Blind Beauty

by K. M. Peyton

  Buffoon had never fallen in his life.

  The press noticed this, and loved the story. Tessa was hassled whenever she went out in public, and journalists kept calling at Sparrows Wyck. Tessa got tired of repeating the same thing over and over again in interviews, and posing for photographs.

  Buffoon’s price rose to fifty-to-one.

  Sarah said it was what she called housewives’ betting, because of the story, nothing to do with the horse’s chance.

  “He’s still a hundred-to-one, Tessa. Don’t get excited. The horses that win are nine and ten years old. No horse has ever won at his age. With a girl on top.”

  “She’s only in it for the ride. Don’t tell me she’s thinking of winning!” Peter said.

  Tessa saw Jimmy and Sarah exchange glances. They didn’t say anything. Tessa felt sick, thinking about it. And there were still three weeks to go!

  Tessa had offers for Buffoon, from rich idiots wanting to be in on a good story. Grand National horses often changed hands in the weeks before the race, because there was always a pool of rich and optimistic (and crazy) people who wanted the thrill of owning a National horse. The week before the race the press had a new story:

  “Morrison-Pleydell buys Marimba!”

  In the tack-room they all goggled at the news as Sarah spread out the Racing Post.

  “He must be desperate!”

  “Whatever did he pay? Must have been a fortune.”

  “I wonder if he’s bought Tom Bryant as well?” Jimmy said.

  “Tom swore he’d never ride for him again.”

  “Yeah, but there’s no other rides going now, unless he jocks someone off.”

  “He wouldn’t do that, not Tom.”

  “He’ll be asked, I bet.”

  “Tessa’ll ask him, won’t you, Tess?” jeered Wisbey. “I bet he’d do it for you.”

  “I think the deal would have included Tom, somehow,” Sarah said. “It’s too late to find another jockey now.”

  It was confirmed later that Tom Bryant was still Marimba’s jockey. On the day they were all starting to prepare for driving up to the Aintree meeting, Tom Bryant called in at the stable to talk to Tessa.

  “To see that it’s all OK with you,” he said. “Wish you luck and all that. It might be busy on Saturday and no time to say all the right things. You feel good about it, I hope? No cold feet?”

  “Freezing feet,” Tessa said.

  “You’ll be fine once all the waiting is over. And it’s easier for females these days – you’re not such a novelty any more. Mind you, you will be if you win.”

  “You’ll be the winner, I dare say. Pity it’s for Maurice though.”

  “Jeez, what a way for it to turn out! The last thing I expected. But I can’t change it now. If he starts to give me a bollocking though, for not winning, I reckon I’ll pull a knife on him like you did. I’ll take one in my boot, in case! Pity – I want to win, but not for that swine.”

  “The horse will decide it for you.”

  “Yes. We’re useless without the horse. You’ve got a good one, Tessa. Do it for the thrill – there’s nothing quite like it. Keep out of trouble, especially at the first. Follow a good one, or keep clear of the lot. And afterwards, Tess, whatever happens, we’ll go to a party together. I’ll come looking for you.”

  Was this her first date? Tessa wondered when he had gone. They would have so much to talk about, one way or the other. A working arrangement, more like. But the warmth of Tom’s friendship, his timely visit, steadied her nerves. She felt much more optimistic with Tom’s encouragement. He didn’t think she was crazy, at least.

  She slept in Buffoon’s box, as she had done the last ten days. No one was going to pinch Lucky again, or do Buffoon any damage. A good sleeping bag and the thick straw made it perfectly comfortable, with Lucky’s heavy breathing in her ear for lullaby and the sight of the moonshine on Buffoon’s Roman nose in the bright square of the open top-door to soothe her waking moments. How lucky she was, to have come so far over her rocky path to comparatively smooth going! Sometimes she could not believe her luck, after the despair of her youth. And it was all centred in her dear horse. Without him her life would have been nothing. Nothing to work for, nothing to grieve over, nothing to thrill. Whatever happened in the next few days, there was not one thing she would regret, afterwards. Even if… no… one did not think of that… it was the ultimate, the unthinkable.

