Blind Beauty (14 page)

“He wouldn't! Not a bribe! Not Tom!”

“Oh, come on, Tessa, he's a young man with a girlfriend, a house to buy, a dangerous job… You might think money doesn't matter but most people set a lot of store by it, believe me.”

“I'll ride Buffoon then!”

Peter laughed. “If only you could! He's easy enough. San Lucar is a very difficult ride, and Tom knows him so well, that's why they're so keen to have him. If we don't get Tom, it doesn't really matter, because Andy will step in, and Buffy will go the same for anyone.”

“We must have Tom!”

“Well, he's the best, yes. I want him, sure.”

Everyone knew that whichever horse Tom decided to ride would be the favourite. He was riding at the top of his form. Journalists and photographers came to Sparrows Wyck to take notes about Buffoon, and Tessa was photographed cantering up the gallops, looking like a flea on the great horse's back. Now in his prime, he was seventeen hands high, all legs. The pundits shook their heads.

“Don't know how he does it, made like that.”

“He'll walk over those jumps, all the same.”

“Got to wrap his legs up first!”

“What a freak!”

They daren't criticize him to Tessa. They took note of his spitfire lad, and released the story that she was the stepdaughter of Maurice Morrison-Pleydell, owner of San Lucar. Then the gossip writers wanted her story, but she locked herself in her caravan and refused to speak to them. At Goldlands they were turned away by George before they could get to the front door, on Maurice's orders. Some of them camped out on the front lawn and Maurice got security men with Dobermans to deter them – successfully.

“Sooner it's over the better, all this fuss,” Peter said. They all agreed, the extra work of making the place look respectable for the publicity beginning to pall. Tessa took to sleeping in Buffoon's box. She did not trust Maurice one inch to play fair when so much was at stake. Walter the lurcher's kennel was parked outside the door and Walter reluctantly kept guard, a shaggy ear cocked to the nonsense Tessa talked to Buffoon as she lay curled up in her sleeping bag. Tessa kept her bread-knife hidden under the straw in the corner by her head, but nobody knew this.

Buffoon was at the peak of his form. When she rode him out every morning Tessa could feel the power of him, even at the walk. Peter secretly worried that Tessa was not man enough now to ride the valuable and highly-tuned horse, but Jimmy resisted his doubts.

“There's a link there that's worth far more than ordinary horsemanship. He trusts Tessa. He would never go against her.”

“She looks so fragile up there!”

Jimmy laughed. “Tessa – fragile? You're losing your mind!”

Tessa showed no signs of blooming into curvaceous femininity. She was honed and angular, all steel. Peter thought she was too small to impress owners as a rider, in spite of her undoubted talent, but he had managed to get her a few rides with kindly and unambitious owners, and she had clocked up three winners. Although she loudly despaired, they all told her three winners was a good haul for a teenaged shrimp like herself. With that she had to be content. She might get a few rides at the fag-end of the season, after Aintree, if she was lucky. But she couldn't think beyond Aintree and the Grand National. None of them could.

Five days before the race Tom Bryant rang Peter to ask if he could have the ride. He had refused all blandishments from Maurice, and Raleigh had given him the sack. The stable was jubilant. Tessa wept with joy. Now she was so excited she could scarcely sleep. The papers were full of Bryant's “disobedience” and Buffoon became the clear favourite.

Buffoon was to be driven to Aintree early on the Friday before the big race. On Thursday Tom said he would come over and ride him out at exercise and talk tactics; so on Wednesday Tessa had her last ride on him before the big day.

The weather was damp and warm, the going perfect, the sun shining. Tessa rode with the others, Peter included – a long, quiet ride, with just trotting up the long hillside, a short pipe opener over the rise, and a leisurely walk home. Tessa tried to relax, but she was so happy and excited that she felt she might explode. Buffoon, she could tell, was puzzled by the tension, but it did not get to him, lazy beast that he was. As they came down the last muddy track into the yard she was thinking: the next time I do this he will have won – or not won – the Grand National. It was almost too much to take in.

Nothing was any different as they slipped out of their saddles and ran up the stirrups. Tessa led Buffoon into his box, shut the door behind him and went across to the gate to fetch Lucky. Lucky was nearly always waiting to come back in, but today he was not standing in his usual place. The spring grass was coming through and Tessa knew how greedy Lucky was; she thought he had gone away down the field to find the best grazing.

But when she looked for him, there was no sign of the little pony.

She went back to the yard and shouted to Jimmy, “What have you done with Lucky?”

