When thinking about this moment - his first time back on a horse - one of his many worries had been that he wouldn't remember what to do, that he'd panic or fall or, more realistically, find his instincts blunted by misuse. But the moment he was in the saddle everything felt right - it was as if he'd never been away. He wasn't racing fit by any means and his legs might protest later, but his senses were spot on.
`Come on then, Noddy,' he muttered to the horse. `Let's see if you're capable of some proper work.'
It had turned out to be a bit of a battle. At the start of the gallop Noddy had whipped around to his left and stuck his head between his legs. It seemed he had every intention of getting Jamie on the floor. There had been no time to think and Jamie had responded instinctively, like a boxer swaying out of the way of a punch. He pulled his whip through and gave the horse a sharp crack down one shoulder. Then, as Noddy ducked back in the opposite direction, he gave him an even harder smack on the other side. That had settled it. Noddy had found out who was boss and hadn't put a foot wrong for the rest of the ride.
Jamie returned Malcolm's grin. Ì thought the little beggar was going to drop me to start with. I guess that was Pippa's idea of a joke.' Malcolm nodded. `Have you heard from Bertie?'
Before the accident Bertie Brooks had been Jamie's agent, booking him with top trainers around the country when he wasn't required for Ridgemoor horses. At the time Bertie, an ex jock, had just been starting 34
out at the game. Now he was one of the top boys, representing the cream of the weighing-room.
`He sent me a postcard from Barbados while I was in the nick.' Talk about rubbing it in. Ì think he's got a bit stratospheric for me.' Malcolm looked thoughtful. Ì promised the old man I'd keep an eye on how you were doing. He'll give you some rides.'
`No thanks, Mal! `Why not?'
Jamie wondered whether to tell him about the decision he'd made just that morning. He'd been going to mention it first to Pippa but talking to Malcolm was pretty much the same thing. He was family too.
`To tell the truth, I don't think I'm going to be riding for either Pippa or the Colonel. I can't do the weight.'
Malcolm's broad brow furrowed as he looked closely at Jamie. Ì suppose you have grown a bit but you don't look fat.'
Ì'm not but it's more than two years since I last rode a race. I've had eight months getting over that smash-up and a year and a half sitting on my arse in jail. I've got bigger.'
Ì thought they didn't feed you inside.'
`The food was crap but I've changed all the same. My old clothes don't fit and I just weighed myself on your bathroom scales. I'm over ten stone.'
`You could get it off, couldn't you?'
Jamie shook his head. `There's not a picking on me. I've grown. Lester Piggott said that if he hadn't begun racing at the age of twelve he'd never have been a jockey at all. Once you let yourself grow, that's it. And I've not spent all that time eating prison slop to come out and starve myself.
But I don't know what I'm going to do.'
`Let's not get too gloomy,' Malcolm said. `You've just got your freedom back. We'll think of something. Here -'He held out his hand, which contained a folded slip of paper. `This is why I came up. Thought it might come in handy.'
Jamie took it without thinking and was startled to see it was a cheque, made out to him for the sum of five thousand pounds. `Jesus, Malcolm,'
was all he managed to say.
`Bung that in your bank account. You're bound to be a bit short.' Ì can't take this.'
35
`Why the hell not? Have you got some nest egg tucked away?' Jamie shook his head. What he'd earned before the crash he'd spent, faster than a good few of his mounts.
`Things cost in the big wide world, you know,' Malcolm continued. Ì
doubt if Pippa's paying you much.'
In fact, Jamie had not discussed money with his sister. He'd assumed he'd be owing her, rather than the other way round.
`Does Pippa know about this?' he asked.
`Why should she? Just between us guys, eh? Pay me back when you can.'
Jamie looked doubtful but there was no denying the money would help, even if he only spent a few hundred on clothes. And taxis. With his car ban stretching into the foreseeable future he'd need to get around. This money would at least give him some independence.
`Thanks,' he said at last, pocketing the cheque.
`Good man. And not a word to Pippa.' His brother-in-law's broad face creased as he gave Jamie an exaggerated wink.
Jamie nodded, overcome by the big man's generosity. He and his sister didn't always see eye to eye, but there was no doubt she'd done the right thing in marrying Malcolm Priest.
