go up and see her mother in the afternoon, keep her fingers crossed that Maurice wouldn’t be there. There were rumours about a falling-out between Raleigh and Tom Bryant. Myra might know the inside story. Tom hadn’t said anything.
She was lucky. Myra was alone, eating chocolates and reading a love story in front of the fake coal fire. The room was very warm and Tessa remembered how she was always falling asleep in this house.
“Oh, darling, what a sight you look! If only you would come home again, you would get looked after properly!”
“No fear!”
Tessa thought her mother looked a sight too, in her shiny dress and high heels. (What a waste of a life! How could you do anything dressed like that?) Tessa wore jodhpurs (rather dirty) and an old Barbour jacket Sarah had thrown out (not without reason), and a red polo neck jersey from Oxfam.
“How can I come home, with him here? I came to see if he’s getting excited about the Grand National.”
“Well, of course he is. It’s all he thinks about. He put an enormous bet on when the horse was only twenty-to-one and stands to win a fortune if Lukey wins. Not to mention the prize money. He’s very agitated about your horse – everyone seems to fancy it all of a sudden.”
“Did you know Buffoon is out of Shiner? Declan bred him.”
She didn’t know why she threw this at Myra suddenly. She had never mentioned it before or told anyone at the yard of her link with the horse. Myra stared at her, amazed, and then burst into tears.
“Oh, my dear, you and Shiner, that’s what went wrong, wasn’t it – leaving Shiner? I’ve always known it, Shiner and your daddy, how you loved them – especially Shiner–”
She wept. Tessa didn’t know what to say, embarrassed, wishing she had held her tongue about Buffoon’s breeding. Her own emotion at seeing Shiner’s name on Buffoon’s passport was long forgotten. Tessa no longer dwelled on the past, only the future.
“I do miss you, Tessa. If only you’d come back here!”
“Oh, Mum, you know I can’t. Talk sense. I’m only down the road if you want me, no distance. You could come and stay in my caravan and ride out with us – you’d love it. You rode well once. Why ever don’t you?”
“Oh, don’t be so silly! Maurice wouldn’t stand for it. How can I?”
Tessa shrugged. It was useless talking to Myra. Why ever had she come? Only to find out about San Lucar.
“Who’s going to ride him? There’s a rumour Tom Bryant’s fallen out with Mr Raleigh. Is it true? Peter wants Tom for Buffoon, so we thought there might be a chance if he’s not going to ride San Lucar.”
“You know how it is, it’s all Maurice’s fault. He’s hard on Bryant and Tom hates riding for him, because there’s always so much money on. I’m afraid Maurice only cares about winning. It doesn’t matter if the horse is half-killed of exhaustion as long as it wins. And Tom won’t ride like that. He’s refused to ride Lukey in the National, Raleigh’s furious and Greevy says he’s going to get the sack.”
“He’ll ride Buffoon!” Tessa’s heart leapt.
“Raleigh says he can afford to turn down the ride on Lukey because he knows he can ride Buffoon. But I think he’s going to lose his job over it.”
“He can get any job he pleases, surely? Or freelance.”
“Raleigh’s the top trainer though. Largely through Maurice’s horses. Tom says Raleigh would like to give up training for Maurice, but if he did he’d lose at least four really good horses. Maurice has been very lucky with his horses this last year or two, but he needs it – he’s a heavy gambler and a lot of his investments have gone wrong lately. He’s really depending on winning with Lukey.”
“More fool him. Horses aren’t like that. And the National, of all races – you need the luck.”
“Well, you can’t tell him that, can you? It’s very fraught round here at the moment. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
“Only a fortnight.” Tessa knew she would too. The anxieties were getting to her.
Shortly afterwards the seaso
n would finish. Tom could afford arguments now, at the end of the season. Next season, a fresh start, and the quarrels would be forgotten. Tom would no doubt be back with Raleigh.
Tessa was pleased with the information she had picked up. The rumours were true. They usually were in racing. It sounded as if Tom was going to ride Buffoon, whatever it cost him. Did he really prefer him to San Lucar? He must do, else he would have timed his quarrel differently. Tessa was filled with a burst of proud, quivering emotion and flung her arms suddenly round the surprised Myra. The top jockey had chosen her Buffoon for the greatest race of them all! Out of all the horses in the world!