  They were driving up the day before. Peter was going up in his car with Myra, Jimmy was driving the lorry and Wisbey was coming as lad for Buffoon – his treat. Poor Sarah had to stay in charge at home. Tessa, pressed to go in the car, elected to go in the lorry, with Buffoon. Of course.

  “You’ll want all the rest you can get,” complained Myra.

  “I can rest afterwards,” Tessa said.

  She had scarcely slept for nights past – what difference would it make? She had lost weight and her face was pale and drawn with blue smudges under her eyes. But the eyes against the pallor burned with more fire than ever.

  The April weather was typical: cold and windy, with bright sunshine and fierce, short showers. The going was said to be soft, which suited Buffoon. The softer the better. It was raining when the lorry arrived at Aintree.

  They pulled into the horsebox entrance, down the lane to the stables, which were familiar this time. Just like the last time, racing was in progress and the place was humming, horses and people coming and going in all directions. Jimmy went off to find Buffoon’s box, and Tessa stayed in the warm cab, wondering what on earth she was doing in the place. She was out of her mind!

  Jimmy came back with Buffoon’s stable number and they unloaded him and led him into the yards. Lucky shuffled along behind as usual, anxious to explore the new quarters. Tessa busied herself feverishly, making Buffoon comfortable. He was excited (remembering last time?) and kept walking to the door to look out, whinnying every now and then as a horse passed.

  “We’ll walk him out later, when racing’s finished, let him have a bite of grass,” Jimmy said. “Peter’ll be along, and we’ll walk the course. Remember what I said before, it doesn’t look so bad from the back of a seventeen-hand horse.”

  The last race was over. A cold silvery light gleamed on the factories across the great, dun abandonment of the Aintree acres. The crowds streamed out from the stands, the litter blew aimlessly on the cold wind. Most of the horses were going and the yards emptied, leaving tomorrow’s runners exploring their new boxes or settling down to their haynets. Buffoon was not disturbed, looking for a feed. Lucky had settled to doze, propped on the manger.

  Peter turned up, having left Myra in a hotel. They went out to walk the course, not alone, for streams of spectators and interested parties were out to do the same, mostly laughing and having their photos taken against the thick black hedges.

  Tessa didn’t laugh. It was true how different they were, these fences, from the ordinary racetrack, so strong and forbidding.

  “You can take a bit out of the top, but no more,” Peter said to her. “But Buffoon knows his stuff. It’s the traffic you’ve got to look out for, not Buffoon’s jumping. Keep safe.”

  They walked round the once. Tomorrow it was twice round. The biggest jumps were five feet high and had ditches six feet wide on the take-off side. One of these was the third jump and Tessa, looking at it, thought that if she survived this one, and the stampede over the two preceding, she would have something to chalk up whatever might happen thereafter. There were forty runners and some of the jumps were none too wide. To get a clear view would be a bonus, let alone elbow room. The famous Bechers Brook looked unexpectedly innocuous on the approach, but the drop behind wasn’t nice at all. Some girls were standing against it having their photographs taken. Even with their arms raised above their heads they did not break the skyline of solid spruce-covered wall. But Jimmy said at speed it w
ould be quite different. Buffoon would ping it.

  “It’s easier on the outside, remember. The drop is less. But the good horses will be on the inside. Follow Tom if you get a chance.”

  The next jump, narrow and at an angle, was not inviting. This was the famous Foinavon Fence when the whole field had piled up and the winner was the only horse so far behind that he was able to pick his way through the carnage when he got to it and continue on his way. This side of the course was flanked on the outside by a high embankment and a railway siding. Where the railway crossed a canal at the top end, the racecourse abruptly turned left to avoid going into the water.

  “The horses used to fall in quite often. But they’ve built a fence since.”

  Drab housing shut off further views.

  “The trouble with jumps this high,” Peter said, “is that you can’t see what’s on the other side.”

  “Bodies, you mean?” asked Wisbey.

  “Yes. Unless you’re in the lead. Then there aren’t any.”

