Blind Beauty (30 page)

And, large on the television screen, across all the world, a close-up of Maurice showed what he thought. He didn't have to say it. He showed no joy at the fantastic courage of his own horse, no admiration for the skill of his jockey at getting so close, no warmth for the amazing scenes around him. He just showed, in close-up, all the bitterness of the bad loser. He showed consuming rage and hatred, and devastating humiliation. (Afterwards, on the video, Tessa played it over and over, more than the bit of her passing the winning post.)

He said, grinding it out, “She did well.”

What else could he say?

With such an embarrassing response they turned to Myra. With her bright cheeks and blowing hair she chattered nineteen to the dozen to the bemused interviewer. She was their star. Peter was beyond words, and Jimmy never had many at the best of times. And Tessa… all she could do was hug her horse and cry.

“You've got to weigh in,” Peter told her, smiling. “Don't lose it all by forgetting. You're a pro, remember.”

Tessa pulled herself together.

Inside the door to the weighing room the press missed their picture of the day. Tom followed her in, caught her round the shoulders and kissed her on the lips. Mud, sweat and tears mingled like blood in a tryst. Tessa kissed him back, forgetting Buffoon.

“There's a saying,” Tom said, “if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Think about it.”

“I love you, Tom.”

“You love everyone, this minute. Say it tomorrow. And then I'll know.”

“Yes, tomorrow too.”

He laughed. The returning jockeys all jeered and cheered and they went to the scales and the loudspeaker announced to the world, “Weighed in.”

It was over. Done.

 

And Buffoon?

Did he know he had won the Grand National?

He was tired beyond anything he had known before, having been asked for more when he had thought he had given his all. Yet, being asked, he had responded. He had found more, right at the end. He would have responded until death. It was in his nature. He had raced enough to know what they wanted, after all. To beat the others. Sometimes the others were impossibly far away and sometimes, on good days, they could be caught. But this time… it was so
far
, different. Even when he thought he had won a horse was still coming back at him and Tessa was still willing him on. Her spirit and intention he had understood only too clearly, even if her body was a hopeless floppy thing of little use to him. He would do it for Tessa, would do it for anybody, really, if that was what they wanted. They asked him. He obliged. He enjoyed it. But this time it had been painful, beyond the call of duty. There must be something special about this day, the excitement and the enormous crowd, the noise so intense, and now the attention, hugs and kisses more than anything he had known before. He knew he had been here before, he remembered how big the jumps were. This time he had been ready for them. He hadn't enjoyed it before, there had been something wrong, but today had been fine. Only the last stretch… that had been hard.

He wanted Lucky, and his stable. He wanted quiet, and his tea. He knew he would get all these things. He was secure, with the people he was used to. They asked him strange things sometimes, but they gave him everything he needed. He was not afraid.

 

Late the next day – she had lost all count of time – Tessa was in Sarah's caravan, telling her how it had been.

“My dad was there, Declan, yelling his head off. He's crazy, that man. I can see now why my mother left him.”

“Yes. Not husband material, Declan Blackthorn.”

“And Greevy, can you believe, wishing me luck. So civilized!”

“Working for Raleigh has done wonders for him. Getting away from his father, it gave him his chance. Mixing with nice people, it rubs off. I'm getting nicer by the day, have you noticed? Since I came here.”

“And me!”

“It's the love of a good horse made something out of you, Tessa. Loving Buffoon. It's what I need, the love of something, but God knows what, or who.”

“Sarah!”

Sarah – Tessa's strength, her mother-figure, her shoulder to cry on – suddenly looked stricken. If Tessa didn't know her so well, she would have said she was suddenly close to tears.

Perhaps the shock showed in her face, for Sarah then laughed, harshly, and said, “I'm going away now summer's coming, and I shan't come back. I shall look for pastures new.”

“Sarah! No!”

“There are reasons, Tessa. Use your loaf. You've found what you're looking for, but–” She shrugged. “I thought I had, but–” She shrugged again. Then laughed. “I'm not going to spell it out. You've eyes in your head and – at last – a heart. You'll understand, sooner or later.”

With these engimatic words she closed the conversation by asking what they should cook for supper.

Later – a long time later – Tessa realized what she was talking about. Sarah loved Jimmy. And Jimmy? Jimmy was his own person. He only loved Walter, his lurcher.

 

After the supper – egg and chips – Tessa crept out to Buffoon's box. It was a clear spring night with stars crisp and glittering in the sky, cold, awash with the smells of spring and promise. Tessa, who had thought it was over, knew it was only just starting.

“Buffy?”

She slid the bolts back, and the horse turned round to her, knuckering softly. The journey home had passed in a dream, and only now she was back were Tessa's feet beginning to touch the ground. She hadn't been able to sleep, even now. She felt she could never sleep again, not while there was so much glory in her head. She wanted to be back, solid, on the ground. With Buffy. The smell of his warm rugs and Lucky's old-pony breath, the sound of horses munching hay in the night… she was soothed. She lay in the straw and stared at the starlit outline of Buffoon's back against the open half-door, and the patrician curve of his brave nose, the nose whereby the great race had been won. He had made it, against all the odds, made history, like the jockey said. She would never ask him for anything again, only make him happy, riding across the downs. He could retire, and she would go on, with Tom, wherever the path led.

And, at last, snuggled into the straw, she slept.

 

 

K M Peyton was born in 1929 and wrote her first book at the age of nine. It was called
Grey Star
,
the Story of a Racehorse
.
Several books later, her first was published when she was fifteen.
Sabre
,
the Horse From the Sea
was followed by two more pony
books written under her maiden name of Kathleen Herald.
At first Kathleen only wrote pony books as, growing up in a London suburb, she could not have a horse of her own so put her pony-obsessed daydreams down on paper.

 

Winner of the prestigious Carnegie Medal and the Guardian Award, K.M Peyton is the author of over fifty well-loved novels for young readers including the bestselling
Flambards
series.

 

K.M Peyton lives in Essex with her husband Mike and her horses.

 

www.kmpeyton.co.uk

 

 

 

Scholastic Children's Books
An imprint of Scholastic Ltd
Euston House, 24 Eversholt Street
London, NW1 1DB, UK
Registered office: Westfield Road, Southam, Warwickshire, CV47 0RA
SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

 

First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 1999
This electronic edition published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2014

 

Text copyright © K M Peyton, 1999

 

The right of K M Peyton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her.

 

eISBN 978 1407 15468 8

 

A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.

 

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical or otherwise, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express prior written permission of Scholastic Limited.

 

Produced in India by Quadrum

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

www.scholastic.co.uk