I spent the two days prior to the race starving myself even more than normal, and going for runs in the warm evenings wearing thermal underwear and the plastic sweatsuit but, even so, the pounds were failing to come off. In desperation, and remembering how cross Jerry had been at Kempton when I put up overweight, I took the last two Lasix pills and hoped for the best.
‘Pussett, nine stone, thirteen pounds,’ said the Clerk of the Scales.
‘Well done,’ Jerry said, taking my saddle.
I scarcely had enough energy to walk, let alone ride over three miles. Why did I go through all this pain and effort to ride a useless no-hoper that would probably finish tailed off, if he finished at all?
I went back into the changing room, ate a chocolate bar and had a high-energy caffeine drink that promised to give me wings. So, by the time I went out to join Jerry and the horse’s owner in the parade ring, there was a renewed bounce in my stride.
There was plenty of nervous tension around and, with sudden alarm, I realised that both Jerry and the owner had heavily backed Wisden to win.
Were they crazy?
‘Keep handy,’ Jerry said, ‘and then push on from two out.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, thinking he must have lost his senses. The only thing ‘handy’ that this horse had shown me in the past was how quickly he could stop when I decided to pull him up.
The bell was rung and Jerry gave me a leg-up.
‘Good luck,’ Jerry said. ‘And remember to keep him handy to give him the best chance. He’s a sure thing.’ He nodded at me to check I’d understood. I nodded back.
A sure thing? Was there something I didn’t know?
The horse certainly seemed to be going fairly easily as we cantered down to the three-mile start at the far end of the finishing straight, but I thought the race itself might be another matter altogether.
But I was wrong.
Wisden set off well as the starter dropped his flag and, as instructed, I kept him handy just behind the two leaders as we jumped the first two hurdles and passed the grandstand for the first time, with two complete circuits still to go. Nothing unusual about that, but in our previous outings he had simply run out of puff well before the others.
But not this time. As we passed the judge for the second time, we were again in third place, just a length or two behind, and the horse beneath me seemed so full of running that I still had a strong hold on his reins.
The pace quickened over the two flights in the back straight and still Wisden was keeping up as we swung right-handed into the final bend and skipped over the third last.
Those in front began to tire as we straightened up for the final two hurdles, such that Wisden passed one of them in the air with a spectacular jump.
‘Go on, boy,’ I shouted in his ear as I kicked him hard.
It wasn’t so much me that had the wings but my horse, and he flew over the last flight without breaking stride. I drove him hard towards the finish line and he ran on so well that he overtook the short-priced favourite halfway up the run-in.
We won easily by three lengths. Remarkable.
To say that the large bank-holiday crowd was ecstatic with our victory would be totally wide of the mark, and we returned to the unsaddling enclosure in complete silence, save for a few shouted comments from disgruntled punters claiming the race must have been fixed. But Jerry and the owner didn’t seem to mind about that. They both had grins on their faces as wide as the Cheshire Cat and, with a starting price of forty-to-one, I could see why.
I slid down off the horse and undid the girths.
‘Don’t forget to weigh in,’ Jerry said seriously.
That worried me. Would the chocolate bar and energy drink I’d consumed before the race make me too heavy?
Even though the Clerk of the Scales may require any jockey who completes the course to weigh in, it is usually only those that finish in the positions with prize money, in this case the first four. I hadn’t expected to be one of those so hadn’t been too concerned about eating and drinking something after weighing out.
But we had then gone on to win.
I wouldn’t be very popular with Jerry, or the owner, if Wisden was now disqualified because his jockey was the wrong weight. I stepped nervously onto the scale and looked up at the read-out with apprehension, but I needn’t have worried.
‘Ten stone exactly.’ The Clerk nodded and made a note in his ledger. ‘Next.’
One pound over, but within the allowable extra-weight limit.
I went back into the changing room and sat down on the bench, but after a couple of minutes, an official put his head round the door. ‘Pussett,’ he shouted, ‘you’re wanted in the stewards’ room.’
Oh hell!
There were four other men in the room when I went in, three sitting in a row behind a table and Jerry standing in front of it. He was nervously rocking from side to side.
‘Ah, Pussett,’ said one of the men seated – the one in the middle, the chairman. ‘We have asked Mr Dickinson here to explain why his horse, Wisden, appeared to show such a huge improvement over its previous showing. Mr Dickinson says he is unable to do so. You rode Wisden today and on his three previous runs when, on each occasion, you saw the need to pull the horse up before completing the course. Perhaps you can tell us why you think Wisden showed such a dramatic change of form today.’
‘Maybe it was the ground, sir,’ I said. ‘He seemed to enjoy the improved going compared to those previous runs. The ground today was good, good to firm in places, whereas he has only run in the mud before.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jerry, who had suddenly found his tongue. ‘It must have been the firmer ground. And also he was better suited by being ridden more positively in a genuinely run race, as I had instructed Miles Pussett, here, to do.’
I nodded at the panel.
The chairman looked briefly to his colleagues on either side before turning back to Jerry and me.
‘Wait outside,’ he said to both of us, ‘while we discuss our course of action.’