  Peter was trying to find the best ground.

  “We’ll walk it again tomorrow, when they’ve tidied it all up. It helps to know, when your horse is getting tired. And navigation – in case you’re in front, Tessa.” He laughed. “The courses cross up here.”

  There was an ordinary course inside the grandstand end of the Grand National course that was used for all the other races. The races that didn’t matter, thought Tessa. They could have entered one of those. Having seen the fences she knew now what everyone said was true: she was mad. Yet she had never mistrusted her talent. She was not afraid of riding the fences. She wasn’t afraid. But she felt… there were no words for what she felt. She said nothing.

  “Scared?” jeered Wisbey.

  They came round the home turn, up to the Chair, the biggest of all the fences, in front of the stands, jumped only on the first circuit, and then up the long, long run in. The sun was sinking behind them. A factory hooter bleated for knocking-off time.

  How strange, thought Tessa. Whatever was going to happen?

  They went back to the stables. This time tomorrow it would all be over.

  Tessa refused to go out with them, for a meal, in spite of all the persuasion. She wanted to be on her own, to be with Buffoon, eat in the lads’ canteen, she didn’t want to know anyone.

  “Leave her,” Jimmy said to Peter.

  They went off in Peter’s car and Tessa went back to Buffoon. She wasn’t going to leave him. Not now. Not ever.

  The morning dawned cold and wet. Tessa rode out along with all the others, fed and groomed Buffoon and then was only too grateful to be taken under Peter’s wing. He arrived in his car and took her off for breakfast in the smart hotel.

  “And a rest, Tessa. You can lie about, have a hot bath, drink coffee. Wind down. You should have come back last night.”

  “It’s better now,” Tessa said.

  Jimmy and Wisbey were at the stables. She could relax, read the papers. Marimba and Tom were still favourite, Buffoon at fifty-to-one. There were a few pieces on her and her old horse, but nothing that she had not read before. She did not want to read it again. But she enjoyed her morning of leisure, sunk into one of the hotel’s deep, plushy armchairs with the central heating purring around her and the coffee-pot at her elbow. At least it was better than sweating it out in a sauna like most of her male companions, to get weight off. She was allotted to carry ten stone and only weighed eight. She could eat as many chocolate biscuits as she liked, and would still have to have lead weights inserted in her saddle-cloth to give Buffoon his proper weight.

  Peter kept the panicking Myra out of her hair, treated her to a light lunch and then drove her back to the course.

  The traffic was solid, the punters streaming in as the rain gave way to fitful sunshine. The excitement was tangible, the crowd exuding an electricity that sparked in every face, the bookmakers shouting, the loudspeaker voice flaring down the wind. In the stables the activity was as frenzied, the same excitement contained in the faces of the travelling lads and the girls who all recognized that the day was special. It wasn’t like an ordinary racing day at all. Tessa was not alone in her shell of amazement. Did Buffoon sense it too, looking out over his door with his ears pricked up, the tips almost touching, as horses for the first races were led past? He knew he was going to race. But did he remember where he was? Did he remember the first time over the great fences, the surprise of Bechers, the sharp turn by the canal? Tessa thought he did. Buffoon wasn’t stupid.

  “But you’ve got me with you this time.”

  For better or for worse. Tessa put her arms round his neck and laid her cheek against his.

  “We’ll make it, Buffy,” she whispered. “I don’t care what they say.”

  Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it buoyed her up while the minutes ticked past. Into the weighing room… her colours… pushed here and there… seeing Tom at one point in just his breeches, laughing with a valet. “This way.” They looked after her, the only female, patronizing. She didn’t care. It was all a dream, until she was outside again in the queue of lean men and the camera lights were flashing and the television boom pushed in her face. “What was she feeling?” She couldn’t answer, there being no words. Oh, to be out there on Buffoon’s back!

  “Oh my God, I don’t know how you feel, but I’m knocked up already,” Myra muttered to her. “I don’t think I can watch this at all.”

  “Ma, he’s the safest horse in the race!”

  What a stupid thing to say, tempting fate! Oh Buffy, why am I doing this to you?

