But as Cassie stood at the top of the gallops looking at the big black horse, who despite having a good blow was still full of himself – walking easily round the circle Bridie was asking him to make, ears pricked and snorting his good health for all to hear, the odds she might or might not now get were the last thing on her mind. What was in her mind’s eye now was a dream, a dream she barely recognized but a dream none the less, and the longer she stood and looked at the horse standing above her on the top of the hill, where his rider had finally pulled him up, the clearer the vision became, so clear in fact that just as the sun coming out of the clouds after a rainstorm can suddenly irradiate the entire landscape, all at once as the eye of the horse caught and looked into her own the reality of her dream was clear to her and she knew they were both on course to meet their destiny.
‘Well now, Cassie, what next I wonder?’ Peter Nugent said to her, having finally caught her up. ‘Because I have to say here and now that what we have just seen constitutes nothing short of a miracle.’
Cassie turned to him, finally managing to break the look between her and her magical horse. ‘You’re not to say a thing to anyone, Peter,’ she said.
‘Now I know that well enough, Cassie Rosse,’ Peter replied.
‘I know you know, Peter, I’m just saying it as a reminder. To remind us both. Not a word must be said of this to anyone, and most of all you’re to say absolutely nothing about what I’m going to say to you, nor of what we’re going to do next.’
‘Done,’ said Peter Nugent. ‘There’s not a man alive who would dare betray a woman who has a look like yours in her eyes.’
‘Right,’ Cassie said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘Because this is what we’re going to do.’
They followed her plan exactly, her small private army of Liam, Bridie, Peter Nugent and herself, and two days later when they had the Nugent estate and gallops once more to themselves, Bridie did another piece of work with the horse, an altogether different piece of work, and Liam riding not Dorin’s Mist this time but Don’t Say That.
Cassie and Peter Nugent watched the schooling session from either end of a four-furlong stretch on the all-weather gallop which had been specially selected for the exercise, Nugent standing half a furlong up from the bottom of the stretch and Cassie at the top slap in the middle so that between them they could observe the two horses from behind and in front. At the very last moment as the two animals thundered towards her Cassie stepped smartly to one side and watched as they galloped safely by her, both of them going easily on the bridle but on Cassie’s strict orders not taking them on.
‘OK,’ Cassie called as matter-of-factly as she could as Bridie and Liam swung the two horses back to face her. ‘let them have a blow, then walk them down and let them come up again, please. Exactly as you’ve just done, same speed and no racing.’
Just to make sure it wasn’t a one-off wonder, Cassie thought to herself, pushing her hands deeply into the pockets of her padded jacket. Just to make sure what we have all seen and experienced wasn’t pie in the sky.
Five minutes later the two horses came up again and this time Cassie, instead of training her race glasses on them, recorded the entire piece of work on Liam’s camcorder for later analysis. Don’t Say That didn’t do a thing wrong, working even better than Cassie had expected he would and bolstering her hopes even more that he would give a good account of himself next week in the Triumph Hurdle at Cheltenham, but spectacular as the bright bay horse was all Cassie could finally watch was The Nightingale, who this time up not only improved on his first piece of work but was now almost pulling Bridie’s arms out, so obviously unbridled was his enthusiasm.
‘I have never in all my born sat on anything like that, guv’nor!’ a flush-faced Bridie called after she had finally managed to pull her mount up and swing him back round to where Cassie was waiting. ‘Jeez – we could have taken Liam’s chap any time we wanted! We were cantering over him all the way home!’
‘So you should have been,’ Cassie replied, again trying to be as factual as possible. ‘You’re sitting on a Dual Derby winner and Liam’s riding a four year novice. Now walk them both down, please, let them pick some grass down by the box when they’re cool and then straight home. And not a peep out of either of you. Understood?’
What nobody understood was what happened next, nobody that is except Cassie and her friend and confidant Peter Nugent. Not even Liam or Bridie herself could comprehend what they both privately considered was their guv’nor’s one moment of total insanity.