Jerry and I went out of the room. Jerry was sweating, and not just because of the heat of the day. We waited in silence and even my palms began to sweat. The last thing I wanted was a suspension from riding just for doing my job well.
Eventually the door reopened and we were ushered back in.
‘Your explanations have been noted for future reference,’ said the chairman. ‘We have decided to take no further action at this time other than to order Wisden to be routinely dope-tested. That is all. You may go.’
I breathed a sigh of relief as we went out.
‘So will the dope test be positive or negative?’ I asked Jerry quietly.
He looked at me. ‘Negative, of course.’
But he was grinning. He knew, as I did, that something strange had just happened – and he had known it before the race.
That was a sure thing.
14
The first race of the day at White Turf is not like any horse race that I am used to. It is a trotting race with the horses using a harness to pull a one-seat lightweight vehicle set on two short skis rather than wheels.
I am standing with Jerry near the finish line to watch, having nipped into the lunch with the sponsors, wolfed down a starter, and made my apologies for missing the rest.
The field of eight trotters are ushered out onto the track and suddenly they are off, the horses’ legs going nineteen to the dozen as they charge down towards us in line abreast.
The drivers wear bright-coloured silks and cap-covered helmets, just like their riding counterparts, and most also sport goggles and facemasks more akin to those used by motorbike riders in speedway or motocross. And I can see why. The kickback of ice and snow is tremendous, but it doesn’t seem to worry the horses too much. Perhaps that is because they tend to trot with their heads held unnaturally high, at least to my eyes.
‘Strange-looking race,’ Jerry says.
I suppose it may appear strange if you’re m
ore used to watching horses gallop, but I am surprised how fast these animals can trot without breaking into a canter. And it’s a close finish too, with four of them racing side by side down the home straight to the line. The crowd cheer their approval and stamp their feet loudly on the temporary grandstand, although that may well have more to do with keeping warm than anything else.
‘Come on,’ Jerry says. ‘It’s time for us to get going.’
We go back to the weighing tent to collect the saddles for Foscote Boy and Cliveden Proposal from their respective jockeys, and then we make the long trek over to the temporary racecourse stables.
‘You do Fossy, I’ll do Cliveden,’ Jerry says. ‘I’ve put everything out ready.’
I go into Foscote Boy’s stall. But will I remember what to do?
The horse is tied to a ring on the wall with a rope to his head collar. I remove the collar and put on the bridle, taking care to insert the metal bit correctly in his mouth. Next, off comes the thick rug he has been wearing to keep him warm. Then it’s time for the saddle to go on, together with the saddle pad and the number cloth, which I have carried over from weighing out. Finally, I attach the breast girth and tighten everything up. As Jerry had said – piece of cake. Even after all this time, the whole process had felt spontaneous and quite natural. What had I been worried about?
I’m just finished when Jerry comes in.
‘Well done,’ he says, seeing I’ve done everything correctly, but he checks all the buckles nevertheless.
‘That’s a very smart breast girth,’ I say, admiring its bright-white sheepskin sleeve.
‘Helps me see them easier in the race,’ Jerry replies. ‘Some trainers use sheepskin nosebands for the same purpose. I always use sheepskin breast girths. It’s the Dickinson trademark.’
I remembered.
He puts the thick rug back on Foscote Boy, over the saddle. ‘It’ll keep him warm on the walk over. And for after the race. They can all too easily get chilled very quickly in these conditions.’
I’m not surprised. My feet are already chilled and I’m wearing snow boots and two pairs of thick socks. The horse, meanwhile, has on metal horseshoes.
‘How come their feet don’t freeze?’ I ask.
‘There’s an insulating pad inserted between the shoe and the hoof. The farrier here is brilliant. He designed it years ago especially for racing on ice.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Time to go over.’
The third race of the day is about to start as we lead our two horses over towards the racecourse and, if I thought the first race of the day was different, this is like nothing I have ever seen before.
The jockeys, if that is the right word for them, are neither riding the horses nor driving them from little sleds. They are being dragged on skis behind the horses like water skiers behind a boat, except that these are steering with the reins as well as being pulled along by them.
‘It’s called skikjöring,’ Jerry says. ‘It’s completely crazy.’
And he’s right, but it looks like fun too.
The horses are loaded into the starting stalls with the jockeys out the back. And then the gates fly open and they’re off, thundering along the ice in spectacular fashion. How the horses and the men don’t trip over each other, I don’t know, but they all somehow manage to avoid any disasters. Two and a half circuits of the course with an exciting blanket finish at the end, which the photo-finish camera has to sort out.
‘You wouldn’t get me doing that,’ I say. ‘It’s far too dangerous.’
Jerry laughs. ‘So speaks someone who hurtles himself down the Cresta Run at far more than twice the speed.’
I wonder how he knows that. I purposely hadn’t told him but there had been plenty of others at the drinks party who knew. One of them must have mentioned it to him.
‘Yeah, as maybe,’ I say. ‘But at least there are no metal-clad flying hooves to contend with.’
Some of the worst injuries jockeys sustain are often those where a following horse strikes them when they are already on the ground after a fall. A horseshoe is invariably more damaging to the human body than the turf, especially if it’s landing at speed from a great height with half a ton of horse attached.
