She strolled among them like an ocean liner among fishing smacks. Heads turned to watch her, fingers pointed behind her but she ignored the stares and whispers. Led on by the music she found the boxing booth in the middle of a large cleared area, surrounded by gypsy caravans and a canvas-walled square in which an immensely fat man in a bowler hat was roaring out his claims to know the winner of the big race.
Bill the busker was rolling up some ropes on top of the platform when Kitty paused at his feet to stare up at him with a smile on her face. He looked down in surprise. Such elegantly dressed women were not normally seen around boxing shows, so he raised his eyebrows and asked, ‘Anything I can do for you, mum?’
‘Don’t you know me?’ she asked, holding out a gloved hand.
‘Bless me, it’s Carroty Kate! Blow me, Kate, who’s paid for all this?’ he cried, leaping down from his platform and hugging her in delight.
She held onto her hat and laughed. ‘Freddy Farrell actually.’
Bill threw back his head and guffawed. ‘Trust you. I knew you’d do well. Freddy Farrell, the best jockey in the world. Nothing but the best for you, Kate, eh? Come on up and we’ll surprise Grandma.’
He hauled her up and they hugged each other again, laughing and not caring that Kitty’s grand hat was pushed to the back of her head.
Grandma was in the tent at the back, as wrinkled and intimidating as ever. She too glared at the fashionable apparition that came sailing through the tent door but then took a second glance and shouted out, ‘Well bless my buttons, it’s Kitty. Hey, Sophy, Kitty’s here dressed like a duchess.’
Sophia appeared from the gloom at the back of the tent and stood with her hands on her hips and a grin on her face. Kitty ran towards them and hugged them both, while words poured out.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I couldn’t sit over there in the stand and not come to see you… How’s business?’
‘How’s your business? You’ve done well by the look of you.’
When all the excitement died down, Kitty reached into her bag and said, ‘I’ve brought you back the money you gave me when I ran away from Newcastle. How’s Poole, by the way?’
Grandma grimaced. ‘Bolted. It doesn’t matter because we’ve got a new young punk who can punch his way through a brick wall. We’ve no girl though. Your place is still here if you want to come back… Not that it looks as if you’ll need to.’ And she laughed as she fingered Kitty’s gown.
‘I miss it sometimes. I miss the travelling,’ Kitty told her, but Sophia piped up, ‘You stay in one place, lass. That’s the only way to gather moss.’
‘Talking about moss, here’s your money. I want you to take it because I’ve plenty now,’ Kitty said, delving into the cream silk purse that she carried on one wrist.
As she snapped its tortoiseshell clasp she paused in astonishment because as well as the small roll of money that she had put there in the hope of seeing Grandma, a fat wad of notes lay at the bottom of the purse. It looked like hundreds of pounds because she could see at a glance that the bundle was made up of five-pound notes. Freddy must have slipped it into her purse before they left home.
She felt as if she had been carrying a primed gun through the crowd of hucksters and pickpockets of the Downs crowd. No wonder he hadn’t wanted her to leave the safety of the stand. What if she’d lost it!
She hid her consternation and passed a ten-pound note to Grandma, who raised her eyebrows but accepted the money. ‘Can’t say I expected to get that back,’ she said with a crooked grin.
The presence of the money in her bag worried Kitty and she knew she had to find Freddy.
‘I can’t stay. I’ve got something to do. Have a bet with my money on the Derby. Freddy’s going to win. He’s on Five Per Cent,’ she told them and with more embraces all round, she left.
Back at the stand, the seats were almost all occupied and smartly dressed men and women strolled to and fro, showing themselves ofFand chatting with acquaintances. The Royal Enclosure had filled up.
She opened her parasol and held it over her head because the sun was out but she did not have long to enjoy the shade because Freddy, dressed in the Prince of Wales’s racing colours of red and purple silk with gold epaulettes and hogging over his chest, came rushing up and hissed, ‘Put down your parasol. It hides your hat. Put it down.’
Slightly bewildered, she did as she was told and put a hand on his arm while she whispered, ‘Why did you put all that money in my bag? How much is there?’
