Blind Beauty (11 page)

“I've a good mind to move my horses from Raleigh's,” Maurice said. “I don't think he'd like that.”

Tessa thought he'd be mightily relieved. She heard a lot about good and bad owners at Sparrows Wyck. Trainers liked owners who shut up and let them get on with the job, who were supportive when things went wrong and grateful when they went right. And kept out of the way. Maurice was none of those things. Most of the Sparrows Wyck owners were friendly people who wanted a bit of good sport, win or lose, a jolly day out. They didn't bet much, which took the pressure off. Maurice betted heavily on his horses, one of the reasons Tom didn't like riding for him.

“Too much at stake. Very often the horse gets too hard a race. No thought for the future.”

Greevy looked concerned at his father's remark and said, “I shouldn't do that, Dad.”

“Frightened you'll lose your job, eh?”

Greevy said, “Who says I would? It's going all right.”

Even Tom had said Greevy wasn't bad, Tessa remembered.

Myra said nothing as usual, frightened of putting her foot in it. Her eyes went from one speaker to the other. Yet she knew twice as much as either of them. Being brought up with the game right from the beginning made an instinct for it. Tessa suspected she had it too, why it had gone well for her at Sparrows Wyck.

She went to bed in a disturbed state, anxious for the stable's big day tomorrow, and unable to get out of her mind Tom's remark about Buffoon's sight. Nobody knew about Shiner except her. She would not mention a word to Peter. But the idea that Tom had dropped into her head was nightmarish, and she knew it would not go away.

G
od Almighty marched into the paddock at Wisbey's shoulder and looked all round at the crowd with his long ears pricked and his eyes alight. He looked magnificent and Tessa could see the pride on Wisbey's face as he overheard the spectators' appreciative comments. It was a cold clear day, a good day for racing, and Tessa could feel herself responding to the friendly atmosphere of the crowd, all out to enjoy seeing great horses run. God Almighty was favourite, but it was a good field. He had talented horses to beat.

Tessa could sense Peter's enjoyment at being in the big league for once, with the top jockey riding his horse. He had had years building up his string, working in the wilderness, but now his luck had changed. One good horse could make a stable. Today was Peter's day. He stood in the middle of the paddock with the horse's owners, trying to stop his excitement showing. Tessa leaned over the rail, knowing that Buffoon was going to be this good in the next year or so, savouring the pleasures ahead.

The jockeys came into the paddock, a bunch of bright colours like a flock of tropical birds against the winter hues surrounding them. Tessa had eyes only for Tom, resplendent in orange and turquoise, politely shaking hands with the two nice farmer owners whose horse was their pride and joy. Peter gave him a leg-up, Wisbey stripped off his rugs, and led the horse on his circuit of the paddock. Tessa ran to meet them as they came out.

“Good luck, Tom!”

Tom grinned down at her.

“Wait till it's that orange elephant of yours.”

But Tessa only laughed.

“Just get the practice in!”

She had never seen Tom laughing when he rode out on her stepfather's horses. Maurice gave his jockeys instructions, although Tom had told Tessa they took no notice of them but said, “Yes, sir”, politely, to earn their bread. They did what the trainer said, or what seemed best by their own judgement. Raleigh trusted Tom, as did Peter.

Wisbey let his horse go on the course and Tom stood up in his stirrups as God Almighty took hold and bucketed away down the turf. Wisbey watched him go, then turned with Tessa to take his place with the rest of the lads. Having the favourite,Wisbey seemed to have grown in stature, almost swaggering. His red hair stood as ferociously on end as ever, clashing horribly with the jacket that matched the owners' colours. (They had given it him as a Christmas present, much to the amusement of the yard, but he wore it proudly.)

“He's never looked better, eh?” he said as the horses came back, cantering to the start. The big bay moved beautifully, tucking in his nose to Tom's light hands on his mouth. He was real class; Tessa knew that Buffoon would never be admired in the same way, but held no animosity. God Almighty was to Wisbey what Buffoon was to her. She understood the feeling. It wasn't about looks, but about character and courage. Both horses had it, far more than most.

The race was three miles and on the first circuit they came by in a bunch, twelve of them, travelling quite fast. Tom was well up, galloping on the inside, enjoying himself. Tessa knew how it was – close to – quite different from seeing it on television. The picture never got over the sense of reckless power that emanated from the field approaching a big fence; it didn't give you the smell of fear, the look in the horses' eyes, the vibration of the pounding turf, the crack of flying brushwood and snorting breath… all the things that made Tessa's heart pound with the joy of it, and wanting to be a part of it, in spite of what they said about
girls.
To be there, close to, was the next best thing. But then they had passed by and were going out into the country, and the noise and the tension faded. Out in the country, Tom said the jockeys chatted and swore and even agreed to split the prize money if it was going to be a close-run thing between two or three. Tom said there was nothing in life to compare with riding a great horse in a good race to win.

“He loves it!” Wisbey rejoiced. “Did you see how he looked, cocking his ears at the fence? And going for a big one – flying –”

Wisbey jumped from foot to foot, his cheeks red with excitement.

Tessa never knew what caused the frisson of fear that went through her then. It was what Myra used to say – “a goose walking on her grave”. She looked at Wisbey, sick, but he was laughing.

“Come on, my son! You're going to do it!”

On the far side God Almighty lay up in front with a horse on either side of him. But whereas the other two jockeys were scrubbing along, working hard, Tom was sitting quite still, cruising.