Sometimes Jimmy used him for his own purposes, to calm a youngster. But Jimmy said, “I haven't had him. What's wrong?”

“He's not in his field.”

“Who put him out there?”

“I did, like I usually do, before we went out.”

Tessa's heart was now beginning to agitate with fear. “Where is he?”

“Steady on. He can't be far away. Don't be daft.”

Jimmy came back with her to the gate and they looked across the large field. It was undoubtedly empty. But at the far side a gate that gave out on to the lane swung open.

“Blast! He must have got out,” Jimmy said.

“Someone's let him out!”

“Someone's taken him. Even if it was open, he wouldn't go, not of his own accord. Not away from the others.”

Now even Jimmy looked worried. Behind them in the stable yard they could hear Buffoon kicking on his door and whinnying for his friend. This was always the way if Lucky was slow coming back in.

“You go back to him and keep him calm, and I'll get the car out. Tell the others.” Jimmy moved sharply.

Tessa ran.

Seeing her, Buffoon let out a shrill whinny. Already there was alarm in his voice, and he stood weaving his head backwards and forwards over the door. Then he struck out with a foreleg, crashing into the woodwork.

“Stop that!” Peter bawled. “Tessa, go to him!”

But Tessa was there already, at his head, talking to him. Everyone saw what had happened and the alarm spread. The other horses were hastily rugged up and left, and everyone scattered to find Lucky. Wisbey fetched straw bales to line the front of Buffoon's box with, and then brought a small feed in a bucket. But Buffoon would have nothing to do with it, pushing the bucket over, sending the contents flying. Left to himself, he walked round and round the box, whinnying.

“Oh my God!” Peter moaned. “Just what we don't want!”

Tessa stayed with Buffoon but was nearly trampled to death. She could do nothing to calm him. Already a dark sweat was breaking out on his flanks.

Gilly came back and said the others were still looking.

“But there are tyre marks by the gate. Looks like a trailer or horsebox has been parked there just recently. Peter thinks he's been pinched. He thinks it's inside knowledge – you know, to upset him so he won't be able to run –”

“It's Maurice!”

Tessa leapt to the corner of the loosebox and snatched her bread-knife out of its hiding-place.

“I'll kill him!” she shouted. “I'll kill him!”

Gilly screamed, “Don't be so crazy!”

She held on to Tessa as best she could but Tessa wriggled free, shot out of the box and went tearing away out of the yard towards Goldlands.

Gilly chased her, but it was no good. Tessa was fast, and her anger gave wings to her heels.

“
T
essa, for heaven's sake! Have you gone mad? Maurice is at Aintree, he went up last night. He's not here.”

Myra was shocked by the distraught appearance of Tessa wielding her bread-knife, shouting for Maurice.

Tessa sobbed, “He did it! He arranged it, I know he did! It's just the trick he would pull – he is so vile! He arranged to get Lucky taken away–”

Tessa was breathless and hysterical, and Myra calmed her down as best she could, removing the bread-knife at the first opportunity. She gathered what had happened from Tessa's wild raving, and understood the seriousness of it.

“It must be someone who knows Buffoon's dependence on Lucky. But most people in racing know it, Tessa, it's not a secret. The papers have reported it – they like those sort of sentimental stories – and all the lads in the the racecourse stables have seen Lucky, haven't they? It's not Maurice – how could he do such a thing when he's already at Aintree?”

“No, not himself. But he's paid someone to do it. Or did Greevy do it? Did Maurice make Greevy do it?”

“Greevy went to work as usual. How could he have done it?”

“He could have! He could have sneaked away!”

“You said the pony was taken in a horsebox. How could Greevy possibly have driven away from work in a horsebox? He's on the gallops every morning at that time. Calm down, Tessa! You're talking rubbish!”

“I bet it's Maurice. Somehow it's Maurice. Because San Lucar's got to win for him – you said so yourself. All that money!”

“Well, I can't say he wouldn't do such a thing, I'm afraid.” Myra shook her head. “It's a clever trick.”

“Yes, it is. It's diabolical. Buffoon won't eat without Lucky. He'll fret himself stupid and be useless by Saturday.”

“Perhaps you can get him another companion –”

“It won't work! You know it won't.”

Tessa didn't intend to stay. Now her visit was in vain, she wanted to be back with Buffoon. He needed her.

“It might be OK when you get back. They might have the pony,” Myra said soothingly. This wild Tessa terrified her. “Do be sensible, Tessa. You can't go round flourishing a knife like that. You'll end up in prison.”

“If it
is
him – I'll kill him. You'll see!”

“Tessa, stop it! You're being really stupid.”

