Blind Beauty (27 page)

T
essa was dreaming. The dream terrified her, and woke her up. Time after time. In her dream she was facing a horse at a big hedge, and the horse jumped, and when they were in mid-air she saw that there was no landing, only space. And they started to plunge down, and there was nothing below, and she screamed and woke herself up.

She didn't tell anyone. There was no one to hear her. The plan was in her head and would not be dislodged, and it was no good to complain that it was giving her nightmares. It was giving everyone nightmares.

Jimmy said, “It's not as if the horse isn't capable of getting round, and keeping her safe. Let her be.”

He was the only one so optimistic.

Peter said his reputation was on the line, to enter such an old horse with a girl riding.

“He'll be fourteen. Only one horse has won at thirteen, none at fourteen. It's unprofessional. What amateurs do, to have a day out.”

“The Grand National is different from other races, you know that. It's for characters. It's not the Gold Cup.”

“He might get killed, then you'll be sorry,” Wisbey said.

“Thank you,” said Tessa.

She knew that. It's what the nightmare hung on.

“Oh my God!” screamed Myra, “You'll break your neck!”

“It's a pretty dumb idea,” said Sarah, “but I can see that you want to do it. It's what you are.” Tessa made her feel old.

It certainly gave them something to think about. They all thought: if Tessa wasn't around, life would be much duller.

Peter decided to let fate decide, as it so often did with racehorses. Buffoon missed two months' racing with an infection in the sole of his foot, through picking up a rusty nail, but Tessa kept getting rides by tirelessly badgering people and making sure she rode every horse to the very best of her ability, however untalented it might be. Most people she rode for asked her again, although she rarely got “good” rides. There were too many other jockeys after the good ones. But her expertise and, importantly, her strength improved all the time, and by the time Buffoon got back into racing in January she found herself with far more confidence and skill in the saddle.

January was the first date for entering the Grand National, and Peter agreed to enter Buffoon. It cost a hundred pounds. If they kept his name on the list, it would take three more payments and cost nearly a thousand by the time the race was run. Myra said she would sell her engagement ring, and her wedding ring if need be. She still kept saying Tessa would kill herself but the excitement was too much for her to ignore.

Sometimes Tessa thought, too, that she was mad. When she talked to Buffoon in his box during the cold winter nights she told him she was sorry that he had to belong to a madwoman, who was going to make him work so hard for his living when he could be a happy hack. She put her cold hands under his rugs to warm them on his shining hide, and laid her head against his neck.

“But you like it, I know you do. I can feel it. You feel so marvellous.”

Lucky pushed in for attention, and fell to nibbling at her pockets.

“We'll make sure you aren't spirited away this time too. Nothing will go wrong this time.”

Maurice was quiet these days. Word had it that he was in financial trouble. Goldlands was up for sale. He had no more horses with Raleigh, and only two with the trainer who took San Lucar. One of these was a dour four-miler who was well-fancied for the Grand National. He asked Tom to ride it, but Tom refused. Then the horse injured a tendon and was out for the season.

Tom was offered the ride on a horse called Marimba who was at the top of the betting for the Grand National. Raleigh had no runners and Tom accepted the ride. Marimba was a stout-hearted dark bay, almost black, with a great jumping record but no certainty to last the long trip. But general opinion was that his class would see him through. He was a great battler.

Sometimes Tessa dreamt that Tom would ride Buffoon if she asked him. Buffoon would get a better ride, stand a better chance, be safer in Tom's hands. But she knew the invitation would be an embarrassment for Tom and he would be bound to refuse, the horse being so old and unconsidered. This knowledge was a relief for she wanted the ride so badly on her own dear horse – the two of them together… The thought of it made her blood tingle, even two months away.

The bookies had Buffoon in at a hundred-to-one. He was nearly at the bottom of the handicap. Marimba was on top weight.

As the April day came nearer, Tessa's ambition did not waver. Myra sold her engagement ring and Peter entered Buffoon at the second and third stages, which just left the final commitment. Peter was encouraged by Buffoon's fitness, and his running in two preparatory races in each of which he was third.

“He's a great jumper, you can't ask for more. It's not such a crazy idea, perhaps.”

Buffoon had never fallen in his life.

The press noticed this, and loved the story. Tessa was hassled whenever she went out in public, and journalists kept calling at Sparrows Wyck. Tessa got tired of repeating the same thing over and over again in interviews, and posing for photographs.

Buffoon's price rose to fifty-to-one.

Sarah said it was what she called housewives' betting, because of the story, nothing to do with the horse's chance.

“He's still a hundred-to-one, Tessa. Don't get excited. The horses that win are nine and ten years old. No horse has ever won at his age. With a girl on top.”

“She's only in it for the ride. Don't tell me she's thinking of winning!” Peter said.

Tessa saw Jimmy and Sarah exchange glances. They didn't say anything. Tessa felt sick, thinking about it. And there were still three weeks to go!

Tessa had offers for Buffoon, from rich idiots wanting to be in on a good story. Grand National horses often changed hands in the weeks before the race, because there was always a pool of rich and optimistic (and crazy) people who wanted the thrill of owning a National horse. The week before the race the press had a new story:

“Morrison-Pleydell buys Marimba!”

In the tack-room they all goggled at the news as Sarah spread out the
Racing Post
.

“He must be desperate!”

“Whatever did he pay? Must have been a fortune.”

“I wonder if he's bought Tom Bryant as well?” Jimmy said.

“Tom swore he'd never ride for him again.”

“Yeah, but there's no other rides going now, unless he jocks someone off.”

“He wouldn't do that, not Tom.”

