‘Right,’ Cassie said, picking up Josephine’s rolled up saddle and girths. ‘Time for you to go and put on your party clothes, Jo, and Mattie – you’d better tell Security we’re ready to roll.’
One of the main areas of worry had been the distance The Nightingale would have to walk from the racecourse boxes to the pre-parade ring. Without a sufficient escort the team considered that this journey was when their charge might well be at greatest risk on the course proper, particularly since they had guessed – perfectly correctly as it happened – that crowds of his fans would collect around the exit of the stable yard in order to get as close a sight of their equine hero as possible. With that in mind Mattie had asked David Armstrong, the clerk of the course, if he could lay on extra security to act as an escort for the horse, a request which was readily granted in consideration of what had happened to the horse on his fateful appearance at Ascot.
Even so the phalanx of security guards had their work cut out to stop people from pushing through the cordon in order to try to touch the horse. Just as they had so often done before, people had brought their sick and their lame in the hope that one touch of the skin or one hair from the tail of a horse they believed imbued with magical powers would cure their loved one’s ills. Please please, Mrs Rosse! an Irish voice beseeched her, and then another. Please God may my child just touch your horse just the once! But Cassie could not and did not dare relent because she dared not run the risk. Knowing the sort of people she was up against she believed them capable of anything, even of using an apparently innocent child as a shield to get near the horse. Having seen what had happened to Big Wallow at Ascot the last thing Cassie and her team wanted was for The Nightingale to be stopped in similar fashion, particularly when they had all come this far.
Neither was the horse safe when he reached the preparade ring, even though security guards positioned themselves at both the entrance and the exit to the ring. Protected as it was like any parade ring by a set of simple rails to keep the horses and spectators at a safe distance, such was the construction of the rails that there was nothing to stop anyone determined enough from ducking underneath them and doing harm to the horse before they were caught. When she saw how many of the horse’s camp followers were positioning themselves up against the rails, Cassie knew she dare not risk leading the horse up within an arm’s length of them, so instead she walked the horse round on the grass lawn in the middle of the ring, with Deirdre on the other side of the horse to protect his blind side, then the moment Mattie reported the main paddock empty of horses when the eight runners for the Arkle Challenge trophy had been called to post, the team escorted The Nightingale into the comparative safety of the huge enclosure which lay in front of the weighing room and behind the member’s grandstand.
The other runners for the Champion Hurdle soon followed, and by the time the field had been sent on their way for the Arkle the paddock had a complement of ten horses. Even so, the Claremore team was leaving nothing to chance, with Cassie leading the horse up and Deirdre still on the blind side with both Liam and Fred following on at a safe distance behind the horse’s flanks and Mattie watching from the middle of the grass for anything even remotely unusual. Happily The Nightingale was taking it all in his stride, walking out freely and easily and taking in his surroundings with his old genuine interest, watched by a far bigger crowd than would be usual at this time, since literally hundreds of people had forgone the thrill of watching eight of the best young steeplechasers in the British Isles and from Ireland doing battle for the crown of the year’s best novice for the privilege of seeing The Nightingale walk round the parade ring.
‘Must be a close thing,’ Cassie called to Mattie as the roars from the grandstand reached fever pitch. ‘Listen to the crowd.’
‘Photograph!’ a voice announced over the public address. ‘Photograph between horses numbers one, six and seven!’
‘Number seven’s Dubedat, the FitzPaine horse!’ Mattie called back. ‘Could be first blood for Ireland!’
While the stands around the paddock began to fill to brimming with returning racegoers anxious now to secure a place to see both the returning horses and the contenders for the Champion Hurdle, Mattie called for his horse to be taken over to the saddling boxes so that they would not be caught in the ensuing mêlée, particularly since an Irish horse was involved in the photofinish and as always at Cheltenham there was bound to be pandemonium if it was called the winner. So while the judge called for a second print of the photograph, so close apparently was the finish, Cassie and Josephine, who had now emerged from the weighing room wearing a Barbour over her race clothes and with a face even greyer than before, began the careful ritual of saddling the horse up.
‘Two more your side,’ Cassie said quietly as they began to fix the girths. ‘But first just ease the saddle back half an inch. It’s sitting just a little too high on his withers.’
‘How are you your side?’ Josephine asked. ