Blind Beauty

by K. M. Peyton

  Tessa bit her lip, trying not to cry. She felt terrible! What she had looked forward to all her life (it seemed) was now hurting unbearably. But she knew, when she was up on her darling Buffoon, she would not care what everyone said. It was between the two of them and he would not let her down.

  They meant it kindly, Peter and Jimmy, trying to diffuse the tension that had turned Tessa into a zombie, but with no response they went back to talking about future plans.

  There was plenty of gossip round the paddock when Buffoon was led in. Tessa knew all the staring was on her and her great ugly horse. There were a few titters but she didn’t hear them. She closed herself completely into what she was going to do. Jimmy gave her the leg-up and patted her knee affectionately.

  “Great girl, Tess. Enjoy it.”

  She didn’t see him shake his head as she rode away. Peter shrugged and smiled.

  “What a kid! Whatever will become of her? She wants so much.”

  But now she was up on Buffoon with the green course opening up before her for the canter to the start Tessa felt herself come alive again. All her white fear dissolved into a paean of delight for being on her horse, on a racecourse. At last! This had been her dream for ever and now it was happening! She held the connecting reins, feeling the old strength flowing back into her, seeing the great shoulders moving like machinery beneath the arch of her legs. He remembered. She could feel his pleasure too. She wanted to shout and sing. But jockeys didn’t do that.

  They walked round at the start and the other jockeys made rude but kindly comments to her which was part of the act. Everyone knew she was now the owner of the “red elephant” and no doubt pitied her, but there was no malice, only surprise. (She was a girl, after all.) He had been a good horse once, a long time ago. They could hardly remember. Horses came and went in this game.

  They went off, not fast, and Tessa lobbed along at the back, bursting with pride and joy. He felt so marvellous! Not narrow and squitty like some, not mean, not stupid, not faint-hearted… she had learned to know horses’ characters since she had ridden so many. Now she was on a good one, her horse.

  He jumped cleanly, judging his own take-off, very sensible. Tessa kept him out of trouble. There were twelve in the field and they lobbed along in a bunch, nobody hurrying because there was so far to go. Tessa wondered at one point whether she should go on, but thought it too risky. They had no idea whether his old stamina was still there. Keep with the bunch. Keep in touch.

  But as the race opened up and the pace increased she found she couldn’t keep in touch. Buffoon felt as if he was galloping his heart out, but he seemed to be going nowhere. One by one the other horses went on until she was last in the field. Buffoon didn’t seem distressed, quite happy to keep on going, but the others were into the straight while she was still coming round the last bend. Into the dodgy penultimate fence, and as he landed the winner was going past the post and the stands were full of cheering punters. Hardly any of them saw Buffoon come home.

  She had done what she wanted, ridden him in a race, but her spirits were very low on the journey home. Last of all, nothing behind her.

  “He went well,” Peter said.

  “Real old trouper. Jumped a treat,” Jimmy said.

  She knew they were trying to cheer her up. Knew they were satisfied that their warnings had proved true. Buffoon was a has-been.

  “He needed the race,” Peter said. “We’ll find him another before the ground gets too hard.”

  They found him another, and he was second last. The bookmakers put him in at a hundred-to-one.

  “There,” Peter said. “Save your money, Tessa. He can be the stable hack. There’ll always be a place for him in the yard.”

  Tessa didn’t say anything, and Peter knew to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the journey home.

  Tessa did not give up. When all the horses in the yard went off for their summer holidays or out into the field to wind down and get fat on summer grass, Buffoon was kept stabled and ridden out every day. He went out in the field for a few hours in the afternoon or evening but, of them all, he was the only one kept fit and in work. Everyone knew that Tessa intended to race him again in the autumn.

  “Maybe it’s just because she enjoys riding him in races,” they said. “After all, quite a few owners race no-hopers just for the ride. To enjoy.”

  But Sarah said, “She wants to win.”

  Tessa didn’t say anything.

