The Nightingale Sings

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see how he comes out of this one first, guv’nor,’ Dexter said, slinging his lightweight saddle over one arm. ‘He’s a tough horse and likes his racing but you wouldn’t want another one coming too quick. Mind you, that all depends on precisely what race you had in mind for him next, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Let’s put it this way,’ Cassie replied, standing to one side as Bridie threw a paddock sheet over the sweating Dormie One. ‘The race I have earmarked for him you won’t find in the Racing Calendar.’

  In fact even the most knowledgeable of racegoers would not only have been unable to find the race Cassie had mapped out for her horse but also the very racecourse where it was to be run. For good reason, too, since the last official meeting held there had been back in 1906, well before the Troubles. The owners, however, had never allowed it to fall into complete disuse since it lay on land within their estate walls, and although it had been used to grow hay until the beginning of the Thirties, during the last years before the Second World War it had been fully restored as a private course and used by the family for private race parties.

  Now Peter Nugent used it as part of his own training gallops for his event horses, its only other use being the occasional letting to trainers who were close friends of his when they wanted to give any wayward racers they had a school round a track away from the public or to teach wide-running three-year-olds to handle sharp bends.

  ‘Otherwise I’d rather it wasn’t in use because let everyone and his wife in and it’d be cut up in no time at all,’ Peter explained to Josephine on the Monday two weeks after Dormie One had run at Leopardstown. ‘Consequently the course is in perfect order. We maintain it as well as most full time courses and a lot better than some others which tact forbids me to name. So you won’t find any potholes or slippery bends, have no fear of that. There’s a really good covering of grass as you can see and we keep it well watered from the lake in the middle so the horses’ll put down on it all right. Except for the lack of a crowd you might as well be at any decent course in the country.’

  Naturally Cassie knew the course of old, having been privileged to use it on certain occasions to school some of her own more difficult horses, and it was just as Peter Nugent had described it, every inch a racecourse except for the attendant crowd of racegoers. Even the old grandstand was still in place as indeed were the running rails, the old-fashioned starting gate, the distance markers and the winning post. It lay in the fold of a valley, no longer accessible from the far distant road which had been deliberately closed by the family in the Thirties when it had been decided the track should be for their private entertainment only. Now it could only be reached by way of a long potholed track which led up from the back of the house around the side of the event course and finally through a long stretch of woodland which hid it completely from the sight of anyone walking or riding by on the east side of the copse. So well concealed was it that the uninitiated would never have known what lay beyond the densely planted woods.

  To compete in the unofficial race that day Cassie had shipped down altogether eight of her horses to Kilkenny, all of them weighted exactly to their handicap mark with Dormie One getting weight only from one other, the top weighted Lovely Grub which had already won twice that season. But the horse Cassie knew Dormie One had to beat at the weights in order to be anything approaching a racing certainty by the time the stalls opened at Ascot was a very useful four-year-old handicapper called Big Wallow who was getting nearly a stone from Dormie One. If Dormie One could finish within a length of him, let alone beat him, then the form line would suggest the Diamond Stakes would be his for the taking.

  Not that Josephine was kept as fully informed as this. Quite deliberately Cassie briefed all the other jockeys separately and well in advance of the privately held contest, giving them instructions as detailed as those she would have given them on the racecourse proper. The orders she gave to her daughter were also meticulous, above all stressing the fact that although Dormie One was a remorseless galloper he did not exactly possess vivid acceleration and so consequently could not be held up for a late run. His method of victory was to run his rivals ragged so there was no point in keeping him covered up or even handy.

  ‘Remember – he has to be there or thereabouts from the off,’ Cassie reminded Josephine as she legged her daughter up into the plate. ‘And by the time you pass the three marker, you’ll want to be a good three or four lengths clear. Except for the climb up from Swinley Bottom, this track isn’t altogether unlike Ascot. You come off the final bend here as I told you with just two furlongs left to run. So whatever you do, don’t get boxed in.’

