Blind Beauty

by K. M. Peyton

  “It’s Maurice!”

  Tessa leapt to the corner of the loosebox and snatched her bread-knife out of its hiding-place.

  “I’ll kill him!” she shouted. “I’ll kill him!”

  Gilly screamed, “Don’t be so crazy!”

  She held on to Tessa as best she could but Tessa wriggled free, shot out of the box and went tearing away out of the yard towards Goldlands.

  Gilly chased her, but it was no good. Tessa was fast, and her anger gave wings to her heels.

  “Tessa, for heaven’s sake! Have you gone mad? Maurice is at Aintree, he went up last night. He’s not here.”

  Myra was shocked by the distraught appearance of Tessa wielding her bread-knife, shouting for Maurice.

  Tessa sobbed, “He did it! He arranged it, I know he did! It’s just the trick he would pull – he is so vile! He arranged to get Lucky taken away–”

  Tessa was breathless and hysterical, and Myra calmed her down as best she could, removing the bread-knife at the first opportunity. She gathered what had happened from Tessa’s wild raving, and understood the seriousness of it.

  “It must be someone who knows Buffoon’s dependence on Lucky. But most people in racing know it, Tessa, it’s not a secret. The papers have reported it – they like those sort of sentimental stories – and all the lads in the the racecourse stables have seen Lucky, haven’t they? It’s not Maurice – how could he do such a thing when he’s already at Aintree?”

  “No, not himself. But he’s paid someone to do it. Or did Greevy do it? Did Maurice make Greevy do it?”

  “Greevy went to work as usual. How could he have done it?”

  “He could have! He could have sneaked away!”

  “You said the pony was taken in a horsebox. How could Greevy possibly have driven away from work in a horsebox? He’s on the gallops every morning at that time. Calm down, Tessa! You’re talking rubbish!”

  “I bet it’s Maurice. Somehow it’s Maurice. Because San Lucar’s got to win for him – you said so yourself. All that money!”

  “Well, I can’t say he wouldn’t do such a thing, I’m afraid.” Myra shook her head. “It’s a clever trick.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s diabolical. Buffoon won’t eat without Lucky. He’ll fret himself stupid and be useless by Saturday.”

  “Perhaps you can get him another companion –”

  “It won’t work! You know it won’t.”

  Tessa didn’t intend to stay. Now her visit was in vain, she wanted to be back with Buffoon. He needed her.

  “It might be OK when you get back. They might have the pony,” Myra said soothingly. This wild Tessa terrified her. “Do be sensible, Tessa. You can’t go round flourishing a knife like that. You’ll end up in prison.”

  “If it is him – I’ll kill him. You’ll see!”

  “Tessa, stop it! You’re being really stupid.”

  But Myra’s words fell into thin air – Tessa was already away, scampering across the garden, leaping across the ha-ha and away down the green valley. Greevy might have done it, she thought, at Maurice’s instigation, but it wouldn’t help to go crashing into Raleigh’s yard. Her hysteria was wearing off and she was trying to think more rationally. And yet, the last time she had seen Greevy… she did not think now that he would stoop so low. Not even for his father. Unless Maurice had bribed him? Like he had tried to bribe Tom. Maurice thought money could buy him everything.

  Back at the yard, having found no trace of Lucky, they all agreed with Tessa that Maurice could well have had a hand in it.

  “He’s definitely been taken, and the reason is obvious,” Peter said. “It’s a devilishly clever way of getting at Buffoon without doping him or drugging him. But the effect by Saturday will be the same. He’ll be drained of all his enthusiasm if he carries on like this for two days.”

  Peter was white with misery. All his worst fears had come true. Buffoon was kicking the walls of his box (now padded all round with straw bales) and whinnying at intervals with a high-pitched, distressed call. Midday feed and haynet were untouched.

  “He can’t go on like this for two days,” Jimmy said, for encouragement, but they all knew he could.

  “Let’s try him with something else.”