  In spite of her disappointment (and she told herself she was stupid, because the horse’s jumping and attitude had been fine; only his lack of speed let him down) Tessa still loved riding Buffoon above all else. Just to be on his back across the downs was to know real happiness. The races had been great too, if only she could have contained her stupid ambition. But her stupid ambition persisted.

  “If I expect nothing, I won’t be disappointed next time,” she told herself.

  Expect nothing.

  Perversely, expecting nothing, in her first race of the season she came eighth out of twelve runners.

  Four behind them!

  She rode back beside Tom on San Lucar, who had won by twelve lengths. Neither Tom nor the horse were the slightest out of puff. Buffoon was fine, but Tessa felt badly out of race condition.

  “That wasn’t a bad run,” Tom said, obviously surprised.

  “I’ve been riding him all the summer.”

  Tessa hadn’t seen Tom since last season. He had been back with his friends in America for the summer. He was tanned and super-fit and Tessa was surprised by her own excitement at seeing him again.

  San Lucar looked fantastic. He exuded class, and was as beautiful as dear Buffoon was plain. He had large, kind eyes and the air of a star about the way he held his head and pointed his toes. Tessa could not help remarking on it.

  Tom gave the horse an affectionate pat.

  “Yes, he’s a great lad. Pity we can’t say the same of his owner.”

  “Is he here?”

  In her fierce concentration on the job in hand, Tessa had not looked around her in the paddock.

  “Yes, didn’t you see him?”

  “No!”

  “He saw you.” Tom laughed. “I think he was wearing his bullet-proof vest, but he was keeping a good eye on you.”

  “I thought you didn’t ride for him any more?”

  “No. In principle I don’t. But I love this horse. He’s had plenty of leg trouble, more’s the pity, but Raleigh’s got him just right at the moment.”

  “You might get a smile from Maurice, winning by that distance! I’ll keep out of his way.”

  All the same she couldn’t help a glance over to the winning enclosure as she unsaddled Buffoon. Maurice was, indeed, smiling (no doubt having won a packet with his bets), but he was the same iron-cold customer – not a pat for his magnificent horse nor a word for his lad. Tessa could not help a shiver going through her, seeing him, remembering his grip on her arm, her terror. There was a streak of madness in Maurice. His hair was greying now, and lines of discontent merged into lines of age on his sour face. Raleigh was listening to his instructions with a non-committal expression, saying nothing. He patted San Lucar lovingly, no doubt proud of getting the horse that was prone to injury in such good shape.

  San Lucar ran again a week later. Once more he won easily but was reported to have heat in his near tendon after the race. Raleigh instructed him to be rested. The grapevine had it that Morrison insisted he race again in a big race two weeks later. When Raleigh resisted, they had words and Maurice took San Lucar to another trainer. The new trainer entered him for the race and Tom was booked to ride him.

  Tom, hating the whole situation, accepted the ride so that he could pull San Lucar up at the first hint of unsoundness.

  Tessa was at the same racecourse with Cantata when San Lucar ran. Peter and Sarah were with her, but Myra had decl
ined to come, knowing Maurice would be there. Tessa rode in the first, coming third on Cantata. She changed and went out to see how things turned out in the big race. Maurice’s altercation with Raleigh had been well publicized, and the big crowd was intrigued to see how the day would turn out. They were all on Raleigh’s side, knowing that his decision not to run was the right one. Tessa heard the mutterings on all sides.

  “Criminal to treat such a good horse like this.”

  “The man doesn’t deserve to own a horse like San Lucar.”

  Tom listened, poker-faced, to Maurice’s instructions. The new trainer was clearly uneasy, saying nothing, probably wishing he hadn’t got himself into this predicament. He legged Tom up and watched the horse stride away.

  Peter, watching with Tessa, shook his head.

  “I’m not a betting man, but I reckon it’s odds on that Tom will pull up before he reaches the winning post.”