  A mad face in the crowd, shouting, “Me darling! Go for it, me darling! I’ve put me shirt on you, and me trousers too!”

  Her idiot, drunken father, with his idiot, drunken friends, all waving. Her heart lurched with the old wild, despairing love. Her father! No wonder she was such an idiot too, with those inherited genes…

  “Dad, save it! You’re crazy!” She had to laugh.

  They disappeared in the crush.

  Greevy came up and gripped her hand.

  “Best of luck, Tessa! Stay safe! I’m rooting for you.”

  And two familiar faces leaning over the paddock rail, shouting at her. Shouting? Her staid schoolteachers, Mrs Alston and the Battleaxe! Their faces red, their smart hats awry, they shouted out good wishes.

  Tessa’s emotions were shattered in all directions. Everyone had gone mad, not only herself. Then Jimmy’s hand on her shoulder, hard and purposeful.

  “You’re a great girl, Tessa. Enjoy it. It won’t happen again, it’s your chance.”

  She looked at him, knowing suddenly that it was his teaching and support that had got her where she was. He had always gone along with her dreams. Dear Jimmy. She loved him! He legged her into the saddle.

  “I wouldn’t mind being in your place now,” she said.

  He laughed.

  Tessa sat high, perched over the bony mountain of Buffoon’s withers, seeing the familiar rabbity ears ahead of her twitching to the excitement. This was her place, whatever the surroundings. She was at home. Her horse. A shiver of pure exaltation went through her. Whatever happened, it was worth it. All the heartache… and now… jostled, whistled at, exclaimed over, they moved forward into the parade.

  Wisbey was on the leading-rein, the official lad, excited at the task, to lead Buffoon down the course in the parade before the start. Peter and Myra and Jimmy departed to try and find a good place in the stands and Tessa rode out with all the others. They milled around, getting into parade order, and Tom went past on Marimba. At close quarters the horse looked magnificent, a big, spare animal with a long, elastic stride, very laid back but interested in all the excitement, looking about him with bold, intelligent eyes. Tessa, who told herself she wasn’t thinking about winning, did not see how he could be beaten. But then, anything could, and did, happen in the National. Tom d
idn’t see her. He was pale and serious, not laughing any more.

  They went down past the stands, interminably, and then the first horse turned and was away. One by one they all cantered off down to the start.

  “It’s all yours, matey,” Wisbey said as he unclipped the lead-rope. “Best of luck, Tess.”

  For once he was serious too.

  At last!

  It was fantastic to be moving, to let the brakes off, alone at last with her horse. The presence of all those thousands of people seemed distant now, of no account. She had no cares, riding her own horse, no one to let down but herself. No one to blame. Only Buffoon and herself, to do what they could.

  Milling around at the start, she saw Tom again. She thought of Maurice watching him, having staked everything – what a burden Marimba carried along with the top weight! She wanted Tom to win, but not Maurice. Impossible. Tom was lining up on the inside next to the rail. Tessa got behind him, knowing the good ones were on the inside. She didn’t want to be behind no-hopers at the first fence where usually there were fallers. Not to be brought down, that was the priority. At the back, she could move across wherever there was a gap.

  That was the plan, but when the tapes went up, it was all such mayhem that her plans were forgotten. A horse barged into her from behind (Buffoon never being the liveliest horse away) and nearly knocked her out of the saddle, and when she got herself balanced again another horse gave her a bang on the other side. Their stirrups clinked together and the other jockey swore at her. Tessa swore back, enjoying it. Buffoon was running straight as a die, at his own pace, and the other horse went on, came to the first fence and disappeared from sight as if shot.

  Tessa had time to see, make up her mind and steer clear, pulling Buffoon across so that he was nicely sighted. He flew over the big fence easily. Tessa saw three horses down, and the rest of the field a great wedge of flying tails and butterfly silks fluttering ahead of her. The speed was crazy. Buffoon was last by the look of it, so she took him back to the inside to save ground. Now she could see nothing of the next jump, only hope and pray. She should have been on the outside but it was too late now.