  They borrowed a small pony from a friend of Gilly’s but had to rescue it from getting kicked after a few minutes, also a calf and the lurcher Walter. Buffoon would have none of them. Peter sent a message to the police, offering a large reward for the immediate return of Lucky. He had it put out on the local radio, but nobody replied, except all the national press wanting the story. San Lucar was back to being the favourite the next day. Tessa stayed with Buffoon all night but he never lay down. He stopped screaming and kicking, but restlessly walked round his box, and dozed only for a few minutes at a time. He did not touch his evening feed, nor eat up at breakfast. Stripped of his rugs, his huge frame was already looking gaunt and tucked up. When Tom Bryant came down in the morning his face fell when he saw him.

  “I won’t hold you to the ride, lad, if you want to be out of it. You could still get back on San Lucar, I dare say,” Peter said. Peter looked worse than the horse.

  “No way, not for that swine,” Tom replied. “I’ll ride your fellow.”

  “I’ve a mind to pull him out. He won’t do himself justice.”

  “You can’t! It’s not a good enough reason – not for the general public. They won’t understand. They’ll think you’re mad.”

  Mr Cressington was adamant his horse would run. He didn’t understand either. Peter was locked in an impossible situation and they all knew it.

  Tom rode out on Buffoon, and he went well enough, but still did not eat up at midday. They all knew that his chances of winning the big race were draining away by the hour.

  “He’s as fit as he can get – this apart – and he’s got a great heart. Let’s not be too pessimistic,” Tom said bravely. “Take him up to Aintree and distract him. There’s nothing else to be done.”

  So Tessa loaded up all Buffoon’s gear and her own gear (minimal) and packed it into the horsebox, and they got ready to go. Peter was driving and Jimmy was coming as well as Tessa. The others had to stay behind and watch the television. The fraught little group saw them off, not the cheerful waving bunch that they should have been, but sad and anxious-eyed.

  “At least it’s better to get moving,” Peter said, as they ground out down the lane.

  But Buffoon was an uneasy passenger, not his usual dozy self. Tessa kept going in to talk to him, scrambling over the back seat but, although he had stopped whinnying and kicking, he was a troubled horse. The two brothers spoke little and the atmosphere in the cab was grim. Tessa tried to keep herself quiet and dignified because she knew they hated her histrionics, but it was an effort.

  The weather was grey and dirty, but good for racing. Not heart-lifting. The motorway threw up a filthy spray and the approach to the famous racecourse was uninspiring, through a busy, built-up area.

  “It was in the country when they built it,” Jimmy remarked. “In eighteen thirty something. Times change.”

  They drove into the horsebox car park and Peter turned off the engine. The race meeting was in progress, for racing took place for two days before the Grand National Saturday, and the atmosphere was familiar. Horses were coming and going and being washed down, walked out to cool off. Lads and girls, hurried and overworked, were leading out immaculate beasts, carting basketfuls of gear and buckets of water and getting shouted at by little bandy men in flat caps. The remembered atmosphere was comforting. They went to look for Buffoon’s allocated box, and checked in. The stables were built of old red brick, rows and rows of them built round adjoining yards. Some of the boxes had the names of past winners and the date painted on the door, but Buffoon’s had no such distinction. They unboxed him and Tessa led him in and he started walking round immediately, tos
sing his head and pawing at the bedding. Usually he went straight to the manger, or fell asleep. Under his rugs the sweat was darkening his spring coat, a bad sign. After he had had time to settle Tessa put his feed in the manger, but he would not touch it. He now had not eaten for two whole days. With no one to see her, Tessa wept.

  In the morning, early, she rode Buffoon out to exercise in the middle of the course along with several others, and the press and television cameras followed them. Everyone knew the story of Buffoon losing his friend Lucky; it was the news of the day, with many conjectures about the reason and the likely outcome. The horse’s price in the betting was falling steadily. Peter told Tessa not to say a word to the press, and he came out and gave a brief outline of events, and offered no opinion. He knew Tessa would tell the world that it was Maurice’s doing if she opened her mouth.

  But the big gaunt horse was looking bad, tucked-up and ribby, and although he exercised in his usual fashion Tessa could feel his unhappiness. Everyone knew that even the slightest setback in training could affect a horse’s chance in such a tough race; the only person who didn’t appreciate the seriousness of what had happened was loony old Mr Cressington and his hard-faced daughter. They trundled over to say that they had put half their life-savings on him “at a very good price” and Peter hadn’t the heart to tell them that they were on a hiding to nothing.