“He'll be asked, I bet.”

“Tessa'll ask him, won't you, Tess?” jeered Wisbey. “I bet he'd do it for you.”

“I think the deal would have included Tom, somehow,” Sarah said. “It's too late to find another jockey now.”

It was confirmed later that Tom Bryant was still Marimba's jockey. On the day they were all starting to prepare for driving up to the Aintree meeting, Tom Bryant called in at the stable to talk to Tessa.

“To see that it's all OK with you,” he said. “Wish you luck and all that. It might be busy on Saturday and no time to say all the right things. You feel good about it, I hope? No cold feet?”

“Freezing feet,” Tessa said.

“You'll be fine once all the waiting is over. And it's easier for females these days – you're not such a novelty any more. Mind you, you will be if you win.”

“You'll be the winner, I dare say. Pity it's for Maurice though.”

“Jeez, what a way for it to turn out! The last thing I expected. But I can't change it now. If he starts to give me a bollocking though, for not winning, I reckon I'll pull a knife on him like you did. I'll take one in my boot, in case! Pity – I want to win, but not for that swine.”

“The horse will decide it for you.”

“Yes. We're useless without the horse. You've got a good one, Tessa. Do it for the thrill – there's nothing quite like it. Keep out of trouble, especially at the first. Follow a good one, or keep clear of the lot. And afterwards, Tess, whatever happens, we'll go to a party together. I'll come looking for you.”

Was this her first date? Tessa wondered when he had gone. They would have so much to talk about, one way or the other. A working arrangement, more like. But the warmth of Tom's friendship, his timely visit, steadied her nerves. She felt much more optimistic with Tom's encouragement. He didn't think she was crazy, at least.

She slept in Buffoon's box, as she had done the last ten days. No one was going to pinch Lucky again, or do Buffoon any damage. A good sleeping bag and the thick straw made it perfectly comfortable, with Lucky's heavy breathing in her ear for lullaby and the sight of the moonshine on Buffoon's Roman nose in the bright square of the open top-door to soothe her waking moments. How lucky she was, to have come so far over her rocky path to comparatively smooth going! Sometimes she could not believe her luck, after the despair of her youth. And it was all centred in her dear horse. Without him her life would have been nothing. Nothing to work for, nothing to grieve over, nothing to thrill. Whatever happened in the next few days, there was not one thing she would regret, afterwards. Even if… no… one did not think of that… it was the ultimate, the unthinkable.

They were driving up the day before. Peter was going up in his car with Myra, Jimmy was driving the lorry and Wisbey was coming as lad for Buffoon – his treat. Poor Sarah had to stay in charge at home. Tessa, pressed to go in the car, elected to go in the lorry, with Buffoon. Of course.

“You'll want all the rest you can get,” complained Myra.

“I can rest afterwards,” Tessa said.

She had scarcely slept for nights past – what difference would it make? She had lost weight and her face was pale and drawn with blue smudges under her eyes. But the eyes against the pallor burned with more fire than ever.

The April weather was typical: cold and windy, with bright sunshine and fierce, short showers. The going was said to be soft, which suited Buffoon. The softer the better. It was raining when the lorry arrived at Aintree.

They pulled into the horsebox entrance, down the lane to the stables, which were familiar this time. Just like the last time, racing was in progress and the place was humming, horses and people coming and going in all directions. Jimmy went off to find Buffoon's box, and Tessa stayed in the warm cab, wondering what on earth she was doing in the place. She was out of her mind!

Jimmy came back with Buffoon's stable number and they unloaded him and led him into the yards. Lucky shuffled along behind as usual, anxious to explore the new quarters. Tessa busied herself feverishly, making Buffoon comfortable. He was excited (remembering last time?) and kept walking to the door to look out, whinnying every now and then as a horse passed.

“We'll walk him out later, when racing's finished, let him have a bite of grass,” Jimmy said. “Peter'll be along, and we'll walk the course. Remember what I said before, it doesn't look so bad from the back of a seventeen-hand horse.”

The last race was over. A cold silvery light gleamed on the factories across the great, dun abandonment of the Aintree acres. The crowds streamed out from the stands, the litter blew aimlessly on the cold wind. Most of the horses were going and the yards emptied, leaving tomorrow's runners exploring their new boxes or settling down to their haynets. Buffoon was not disturbed, looking for a feed. Lucky had settled to doze, propped on the manger.

Peter turned up, having left Myra in a hotel. They went out to walk the course, not alone, for streams of spectators and interested parties were out to do the same, mostly laughing and having their photos taken against the thick black hedges.

Tessa didn't laugh. It was true how different they were, these fences, from the ordinary racetrack, so strong and forbidding.

“You can take a bit out of the top, but no more,” Peter said to her. “But Buffoon knows his stuff. It's the traffic you've got to look out for, not Buffoon's jumping. Keep safe.”

They walked round the once. Tomorrow it was twice round. The biggest jumps were five feet high and had ditches six feet wide on the take-off side. One of these was the third jump and Tessa, looking at it, thought that if she survived this one, and the stampede over the two preceding, she would have something to chalk up whatever might happen thereafter. There were forty runners and some of the jumps were none too wide. To get a clear view would be a bonus, let alone elbow room. The famous Bechers Brook looked unexpectedly innocuous on the approach, but the drop behind wasn't nice at all. Some girls were standing against it having their photographs taken. Even with their arms raised above their heads they did not break the skyline of solid spruce-covered wall. But Jimmy said at speed it would be quite different. Buffoon would ping it.

“It's easier on the outside, remember. The drop is less. But the good horses will be on the inside. Follow Tom if you get a chance.”