  He was right. San Lucar, sailing along in the lead as he took off for the penultimate fence, pecked slightly on landing, recovered, ran on for twenty yards and was sharply pulled up. Tom slipped out of the saddle as the rest of the field pounded past. He came home leading San Lucar, and the horse was clearly lame. The crowd buzzed with excitement and indignation. As Maurice went out with his clearly embarrassed trainer to meet him, he was greeted by several boos.

  “At least the horse will get his rest now,” Peter said.

  He did, but in a form that made Maurice the most hated man in racing. He had San Lucar put down.

  Tessa heard the news from Tom. He drove into the yard two days later, on his way home from a meeting, to tell them the news.

  “I found out from the lad at his new yard. He was in tears when he told me. Apparently Maurice took the horse away yesterday, said the driver was taking him to some vet in Newmarket, on his instructions. They thought it strange and when the horse didn’t come back they rang up the transport firm and were told the horse had gone to the knacker’s. It was too late then to do anything about it. The poor old lad had gone.”

  Tom was nearly in tears himself. Tessa was stunned. But hardly surprised, knowing how Maurice used his racing to make money. A lame horse was an expense with no guarantee of being of any further use.

  “But he could have sold him, given him away! Thousands of people would have given him a good home, to recuperate. They loved him!”

  “Yeah, I would have put up a thousand or two myself to have saved him from that,” Tom said. “The man’s a real bastard. I shall never ride for him again.”

  He went disconsolately across to Buffoon’s box and rested his arms on the half-door.

  “I sometimes wonder about this game, when things like that happen. To get the insurance money! No doubt some crook vet signed a certificate for him.”

  “It’s not racing. It’s people,” Tessa said.

  “Yes. It wasn’t racing that gave your old boy grief, was it? Just some more sick people.”

  “He loves racing. You can tell, from the feel of him.”

  “Lukey loved it too. Even when it hurt. I had a job to pull him up. I know now that if I hadn’t pulled up he’d have run on and won. And still be alive now.”

  Buffoon looked round at them from his attention to his haynet. His eyes were large and clear, kind as poor San Lucar’s. Tessa remembered how the light went out of God Almighty’s eyes, and Wisbey wept. But it happened to people too, all the time. Sarah said you mustn’t get it out of proportion. Life was a toss-up for both people and animals. Children died too. Nature was the cruellest of the lot.

  “He ran well last time out,” Tom said. “You going to prove us all wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s another cert in racing. The unpredictable.”

  “Buffoon running well isn’t unpredictable to me.”

  “No?” Tom laughed. “Knowing you, it’s the Grand National you’re aiming for. No less.”

  “How did you guess?” Tessa tried to sound sarcastic, but was useless at covering up her feelings.

  Her private dream. Never to be put into so many words. But Tom had. She could not answer.

  As if in support, Buffoon turned round and came to her, pressing his soft nose against her hand. Tom patted his neck.

  “He’s a great horse, all the same. If anyone can do it, you two can.”

  And he smiled at her and, for his faith, Tessa wanted to throw her arms round him and kiss him. But she didn’t know how, and kissed Buffoon instead.

  That season, Tessa rode Buffoon in eight races. In the sixth race he was second and in the eighth race he was the winner. Tessa was ecstatic and the stable no less so. Buffoon was twelve years old, retirement time. Tessa was now twenty and grown-up, but to the stable she was still their wild child.

  “You’ve done it, Tess, against all the odds,” Peter said.

  “My girl!” Myra beamed.

  “Thank God we can all relax now,” Wisbey said.

  Sarah said nothing, guessing.

  And Buffoon was put out into the field with Lucky and the two of them went bucking and cavorting away like two-year-olds before falling to graze on the fresh tendrils of the spring grass.

  Tessa was dreaming. The dream terrified her, and woke her up. Time after time. In her dream she was facing a horse at a big hedge, and the horse jumped, and when they were in mid-air she saw that there was no landing, only space. And they started to plunge down, and there was nothing below, and she screamed and woke herself up.