  “Well, who knows? Anything can happen in racing,” Jimmy said when they had departed. He smiled his quiet smile and said to Tessa, “It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

  But to Tessa it was. She tried to remember that these things had to be taken on the chin in racing, and realized that Tom Bryant’s situation was far worse than her own, that he had turned down the ride on the now clear favourite for poor old Buffoon! She knew that Raleigh had offered the ride back to him, and Peter would have let him go, but he didn’t ask to change.

  The day was grey and blustery, the going good. People were pouring in to the course and the atmosphere was heady; it was impossible to suppose that this was just another day’s racing. Tessa kept telling herself it didn’t matter.

  “Leave the horse alone,” Jimmy said. “Come and walk the course, take your mind off it.”

  “You’re joking!” She had to laugh. Seeing those jumps in close-up was not going to reassure her.

  “Remember,” Jimmy said, “Tom will be up there, seventeen hands high. They don’t look nearly so bad from a big horse.”

  It was good to be in Jimmy’s company, always soothing. No wonder hyped-up horses came to Jimmy for re-schooling, learning to relax in his calm company. Tessa felt the magic working on herself, getting away into the country and away from the sight of Buffoon walking round and round his box.

  “These things blow over,” Jimmy said. “He can run in the National for years yet, he’s only young. And he’ll learn something today, and so will we. It’s not the end of the world.”

  Tessa saw the sense of his words, and was pacified. She did not realize that she was looking as gaunt as her horse, her face thin and pinched with anxiety, frown lines across her forehead. She looked at the fearsome jumps and told herself that she wanted to be a jockey, that women rode in the Grand National and one day, if she was worth her salt, she might line up in this famous race. She would have to stop worrying, learn to control her runaway emotions. Walking out into the country with Jimmy was really good for her, putting things in perspective. She was such an idiot compared with Jimmy. He never got upset. He was always steady and optimistic. She saw that Peter, a worrier like herself, depended a lot on his brother’s support. She even laughed.

  Jimmy grinned too. “That’s better. Expect nothing. It’s more fun. You can’t change the world.”

  The morning seemed to go on forever, then the first races. Tessa could not eat, like Buffoon. The noise of the crowd surged in and out of the stable yard on the gusts of wind and the horses looked out over their doors with their ears pricked, sensitive to this unusual excitement. Tessa plaited up her horse, then offered him titbits in her hand, but he blew them away into the straw. He was quiet now, but unhappy, she could tell. She put her arms round his neck and talked to him, and he stared out of the half-door, listening with his long waggy ears, the purple depths of his eyes full of anxiety.

  At last the time came to put on his bridle and take him out towards the paddock. Tessa followed San Lucar, who looked magnificent and was tearing to go, needing two lads to hold him. But Buffoon went calmly and stopped patiently for Lukey’s antics in front of him. The crowds round the paddock were dense and the paddock was too small to take all the runners comfortably, but Tessa winkled Buffoon on to the asphalt path and got behind a quieter horse than San Lucar. Peter had gone to fetch Tom’s saddle from the weighing-room and she had to keep a look-out for him, to go into a saddling box. Now there was so much to think about that she forgot her troubles. Buffoon’s apparently steady walk was strong enough to make her breathless as she scampered at his side, hearing the comments of the crowd as she passed, mostly, “That’s the one that’s lost his pony friend.”

  At last she could see Peter beckoning, and led Buffoon out of the paddock towards the row of saddling boxes. Jimmy was there to help and they tacked the horse up between them while he stood quietly. He never made a fuss, unlike most. Sounds of kicking and swearing came from the next box.

  “That’s Lukey using up his energy,” Jimmy said happily. The big bay horse had white lines of sweat on his neck already, a bad sign. Maurice wouldn’t like that.

  “That’s in our favour, at least,” Peter said. He threw the rug back on and fastened the roller. Buffoon was number five.

  They took him back into the paddock and after a few minutes in the crush the jockeys started to come out. Tom winkled his way towards them and ran his eyes critically over the horse he was to ride.

  “He doesn’t look too bad now. Settled enough anyway.”