Susi Ashcroft and Brenda Fenton are waiting for us in the parade ring, each of them looking splendid in their respective fur coats. Not that they are talking to each other. Brenda is with her grandsons and Susi is alone, standing about five yards away trying to give the impression she hasn’t seen the others.
David Maitland-Butler is also there, standing rigid with his chin held high as if on an army parade square, assuming the air of someone who is supremely confident that the result of this race is a forgone conclusion – it is all done and dusted bar the actual running.
When the jockeys appear even their mothers wouldn’t be able tell them apart other than by their different-coloured silks. Every square inch of flesh is covered, with gloves, scarves, goggles and facemasks acting as protection against both the cold and the kickback. Many even wear special slip-on overshoes to keep their feet warm when walking on the ice, their riding boots beneath being wafer-thin.
Jerry has already given his instructions to his two jockeys at the weigh-out and it is not long before a bell is rung and they mount up.
Foscote Boy’s rider is wearing Susi Ashcroft’s gold and black racing colours and I give him a leg-up, peeling off the horse’s thick rug in the process.
‘Good luck,’ I say, as I lead them out of the parade ring and across to the track. I receive a muffled reply through the jockey’s face covering that might be anything, and in any language, for all I can grasp of his actual words.
Do I long for me to be sitting on the horse’s back instead of him?
Maybe I do.
But anyway, as Jerry had said at last night’s drinks party, I couldn’t do the weight. Foscote Boy is carrying 56 kilograms, about eight-stone-eleven, and, even at my lightest as a jockey, that would have been impossible. I haven’t been that low since I was a fourteen-year-old schoolboy.
Jerry, Susi, Brenda and her grandsons go onto the stand reserved for owners and trainers, while I remain by the exit onto the course where the horses go out. I tell Jerry that I will stay and look after the horses’ rugs, but I am also happier here, not having to make small talk with him and the ladies.
The start is way to my right down the far end of a long chute, and soon all the horses are loaded into the stalls and ready. And then there is a huge cheer as the gates open and the most valuable race of the meeting is under way – the prize to the winner being over 53,000 Swiss francs, some 40,000 pounds sterling, which is more than enough even to pay the extortionate room rates for a week at the Badrutt’s Palace.
The twelve runners gallop down towards me, the very ice beneath my feet trembling with the vibration. It makes me grateful to know that the thickness of the ice is measured every day, checking that it is strong enough to support both the horses and the crowd before racing can take place.
As the field passes the winning post for the first time, Cliveden Proposal is running third with Foscote Boy a couple of places further back, racing on the wide outside to avoid ice and snow being kicked up into his face, but the whole group is well bunched. They swing right-handed away from us into the back straight, where the pace quickens, and this begins to stretch them out.
On the final turn, Foscote Boy, still on the outside, starts to make headway forward while Cliveden Proposal seems to be labouring and going the other way, the dark-cherry-with-white-disc silks falling further and further behind. So much for Jerry saying he was the better one of the two.
Susi is going to get her wish to beat Brenda after all.
But Foscote Boy does even better than just that. He runs on strongly in the straight, overtaking the Maitland-Butler horse in the last few strides to win the race by a neck
That won’t please the colonel.
Meanwhile, Cliveden Proposal, in spite of his jockey’s best efforts, fades further to
finish eighth.
I can see that Susi is ecstatic, throwing her arms around Jerry’s neck in excitement, not that he looks very happy with the victory. Meanwhile, Brenda and her grandsons look on with faces like thunder. Losing is bad enough, but losing to Susi… A disaster.
Jerry and Susi come down to the track side to greet their victor, but there is concern written on Jerry’s face as he looks about for his other runner.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say to him, giving him one of the rugs. ‘You go with Susi and Fossy. I’ll look after Cliveden for you.’
If anything, this makes Jerry appear even more worried, but he has no choice as Susi links her arm through his and pulls him off towards the winner’s circle, leading her steaming horse with the other hand.
I watch them go, part of me almost wishing I could join them and savour their success – after all, it was me who had saddled Foscote Boy in the first place. But, in truth, I am much happier out of the limelight, drifting off into the background, and letting Jerry and Susi take the glory. Although I have to admit that I’m hugely enjoying being at the races again, albeit ones on snow and ice.
Jerry gives me one last glance over his shoulder as he is dragged away through the throng, and there is something about his body language that shouts fear rather than elation.
Terror, more like.
Slightly confused by this reaction, I walk out onto the track to meet Cliveden Proposal, who looks exhausted.
‘The poor boy did his best,’ says the jockey, pulling off his facemask. ‘He just wasn’t good enough today.’
I lead him to the place reserved for the unsaddling of those horses that didn’t finish in the first three. The jockey slides down and undoes the girths to remove his saddle while I remove the breast girth.
Something isn’t right. Not right at all.
And Jerry would have known that I’d discover it. That’s obviously why he looked terrified.
The breast girth is heavy, and not just because the horse’s sweat has soaked into the sheepskin. Indeed, it is very heavy, with half a dozen flat lead weights actually stitched inside the sleeve, beneath the wool.
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