by K. M. Grant
The starter, hemmed in and jostled by the throng, was calling the runners into line. The other horses thrust their noses forward, their jockeys hunched. The One did not like the jostling and was dallying, his nose stuck in the air, always on the lookout for Daisy. The other horses shivered and jibbed. The One spied an apple core and determined to eat it.
The rough hands of the starter’s boys seized his bridle, forcing him to face the front. He did not like that either. Again he looked for Daisy and listened for her voice. ‘Let them go, McGeorge!’ ‘Get them away, McGeorge!’ The horse was quite aware of Garth perched in the saddle, and cocked an ear back. Garth was silent. When the flag dropped and the other horses leaped off, The One sneezed and continued to chew the apple core.
Garth knew he had to say something to get The One to start. He knew they had practised it. He could not remember what it was. He wanted to close his eyes and die, but people were bawling at him, and in desperation, as though obeying an order from outside, he raised the long, thin whip and flashed it down. He heard the hum. He felt the vicious swish. He was vaguely aware that a man with a coxcomb of red hair had darted out and taken the full force of the lash across his face. Garth dropped the whip. The One, still chewing his apple core, gave a small skip to the side. From their carriage, Rose, Lily, Clover, Columbine and Arthur cried out in unison. Daisy jumped down and began to hobble as fast as she could to the track.
From his place on the hill, Skelton saw the whip drop and The One still chewing as the other horses rocketed away. He was at first disbelieving, then beyond wild, his veins foaming purple. He punched his fists together, shouting and screaming. He would kill Garth. He would crush his neck between his palms. He would roast him over an open fire. As for the man with the red coxcomb, Skelton would beat him to a pulp.
Snipe shuddered when the whip sliced his skin, but there was something more to do. As the blood began to drip he sang, ‘One, two, three, GO,’ in his foxy voice. At ‘one’, The One stiffened. At ‘two’, he pricked his ears; at ‘three’, he threw up his head; and at ‘GO’ he dropped the apple core and galloped.
He galloped alone for three-quarters of a minute, then caught the back markers, two of whom had lost precious time swerving around a stray dog. The middle group was banked together along the slight right-handed rise. The One was happy enough behind them until the course swung left and he found himself on the outside, with a clear view. He could feel Garth swaying and rocking. The other horses were clustered together along the rail, their jockeys anxious for the shortest route. The One stretched out, enjoying the freedom of galloping alone. Round Tattenham Corner, the course dipped. The One shortened his stride and shied at a fluttering piece of paper. Garth flew sideways, only luck crashing him back into the saddle. The wallop jolted The One and now he thrust forward using the full power of his hindquarters, the light shoes adding a glorious spring. Along the straight he streamed, revelling in his own strength. This was fun! This was it! Garth, shaken about like a rag in the wind, the red jacket billowing, dropped the reins completely and wound his hands into The One’s red mane. The One hesitated. Perhaps he would stop now. Over on the rail, only two horses were ahead of him. No, perhaps he would keep going. The ground was uneven so he veered over to join them.
In the stand, Skelton was frozen mid-curse. Around him, the crowd was on its feet and bellowing. ‘Good God! Will you look at that?!’ Only when The One passed the two-furlong marker did Skelton find his voice again. ‘Go on! Go on! Go ON, you brute! GO ON!’
The One was still behind Stacker on the leader. One furlong out, he spied a figure in yellow beyond the finish line. Daisy! He hurtled towards her. Hearing the crescendo in the crowd, Stacker turned his head. He saw a cloud of spittle and a red haze approaching the level of his boot. Raising his whip, he made as if to strike his own horse, but at the last moment changed the angle of the whip and brought it down sharply on The One’s nose. For a moment, The One could not breathe. It was moment enough. Stacker’s horse drew ahead. The Derby was lost by a whisker.
25
Daisy stood quite still as the winning horse thundered past her. She even stood still as The One slithered to an ungraceful halt and Garth tumbled face down on to the grass. She was still when Skelton ran over, howling that the grinning Stacker had clearly breached the rules. It was Skelton, not Daisy, who objected violently when Stacker’s supporters, to the fury of The One’s, denied wrongdoing.
