Blind Beauty (26 page)

The urgency in her voice made Tom comply. He drove his car out of the way and Maurice started his car and roared away into the night.

Tom said gently, “What was all that about?”

Tessa didn't want to talk about it. It was too difficult. She shook her head.

Tom said, “I'll drive you home.”

She sat silent, unable to make sense of the incident. Perhaps Tom believed Maurice, that she was hysterical.

She just said, “He was drunk.”

“I've never understood him. If his horse loses, he takes it as a personal affront. As if all the horses and all the jockeys and all the trainers ganged up together, personally, to beat him. He has the filthiest temper I've ever come cross. You wonder, sometimes, what made him like that. He's a self-made man, so nobody knows what sort of a past drives him. It's just such a pity he has to choose racing as a sport. Rather than yachting or motor-racing, or even golf. It was bad luck, your mother meeting him.”

Tessa sat in silence, white as the moonlight. The ice-maiden, Tom thought. He talked to cover up the strange happening which he didn't understand and which Tessa was obviously not going to explain. There was no way having her in his warm car after the party was going to develop into anything but a lift home. Large areas of Tessa were prohibited. Damn and blast Maurice, whatever he had or hadn't done. And Tom was prepared to believe what Maurice had said.

 

Tessa could not sleep. She blocked out the Maurice thing, wondering if she had, indeed, been hysterical. She had certainly been frightened. Terrified. That was no figment of her imagination. But it disgusted her, that Maurice had the power to frighten her. She would not think of it. She had wanted to think about Tom, but now, after that, she had sensed his doubt. It was spoilt.

The stable yard was quiet, a half moon shining serenely over the big chestnut trees by the field gate. She went to Buffoon's box and let herself in. He was lying down, with Lucky, and neither of them got up, but turned their heads and made welcome snuffling noises. Tessa sat down by Buffoon's head and laid her cheek against his.

“What they say, Buffy. It's rubbish. Even Tom.”

As always, what she didn't want to know she blotted out. Being with Buffoon reminded her of what really mattered. Buffoon. She had to believe, whatever they all said. If you didn't have faith… what was the point? Nobody believed a horse could win the Grand National three times until Red Rum did it. There were no rules in life that couldn't be broken. She knew Buffoon had a great heart. Hearts didn't change. Did they?

She didn't want to ride him in the Grand National, after all (did she?), only in a small race or two.

And then there was the money. Oh, the money! To be an owner, there were all sorts of unseen expenses before you even started, and when you were an owner there were bills for keep, for shoes, for the vet, for the jockey, for entry fees, for travel in the horsebox… Peter, so far, keeping his head down, only docked her pay for the cost of Buffoon's feed, bedding and shoes. Buffoon was still, officially, Tessa's hack, a plaything. Not a racehorse. Just a livery. But if he were to race…

“You can have all my money,” her mother said.

But what money her mother had was Peter's. She hadn't a penny from Maurice. Never a great one for housekeeping, she worked in the stable rather than in the house and rode work every morning, for which Peter paid her the going rate. Tessa would accept that, fair enough, if her mother didn't want it.

“You're mad, of course,” Sarah said to Tessa, knowing only too well her ambitions and agonies. “Tell your mother to divorce Morrison and get a huge settlement. Half of Goldlands, for a start. Then you can keep a racehorse.”

“Maurice won't let her divorce him, will he? And lose all that money? His lawyers are all the tops. She can't be bothered with it.”

“You've just got to get the rides then, no other way. Three a week at least.”

Sarah was the only one now who humoured Tessa's desires. She didn't see – money apart – why Tessa shouldn't ride Buffoon in a little no-hopers race at a far-flung course, just for the joy of it. Or otherwise. She only said it was an awful lot of money for just a fun ride or two. On an old has-been nag.

“But start riding!”

And as the season got under way, Tessa did manage to get some rides. She had shown she had the talent, and she did not make mistakes, her steely determination and intelligence in reading how the race was progressing standing her in good stead. What she might lose in finishing strength she made up for in intelligent strategy. And horses went kindly for her. She got a reputation for handling the funny ones, not what she really wanted. But a ride was another packet towards Buffoon's costs.

She saw Tom at the races. He was too busy now to think about girls. He always had a word for her and she knew that her friendship with the top jockey stood her in good stead. Sometimes she rode in races with him but he was usually well ahead or behind, waiting to pounce. But just sometimes they rode knee to knee, and Tom would give her a wink and they would have a chat. Tessa usually didn't have enough breath to do anything but nod her head in answer, but Tom was always cruising.

