So here’s how it is – we’re not going to be able to settle back and feel comfortable (at least I’m not) as long as we have yet another mystery clouding our relationship. So we’re in a kind of stand off, right? If there’s nothing to explain, then just tell me why not and that’ll be that. If there is something to explain and I can live with the explanation then that’s OK by me as well. If I can’t, well, we’ll just have to say goodbye and thanks for the memory. Don’t write if you feel you can’t. Call me on my new number which I’ve written on the top of the first page. If you don’t get me, leave a message to say what time you’ll call (between 6 and 7 in the evening is always a good time) and I’ll be there. I’m going to leave the calling up to you because I think it’s better that way. If you call, I’ll know you mean business.
As always,
Love,
‘Mrs Rosse’
In a hurry to leave for the races and finding she had no stamps in her desk in the drawing room, Cassie broke one of her golden rules which was always to mail her own letters and called out to Erin as she was passing by to ask if she would take the letter down to the village with her when she next went and mail it for her at the post office. For some reason, for a very good reason as it later emerged, Erin put it in the pocket of her old tweed coat and neglected to post it.
Twenty-Three
Hearing nothing back from him Cassie thought she would ring him, then she thought not. What she did instead to make sure he was still in residence at his house in Barnes was to ring his number from her car phone. As soon as she heard his voice, she hung up. She didn’t even wait for him to say Hello? more than once, in case hearing his characterful tones she might weaken and say Hello back. If she had, she knew she would have lost the battle.
Instead she pressed END on her car phone and drove on to Peter Nugent’s private gallops on his estate north of Kilkenny, where they were due to give The Nightingale his first serious piece of work. The operation had been shrouded in secrecy as previously agreed, protected it was hoped by a rumour put about by one of the lads that the big horse was due to work in earnest that particular Friday morning in the third string on the home gallops at Claremore, ridden by Dexter Gordon. Sure enough Dexter had duly turned up for work and under maximum security had been put up on The Nibbler, another big black horse and an early type of three-year-old due to race as soon as the Flat season opened. He was the ideal choice, for apart from three big white socks the horse was as good an understudy for The Nightingale as could be found anywhere, particularly once Bridie had carefully bandaged over the tell-tale white socks and got him ready for the gallop wearing an exercise hood.
The understudy horse was to work with a handful of other early horses which were also pencilled in to run at the end of the month, the instructions being for the others to pull easily away from The Nightingale’s double when they hit the final furlong marker and asked their mounts to get serious. The plan worked to perfection, with Dexter really looking as if he was stoking up the big horse under him to keep pace which in a way he was, for The Nibbler for all his fancy breeding was a bit of a slowcoach and had already been earmarked by Cassie and his owner to have more potential as a three mile steeplechaser.
‘If our boys are up there where they usually are in the bushes,’ Liam had laughed as Cassie had met him at the top of the gallops, ‘by lunchtime you’ll be naming your price.’ But by now, much later in the morning, Cassie was getting ready to watch the real article at work. Liam and Bridie had slipped him and Dorin’s Mist, his galloping companion, out of the back entrance of Claremore in Cassie’s old trailer, the one she had always used to take Joesphine’s ponies to compete. Five miles down the road at a house belonging to Niall Brogan’s mother they had transferred their precious cargo to a proper but unmarked horsebox which had been used for the rest of the journey to the estate belonging to Peter Nugent. Nugent was an old friend of Tyrone and now also of Cassie, a gentleman farmer whose greatest joy was the breeding and production of event horses, an occupation which he had been following with increasing success for the past twenty years. Hence his superb facilities, and also, Cassie thought with relief as she drove up the tree-lined drive to his large and handsome Georgian house, hence his lack of competitive edge as far as she and Claremore were concerned.
He was, however, one of The Nightingale’s most devoted fans, as also one who believed implicitly that if the great horse did fail to find his feet racing again, both his breeding and his conformation indicated he could well turn into a successful eventer.