  Yet despite all Josephine’s best efforts, boxed in was precisely what she got, just as Cassie had ordered her other riders to make sure she did. There being no starting stalls, only the sort of old-fashioned starting gate made of stranded wires which shot upwards when released by the starter and would certainly have scared the stall-trained horses half to death, the race had been started from flag and due to the horse drawn beside her whipping round at the off, through no great fault of her own Josephine missed the break. Consequently by the end of the first half mile instead of lying handy she was ten lengths adrift of the leaders with all to do. The horses up front weren’t taking any prisoners either, having set a scorching pace from the drop of the flag, so Josephine knew that unless she made up her ground now she’d be well and truly beaten for toe if by the time they turned into the straight she was still being towed rather than doing the towing.

  Happily just when she was looking to make a move the two horses right in front of her moved off the rails as if to try to improve their own positions on the outside since the way ahead was well and truly blocked by the leading trio who were galloping in line abreast, with the inside horse so tight on the rails he was practically taking the paint off them. Knowing that to go round the outside from where her own horse lay would add another three or four lengths to his journey and thinking that by the time they swung into the straight the leaders by the sheer momentum of their gallop would have to swing a couple of lengths wide of the running rail and thus present her with another gap through which to pounce, Josephine took a pull and swung Dormie One right of the flanks of the horse now cutting across her to fill the opening which had been presented to her.

  Now he had the rail to run against her horse lengthened his stride and began to find top gear. In fact he was so full of running by the time they hit the three furlong from home marker his head was practically catching the quarters of the horse racing right in front of him which now began to swish its tail, a sure sign of distress.

  ‘Move over, move over!’ Josephine shrieked at its jockey, who was already hard at work with his whip. ‘You’re beat so get out of the bloody way!’

  But the beaten horse was momentarily trapped by the horse on its outside, Dexter Bryant’s mount Big Wallow which looked as full of running as Josephine’s own mount felt. Next to Dexter’s horse Lovely Grub was also still in the bridle, with Liam sitting on it as still as a mouse, which meant that with Dormie One lying right up its backside the beaten horse had nowhere to go except straight into Josephine’s horse.

  Leaving Josephine – unless a gap miraculously opened in front of her – with no option but to pull out and try to overtake the leaders on the outside and get first run.

  That too was easier said than done as she discovered the moment she tried to switch her horse, since a big grey called Damascus with his jockey hard at work on him was less than a length adrift of Lovely Grub, leaving Josephine no choice but to pull out round him as well in order to make her run. Cursing herself at the top of her voice she managed to steer Dormie One clear of both the two beaten horses but by the time she saw daylight on the outside they were past the two furlong marker and both Dexter and Liam were three lengths clear and had gone for home.

  Despite riding the strongest finish she had ever ridden in a race and despite the fact that Dormie One was making ground wi
th every stride he took, Josephine’s horse was beaten into third place by two half lengths.

  Cassie said nothing to her about her performance until they were driving home, and even then it was left to Josephine to bring the subject up.

  ‘Look,’ she began. ‘It won’t happen like that at Ascot because we’ll be coming out of the stalls. It wasn’t my fault the horse next to me whipped round.’

  ‘I never said it was.’

  ‘You haven’t said anything,’ Josephine retorted. ‘All we’ve had since I got off the horse has been the sound of silence.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘About what a pig’s breakfast I made of it.’

  ‘About best laid plans going astray. It wasn’t your fault the horse beside you whipped round, but it was your fault you hadn’t already pressed the start button.’

  ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing!’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Cassie returned. ‘If you don’t mind waiting until I finish before you agree or disagree, I’d be very grateful. Because as sure as hell you’re not going to learn anything by getting in a temper. So as I was saying, you missed the break not because the horse whipped round but because you weren’t already going forward. The other jocks anticipated the break. I had my glasses on you. You were caught flat-footed.’

  ‘Fine, so I was caught flat-footed,’ Josephine agreed ungraciously. ‘But if we’d been in starting stalls it would have been a different matter.’