Once he said to her, “That horse you're riding, take him on now. Don't hang around. He likes to be in front and he stays for ever.”

The trainer had told her to stay up close but not go on until the last bend. She decided to take Tom's advice and go for it. Tom came with her, passed her at one point, riding hard now, head down, no time for chat, but Tessa knew her job with this trainer was on the line now and rode like a demon. As Tom promised, her horse's dour stamina prevailed and Tom's horse, for all Tom's riding, fell tamely away. Tessa won. It was thanks to Tom, but she took the credit from the surprised trainer.

The ten per cent prize money was a bonus. Tessa scraped and saved every penny and by the end of the season had enough to register herself as an owner and put Buffoon officially into training with Peter. Peter said he wouldn't charge her any more than Buffoon's expenses. Perhaps after one or possibly two races she would realize she was on a hiding to nothing. She rode Buffoon at exercise with the string and galloped him with Gamekeeper and Cantata, and he had a job to keep up, finishing last of the three by several lengths. Tessa tried not to show disappointment. Peter said it was good, better than he expected.

Riding back home beside Sarah on Gamekeeper, Tessa tried to be positive.

“It wasn't bad for first time.”

“No. But don't kid yourself, Tessa. Put him in a race and you'll see. You can always pull him up, after all. He's yours to do as you like with, that's your bonus.”

They all knew Buffoon only got anywhere in races over three miles, for he hadn't the speed to go with the two-mile specialists. He won by wearing down the opposition, by his stamina and heart, not by his speed.

Tessa decided to ask Peter to put him in a suitable race. She had to know. Peter scratched around and found a race at Huntingdon.

“Easy course, no hills, he just has to keep on going.”

 

So this was the day that Tessa had waited for. She was so excited she could not eat nor sleep but, with her caravan to herself, nobody saw. She was sick when she got up. It was April, but cold and sharp with intermittent showers. Jimmy came as “lad”, curious to see the outcome, and Tessa shivered beside him in the cab as the lorry sped along the M4. Peter and Jimmy were talking over her head about getting a travelling head lad for the next season. The stable was expanding and Peter had visions of going to the races in a car with Myra beside him like a proper trainer. Not many trainers drove their own lorries.

“We're getting somewhere slowly,” he said with satisfaction. He was a markedly happier man since Myra's arrival on the scene.

“Yes. And when Tessa here wins the Grand National on her red elephant we'll really be in the money,” Jimmy said.

“Of course,” Peter said gravely.

Tessa bit her lip, trying not to cry. She felt terrible! What she had looked forward to all her life (it seemed) was now hurting unbearably. But she knew, when she was up on her darling Buffoon, she would not care what everyone said. It was between the two of them and he would not let her down.

They meant it kindly, Peter and Jimmy, trying to diffuse the tension that had turned Tessa into a zombie, but with no response they went back to talking about future plans.

There was plenty of gossip round the paddock when Buffoon was led in. Tessa knew all the staring was on her and her great ugly horse. There were a few titters but she didn't hear them. She closed herself completely into what she was going to do. Jimmy gave her the leg-up and patted her knee affectionately.

“Great girl, Tess. Enjoy it.”

She didn't see him shake his head as she rode away. Peter shrugged and smiled.

“What a kid! Whatever will become of her? She wants so much.”

But now she was up on Buffoon with the green course opening up before her for the canter to the start Tessa felt herself come alive again. All her white fear dissolved into a paean of delight for being on her horse, on a racecourse. At last! This had been her dream for ever and now it was happening! She held the connecting reins, feeling the old strength flowing back into her, seeing the great shoulders moving like machinery beneath the arch of her legs. He remembered. She could feel his pleasure too. She wanted to shout and sing. But jockeys didn't do that.

They walked round at the start and the other jockeys made rude but kindly comments to her which was part of the act. Everyone knew she was now the owner of the “red elephant” and no doubt pitied her, but there was no malice, only surprise. (She was a
girl
, after all.) He had been a good horse once, a long time ago. They could hardly remember. Horses came and went in this game.

They went off, not fast, and Tessa lobbed along at the back, bursting with pride and joy. He felt so marvellous! Not narrow and squitty like some, not mean, not stupid, not faint-hearted… she had learned to know horses' characters since she had ridden so many. Now she was on a good one,
her
horse.

He jumped cleanly, judging his own take-off, very sensible. Tessa kept him out of trouble. There were twelve in the field and they lobbed along in a bunch, nobody hurrying because there was so far to go. Tessa wondered at one point whether she should go on, but thought it too risky. They had no idea whether his old stamina was still there. Keep with the bunch. Keep in touch.