  “Well, let’s keep our fingers crossed,” Peter said. “He’s not eaten up, that’s the worry.”

  He legged Tom into the saddle.

  “Let’s get going. It’s all OK once you’re out there,” Tom said. “I’m still glad it’s this one I’m riding.”

  Tessa could feel the tension rising by the minute. They had to lead out on to the course in number order, no mean feat getting organized as the stewards barked orders. Jimmy came with her, although Buffoon was still calm, and Tessa was glad to have the company, feeling extremely inexperienced amongst this impressive company. Now, when they came out on to the course, Buffoon took hold and dragged her forward, but Tom had a hold of him, and stroked his neck soothingly.

  “Not yet, old fellow. We’ve got a parade first. Then you can go.”

  Most horses got impatient as soon as they were on the course, and the parade was a nightmare of plunging, trained-to-the-minute horseflesh, being forced into a straight line, led by a couple of retired winners who were the worst behaved of the lot. The crowd loved it, as the commentator rolled out the names one by one. Tessa looked up and saw Tom’s face taut with anticipation, pale and spark-eyed. As the first horse turned and was let go to canter down, Buffoon started to pull and prance. Tessa hung on grimly.

  “He feels good,” Tom said.

  “He’s forgotten that wretched pony,” Jimmy said, and laughed. “Let him go, Tessa.”

  Tessa unclipped the lead and Buffoon gave a great leap forward. Tom went with him, balanced and secure, and Tessa and Jimmy watched the familiar red hindquarters pound away down the course. Now the anxieties were forgotten and Tessa felt all her old optimism come flooding back. Anything could happen! In the Grand National, that was the norm. It wasn’t like other races.

  They retreated off the course and fought their way up to the corner of the stand where Peter stood in the crush. It was hard to move and they could see little, but at least there was a huge television screen which was showing the action. Horses were
all over the course, some still going down and some coming back, having had their pipe-opener down as far as the first jump. Now the tapes were being stretched across for the start and the horses were beginning to circle round in readiness.

  Tessa stood with the two brothers, feeling herself start to tremble as the horses lined up. The crowd hushed. Tessa could see Buffoon, not pressed into the front, but lined up around the middle.

  “They’re under starter’s orders!”

  Straggling across the whole width of the course the untidy line began to move forward. The sun came out from behind a cloud and gleamed on the bright colours. The tapes sprang up. The crowd’s roar went up – “They’re off!” – and seemed to power the field with its breath, blasting them into the bend at what seemed a terrifying pace.

  So fast! Tessa knew it was always a scramble to see light for the first obstacle in such a large field: to fall at the first was a disappointment too far! But it was hard to catch sight of the Cressington colours in the mêlée. Peter had his binoculars up but his fingers were trembling as much as Tessa’s. All they could do was listen for possible fallers over the commentary – two at the first but not Buffoon – then none at the second and on to the big ditch which was a tough one. But now Tessa could see Buffoon, well-placed by Tom to avoid trouble, and she saw his huge jump, so big she was afraid for a moment that Tom was unseated. But no, it had gained him several lengths and he was coasting now, still in the middle.

  It seemed easier now the fraught start was over and the first few jumps cleared… Survival was all now, and winning a remote dream as, perhaps, it always had been. Anything could happen in this race. The fear and doom was replaced by pure excitement and the joy of seeing their horse taking these big jumps apparently in his stride.

  Peter said, “If he doesn’t make it this year, there’s always next! He’s loving it. He’s an Aintree horse!”

  Buffoon soared over Becher’s, landing so far out that he went right up the field. But at the Canal turn he lost it again by his ungainliness. Smaller, nippier horses slipped up his inside while Tom had to steer his big mount steadily round to keep him balanced, losing ground. San Lucar was running a blinder out in front, galloping relentlessly and jumping fast. Tessa ground her teeth, thinking of Maurice’s adrenalin running up in his champagne box… To have all that money at stake must make it terrible, she thought. As if it wasn’t enough just to love your horse, your heart in your mouth for his bravery, testing it, your own heart thumping in tune. “Why do we do this?” Peter said out loud, but he was laughing. All the distress of the past few days was quite forgotten.