But Myra's words fell into thin air – Tessa was already away, scampering across the garden, leaping across the ha-ha and away down the green valley. Greevy might have done it, she thought, at Maurice's instigation, but it wouldn't help to go crashing into Raleigh's yard. Her hysteria was wearing off and she was trying to think more rationally. And yet, the last time she had seen Greevy… she did not think now that he would stoop so low. Not even for his father. Unless Maurice had bribed him? Like he had tried to bribe Tom. Maurice thought money could buy him everything.

Back at the yard, having found no trace of Lucky, they all agreed with Tessa that Maurice could well have had a hand in it.

“He's definitely been taken, and the reason is obvious,” Peter said. “It's a devilishly clever way of getting at Buffoon without doping him or drugging him. But the effect by Saturday will be the same. He'll be drained of all his enthusiasm if he carries on like this for two days.”

Peter was white with misery. All his worst fears had come true. Buffoon was kicking the walls of his box (now padded all round with straw bales) and whinnying at intervals with a high-pitched, distressed call. Midday feed and haynet were untouched.

“He can't go on like this for two days,” Jimmy said, for encouragement, but they all knew he could.

“Let's try him with something else.”

They borrowed a small pony from a friend of Gilly's but had to rescue it from getting kicked after a few minutes, also a calf and the lurcher Walter. Buffoon would have none of them. Peter sent a message to the police, offering a large reward for the immediate return of Lucky. He had it put out on the local radio, but nobody replied, except all the national press wanting the story. San Lucar was back to being the favourite the next day. Tessa stayed with Buffoon all night but he never lay down. He stopped screaming and kicking, but restlessly walked round his box, and dozed only for a few minutes at a time. He did not touch his evening feed, nor eat up at breakfast. Stripped of his rugs, his huge frame was already looking gaunt and tucked up. When Tom Bryant came down in the morning his face fell when he saw him.

“I won't hold you to the ride, lad, if you want to be out of it. You could still get back on San Lucar, I dare say,” Peter said. Peter looked worse than the horse.

“No way, not for that swine,” Tom replied. “I'll ride your fellow.”

“I've a mind to pull him out. He won't do himself justice.”

“You can't! It's not a good enough reason – not for the general public. They won't understand. They'll think you're mad.”

Mr Cressington was adamant his horse would run. He didn't understand either. Peter was locked in an impossible situation and they all knew it.

Tom rode out on Buffoon, and he went well enough, but still did not eat up at midday. They all knew that his chances of winning the big race were draining away by the hour.

“He's as fit as he can get – this apart – and he's got a great heart. Let's not be too pessimistic,” Tom said bravely. “Take him up to Aintree and distract him. There's nothing else to be done.”

So Tessa loaded up all Buffoon's gear and her own gear (minimal) and packed it into the horsebox, and they got ready to go. Peter was driving and Jimmy was coming as well as Tessa. The others had to stay behind and watch the television. The fraught little group saw them off, not the cheerful waving bunch that they should have been, but sad and anxious-eyed.

“At least it's better to get moving,” Peter said, as they ground out down the lane.

But Buffoon was an uneasy passenger, not his usual dozy self. Tessa kept going in to talk to him, scrambling over the back seat but, although he had stopped whinnying and kicking, he was a troubled horse. The two brothers spoke little and the atmosphere in the cab was grim. Tessa tried to keep herself quiet and dignified because she knew they hated her histrionics, but it was an effort.

The weather was grey and dirty, but good for racing. Not heart-lifting. The motorway threw up a filthy spray and the approach to the famous racecourse was uninspiring, through a busy, built-up area.

“It was in the country when they built it,” Jimmy remarked. “In eighteen thirty something. Times change.”

They drove into the horsebox car park and Peter turned off the engine. The race meeting was in progress, for racing took place for two days before the Grand National Saturday, and the atmosphere was familiar. Horses were coming and going and being washed down, walked out to cool off. Lads and girls, hurried and overworked, were leading out immaculate beasts, carting basketfuls of gear and buckets of water and getting shouted at by little bandy men in flat caps. The remembered atmosphere was comforting. They went to look for Buffoon's allocated box, and checked in. The stables were built of old red brick, rows and rows of them built round adjoining yards. Some of the boxes had the names of past winners and the date painted on the door, but Buffoon's had no such distinction. They unboxed him and Tessa led him in and he started walking round immediately, tossing his head and pawing at the bedding. Usually he went straight to the manger, or fell asleep. Under his rugs the sweat was darkening his spring coat, a bad sign. After he had had time to settle Tessa put his feed in the manger, but he would not touch it. He now had not eaten for two whole days. With no one to see her, Tessa wept.