‘So in a way, Cassie, you’ll understand I won’t be that displeased if this particular plan of yours backfires,’ he said with a smile as Cassie and he walked towards his Range Rover for the drive up to the gallops. He was a stout, red-faced man with a shock of thinning ginger hair, known less for his looks than for his dress sense, which was always immaculate. He was also deceptively fit and active for a man of his girth. ‘You know, I’d not be entirely heartbroken to have the horse here for his further education,’ he said to Cassie with a nudge. ‘In fact I’d not be entirely heartbroken to have him as a gift.’
‘Let’s first see what the old fellow shows us this morning,’ Cassie replied with a smile, taking her friend’s arm. ‘He’s been working like a train at home.’
‘And who are you working him against today?’
‘Potentially our best three-year-old, Dorin’s Mist. He wouldn’t be in the same league as the old Nightingale, but we’ve weighted the old boy up within a stone of his best against him so we’ll see.’
‘And what weights exactly are they carrying, Cassie?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Cassie replied with a laugh.
‘Well, there’s no-one here today to see him anyway,’ Peter Nugent said to reassure her. ‘Everyone’s off hunting down in Wexford except myself and my dogs. So we have the place to ourselves. Has Dexter sat on him before today? I mean since you’ve started bringing The Nightingale up? I’m only asking that because the horse is giving him an awful funny look.’
They were standing by the rails overlooking the main yard now where Bridie and Liam had been getting the horse ready. Dexter, who had arrived shortly before, was making his way across to his old equine friend with whom he had shared probably the most memorable moments in the history of racing, pulling on and buckling up his crash hat while calling out friendly greetings to Liam and Bridie as well as his intended mount.
‘Hey there, old boy!’ Dexter called as he slipped on his riding gloves. ‘You are looking just a picture of health, aren’t you, you gorgeous fellow? Let’s just hope you can still go as well as you look.’
While Dexter had been chatting him up, the big horse had just stood looking at him and hadn’t moved. But Peter Nugent was right. There were looks and there were looks, and the one The Nightingale was giving his former jockey was baleful to say the least. Dexter noticed it and came to a standstill a few feet from the horse’s head.
‘Hey – what is it, fella?’ he wondered, putting a hand slowly up to stroke the horse’s neck. The Nightingale would have none of it, suddenly shying away and standing back on his hind legs to avoid the jockey’s touch. ‘It’s OK, old pal,’ Dexter said soothingly. ‘It’s OK, you know I wouldn’t hurt you. Here. Here—’ He put up his hand again but again the horse shied away from him, this time much more violently, pulling Bridie with him halfway across the yard, his shoes sparking against the cobbles.
‘Maybe if Liam got hold of the other side of his bridle,’ Peter Nugent suggested.
‘He won’t let Liam near him,’ Cassie said. ‘I’ll try holding him with Bridie, but I warned Dex this would probably happen. Didn’t I, Dex?’
‘He’ll be OK once I’m up,’ Dexter said. ‘Once he feels me up on him again everything will be back to normal. I’m sure it’s just he doesn’t trust anyone down on the ground.’
‘Anyone male you mean,’ Bridie corrected him. ‘He used to let Liam crawl all over him, Dex, but as I told you
s, Liam can’t even come near his box now let alone in it.’
‘I don’t doubt you’re right, Bridie my love,’ Dexter grinned at the diminutive Bridie. ‘But my job is to ride horses and the greatest part of my job has been to ride this particular horse. And I tell you – I don’t give up the ride on this fella without a fight. OK? Now hold his head and hold it real good.’
With Cassie holding the horse’s bridle on his offside as well as the stirrup iron to give Dexter the bext chance of getting up and staying up, and with Bridie taking a grim hold of the nearside and the left rein, Liam got ready to let the jockey up.
‘Easy now, Liam,’ Dexter whispered. ‘On the count of three as usual, but as light as a feather. I don’t want him to know I’m even in the plate. One. Two. Three.’