`Dad?'
There was no reply from the large mound of blankets on the bed where her father lay. But from the fresh cloud of tobacco smoke which hung in the air Marie knew her father was awake.
The room was in semi-darkness but she could make out the grey moon of his face against the whiteness of the pillow. A small disc of orange glowed in the shadow as he placed a cigarette between his lips. Òh Dad,' she moaned, unable to keep the disapproval out of her voice. It was two months since he'd promised her earnestly that he'd given up for good - not for the first time, of course. In the last couple of weeks she'd allowed herself to believe that this time he'd stick to it. She wondered where the old man had got his supply. Aunt Joyce's handbag, she suspected.
Wherever it was, she could see by the overflowing ashtray on the bedside table that this most recent resolution had been utterly abandoned.
He had managed to give up properly just once, for a year. He'd started again the day of Alan's funeral.
36
His unhappy eyes gazed at her in reproach as she snatched the cigarette from his hand and removed the ashtray. She bustled to the window and flung it open. The cold breeze gusted into the fuggy room, dispersing the smoke.
Àuntie Joyce says you've gone back to not speaking. She's upset and so am L'
She paused to allow him to reply but only the rasp of his heavy, tortured breathing came from his throat.
`You're not putting us through the silent treatment again, Dad. I'm not having it.'
She knew she sounded like her mother, her sharp tone an echo of the long-dead woman. Her father hadn't behaved like this when she died, Marie thought angrily.
She pulled his bulk into a sitting position and thumped the pillows with venom. It made her feel better - though not much.
Ì shouldn't have to do this,' she spat. Ì shouldn't have messed up my exams. I shouldn't be up half the night doing some horrible job. And you shouldn't be sitting up here trying to kill yourself'
A callused, fleshy hand closed over hers and stopped her in the act of rearranging his bedclothes. He was a big man, still strong in the arms.
He'd once owned a garage and spent long hours battling with recalcitrant engines, breathing exhaust fumes in a closed workshop and ruining his lungs in the cause of the family fortunes. His grip was unbreakable.
She ran on at the mouth. It was hard to stop once she had started. `So what if Jamie Hutchison's out of prison? He's nothing to us. We've got our own lives to live and he's mucked us up enough already. And you've got to stop smoking, Dad. Like you promised.'
She dried up, suddenly ashamed. She'd never shouted at her father in quite this way before. Not out of adolescent pique but as the responsible one -
like a parent. It didn't seem right.
He appeared to know what she was thinking because his big, round head nodded and his lips stretched into a smile. He tugged at her wrist and she found herself sitting on the bed by his side. He slipped an arm around her shoulder.
37
She allowed herself to be pulled against him and snuggled next to his solid, familiar warmth, ignoring the smell of cigarettes and the prickle of his unshaven chin. His great chest rose and fell, the breath wheezing in his throat. Her anger subsided, to be replaced by her everyday fear. How much longer would she be able to cuddle up to him like this? How much longer did he have?
`You're a good girl, Marie,' he said at last, his voice a whisper.
She shivered and huddled closer to him. She should get up and close the window. It was almost dark.
In response to his sister's shout Jamie went downstairs for supper. The kitchen was reassuringly familiar: the old wooden dresser weighed down with the same china, the Rayburn with a row of tea towels hanging on the rail above the oven, the ledge of plants behind the big double sink.
The scrubbed pine table was laid with wooden place mats that had once seen duty as the sides of wine crates - a trick of his Uncle Bob's - and the hand-painted salad bowl was a memento of a long-distant family holiday in Portugal.
It was like a scene from his childhood.
Pippa swept past Jamie and dumped a casserole dish on the table. `Sit down,' she ordered. `Stop hovering around like a guest, for God's sake.'
`Sorry,' he muttered and jumped to pour her a glass of wine. He knew he would soon take all this for granted, but right now the sudden transition from jail to cosy domesticity was weird.
`Where's Malcolm?' he asked, only now realising the table was just laid for two.
`Working.' She began ladling food onto his plate. `Having dinner with some travel agent who wants to buy a horse. He's always off with someone or other who's thinking of going into racing. Most of the time it's just an excuse for a night out, if you ask me.'