He grinned. ‘Five hundred, but it’s for later. I’ll tell you about it soon. Let’s go for a walk now.’
There were thirty thousand people on the course, said Freddy, and all of them, it seemed, knew him, for he was continually accosted by fans asking, ‘Will you win, Freddy?’ or ‘Are you trying?’
This question amused her and she looked at him with her eyebrows raised and repeated, ‘Are you trying, Freddy?’
‘Of course I’m trying,’ he said defensively. His well-wishers kept offering him champagne, brandy, any drink he cared to take but he always refused. ‘I’ll make up for it later,’ he promised them.
He introduced Kitty to dozens of people, saying, ‘This is my lady friend. Meet Miss Kitty Scott,’ and her hand was shaken so many times that the palm of her pale glove was soon black and stained.
The Derby Stakes was the third race.
Freddy won the first for the Prince of Wales and the second for another owner. Kitty beamed with pride when she saw him streaking past the winning post and heard how the crowd yelled his name.
He’s mine. That wonderful man is mine, she thought.
Each time he won he raised one arm above his head in a victory punch and Kitty ran down to be by the winner’s enclosure when he rode in. After he’d been weighed, he came out to embrace her in full view of the people who were crowding around him. He even introduced her to the Prince of Wales, who, her keen nose noted, used the same pomade as Freddy.
It was when they were making a victory stroll after his second success that a voice rang out at Kitty’s elbow and she saw blowsy Peg from Camden Town, with red-faced husband and assorted children in tow, pushing her way through to hug Freddy and exclaim, ‘Isn’t he a lovely man! Isn’t he a hero!’
Kitty received them coldly, but to her wrath Freddy seemed genuinely pleased t;o see this motley crew, hugged Peg and then said to Kitty, ‘Peg’ll tell you what I want you to do for me before the big race starts.’
Kitty glared at him. ‘Peg’ll tell me what to do, will she?’
‘Yes, I haven’t time now. I’ve got to go. Listen to Peg and do what she says,’ he said as he kissed her cheek and strode off towards the weighing room, leaving her with Peg, who was smelling strongly of gin.
‘Come on, dearie, listen to me. You’ve got a wad in your bag, haven’t you? What you’ve got to do for Freddy is go round the bookmakers and lay twenty pounds on him with as many as you can. He’s not meant to bet you see… it’s against the rules.’
Kitty frowned. ‘Why can’t I put the whole roll on with one bookmaker?’
Peg shook her head. ‘Freddy don’t want it done that way. You’ve to walk along the line and lay your money like I said. It’s easy. Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No,’ said Kitty, ‘I don’t.’
And she strode off, seething with anger against Freddy who’d landed her with this commission and with Peg.
The bookmakers were all gesticulating arms as they yelled out the odds. They were dressed up to catch the eye in colourful suits, white bowler hats, and with huge flowers in their buttonholes.
‘I’ll give you three to one on Five Per Cent; I’ll give you seven to one on Agra; I’ll give you ten to one on Patrimony,’ was the cry.
When Kitty started laying her money, Freddy’s Five Per Cent stood at three to one. By the time she’d got to the third bookmaker, it was down to even money. Her mathematical mind told her that Freddy wasn’t going to make a fortun
e laying five hundred pounds at evens but she went on doing what she was told. It was his money.
In her progress along the bookmakers she was followed by a crowd of people who recognised her as Freddy Farrell’s woman and bet on him too in the belief that, if she was backing him, he was certainly out to win.
The odds fell to six to four on and then three to one on but by that time all Freddy’s money was gone.
What’s he up to? she asked herself as she went back to her seat to watch the runners for the big race parading on the emerald-green sward before the stand.
Brilliant silken colours, gleaming-skinned horses, bright sunshine and viridian grass made a magnificent spectacle as thirty hopeful entrants cantered past the cheering crowd. The favourites received the greatest ovation and hats were thrown in the air when Freddy Farell appeared on Five Per Cent, because by this time it was the runaway favourite.