The One himself was blowing hard. He had exerted himself quite considerably. However, unlike the winning horse, who was shivering and panting and almost dead on his feet, The One was not distressed. He wiped his foamy mouth on Garth’s prone back and nudged Daisy, who clung to him. Rose, Lily, Columbine and Clover fought their way through, still holding hands. Behind, looking out for Lily, was Snipe, the welt across his face raw as a dagger wound.
Still drunk, but acutely conscious, Garth curled himself into a ball. Lily ran to him and dropped to her knees. ‘Garth! Are you hurt? Please tell me!’ Garth rolled himself tighter. He could never unroll. He should be picked up just as he was and dropped into the sea. He had not won the race. Worse, had it not been for the red coxcomb man, he would have been no better than Grint. Daisy had trained The One brilliantly. The One had run the race of his life. It was Garth who had failed everybody and everything, including himself. His guts dissolved.
Arthur Rose was trying to calm Skelton. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ It was a bittersweet result for the young vet himself, for if the Derby was lost perhaps Rose could marry him. Still, he owed it to Daisy to do the right thing. He went to The One. He inspected the horse’s nose, prised Daisy gently away, took the reins and walked The One over to the chief steward. ‘Look,’ he commanded in a clear and carrying voice. ‘A jockey might strike a horse up alongsides by mistake. But he could not strike at this angle.’
The steward peered at The One. The crowd packed around him. The angle of the cut was described loudly by everybody who could see it. ‘For shame!’ somebody shouted. ‘For shame!’ the chant was taken up. The bookmakers began to shout too. The chief steward, nervous for his safety, sent a boy scurrying off. A flag was raised. There would be an inquiry. Both jockeys would be required to give their accounts. The chief steward would ask the race judge to preside.
Lily pleaded with Garth. ‘Garth! Get up! You’ve got to go to the stewards’ tent.’ Garth hunched tighter and tighter. ‘Garth!’ urged Rose. ‘Please! Get up!’
‘Get up, Garth!’ echoed Clover and Columbine. ‘Tell him, Daisy!’
A brisk female voice cut through. ‘Let us pass, please! At once, please!’
Rose and Lily’s heads snapped round. A woman in a sensible brown dress and a small veiled hat elbowed a passage through the crowd. ‘Aunt Barbara!’ Rose exclaimed, then stopped breathing. Next to her aunt was somebody else, and it was this somebody else who ran to Garth and knelt down beside him.
‘I tried to prevent her,’ said Aunt Barbara. ‘But here we are.’ Lily, Daisy, Clover and Columbine stopped breathing too.
A bellow came from the judge’s tent. ‘Will the other jockey come forward? If he doesn’t, we’ll have no choice but to award the race to Mr Stacker.’
Arthur handed The One’s rein to a boy. ‘The jockey’s coming,’ he shouted into the tent. ‘He’s coming right away.’ He ran back to Garth, saw a woman bending over him and halted in his tracks.
The woman looked up. ‘I’m his mother,’ said Clara de Granville. Arthur had no idea what to reply. Clara bent over her son. ‘Garth,’ she said. ‘Garth, can you hear me?’ There was an almost imperceptible tremor. Very slowly, Clara uncurled him. His face was blotched, his cap squashed down one side. Taking off her gloves, Lady de Granville sat him up, straightened the cap, took out a lace handkerchief and wiped his cheeks.
Garth truly believed he was dreaming, or perhaps he really was dead. ‘I failed,’ he said to this apparition. ‘I’ve failed.’
‘We’ll see,’ the apparition replied. ‘Come,
we’ll go together.’
Garth, still in his dream, put out both his hands, and taking them in both of hers, his mother helped him to walk.
The inquiry was brisk. The One’s injury was examined. Mr Stacker tried to bluff. Garth managed to remain upright and Arthur Rose spoke on his behalf. He did not waste words. Mr Stacker had broken the code of jockeys and gentlemen. He was a disgrace to his profession. Trainers should strike him off their lists. When Garth’s dazed condition was questioned, Arthur declared that the boy had been concussed when he fell off and that he had not fallen off until after crossing the finishing line. Arthur spoke well and with the conviction of the just. The junior stewards conferred. The chief steward hopped from foot to foot. The judge deliberated, and when it was announced that the winner of the 1861 Derby was The One, ridden by Garth de Granville and trained by his sister Daisy, not just the racecourse but the whole town could hear the cheers.