 

In the morning, early, she rode Buffoon out to exercise in the middle of the course along with several others, and the press and television cameras followed them. Everyone knew the story of Buffoon losing his friend Lucky; it was the news of the day, with many conjectures about the reason and the likely outcome. The horse's price in the betting was falling steadily. Peter told Tessa not to say a word to the press, and he came out and gave a brief outline of events, and offered no opinion. He knew Tessa would tell the world that it was Maurice's doing if she opened her mouth.

But the big gaunt horse was looking bad, tucked-up and ribby, and although he exercised in his usual fashion Tessa could feel his unhappiness. Everyone knew that even the slightest setback in training could affect a horse's chance in such a tough race; the only person who didn't appreciate the seriousness of what had happened was loony old Mr Cressington and his hard-faced daughter. They trundled over to say that they had put half their life-savings on him “at a very good price” and Peter hadn't the heart to tell them that they were on a hiding to nothing.

“Well, who knows? Anything can happen in racing,” Jimmy said when they had departed. He smiled his quiet smile and said to Tessa, “It's not the end of the world, you know.”

But to Tessa it was. She tried to remember that these things had to be taken on the chin in racing, and realized that Tom Bryant's situation was far worse than her own, that he had turned down the ride on the now clear favourite for poor old Buffoon! She knew that Raleigh had offered the ride back to him, and Peter would have let him go, but he didn't ask to change.

The day was grey and blustery, the going good. People were pouring in to the course and the atmosphere was heady; it was impossible to suppose that this was just another day's racing. Tessa kept telling herself it didn't matter.

“Leave the horse alone,” Jimmy said. “Come and walk the course, take your mind off it.”

“You're joking!” She had to laugh. Seeing those jumps in close-up was not going to reassure her.

“Remember,” Jimmy said, “Tom will be up there, seventeen hands high. They don't look nearly so bad from a big horse.”

It was good to be in Jimmy's company, always soothing. No wonder hyped-up horses came to Jimmy for re-schooling, learning to relax in his calm company. Tessa felt the magic working on herself, getting away into the country and away from the sight of Buffoon walking round and round his box.

“These things blow over,” Jimmy said. “He can run in the National for years yet, he's only young. And he'll learn something today, and so will we. It's not the end of the world.”

Tessa saw the sense of his words, and was pacified. She did not realize that she was looking as gaunt as her horse, her face thin and pinched with anxiety, frown lines across her forehead. She looked at the fearsome jumps and told herself that she wanted to be a jockey, that women rode in the Grand National and one day, if she was worth her salt, she might line up in this famous race. She would have to stop worrying, learn to control her runaway emotions. Walking out into the country with Jimmy was really good for her, putting things in perspective. She was such an idiot compared with Jimmy. He never got upset. He was always steady and optimistic. She saw that Peter, a worrier like herself, depended a lot on his brother's support. She even laughed.

Jimmy grinned too. “That's better. Expect nothing. It's more fun. You can't change the world.”

The morning seemed to go on forever, then the first races. Tessa could not eat, like Buffoon. The noise of the crowd surged in and out of the stable yard on the gusts of wind and the horses looked out over their doors with their ears pricked, sensitive to this unusual excitement. Tessa plaited up her horse, then offered him titbits in her hand, but he blew them away into the straw. He was quiet now, but unhappy, she could tell. She put her arms round his neck and talked to him, and he stared out of the half-door, listening with his long waggy ears, the purple depths of his eyes full of anxiety.

At last the time came to put on his bridle and take him out towards the paddock. Tessa followed San Lucar, who looked magnificent and was tearing to go, needing two lads to hold him. But Buffoon went calmly and stopped patiently for Lukey's antics in front of him. The crowds round the paddock were dense and the paddock was too small to take all the runners comfortably, but Tessa winkled Buffoon on to the asphalt path and got behind a quieter horse than San Lucar. Peter had gone to fetch Tom's saddle from the weighing-room and she had to keep a look-out for him, to go into a saddling box. Now there was so much to think about that she forgot her troubles. Buffoon's apparently steady walk was strong enough to make her breathless as she scampered at his side, hearing the comments of the crowd as she passed, mostly, “That's the one that's lost his pony friend.”

At last she could see Peter beckoning, and led Buffoon out of the paddock towards the row of saddling boxes. Jimmy was there to help and they tacked the horse up between them while he stood quietly. He never made a fuss, unlike most. Sounds of kicking and swearing came from the next box.