“Oh Ma, that’s great news – if Tom rides Buffoon!”
Greevy stood in the doorway suddenly, and heard Tessa’s exclamations of delight. Tessa might have guessed – he too took a couple of hours off after lunch.
He said, “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. It’s not settled yet.” And to Myra, who now looked embarrassed and frightened, “I suppose you’ve been shooting your mouth off to the opposition?”
“Don’t talk to my mother like that!” Tessa hissed at him. “She can say what she likes. She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know already. It’s all in the papers, Tom being fed up with your place.”
Greevy seemed to soften. He sighed and shrugged. It occurred to Tessa then that he was in a dreadful situation, the buffer between Raleigh at work and his father at home. No wonder he looked so wan! She laughed.
“You ought to come and work at our place. It’s all sweetness and light in our yard.”
Greevy scowled at her.
“I sometimes wonder… ” He shrugged again.
He certainly had grown up since she had last had to do with him, Tessa thought – no longer gangly and pimply, but broadened out and tough-looking. He must work hard in a big yard like Raleigh’s, and Raleigh was known as a hard task-master. She was surprised he had stayed with it. No doubt commanded to by his father. But he was his own man now… surely he wouldn’t dance to Maurice’s tune for ever?
“Your horse well?” he asked, friendly now.
“Couldn’t be better. And yours?”
“He’s fine. Yes.” And he actually smiled.
“I’ll see you at Aintree then.”
“Yeah. I dare say neither of them will win. A forty-to-one will beat them both.” And he actually laughed.
Tessa was amazed.
When she got home she reported what she had found out to Peter, and Peter said, “Yes, I know all that. But apparently Maurice is now bribing Tom to ride Lukey. So the story goes. Something huge. Tom hasn’t decided yet.”
“He wouldn’t! Not a bribe! Not Tom!”
“Oh, come on, Tessa, he’s a young man with a girlfriend, a house to buy, a dangerous job… You might think money doesn’t matter but most people set a lot of store by it, believe me.”
“I’ll ride Buffoon then!”
Peter laughed. “If only you could! He’s easy enough. San Lucar is a very difficult ride, and Tom knows him so well, that’s why they’re so keen to have him. If we don’t get Tom, it doesn’t really matter, because Andy will step in, and Buffy will go the same for anyone.”
“We must have Tom!”
“Well, he’s the best, yes. I want him, sure.”
Everyone knew that whichever horse Tom decided to ride would be the favourite. He was riding at the top of his form. Journalists and photographers came to Sparrows Wyck to take notes about Buffoon, and Tessa was photographed cantering up the gallops, looking like a flea on the great horse’s back. Now in his prime, he was seventeen hands high, all legs. The pundits shook their heads.
“Don’t know how he does it, made like that.”
“He’ll walk over those jumps, all the same.”
“Got to wrap his legs up first!”
“What a freak!”
They daren’t criticize him to Tessa. They took note of his spitfire lad, and released the story that she was the stepdaughter of Maurice Morrison-Pleydell, owner of San Lucar. Then the gossip writers wanted her story, but she locked herself in her caravan and refused to speak to them. At Goldlands they were turned away by George before they could get to the front door, on Maurice’s orders. Some of them camped out on the front lawn and Maurice got security men with Dobermans to deter them – successfully.
“Sooner it’s over the better, all this fuss,” Peter said. They all agreed, the extra work of making the place look respectable for the publicity beginning to pall. Tessa took to sleeping in Buffoon’s box. She did not trust Maurice one inch to play fair when so much was at stake. Walter the lurcher’s kennel was parked outside the door and Walter reluctantly kept guard, a shaggy ear cocked to the nonsense Tessa talked to Buffoon as she lay curled up in her sleeping bag. Tessa kept her bread-knife hidden under the straw in the corner by her head, but nobody knew this.
Buffoon was at the peak of his form. When she rode him out every morning Tessa could feel the power of him, even at the walk. Peter secretly worried that Tessa was not man enough now to ride the valuable and highly-tuned horse, but Jimmy resisted his doubts.
“There’s a link there that’s worth far more than ordinary horsemanship. He trusts Tessa. He would never go against her.”