Blinking as he realised he was neither dead nor dreaming, Garth gazed wildly about. ‘Ma –’ he began to call. His mother was no longer beside him. It was Skelton, sweating with excitement. In the moments since the race was called for The One, the groom had lost count of the number of times he had checked that Charles’s signed promise was safe in his pocket. He would not show it now. The moment to flourish it would be at Hartslove itself. His triumph and relief made him almost as drunk as Garth. ‘Now then, boy!’ he chortled. ‘Get back up on that horse and enjoy yourself!’ Garth was given no option.
Two lines formed, and Daisy found herself, Skelton and The One, with Garth back in the saddle, pushed between them. The cheering was deafening and her shoulders were quickly bruised from being enthusiastically patted. This was the moment she had dreamed of, but all she could think of was her mother. Everybody, it seemed, was trying to snatch hairs from The One’s tail. The horse did not like it. He pressed close to Daisy and she pressed close to him. She was so hot. She was so confused. She could not hear the applause. She could not hear anything clearly. She was going to faint.
‘Air! Give them air!’ somebody shouted. An important man – Daisy had no idea who – stepped forward to present the prize money. ‘Now, let me see. We’ve taken off a hundred sovereigns for the policing of the course. We’ve taken off the hundred sovereigns you’ve got to give the second-prize winner and fifty sovereigns for the judge. That leaves you with 6,100 sovereigns.’ The bag was so heavy Daisy could hardly hold it. Skelton helpfully held it for her.
Immediately afterwards, agents stepped forward with offers to buy The One. Daisy supposed she must have rejected them, though she never heard her own voice. She concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply. She was not going to faint. She was going to look straight ahead and brace herself because the lady she had seen before could not possibly be her mother. That must have been an illusion. She looked up and found she was quite wrong. Her mother was standing within two arms’ length. She was standing next to Aunt Barbara. She was clapping. Aunt Barbara was clapping. Rose, Lily, Clover and Columbine were clapping. It was only then that Daisy allowed herself to believe that her mother really was there; that The One – brave, quirky, brilliant The One – really had won the Derby; that Hartslove really was safe. She also believed something else. She believed with her whole heart that this was the best day in the world and that nothing could spoil it.
26
It was not the best day in the world for Garth. When he came to more properly, he lurched off The One, elbowed past the pie sellers and cavorting dragoons, the exultant winners and the despondent losers, and staggered back to the stables in the town. Daisy knew he had been drunk. His mother knew he had been drunk. Worst of all, Skelton knew he had been drunk. He lay in the straw, his head splitting. It was nearly an hour before he felt well enough to gather his things. He would vanish. That was best. He took off the red silks and was leaving when Daisy and The One returned. ‘Garth!’ Daisy said with a dazzling smile. ‘It’s over. Nothing matters now. Ma came! Ma came!’
Garth’s nerves seemed to be on the outside of his skin. The very air burned and stung. ‘I was drunk, Daisy, and I hit him.’ He gestured at the horse.
‘Nearly hit him,’ Daisy corrected, stroking The One’s neck.
‘I hit a man who was trying to be kind. What’s the difference? I couldn’t remember what to do. God, Daisy. I couldn’t even count to three – and don’t deny it,’ Garth burst out, seeing that Daisy was about to do just that. ‘Don’t treat me like a child. I took the whip from Skelton. I asked HIM to help me. And I couldn’t even count to three.’
‘All right, it’s true,’ Daisy agreed. ‘You didn’t start properly and you hit someone.’ Her voice hardened. ‘And you were drunk.’
‘I drank whisky,’ Garth said. ‘I drank it because I was frightened.’
‘It was wrong, Garth.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ His eyes were pools of distress.
The One took Daisy’s sleeve between his teeth. Daisy removed it. ‘It’s finished now. Finished, do you hear?’
‘Finished for you.’
‘No, Garth. Finished for all of us. Something new’s starting. Ma came.’ She stopped, suddenly anxious. ‘You do remember seeing her, don’t you?’ She could see that he did. ‘The others are with her. We’ll see her again very soon.’