  ‘No, not necessarily,’ Cassie argued. ‘It’s all too easy to miss the break in the stalls as well. I’ve seen jocks a thousand times more experienced than you miss the break. Watch guys like Eddery, and Carson, Reid, and Dettori just for beginners. By the time the gates open ninety-nine point nine per cent of the time their horses are already in motion. And that’s what you have to do, Jose. You’ve got to have your horse going the moment you see daylight. Jockeys? the starter will call you.’

  ‘I know,’ Josephine agreed wearily. ‘I have race ridden before.’

  ‘Jockeys? he’ll call you,’ Cassie continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘One two – and you’re running. I want to see you out of those stalls and a length up while the other ladies are still adjusting their goggles.’

  ‘Fine.’ Josephine sighed and looked sideways out of her window as if her mother was still teaching her to suck eggs.

  ‘Jockeys? One two – bang. You’re out,’ Cassie repeated, just to hammer her point home.

  ‘So,’ Josephine said, before giving yet another sigh. ‘So I get a flyer and I lie up handy. But supposing the same thing happens at Ascot that happened just now? Suppose I’m lying handy and I get boxed in on the rails? With that short straight there’s no way I’m going to pull him out in time for a run.’

  ‘No, that won’t happen at Ascot, Jo,’ Cassie replied. ‘Not if you’re where you should be, namely first, second or third by the time you hit the four marker, first or second by the time you hit three, in the lead by the time you pass the two. You got boxed in today because you had to make up your ground on the inside. I told the others to slam the door on you and keep it shut if that happened. Just as I told Ted to swing his horse round beside you at the start.’

  Josephine turned and looked at her mother with amazement. ‘You did what?’ she said.

  ‘I told Ted to whip his horse round to see if you’d take your eye off the ball,’ Cassie said. ‘You lost your focus. You can’t do that at the start of a race. You can’t do it at any point of a race. You have to stay entirely focused, even in the stalls. You never know what’s going to happen. It might look for a dreadful moment as if the jock next to you isn’t going to get his horse’s blindfold off in time, but that’s his worry.’ Cassie glanced back at Josephine. ‘You don’t worry about that, not one bit. All you think about is having your horse running the moment those gates swing open.’

  ‘Right,’ the chastened Josephine agreed. ‘Jockeys? One two – I’m running.’

  ‘OK,’ Cassie replied. ‘And where are you running?’

  ‘I’m running first, second or third by the time I hit the four marker, first or second by the time I hit three, and in front by the time I pass the two,’ Josephine told her.

  ‘You got it,’ Cassie said. ‘That way you win by an easy four or five.’

  The next move was to pull the horse out of the conditions race at the Curragh which Cassie did at the overnight declarations stage.

  ‘Nothing wrong with the horse, I hope?’ Mattie asked when he rang after seeing the runners listed on Ceefax.

  ‘Where are you speaking from?’ Cassie said immediately. ‘Not in front of anyone I hope?’

  ‘No, I’m on my car phone on the way into town.’

  ‘And Phoebe’s not with you?’

  ‘I’m on my way to pick her up as it happens. Now about Dormie One.’

  ‘He got cast,’ Cassie said quickly, crossing her fingers in advance of telling the lie, and already asking God’s forgiveness. ‘He got a bit of a knock and I don’t want to take any chances.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ Mattie agreed. ‘But all being well, Ascot’s still on.’

  ‘All being well,’ Cassie said. ‘But now listen, Mattie. If you’re thinking of having a touch—’

  ‘Thinking of it?’ Mattie laughed. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else.’

  ‘No,’ Cassie said. ‘This is not your pension policy. I mean it. You’re not to lay the horse ante post. You do, and the deal’s off.’

  ‘There must be a reason,’ Mattie protested. ‘Now that you’ve pulled him out of the Curragh race, with a bit of careful shopping we’ll probably be able to get sixes or sevens. Maybe more.’