She had warned them, of course, because she felt it was the right of her loyal stable staff to hear the news first, but what she did not do was tell them one thing more than they needed at the moment to know. Since taking over the reins at Claremore, apart from the death of old Tomas and of Sorcha, her best girl work rider leaving to get married, Cassie had managed to keep her staff, an unbroken record which few stables could boast, particularly since other trainers were forever on the poach, trying to lure lads away with the promise of more money and better riding opportunities. The team at Claremore had christened themselves the Clan, which was how they thought of themselves, so proud were they of their guv’nor who, unlike other trainers, always ran her horses on their merit. They were never put in races at the wrong distance to fool the handicapper and get their weight down, nor were they ever out for the exercise. Every time a horse ran, the instructions to the jockeys were the same: put the horse in the race and give it every chance. So if a horse got beaten, it was beaten because it wasn’t quite either fit or good enough. Since this was how the stable worked, when a horse was expected to win the Clan knew it and they put their money down, often helping themselves at good odds when there was an ante post list on the race, or at ‘early-bird’ prices, first thing in the morning when the market was forming and the bookmakers were still busy trying to pre-guess the possible favourite before the punters waded in. As a consequence there were never any complaints in the yard, nor was there any need to sell information either to rivals or, more important, to bookies.
Yet after the announcement Cassie made to them all on the eve of Cheltenham itself, even the Clan were shaken to the core and for the first time they questioned the wisdom of their governor.
Cassie knew this. Indeed if she had been in their place she would have felt exactly the same. But she also knew it was the only way forward. She knew that one more word of explanation would be too much, not because she felt that possession of all the facts might prove too much for whoever might be the weakest member of her devoted staff but because as always she believed that once something was out and made public it was up there in the ether, unseen maybe but there none the less, there for somebody who sensed something was up – which Cassie had always believed the phrase to mean, namely up in the ether – to search for until they found it. Therefore, the less said the better.
Almost everything she said to her stable staff the evening before those involved left for England and the Cheltenham Festival Cassie put in her statement to the Press, which was issued in time for the Tuesday editions of the sporting as well as the ordinary newspapers. It read:
As you know, it has always been our policy here at Claremore to keep both the press and the public up to date with all our developments. Over the past three years these have been especially concerned with one particular racehorse, The Nightingale. Because of the intense public interest in this horse we have endeavoured to keep everyone fully informed of his well-being, particularly since his kidnap. I am delighted to say that physically the horse seems to have made a full recovery from his ordeal, thanks to the skill of our veterinary surgeon Mr Niall Brogan and the love and attention of the staff here at Claremore. Without everyone’s patience and devotion I doubt whether the horse could have survived. However, complete as his recovery appears to have been and while the horse is back in full work now, as his owner I feel that to ask him to return to the scene of his former triumphs in the hope of winning again
would smack of going to the well once too often. I do not doubt that we could find a race for him somewhere, but I am sure his millions of fans will agree with me that what we do not want to see is this remarkable horse back on the racecourse as a shadow of his former self. I feel he has more than earned not just his living but his place in the record books, and so this is why rather than run the risk of tarnishing that record I have decided to take him out of training. In light of this decision I would like to thank everybody who has supported The Nightingale whenever and wherever he ran, and for their concern, and their good wishes when he was stolen, after he was returned, and when he so nearly died. Without you all there would have been no such horse. Everyone who loves racing creates the arena wherein our sport may take place. You have all been a vital part of The Nightingale and because you have been I feel sure you will understand why I have made this decision.
The only thing Cassie omitted to include in her statement to the Press were her final words to the Clan on the matter. I think I know how you must be feeling, she had said. Probably just as I feel. Afraid, and as if all hope has gone. But just remember hope and fear are inseparable. There is no hope without fear, and no fear without hope. As my own guv’nor used to say – if hope were not, your heart should break.