`How's his business doing?' Jamie had always been intrigued by what Malcolm got up to. Bloodstock agent sounded pretty fancy but, as far as he knew, it was a term that covered a multitude of sins. Basically, Malcolm bought horses with other people's money.
`He's doing well,' Pippa said. Àt least I think he is. But, to be honest, I don't think he'd tell me if he wasn't.'
38
Jamie could understand that. Everything came the same to Malcolm. He treated good news and bad with the same cheery optimism. He'd been a rock to Jamie in those grim months between the accident and the trial -
which was more than could be said for Malc's brother Richard. The latter seemed embarrassed by Jamie's misfortunes and had steered well clear.
`Has Malcolm still got an office at Ridgemoor?' When Jamie had gone to prison, Malcolm had been running his business out of his father's yard.
Pippa nodded. Ì said he could work from here but Toby's got more space.
Anyway, Toby trains some of Malcolm's horses so it suits him.' One of an agent's functions was to liaise between a horse's owner and trainer, especially if the trainer happened to be part of the original deal. Jamie guessed that would be the case with the Ridgemoor animals. `Don't you have some of Mal's horses too?'
She looked taken aback. `Certainly not. If things go wrong - like they usually do with horses - it's best I'm not involved.'
Why not? thought Jamie. If it was OK for Malcolm to rope in his dad, why not his wife? But he kept his thoughts to himself and changed the subject.
`Did you hear anything from Geoff Lane today?'
Pippa looked sombre. `No, but I'm sure it's just a question of time.' Jamie knew she meant it wouldn't be long before Lonsdale Heights' owner decided to remove the horse from Pippa's care. Doubtless Lane's nephew, not to mention his wife, would have put the boot in after the spectacular reverse at Wolverhampton.
His sister was looking glummer as the evening wore on. He knew her well: she was what shrinks called a catastrophist - someone who anticipated a disaster round every corner.
`Look, Pippa, I've been thinking about what you asked me - about your training.'
`Yes?' She perked up.
`Have you ever thought about talking to an athletics coach?' She gave him a long look. `No. Why?'
Ìt just strikes me that there may be some things that work with athletes that might work on horses too.'
She poured herself another glass of wine. `Such as?' she asked drily.
`Well, I don't know.'
39
She sipped and said nothing, just stared at him. `But I know a man who does.'
Barney Beaufort was a fellow who liked the sound of his own voice and, as a consequence, made sure he heard plenty of it. That was Malcolm's conclusion, at any rate, as his client's voice echoed round the hotel restaurant. Fortunately their table was in a rear alcove some distance from the white-haired pianist tinkling his way through 1950s standards. There were few other diners, it being past the bedtime of the hotel's clientele.
This was not a venue that Malcolm would have chosen.
On the other hand there were many compensations, namely the wine - the restaurant's cellar was as old as its patrons and all the better for it - the sympathetic presence of Beaufort's colleague, Beverley Harris, and the reason for the celebration: Malcolm's acquisition of a four-year-old jumper on behalf of the travel agent.
After a touch-and-go infancy and a skin-of-the-teeth childhood, Beaufort Holidays had grown to sturdy manhood in the past couple of years and now a rich maturity beckoned - according to Barney. All it needed now was a determined push tògrow' the business from its north-east power base. As part of his strategy to establish the Beaufort `brand', Barney was looking for creative ways of getting the company name òut there'.
`So he wants to buy a horse?' Malcolm had been sceptical on his first visit to Beverley Harris's office.
`He doesn't yet,' she'd told him and got up from behind her desk to stand over him as he slouched on a shapeless office sofa, trying not to spill his coffee.
At first sight she cut an imposing figure: raven-black hair surrounded an unreadable face of sharp planes and high cheekbones further obscured by heavy-frame spectacles. She wore a mannish business suit modestly cut to the knee. But, as she leant back to perch her bottom on the edge of her desk and the skirt crept upwards an inch or two, Malcolm began to revise his first impressions. Her eyes, magnified by the lenses of her glasses, were the milky blue of a heat-hazed sky and the thin line of her mouth now extended itself into a sinuous smile.