  She didn’t tell anyone. There was no one to hear her. The plan was in her head and would not be dislodged, and it was no good to complain that it was giving her nightmares. It was giving everyone nightmares.

  Jimmy said, “It’s not as if the horse isn’t capable of getting round, and keeping her safe. Let her be.”

  He was the only one so optimistic.

  Peter said his reputation was on the line, to enter such an old horse with a girl riding.

  “He’ll be fourteen. Only one horse has won at thirteen, none at fourteen. It’s unprofessional. What amateurs do, to have a day out.”

  “The Grand National is different from other races, you know that. It’s for characters. It’s not the Gold Cup.”

  “He might get killed, then you’ll be sorry,” Wisbey said.

  “Thank you,” said Tessa.

  She knew that. It’s what the nightmare hung on.

  “Oh my God!” screamed Myra, “You’ll break your neck!”

  “It’s a pretty dumb idea,” said Sarah, “but I can see that you want to do it. It’s what you are.” Tessa made her feel old.

  It certainly gave them something to think about. They all thought: if Tessa wasn’t around, life would be much duller.

  Peter decided to let fate decide, as it so often did with racehorses. Buffoon missed two months’ racing with an infection in the sole of his foot, through picking up a rusty nail, but Tessa kept getting rides by tirelessly badgering people and making sure she rode every horse to the very best of her ability, however untalented it might be. Most people she rode for asked her again, although she rarely got “good” rides. There were too many other jockeys after the good ones. But her expertise and, importantly, her strength improved all the time, and by the time Buffoon got back into racing in January she found herself with far more confidence and skill in the saddle.

  January was the first date for entering the Grand National, and Peter agreed to enter Buffoon. It cost a hundred pounds. If they kept his name on the list, it would take three more payments and cost nearly a thousand by the time the race was run. Myra said she would sell her engagement ring, and her wedding ring if need be. She still kept saying Tessa would kill herself but the excitement was too much for her to ignore.

  Sometimes Tessa thought, too, that she was mad. When she talked to Buffoon in his box during the cold winter nights she told hi
m she was sorry that he had to belong to a madwoman, who was going to make him work so hard for his living when he could be a happy hack. She put her cold hands under his rugs to warm them on his shining hide, and laid her head against his neck.

  “But you like it, I know you do. I can feel it. You feel so marvellous.”

  Lucky pushed in for attention, and fell to nibbling at her pockets.

  “We’ll make sure you aren’t spirited away this time too. Nothing will go wrong this time.”

  Maurice was quiet these days. Word had it that he was in financial trouble. Goldlands was up for sale. He had no more horses with Raleigh, and only two with the trainer who took San Lucar. One of these was a dour four-miler who was well-fancied for the Grand National. He asked Tom to ride it, but Tom refused. Then the horse injured a tendon and was out for the season.

  Tom was offered the ride on a horse called Marimba who was at the top of the betting for the Grand National. Raleigh had no runners and Tom accepted the ride. Marimba was a stout-hearted dark bay, almost black, with a great jumping record but no certainty to last the long trip. But general opinion was that his class would see him through. He was a great battler.

  Sometimes Tessa dreamt that Tom would ride Buffoon if she asked him. Buffoon would get a better ride, stand a better chance, be safer in Tom’s hands. But she knew the invitation would be an embarrassment for Tom and he would be bound to refuse, the horse being so old and unconsidered. This knowledge was a relief for she wanted the ride so badly on her own dear horse – the two of them together… The thought of it made her blood tingle, even two months away.

  The bookies had Buffoon in at a hundred-to-one. He was nearly at the bottom of the handicap. Marimba was on top weight.

  As the April day came nearer, Tessa’s ambition did not waver. Myra sold her engagement ring and Peter entered Buffoon at the second and third stages, which just left the final commitment. Peter was encouraged by Buffoon’s fitness, and his running in two preparatory races in each of which he was third.

  “He’s a great jumper, you can’t ask for more. It’s not such a crazy idea, perhaps.”