After Cassie and Liam had supervised the loading of the Cheltenham-bound horses into the aircraft which was to carry them to England, Cassie took her head lad aside and bought him a drink before it was time for him to embark.
‘How has everyone taken it?’
‘Ah well how would you expect, guv’nor?’ he returned, sadly but without any implied criticism. ‘I doubt if there was a dry pillow in the lads’ hostel, and sure poor Bridie’s still piping away at every given moment. But in their hearts they knows you’re doing the right thing. It’d be a terrible day for the old horse if he got beat. But with respect what I don’t understand, guv’nor, is—’
‘Don’t, Liam,’ Cassie warned, cutting across him. ‘Don’t try to understand and don’t ask me any questions. The decision has been made and there’s no going back.’
‘I don’t doubt that for one moment, guv’nor,’ Liam replied, turning the glass of whisky in front of him round and round on the bar. ‘It’s just that having come this far and with the horse working the way he was working, and then—’
‘No, Liam, you’re not to say one word more.’ Cassie looked at him, not to warn him or to put him in his place, but to make him see it wasn’t necessary. Liam frowned back at her, not quite getting it yet, but beginning to hear something different in his employer’s tone. ‘Let me ask you something,’ she continued, having called two more drinks up, another whisky for Liam and a Diet Coke for herself. ‘Are you what my husband used to call a dreaming man? Do you think dreams have any value, or do you believe they’re just a clearing house? Your mind getting rid of what it doesn’t want?’
‘The Irish aren’t meant to dream until they’re exiled, guv’nor. But that’s not really what you’re talking about, is it? To judge from the look in your eyes.’ Liam finished his first whisky and pushed the glass away. ‘What you’re talking about is visions. Things coming to you from out of the nowhere. Somebody telling you what to do, or something showing you what’s going to happen. If that’s what you’re referrin’ to, then I am your man.’
‘The trouble is, Liam, I don’t see how such things are possible, yet there are all these things which people claim happen to them, out of body experiences, voices, telepathy, spiritualism. I mean, there just have to be too many stories about all these phenomena for there not to be something. I’m not making much sense, I guess, but what I’m trying to say is that I’ve seen something. I don’t know where, I don’t know how. I don’t know whether I dreamed it, whether I imagined it, whether someone suggested it to me somehow, whether I auto-suggested, or what. All I know is that I have this conviction, a really strong conviction, and that it’s propelling me on a particular course of action, and that I don’t doubt what I’m doing for one single moment. Does that sound mad to you? Do you think perhaps I am mad?’
‘You might have gone mad not telling anyone about it, guv’nor,’ Liam replied with a grave nod. ‘This concerns the horse, does it not? For there can be no other explanation.’
‘I don’t know what it concerns, Liam,’ Cassie replied. ‘Other than the future. Which, believe me, is precariously balanced, so it had all better be true.’
‘So will the horse ever race again or won’t he, guv’nor?’
‘Come on now, Liam,’ Cassie said with a quick glance at the man beside her. ‘Even if he is one hundred per cent back to himself, what else is there for him to win?’
‘So we’re not going to get rich, then?’ Liam asked with a half smile.
‘We’d never have got rich that way, Liam,’ Cassie replied. ‘You know that. They’d never have let us get enough money down. Would they?’
‘They would not,’ Liam agreed, and he looked at Cassie and she smiled back at him, a sudden and very different smile, a smile that told him the heart should not yet break.
Twenty-Four
The rains had come for Cheltenham and the raiders’ hopes were high. There were twenty-two Irish entries, five of them in the first race – the Waterford Hurdle – after which hopes were even higher since the Irish horses filled the first three places. Cassie was interviewed by various sports channels regarding her own particular aspirations and while she said she considered that Well Loved had the best credentials of her three runners and therefore the best chance of adding another pot to the trophy shelf at Claremore, she thought the home-trained horses seemed a particularly talented lot this year and that she would be more than happy to take part and return home with her three entries unscathed.