Five Per Cent was a tall chestnut colt and Freddy set him off well in the owner’s colours of green and gold.
The horse which received the worst reception, catcalls and yowls, was a leggy grey called Cockney Boy, ridden by a young apprentice in pale blue colours. Cockney Boy had no fanciers because he was famous for being what racing people called ‘not genuine’, always there at the finish, always looking as if he were going to win but if challenged, he always gave up.
The start was delayed because of the difficulty of getting thirty horses to stand in a line and jump off at once. At last they were off and the crowd fell silent, all eyes straining to catch the first glimpse of the runners coming round the far bend.
When they appeared, sitting tall in their saddles, whips in hand, the yelling started again. They charged round Tattenham Corner with the speed of a runaway train. Then one horse slipped and fell among the feet of the front runners. The crowd yelled, standing up in their seats and Kitty put her hands to her throat, worrying about Freddy. But her panic subsided when she saw his gold-and-green silks in the first group of galloping horses.
‘Freddy, Freddy, come on, Freddy,’ she called. Three horses were out in front now: Freddy on Five Per Cent; a jockey in red on Agra and the slim young lad in blue on Cockney Boy.
People in the stands were screaming, thumping their fists into the palms of their hands, throwing their arms in the air as the three challengers raced neck and neck in a line towards the winning post.
Agra was the first to weaken. With his nostrils distended and scarlet, he dropped his head and fell back half a length. Five Per Cent and Cockney Boy stayed on, straining to the finish. Kitty could see Freddy standing up in his saddle, but — was it her imagination? — he did not seem to be urging his mount on in the same way as he had done when he won the previous races.
His arm with the whip was flailing the air and his features were distorted into the image of a man under pressure but he lost the race by a head. Cockney Boy, a rank outsider which had started at a price of two hundred to one, was the winner.
It had only taken three minutes to run the greatest race of the year. After the horses flashed past the stand, there was a moment of silent and stunned disbelief as the crowd took in what had happened. Then a chorus of booing broke out.
Kitty shrank as she realised that they were booing Freddy. He was being booed because he had carried the money of most of the people at the races on his back and they thought he’d thrown it away. Some people were turning and staring at her as if she were responsible too.
People were flocking to the winner’s enclosure, but she sat still, wondering how she could comfort Freddy in this terrible defeat. She was alone when he came walking towards her. He had changed back into his ordinary clothes and though people were shouting at him, he did not seem to hear. His eyes were on her face.
‘I’m very sorry. It was such a close thing,’ she said.
He took her arm and squeezed it tight. ‘Thanks,’ he said, but she saw to her surprise that his eyes were sparkling, not with tears but with triumph.
A gasp escaped her and he squeezed her arm again. ‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘I’ve no other rides today. Let’s go back to London as soon as possible. I want to get out of here.’
Without a word she allowed herself to be led away. When they reached the place behind Stamford’s stables where their dogcart was parked, she saw Peg waiting beside it.
‘Aren’t you the hero then?’ she said, patting Freddy’s back.
‘Did you get it all?’ he asked her.
‘I did indeed,’ she said, and indicated a battered leather satchel that lay on the dogcart floor.
‘You took yours?’ asked Freddy.
‘I did and God bless you. My children pray to God for you every night, Freddy lad,’ she said.
Bewildered, Kitty allowed herself to be helped into the dogcart and Freddy jumped up beside her as Peg’s husband expertly backed the Hackney between the shafts and buckled up the harness. He was grinning and adding his praise to Peg’s, which seemed very excessive for a man who’d lost the big race by a short head.
Kitty sat grim-faced and silent while Freddy negotiated the dogcart out of the field where carriages were standing. More insults, more shouts followed him but he did not turn a hair. When they were on the open road and bowling smartly along, she turned to him and said, ‘You are a bastard, Freddy.’
He looked at her and now he was openly laughing. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘You made use of me. You drew people’s attention to me and gave me money to bet on you so people would think you were sure of winning and then you pulled the horse.’