‘She’ll leave us. She’ll leave because of Pa and me.’
‘Perhaps she will leave,’ said Daisy, ‘but it won’t be because of you.’
He ignored this. ‘And the man . . . his face –’
‘Yes. We should find him.’
‘He wasn’t a stranger,’ Garth said.
‘No?’
‘We were both on the top of the trains on the way down here.’
‘Are you sure it was the same man?’
‘Certain.’
Daisy found this thought comforting. ‘Stay, Garth,’ she said. ‘Stay for me.’
Garth gave a hopeless gesture but put down his pack.
Aunt Barbara came a little later. When she had admired The One and Daisy had made him comfortable and the stable manager had promised on his life to let nobody near him, they made their way to a hotel on the town’s main street. In a stuffy room, Rose, Lily, Columbine and Clover were perched on hard hotel chairs, ready to leap up and catch their mother if she showed any sign of flying off. Arthur Rose was hovering outside, wanting to be helpful yet not wanting to intrude.
Clara de Granville rose when Daisy and Garth came in. Daisy wanted to run to her but her legs locked. At the racecourse, Clara had been just their mother. Here, she seemed more unfamiliar. Her face was older; her hair not pinned quite as Daisy remembered; her clothes reflecting Aunt Barbara’s taste rather than her own. And there was something else. This lady was no longer a cobweb. Something missing had been filled in, and it made her both more their mother and less. Daisy’s legs remained locked until she heard her name. The voice had not changed at all. Then she ran forward so fast that she would have fallen had her mother not caught her and hugged her, a living, breathing, solid hug, the hug of a person as thrilled to see Daisy as Daisy was to see her.
The embrace finally over, Clara de Granville kept hold of Daisy’s hand. Garth remained by the door. There was an awkward silence. Garth could not break it. His heart hurt much more than his head.
His mother regarded him. He began to curl up. She spoke directly. ‘Garth, can you forgive me?’
The question was so unexpected that Garth stopped curling. ‘Forgive you, Ma? What for?’
‘For leaving you.’
‘Why shouldn’t you leave me?’ His throat was still rough from the whisky. ‘I wasn’t worth staying for.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘No, Garth. That’s just what you believe.’ Clara de Granville let go of Daisy’s hand. Daisy sat down. ‘You sit too,’ Clara said. Garth sank on to his haunches.
Slowly, and with some pauses, their mother tried to explain. ‘I left because I
had a sickness in the head that was nothing to do with any of you. The doctors couldn’t help. At times, nobody could help. It’s strange that sometimes sickness in the head can cripple as badly as sickness in the body. Anyhow, when I couldn’t bear it any more, I went to Aunt Barbara and slowly I felt better.’ She stopped.
‘Couldn’t we have made you better?’ asked Clover or Columbine.
‘No, Clover, you couldn’t.’
‘Did we make you worse?’
‘No, Columbine, you didn’t make me worse. You couldn’t have done that.’
‘So what did Aunt Barbara do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said their mother. ‘Sometimes, when you’re in a muddle, you just need a place where – I don’t know how best to describe it – a place where your mind can go to sleep for a bit. That’s what we do with our bodies after all. When we’re ill, we sleep. Do you understand?’
Garth closed his eyes. He could refuse to understand or he could try to understand. Refuse. Try. Refuse. Try. He opened his eyes. Daisy was staring straight at him. ‘Try,’ she said as though reading his mind. She would not allow him to look away.
Clover sighed.
‘What is it, Clover?’ her mother asked.
‘I hope you’re going to stay, because you’re the only person who calls Columbine and me by our right names,’ Clover told her. ‘If you disappear again, even we may forget which one of us is which.’
Lady de Granville exchanged looks with all her children. She exchanged the longest look of all with Rose, whose face so resembled her own.
‘We didn’t know how to get you back,’ Rose whispered. ‘We were frightened.’
‘I was frightened too,’ Lady de Granville said.
‘And are you still frightened, Ma? Are you?’
Daisy had to speak, though she dreaded the effect. ‘Before you answer, Ma, you should know that Pa’s still drinking and Gryffed’s dead and everybody’s left except for Mrs Snips and Skelton. If things were frightening before, they’re not much different now – except that The One’s won us some money.’