  ‘Then wait till the day,’ Cassie said. ‘You’ll get as good if not better on the day. And no on course betting. If you’re going to have a touch, put it on in the shops, in small bets, and not personally. None of it must be traced back anywhere near here, you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mattie thought for a moment before asking his last question. ‘Just one thing,’ he wondered. ‘What makes you think I might get better than sixes or sevens on the day?’

  ‘Never you mind. Yours not to reason why. Just do as I say,’ Cassie said, and put the phone down.

  Four days before the Ascot race Cassie gave the horse his last serious piece of work. Dexter rode him in a gallop against Lovely Grub, Big Wallow and Damascus with the horses weighted the same as they had been for the Nugent race. It was a fine, clear summer’s morning without a breath of wind, so still that the thunder of the horses’ hooves could be heard long before they appeared over the crest of the first hill to sweep along flat for four furlongs before swinging right to climb the last two furlongs which rose in a gentle pull towards where Cassie and Jo were sitting watching on their hacks. Dormie One was swinging along in front with the other three horses packed in a bunch two lengths adrift.

  But as they met the rising ground the picture suddenly changed, and Josephine, holding her lightweight race glasses one-handed, leaned forwards in her saddle.

  ‘They’re coming at him,’ she said in surprise. ‘I mean Dex is getting serious, but Dormie’s not getting away from them!’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be striding out the way he usually does,’ Cassie observed. ‘For all Dex’s encouragement.’

  ‘He’s stuffed,’ Josephine said succinctly. ‘Grub’s got to him and so has Wallow.’

  ‘So has Damascus,’ Cassie said, picking up her horse’s reins. ‘I hope nothing’s amiss. Come on, we’d better go see.’

  By the time Cassie and Josephine had reached the end of the gallops, a worried-looking Dexter had got off Dormie One and was leading him round away from the other horses.

  ‘How was it, guv’nor?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘First there was Laurence Olivier,’ Cassie replied, bending down to check the horse’s tendons. ‘Then there was Dexter Bryant.’

  ‘I could have played the Fool, maybe,’ Dexter said, strai
ghtfaced. ‘And Puck – no problem. The heroic parts, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Paul Newman’s not so tall,’ Cassie said straightening up and frowning as if unhappy with what she’d found. ‘Now. You see anything I can’t see?’

  ‘Just the summer sun glinting on half a dozen pair of race glasses,’ Dexter sighed happily. ‘We should have gone crooked years ago, guv.’

  ‘One word, Dexter Bryant,’ Cassie said looking at him in the eye, with a gleam in her own. ‘One word and you’re walking the bottom of Glendalough in a pair of concrete riding boots.’

  Both the weather and the going for the King George VI meeting at Ascot were perfect. Claremore was represented twice on the Saturday card, with Dormie One in the Diamond Stakes and Jack Madigan’s Big Wallow in the Hardway for which he was second favourite at 3/1. Dormie One, on the other hand, was easy to back all day, opening at 8/1 and drifting out as far as 12/1 at one point.

  ‘I can hear Mattie licking his lips,’ Cassie muttered to Josephine as they made their way to the changing rooms. ‘I just hope he does as he’s told.’

  ‘Blow Mattie,’ Josephine groaned. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  While Josephine was changing into her race clothes, Cassie sat on a bench in the weighing room with Dexter Bryant going through the list of runners one last time in case there was a dark horse somewhere whose form she might have overlooked. It was a big field, twenty-two runners in all, the likely favourite being the northern trained horse Wilstach ridden by the season’s leading lady rider, Sue Dorman. To Cassie, much as she respected the horse, its trainer and its rider, they posed not nearly such a threat as another well-fancied horse, the useful Freemason colt War Poem, trained at Lambourn by Attie Bewes and ridden by his daughter Jane. The combination had won a hotly contested amateurs’ race at Goodwood earlier in the season, and word was that the horse had been laid out specially for the race.

  ‘But then that goes for about ninety-nine per cent of the field,’ Dexter remarked, tapping his whip on his highly polished riding boots. ‘As far as lady riders go, this is the race to win.’