In her private box while the rest of her party were down in the paddock, Cassie tuned the television to the BBC to catch the news. There was only a brief report on the trial which had opened that morning but there was film of Joel arriving at the court in the company of his lawyer. A few paces behind him, unaccompanied, in dark glasses and a huge headscarf, was the unmistakable figure of Leonora.
Cassie switched channels immediately, turning back to the racing before getting up and going down to the saddling boxes to help saddle up her first runner at the meeting, Sauce For The Goose, who was due to run in the Grand Annual Steeplechase over two miles. Terry McGuire had been booked for the ride and although he and Cassie had already talked at length on the telephone that morning about how the horse should be ridden, the two of them were still good-naturedly arguing over tactics right up to the moment Bridie folded the paddock sheet off the saddle and back onto the horse’s quarters and Liam stood by to leg the jockey up.
‘Even though the rain’s got in the ground, Mrs Rosse, they’re still going to crack on,’ McGuire said. ‘You saw the pace they’ve been going already and I’m afraid if we let him run too free he’ll have nothing left for the hill.’
‘On paper I know you’re right, Terry,’ Cassie agreed, eyeing up the opposition. ‘But the only way this lad’s going to be in with a squeak is if he runs them ragged. Drop him out early on and he’ll sulk, I promise you. Keep taking a tug and he’ll waste himself. I’ll take the stick if it doesn’t work, but just for me – pop him out first and let him stride on. The other thing this fella can do is jump.’
McGuire grinned, tipped his hat and, agreeing that he’d take the trainer’s word for it, let Liam leg him up. The horse whipped round once, jog-trotted on the spot and then fell into line behind the other horses as the field circled the paddock once before being allowed out of the course.
Sauce For The Goose was a 10/1 shot early on, but by the time they were off, due no doubt to the lather of sweat the horse had got himself into before cantering down to the start, he had drifted to 12/1 and by the time they were running he was fairly friendless at 14/1. But McGuire was as good as his word. As soon as the starter let them go he kicked on, and coming to the first the big bright bay had already pul
led himself two lengths clear.
The two of them, jockey and horse, gave a model display of jumping, meeting every one of the stiff Cheltenham fences spot on and kicking away from them as soon as they were safely landed, so much so that when they turned for home at the top of the famous hill with three left to jump Sauce For The Goose was still three lengths up on the favourite, Eddie’s Treasure, who was showing every sign of finding the pace too hot, and another length clear of the second favourite, the grey Somerset Legend who had suddenly found another gear and was looking the principal danger. Of the other eight runners, four had fallen and the rest, unable to live with the pace, were all but tailed off.
Cassie could not look. She found the jumping game much harder to watch than Flat racing where once the race was on in earnest it was easier to read the action because there were no obstacles to jump. Not here, not in this game, not in the great grand sporting coliseum that was Cheltenham, where now with only two fences left to jump the crowd, particularly the Irish contingent, were beginning to go mad with excitement as three superb steeplechasers produced at the peak of their condition stood off from the penultimate fence to jump it in line. So great was the din that the racecourse commentator could hardly be heard as the leaders swung for home, Sauce For The Goose tight on the rails just where Cassie and Terry McGuire had wanted to be and was still on the bridle. And then.
Just as the Claremore horse once more began to forge ahead, Tony Gilpin, who was riding Eddie’s Treasure and had somehow managed coming down the hill to conjure another run out of a seemingly beaten horse, went for his whip once more and his horse took a dive towards the rails, catching Sauce For The Goose just behind his saddle and knocking him temporarily out of his stride so that for one awful moment it looked as if the Irish horse was going to be driven into the wing of the fence. To prevent this McGuire took a pull, straightening his horse as he checked him and miraculously still finding not only a stride but the right stride into the last fence.
The Nightingale Sings Page 39