But as the race opened up and the pace increased she found she couldn't keep in touch. Buffoon felt as if he was galloping his heart out, but he seemed to be going nowhere. One by one the other horses went on until she was last in the field. Buffoon didn't seem distressed, quite happy to keep on going, but the others were into the straight while she was still coming round the last bend. Into the dodgy penultimate fence, and as he landed the winner was going past the post and the stands were full of cheering punters. Hardly any of them saw Buffoon come home.

She had done what she wanted, ridden him in a race, but her spirits were very low on the journey home. Last of all, nothing behind her.

“He went well,” Peter said.

“Real old trouper. Jumped a treat,” Jimmy said.

She knew they were trying to cheer her up. Knew they were satisfied that their warnings had proved true. Buffoon was a has-been.

“He needed the race,” Peter said. “We'll find him another before the ground gets too hard.”

They found him another, and he was second last. The bookmakers put him in at a hundred-to-one.

“There,” Peter said. “Save your money, Tessa. He can be the stable hack. There'll always be a place for him in the yard.”

Tessa didn't say anything, and Peter knew to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the journey home.

T
essa did not give up. When all the horses in the yard went off for their summer holidays or out into the field to wind down and get fat on summer grass, Buffoon was kept stabled and ridden out every day. He went out in the field for a few hours in the afternoon or evening but, of them all, he was the only one kept fit and in work. Everyone knew that Tessa intended to race him again in the autumn.

“Maybe it's just because she enjoys riding him in races,” they said. “After all, quite a few owners race no-hopers just for the ride. To enjoy.”

But Sarah said, “She wants to win.”

Tessa didn't say anything.

In spite of her disappointment (and she told herself she was stupid, because the horse's jumping and attitude had been fine; only his lack of speed let him down) Tessa still loved riding Buffoon above all else. Just to be on his back across the downs was to know real happiness. The races had been great too, if only she could have contained her stupid ambition. But her stupid ambition persisted.

“If I expect nothing, I won't be disappointed next time,” she told herself.

Expect nothing.

Perversely, expecting nothing, in her first race of the season she came eighth out of twelve runners.

Four behind them!

She rode back beside Tom on San Lucar, who had won by twelve lengths. Neither Tom nor the horse were the slightest out of puff. Buffoon was fine, but Tessa felt badly out of race condition.

“That wasn't a bad run,” Tom said, obviously surprised.

“I've been riding him all the summer.”

Tessa hadn't seen Tom since last season. He had been back with his friends in America for the summer. He was tanned and super-fit and Tessa was surprised by her own excitement at seeing him again.

San Lucar looked fantastic. He exuded class, and was as beautiful as dear Buffoon was plain. He had large, kind eyes and the air of a star about the way he held his head and pointed his toes. Tessa could not help remarking on it.

Tom gave the horse an affectionate pat.

“Yes, he's a great lad. Pity we can't say the same of his owner.”

“Is he here?”

In her fierce concentration on the job in hand, Tessa had not looked around her in the paddock.

“Yes, didn't you see him?”

“No!”

“He saw you.” Tom laughed. “I think he was wearing his bullet-proof vest, but he was keeping a good eye on you.”

“I thought you didn't ride for him any more?”

“No. In principle I don't. But I love this horse. He's had plenty of leg trouble, more's the pity, but Raleigh's got him just right at the moment.”

“You might get a smile from Maurice, winning by that distance! I'll keep out of his way.”

All the same she couldn't help a glance over to the winning enclosure as she unsaddled Buffoon. Maurice was, indeed, smiling (no doubt having won a packet with his bets), but he was the same iron-cold customer – not a pat for his magnificent horse nor a word for his lad. Tessa could not help a shiver going through her, seeing him, remembering his grip on her arm, her terror. There was a streak of madness in Maurice. His hair was greying now, and lines of discontent merged into lines of age on his sour face. Raleigh was listening to his instructions with a non-committal expression, saying nothing. He patted San Lucar lovingly, no doubt proud of getting the horse that was prone to injury in such good shape.

San Lucar ran again a week later. Once more he won easily but was reported to have heat in his near tendon after the race. Raleigh instructed him to be rested. The grapevine had it that Morrison insisted he race again in a big race two weeks later. When Raleigh resisted, they had words and Maurice took San Lucar to another trainer. The new trainer entered him for the race and Tom was booked to ride him.

Tom, hating the whole situation, accepted the ride so that he could pull San Lucar up at the first hint of unsoundness.