God Almighty's stride was perfect for the jump. He lengthened a fraction, pricked his ears and took off. The horse on the outside of him, slightly ahead, for some unknown reason jumped right across God Almighty's landing place, pecked and fell. God Almighty tried to avoid him in mid-air, twisted and fell heavily, turning a complete somersault. Another horse behind failed to avoid the tangle and fell too. The other horses streamed past on either side, dodging or jumping over the strewn bodies, crashing into each other, but surviving, while the three fallen horses struggled to their feet. Two of them immediately galloped on after their fellows, but the third, attempting to follow, only made a few strides and pulled up. He tried again, two strides, and then stood still.

Wisbey let out a strangled cry. He ran down the slope, shoving through the crowd and fled like a hunted rabbit along the fence, looking for a way through. Tessa stood frozen, watching. None of them had binoculars in their bunch, and she couldn't see.

“It's God Almighty, isn't it?” she asked the nearest lad.

“Aye. Not too good by the look of it.”

None of them cared about the jockeys. Jockeys survived. Jockeys didn't get put down. But the horses…

And Tessa ran too, crying now.

The crowd roared, the horses came past the winning post, but Tessa saw nothing, tumbling out on to the scored turf and across it, running fast. Perhaps only a tendon… not a fracture. Dear God, not a fracture! It was miles across the centre of the course. Two or three cars were converging, an ambulance, and the white, low-slung body of the horse ambulance. But Tessa could run as fast, spurred by fear.

The horse was standing, trying to jig about, but only on three legs. The off fore hung, misshapen in a horrible way below the knee. A small group of spectators had converged and Tom was holding God Almighty. Steam rose in a cloud from the horse, who gleamed in the winter sunlight as if he were posing for his portrait, ears pricked, eyes shining. Tom was distraught, wanting to be out of it. When he saw Wisbey he flung him the reins and started to ungirth his saddle. Tears gleamed in his eyes, he didn't say anything. When Peter came up he just shook his head, put his saddle over his arm and turned away.

“Oh Christ,” said Peter.

It was all finished. The horse was shot and the great light faded from his eyes and his bright, steaming body kicked and quivered on the turf. The little group of fencemen and hangers-on stood silent. Wisbey knelt down beside the horse's head and cradled it in his arms, sobbing, until Peter came and touched his shoulder and said, “Leave it, lad. It's over for him now.”

Tessa stood and stared, shaking. She was numb, seeing it, never having known death before. Not like that, in the middle of brilliance, the light going out like the sun falling from the sky without warning. So fast the passage from life to death, she could not cope with it. Like Wisbey.

Peter stood hunched, looking suddenly like an old man, all his hopes and future blown away. The vet chatted to him, knowing there was nothing to comfort, but words blurred the scene – condolences, head-shaking, sympathy. Everyone was moved. Peter went off to seek his owners.

A car had whisked Tom off for the next race. The show went on. Another car took Peter and Wisbey and Tessa back, Wisbey having to be escorted bodily away from his horse. There was nothing to take home save buckets and rugs, bridle and headcollar… an empty, echoing horsebox. All the other lads were quiet and embarrassed, guessing how it felt, but unable to put sympathy into words, just showing it in their manner. The crowd, too, was quieter than at the usual finish, many of them sad for the way the best horse had been beaten. Tessa overheard their comments, but kindness made no difference. She knew it could just as well have been Buffoon, or could be in the future. She knew just how Wisbey felt. For all that he was a man, and gone twenty, he cried on the way home, and Tessa put her arms round him in the front seat, while Peter drove stonily, silently, the short journey home.

“Well, it happens, we all know that,” Sarah said miserably. “It's not them that suffer though – it's us that can't bear it.”

“Our best horse…” Gilly said. “If only –”

“But even the duds… It's the same, even if it's a duffer,” Sarah said shortly. “I've never got used to it, and I don't think I ever will. I only know that it's a great game, they're doing what they're bred for and what they love doing. When they go like that, it's fast, no suffering.”

No suffering? Tessa thought. She watched Wisbey get his bike out to cycle home, a wan, puff-faced boy. There was nothing to be said, but everyone knew how he felt – how they felt themselves, but worse, because God Almighty was his horse. The owners didn't really come into it, although Peter said they were “sick”, and the old man cried.

Tessa walked home over the dark down, along her usual well-worn path. She was used to the darkness and the glitter of the winter stars over the black hummock of the horizon, the smell of the river below her and the crunching of the cold grass underfoot, but she wasn't used to feeling beaten, as she did tonight. The crass security lights of precious Goldlands stunned the night ahead of her; she never felt less like facing Maurice and po-faced Greevy. Just when their luck was turning… now Maurice could gloat: she guessed exactly how he would look, sitting himself down at the dinner table with a smirky look of pity on his face… “Bad luck on your stable today” – and knowing that he was
pleased
. The love of a good horse didn't come into it with Maurice.

What he actually said was, “I bet your owners were sick. They must have had a good bet – he was a cert, after all, with Bryant up – and then to lose it all like that.”

Tessa said, “They don't bet. They didn't have any money on. The old man cried.”

She kept her eyes on her dinner, feeling herself tremble. Something was happening to her, which she couldn't control. She was aware of the whole room, as if it were waiting, all soft lamps and deep carpets, the click of Myra's knife and fork, Greevy's tactful silence… give him that, he didn't gloat. The thick, rich dinner of stewed steak and dumplings on her plate made her gorge rise.

Maurice laughed and said, “I don't know why some people go in for racing. What is it for, if you have a horse like that, and don't bet?”

Tessa thought she was going to be sick. But, instead of being sick, she voided her wild feelings by snatching up the table cloth, lifting it and shooting everything on the table into Maurice's lap – including her dinner, not to mention Myra's and Greevy's. It was like the custard tart in Jackie's face – brilliant, a release of pressure that made her sane again. Seeing Maurice covered in thick gravy, hot steak and pureed potatoes, screaming as his lower body got burnt by the contents of the gravy-dish, was marvellous.

She got up from her chair and ran out of the room before he should kill her.