“She looks so fragile up there!”
Jimmy laughed. “Tessa – fragile? You’re losing your mind!”
Tessa showed no signs of blooming into curvaceous femininity. She was honed and angular, all steel. Peter thought she was too small to impress owners as a rider, in spite of her undoubted talent, but he had managed to get her a few rides with kindly and unambitious owners, and she had clocked up three winners. Although she loudly despaired, they all told her three winners was a good haul for a teenaged shrimp like herself. With that she had to be content. She might get a few rides at the fag-end of the season, after Aintree, if she was lucky. But she couldn’t think beyond Aintree and the Grand National. None of them could.
Five days before the race Tom Bryant rang Peter to ask if he could have the ride. He had refused all blandishments from Maurice, and Raleigh had given him the sack. The stable was jubilant. Tessa wept with joy. Now she was so excited she could scarcely sleep. The papers were full of Bryant’s “disobedience” and Buffoon became the clear favourite.
Buffoon was to be driven to Aintree early on the Friday before the big race. On Thursday Tom said he would come over and ride him out at exercise and talk tactics; so on Wednesday Tessa had her last ride on him before the big day.
The weather was damp and warm, the going perfect, the sun shining. Tessa rode with the others, Peter included – a long, quiet ride, with just trotting up the long hillside, a short pipe opener over the rise, and a leisurely walk home. Tessa tried to relax, but she was so happy and excited that she felt she might explode. Buffoon, she could tell, was puzzled by the tension, but it did not get to him, lazy beast that he was. As they came down the last muddy track into the yard she was thinking: the next time I do this he will have won – or not won – the Grand National. It was almost too much to take in.
Nothing was any different as they slipped out of their saddles and ran up the stirrups. Tessa led Buffoon into his box, shut the door behind him and went across to the gate to fetch Lucky. Lucky was nearly always waiting to come back in, but today he was not standing in his usual place. The spring grass was coming through and Tessa knew how greedy Lucky was; she thought he had gone away down the field to find the best grazing.
But when she looked for him, there was no sign of the little pony.
She went back to the yard and shouted to Jimmy, “What have you done with Lucky?”
Sometimes Jimmy used him for his own purposes, to calm a youngster. But Jimmy said, “I haven’t had him. What’s wrong?”
“He’s not in his field.”
“Who put him out there?”
“I did, like I usually do, before we went out.”
Tessa’s heart was now beginning to agitate with fear. “Where is he?”
“Steady on. He can’t be far away. Don’t be daft.”
Jimmy came back with her to the gate and they looked across the large field. It was undoubtedly empty. But at the far side a gate that gave out on to the lane swung open.
“Blast! He must have got out,” Jimmy said.
“Someone’s let him out!”
“Someone’s taken him. Even if it was open, he wouldn’t go, not of his own accord. Not away from the others.”
Now even Jimmy looked worried. Behind them in the stable yard they could hear Buffoon kicking on his door and whinnying for his friend. This was always the way if Lucky was slow coming back in.
“You go back to him and keep him calm, and I’ll get the car out. Tell the others.” Jimmy moved sharply.
Tessa ran.
Seeing her, Buffoon let out a shrill whinny. Already there was alarm in his voice, and he stood weaving his head backwards and forwards over the door. Then he struck out with a foreleg, crashing into the woodwork.
“Stop that!” Peter bawled. “Tessa, go to him!”
But Tessa was there already, at his head, talking to him. Everyone saw what had happened and the alarm spread. The other horses were hastily rugged up and left, and everyone scattered to find Lucky. Wisbey fetched straw bales to line the front of Buffoon’s box with, and then brought a small feed in a bucket. But Buffoon would have nothing to do with it, pushing the bucket over, sending the contents flying. Left to himself, he walked round and round the box, whinnying.
“Oh my God!” Peter moaned. “Just what we don’t want!”
Tessa stayed with Buffoon but was nearly trampled to death. She could do nothing to calm him. Already a dark sweat was breaking out on his flanks.
Gilly came back and said the others were still looking.
“But there are tyre marks by the gate. Looks like a trailer or horsebox has been parked there just recently. Peter thinks he’s been pinched. He thinks it’s inside knowledge – you know, to upset him so he won’t be able to run –”