Tessa was at the same racecourse with Cantata when San Lucar ran. Peter and Sarah were with her, but Myra had declined to come, knowing Maurice would be there. Tessa rode in the first, coming third on Cantata. She changed and went out to see how things turned out in the big race. Maurice's altercation with Raleigh had been well publicized, and the big crowd was intrigued to see how the day would turn out. They were all on Raleigh's side, knowing that his decision not to run was the right one. Tessa heard the mutterings on all sides.

“Criminal to treat such a good horse like this.”

“The man doesn't deserve to own a horse like San Lucar.”

Tom listened, poker-faced, to Maurice's instructions. The new trainer was clearly uneasy, saying nothing, probably wishing he hadn't got himself into this predicament. He legged Tom up and watched the horse stride away.

Peter, watching with Tessa, shook his head.

“I'm not a betting man, but I reckon it's odds on that Tom will pull up before he reaches the winning post.”

He was right. San Lucar, sailing along in the lead as he took off for the penultimate fence, pecked slightly on landing, recovered, ran on for twenty yards and was sharply pulled up. Tom slipped out of the saddle as the rest of the field pounded past. He came home leading San Lucar, and the horse was clearly lame. The crowd buzzed with excitement and indignation. As Maurice went out with his clearly embarrassed trainer to meet him, he was greeted by several boos.

“At least the horse will get his rest now,” Peter said.

He did, but in a form that made Maurice the most hated man in racing. He had San Lucar put down.

Tessa heard the news from Tom. He drove into the yard two days later, on his way home from a meeting, to tell them the news.

“I found out from the lad at his new yard. He was in tears when he told me. Apparently Maurice took the horse away yesterday, said the driver was taking him to some vet in Newmarket, on his instructions. They thought it strange and when the horse didn't come back they rang up the transport firm and were told the horse had gone to the knacker's. It was too late then to do anything about it. The poor old lad had gone.”

Tom was nearly in tears himself. Tessa was stunned. But hardly surprised, knowing how Maurice used his racing to make money. A lame horse was an expense with no guarantee of being of any further use.

“But he could have sold him, given him away! Thousands of people would have given him a good home, to recuperate. They loved him!”

“Yeah, I would have put up a thousand or two myself to have saved him from that,” Tom said. “The man's a real bastard. I shall never ride for him again.”

He went disconsolately across to Buffoon's box and rested his arms on the half-door.

“I sometimes wonder about this game, when things like that happen. To get the insurance money! No doubt some crook vet signed a certificate for him.”

“It's not racing. It's people,” Tessa said.

“Yes. It wasn't racing that gave your old boy grief, was it? Just some more sick people.”

“He loves racing. You can tell, from the feel of him.”

“Lukey loved it too. Even when it hurt. I had a job to pull him up. I know now that if I hadn't pulled up he'd have run on and won. And still be alive now.”

Buffoon looked round at them from his attention to his haynet. His eyes were large and clear, kind as poor San Lucar's. Tessa remembered how the light went out of God Almighty's eyes, and Wisbey wept. But it happened to people too, all the time. Sarah said you mustn't get it out of proportion. Life was a toss-up for both people and animals. Children died too. Nature was the cruellest of the lot.

“He ran well last time out,” Tom said. “You going to prove us all wrong?”

“Yes.”

“That's another cert in racing. The unpredictable.”

“Buffoon running well isn't unpredictable to me.”

“No?” Tom laughed. “Knowing you, it's the Grand National you're aiming for. No less.”

“How did you guess?” Tessa tried to sound sarcastic, but was useless at covering up her feelings.

Her private dream. Never to be put into so many words. But Tom had. She could not answer.

As if in support, Buffoon turned round and came to her, pressing his soft nose against her hand. Tom patted his neck.

“He's a great horse, all the same. If anyone can do it, you two can.”

And he smiled at her and, for his faith, Tessa wanted to throw her arms round him and kiss him. But she didn't know how, and kissed Buffoon instead.

That season, Tessa rode Buffoon in eight races. In the sixth race he was second and in the eighth race he was the winner. Tessa was ecstatic and the stable no less so. Buffoon was twelve years old, retirement time. Tessa was now twenty and grown-up, but to the stable she was still their wild child.

“You've done it, Tess, against all the odds,” Peter said.

“My girl!” Myra beamed.

“Thank God we can all relax now,” Wisbey said.

Sarah said nothing, guessing.

And Buffoon was put out into the field with Lucky and the two of them went bucking and cavorting away like two-year-olds before falling to graze on the fresh tendrils of the spring grass.