It was as if Dexter was suspended for a moment in air, so lightly did he get up and then land in the saddle. For a moment everyone thought they were there. Everyone stood holding their breath, not daring to speak or move, but they all thought they were there because the big horse had not turned a hair. Dexter was in the plate with both hands on the reins, reins of which he cleverly had not yet taken proper hold so that the horse would not suddenly panic and take off.
Then suddenly and without warning the horse exploded into a frenzy of action, leaping off all four feet into the air and twisting, bucking and flykicking as he did.
‘Dear Jesus God!’ Liam shouted. ‘Bale out, Dexter! Bale out, man, or ye’ll be killed!’
Cassie had been knocked flying as had Bridie, although fortunately neither of them had been kicked. Liam had thrown himself clear when he saw the horse go up and was lying on the ground as were Cassie and Bridie while above them the horse continued to rear, buck and flykick. Somehow, miraculously, Dexter was still in the plate, sitting out everything the horse could throw at him as if he was riding the big one in a rodeo. In keeping he even had his left arm thrown out to keep balance as The Nightingale did everything in his power to dislodge him.
‘In different circumstances I’d say ride him, cowboy,’ Peter Nugent observed as he helped Cassie to her feet. ‘What in God’s name has happened to the horse?’
‘In the Devil’s name, you mean, Mr Nugent sir,’ Liam said, getting to his feet and dusting his cap against his leg. ‘If I only knew who done this to him and what they done—’
‘Look out!’ Bridie called. ‘He’s going to make a bolt for it!’
Having failed to dislodge his jockey, the horse was now cantering on the spot with his eye on the fence that contained the yard.
‘Ah good and sweet Jesus,’ Liam sighed, slapping his forehead with the palm of one hand. ‘Sweet Jesus we’ll soon see now whether or not the old horse can jump.’
Sensing The Nightingale still had the upper hand even though he had sat the bucks, the rears and the flykicks, Dexter was cool enough to sit still with a loose rein and let the horse do his worst. After all if he did clear the four-foot rail and Dexter still stayed in place all there was ahead of them both was the magnificent Nugent estate around which the horse could bolt himself silly until he was too tired or too bored to go on. So once the horse had rolled back on his hocks and started to plunge towards the fence, Dexter just got into position and waited for the outcome.
Off no more than three paces The Nightingale soared over the fence and was gone.
‘Yes, yes, guv’nor,’ Liam said, pulling his cap back on. ‘Yes, I’d say the bugger can jump all right. He can most certainly jump.’
All four of them ran out of the yard now to see which way the horse was headed. They did not have to run very far, for no sooner had The Nightingale jumped out of the yard and looked to be taking off for the far mist-shrouded horizon than he put the brakes on, dropping a shoulder as he did so and shooting Dexter over his head to land with a heavy thud on the grass where, as the party ran towards him, he lay for a moment motionless before slowly sitting up with a hand to one shoulder.
The Nightingale, meanwhile, having at last rid himself of the man on his back, stood still on the exact spot where he had fired Dexter off, put his head down and contentedly began to take a good chew of grass.
‘Goddammit!’ Dexter swore. ‘I think I’ve done a collarbone.’
While they were waiting for the ambulance Cassie had to decide whether to abort the whole exercise, which would leave her none the wiser about the horse’s present capabilities, or once Dexter was safely taken care of to go ahead with Bridie riding the gallop in his place. Sensing her hesitation Dexter made her mind up for her, recommending the piece of work went ahead as planned.
‘But don’t let’s go drawing any other conclusions,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’ve been on the ground many times. Not with Nightie, OK, I’ll grant you that. But the horse could have something wrong in his back, or his pelvis. Who knows? He was as good as gold when I got up on him, then something set him off. So I say let Bridie ride the gallop and give the horse the benefit of the doubt. If it had been later in the year we’d all just think something had maybe stung him. Or maybe he simply needs a little bit of re-educating. Either way, if he works as good as he looks, I’ll live to ride him on the racecourse. Don’t you worry, guv’nor.’
