Blind Beauty
Page 27
But Tom said, “It’s yours. Go on.”
And Wisbey led Buffoon in, because Tessa wouldn’t go. When she had moved, Tom followed and pulled up in second place.
And when she slid and down and collapsed in Peter’s arms, she had a strange vision of faces: besides Peter, and now her swooning mother held up by a grinning Jimmy, she saw her father Declan and her stepfather Maurice, not to mention all the well-known faces of the television people. And there was Buffoon, and – because it was her father who had made him – it was to her father she turned and held out her arms. He lifted her up and kissed her wildly. He smelled of whisky and sweat and manure, just like old times, and he laughed as she always remembered him laughing when she was three years old. Then he dropped her and kissed her mother, and her mother kissed him back and then kissed Peter, to be fair, and Jimmy kissed Tessa. And Tessa turned and buried her face into Buffoon’s sweat-slimy neck – it was all too much for her to show the world. The television people couldn’t, for once, get anyone’s attention at all, until Peter remembered his profession and gave them a mumble.
Beside her in the enclosure Marimba stood head down, flanks heaving, the beaten favourite. Tom had his arm round his neck, grinning, and the little trainer was embracing them both, thrilled out of his wits by the horse’s courage. The owner had no place in this picture, as he did not wish to join in the celebration of what he could only regard as defeat. His world had broken apart, after the certainty that he had won. He was finished.
Recognizing drama, part of their job, the television interviewer turned to him, standing beside Marimba, and slyly asked, “How does it feel to be beaten by your stepdaughter?”
And, large on the television screen, across all the world, a close-up of Maurice showed what he thought. He didn’t have to say it. He showed no joy at the fantastic courage of his own horse, no admiration for the skill of his jockey at getting so close, no warmth for the amazing scenes around him. He just showed, in close-up, all the bitterness of the bad loser. He showed consuming rage and hatred, and devastating humiliation. (Afterwards, on the video, Tessa played it over and over, more than the bit of her passing the winning post.)
He said, grinding it out, “She did well.”
What else could he say?
With such an embarrassing response they turned to Myra. With her bright cheeks and blowing hair she chattered nineteen to the dozen to the bemused interviewer. She was their star. Peter was beyond words, and Jimmy never had many at the best of times. And Tessa… all she could do was hug her horse and cry.
“You’ve got to weigh in,” Peter told her, smiling. “Don’t lose it all by forgetting. You’re a pro, remember.”
Tessa pulled herself together.
Inside the door to the weighing room the press missed their picture of the day. Tom followed her in, caught her round the shoulders and kissed her on the lips. Mud, sweat and tears mingled like blood in a tryst. Tessa kissed him back, forgetting Buffoon.
“There’s a saying,” Tom said, “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Think about it.”
“I love you, Tom.”
“You love everyone, this minute. Say it tomorrow. And then I’ll know.”
“Yes, tomorrow too.”
He laughed. The returning jockeys all jeered and cheered and they went to the scales and the loudspeaker announced to the world, “Weighed in.”
It was over. Done.
And Buffoon?
Did he know he had won the Grand National?
He was tired beyond anything he had known before, having been asked for more when he had thought he had given his all. Yet, being asked, he had responded. He had found more, right at the end. He would have responded until death. It was in his nature. He had raced enough to know what they wanted, after all. To beat the others. Sometimes the others were impossibly far away and sometimes, on good days, they could be caught. But this time… it was so far, different. Even when he thought he had won a horse was still coming back at him and Tessa was still willing him on. Her spirit and intention he had understood only too clearly, even if her body was a hopeless floppy thing of little use to him. He would do it for Tessa, would do it for anybody, really, if that was what they wanted. They asked him. He obliged. He enjoyed it. But this time it had been painful, beyond the call of duty. There must be something special about this day, the excitement and the enormous crowd, the noise so intense, and now the attention, hugs and kisses more than anything he had known before. He knew he had been here before, he remembered how big the jumps were. This time he had been ready for them. He hadn’t enjoyed it before, there had been something wrong, but today had been fine. Only the last stretch… that had been hard.
He wanted Lucky, and his stable. He wanted quiet, and his tea. He knew he would get all these things. He was secure, with the people he was used to. They asked him strange things sometimes, but they gave him everything he needed. He was not afraid.
Late the next day – she had lost all count of time – Tessa was in Sarah’s caravan, telling her how it had been.
“My dad was there, Declan, yelling his head off. He’s crazy, that man. I can see now why my mother left him.”
“Yes. Not husband material, Declan Blackthorn.”
“And Greevy, can you believe, wishing me luck. So civilized!”
“Working for Raleigh has done wonders for him. Getting away from his father, it gave him his chance. Mixing with nice people, it rubs off. I’m getting nicer by the day, have you noticed? Since I came here.”
“And me!”
“It’s the love of a good horse made something out of you, Tessa. Loving Buffoon. It’s what I need, the love of something, but God knows what, or who.”
“Sarah!”
Sarah – Tessa’s strength, her mother-figure, her shoulder to cry on – suddenly looked stricken. If Tessa didn’t know her so well, she would have said she was suddenly close to tears.
Perhaps the shock showed in her face, for Sarah then laughed, harshly, and said, “I’m going away now summer’s coming, and I shan’t come back. I shall look for pastures new.”
“Sarah! No!”
“There are reasons, Tessa. Use your loaf. You’ve found what you’re looking for, but–” She shrugged. “I thought I had, but–” She shrugged again. Then laughed. “I’m not going to spell it out. You’ve eyes in your head and – at last – a heart. You’ll understand, sooner or later.”
With these engimatic words she closed the conversation by asking what they should cook for supper.
Later – a long time later – Tessa realized what she was talking about. Sarah loved Jimmy. And Jimmy? Jimmy was his own person. He only loved Walter, his lurcher.
After the supper – egg and chips – Tessa crept out to Buffoon’s box. It was a clear spring night with stars crisp and glittering in the sky, cold, awash with the smells of spring and promise. Tessa, who had thought it was over, knew it was only just starting.
“Buffy?”
She slid the bolts back, and the horse turned round to her, knuckering softly. The journey home had passed in a dream, and only now she was back were Tessa’s feet beginning to touch the ground. She hadn’t been able to sleep, even now. She felt she could never sleep again, not while there was so much glory in her head. She wanted to be back, solid, on the ground. With Buffy. The smell of his warm rugs and Lucky’s old-pony breath, the sound of horses munching hay in the night… she was soothed. She lay in the straw and stared at the starlit outline of Buffoon’s back against the open half-door, and the patrician curve of his brave nose, the nose whereby the great race had been won. He had made it, against all the odds, made history, like the jockey said. She would never ask him for anything again, only make him happy, riding across the downs. He could retire, and she would go on, with Tom, wherever the path led.
And, at last, snuggled into the straw, she slept.
&n
bsp; K M Peyton was born in 1929 and wrote her first book at the age of nine. It was called Grey Star, the Story of a Racehorse. Several books later, her first was published when she was fifteen. Sabre, the Horse From the Sea was followed by two more pony books written under her maiden name of Kathleen Herald. At first Kathleen only wrote pony books as, growing up in a London suburb, she could not have a horse of her own so put her pony-obsessed daydreams down on paper.
Winner of the prestigious Carnegie Medal and the Guardian Award, K.M Peyton is the author of over fifty well-loved novels for young readers including the bestselling Flambards series.
K.M Peyton lives in Essex with her husband Mike and her horses.
www.kmpeyton.co.uk
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First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 1999
This electronic edition published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2014
Text copyright © K M Peyton, 1999
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eISBN 978 1407 15468 8
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