‘I didn’t pull it. I just didn’t help it,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know why you’re angry. We’ve made a clear profit of twenty thousand pounds today.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing? Why did Peg know and not me?’ she asked.
‘Peg’s bet for me in the past. She’s great at it. And it was better that you didn’t know. You’d be more natural then.’
‘Did you fix it up with that jockey on Cockney Boy?’
Freddy nodded. ‘Yes, I got a whisper that it was running well in gallops and they thought it would win if it wasn’t challenged so I contacted the lad who rode it. I gave him a thousand and he’s well content. He’s won the Derby after all, so he’ll keep his trap shut.’
She shook her head under the heavy hat. It was beginning to irk her, especially now that she knew it had been bought for the purpose of making her conspicuous. ‘But doesn’t it matter that people have lost their money on you?’ she asked.
He raised his shoulders in a shrug. ‘That’s gambling. I won for them last year. I could win next year. This was a chance to make some real money and I didn’t want to turn it down. I won’t be able to go on race-riding for the rest of my life you know. I don’t want to be a stable strapper when I’m old like other ex-jockeys. I’m going to be rich, Kitty, see if I’m not,’ he told her fiercely.
‘Doesn’t it matter to you that what you did was crooked?’ she asked.
Freddy looked at her. ‘I don’t know the meaning of that word but I know what having twenty thousand pounds feels like,’ he said. ‘Come on, Kitty, cheer up. Who’ve I cheated? Just a fat gent who owns a horse and thought he’d win the Derby with it. Why are you so mad?’ He was genuinely surprised at her reaction.
‘I’ll tell you why I’m mad. I’m mad at you for not trusting me,’ she said angrily. ‘That’s what makes me angry. You used me as if I was a silly child. You set me up. I went and told Grandma and Sophia to bet on you and all the time you had no intention of winning. You’ve made me into a fool. You dressed me up in this fancy gear to catch the eye when I went around putting money on you, that’s all.’
Her temper was up and her face flaming. At that moment they were crossing the Thames and Kitty ripped the big hat from her head and skimmed it out over the bridge parapet. It soared into the air and then floated gently down onto the water where it bobbed along like an offering to a Hindu god.
Freddy looked aska
nce at the flower-bedecked hat in the water and then he laughed. He laughed and laughed till the tears ran down his face. It was impossible for Kitty to sustain her rage against his merriment and though she did not laugh as well, she thawed a little.
That night they stayed at home and people came to them carrying parcels of money. They were the others whom Freddy had sent out over the course to lay bets on Cockney Boy for him. Kitty watched amazed as he sat at the table in the window counting the takings. Money lay in piles in front of him.
Each of his runners was paid off with a hundred pounds and when the last of them left around midnight, Kitty said, ‘What I can’t understand is why they bring you the money. Why don’t they just keep it?’
Freddy laughed. ‘They’re afraid of me. If they didn’t bring me the money, I’d send somebody round to break their legs. It’s as simple as that.’
* * *
The owner of Five Per Cent was Mr Stanley Melford, a rich Yorkshire mill owner with a short temper and a long memory. He was furious at Freddy and although he could not prove his horse had been cheated out of the Derby, he had a shrewd suspicion that was the case.
The next time Freddy went to Newmarket to ride out he was met by Melford’s trainer who shook his head and said, ‘I’ve been told to keep you out of the yard. Mr Melford says you’ll never ride for him or any of his friends again.’
Freddy affected outraged innocence but, in fact, he was not surprised. He still had his circle of aristocratic owners, however, including the Prince of Wales, who treated him with friendly condescension and for the next month he made superhuman efforts, pushing home horses that had never won for any other jockey.
He notched up seven winners at Ascot which almost re-established his reputation but he felt it was best to give the scandal time to die down.
‘I think we should go away for a bit,’ he said to Kitty when he arrived home after achieving his seventh winner. ‘I’ve made enough money this year to take a break. Let’s travel, Kitty.’
‘Where will we go?’ she asked, for the idea of going away always appealed to her.
Wild Heritage Page 42