So once Dexter had been removed by ambulance to have his collarbone attended to, the rugs which had been thrown over the two waiting horses were pulled off and Cassie legged Bridie up onto The Nightingale without the big horse’s moving a muscle, much to the apparent disgust of Liam. With Liam legged up on Dorin’s Mist the two horses were sent on ahead at a gentle canter to the foot of the gallops, followed by Cassie and Peter Nugent in the Range Rover.
They parked halfway up the gallop, the best vantage point to see where the serious work was to be done. Like most successful trainers Peter Nugent had two sets of gallops, an all-weather one and a grass one laid on old turf. The piece of work was to be carried out on the grass stretch since the ground was well drained and the land was drying out, it now being the second week of a fine but windy March.
‘I’ve told Bridie just to come up alongside for the first three furlongs, and then as they start to climb to shake the horse up there—’ Cassie pointed to a large white-painted pole on the side of the gallop. ‘So that they’ll really be stretching as they pass us. I mean it to be a proper test. If the horse is even halfway fit, at these weights he should be two to three lengths up when they reach your red marker up there, which I guess is seven furlongs?’
‘Absolutely, Cassie,’ Peter Nugent replied. ‘As you know it’s a good haul up to there, so when they pull up you’ll know by how much he’s blowing. You can’t swing the lead galloping up here.’
As she put her race glasses up, Cassie found her hands were trembling with excitement, just as if she and her great horse were back on the racecourse again, ready to run and to thrill millions of people all around the world. She could see the horses circling at the foot of the gallops as they prepared to strike off, The Nightingale nearest her now dancing on the spot with pent-up excitement while the big bay next to him was plunging and turning as Liam tried to settle him down and get him ready.
A moment later they were off.
Exactly as instructed the two horses cantered alongside at a sensible hunting pace, their riders allowing them to settle and relax. Already Cassie could hear the sound of their pounding hooves in the still morning air, coming nearer and nearer as they swung right-handed round the first crook on the gallops and began to take the slight incline that rose up to the white marker. As soon as they passed the pole the sound of the pounding hooves quickened, a noise joined now by the audible snorting of the two galloping horses and the creak and slap of their tack. All at once they were nearly on top of Cassie and Peter Nugent, matching stride for great stride, the two big horses now really beginning to stretch as their riders asked them for their effort. The Nightingale’s nostrils were flared red and his head was tucked down and cocked slightly to one side, just as it always was when he began to race in earnest, yet he hadn’t shaken off the big th
ree-year-old who was still going easily enough beside him and as the horses thundered by seemed in fact to have it over The Nightingale until Bridie shook the black horse up and called out to him, words Cassie couldn’t make out and wouldn’t have understood even had she caught them, for Bridie was calling to the great horse in Gaelic. As she threw him a foot of rein and pumped him just twice from the saddle, the miracle happened and the great horse picked up his bit and flew, suddenly finding another yard in his stride, kicking on up the hill and past the other horse who all at once was a spent force, an also ran, a no hoper, gone in a second from looking like a potential classic winner to looking like every other horse trounced and humbled by the mightiest racehorse in the world.
Cassie could see no more. Surreptitiously wiping tears from her eyes with the back of one hand she ran ahead of her friend after the horses whom she could see pulling up at the top of the gallops. Faster and faster she ran so that the winds would dry her eyes and bring the colour back to her cheeks. You may be soft, my dearest love, Tyrone had often said to her, don’t I know you’re as soft as feathers, but never ever let an outsider see just how soft you are.
‘Well?’ Cassie asked Bridie. But it was no good asking Bridie anything. She was in tears.
It was left to Liam to sum the gallop up. ‘He’s barely half fit, guv’nor,’ he sighed, shaking his head. ‘Listen. He’s blowing like a forty a day man. Yet he’s given my fella – who’s no slouch now, is he? He’s given my man here a stone and a half, and half fit he’s buried him. I tell yous, if anyone gets wind of this, you can forget twenties. You can forget tens. You can forget odds against. If anyone gets wind of this the best price you can expect before you even enter him up is two or three or maybe even four to one on.’
The Nightingale Sings Page 38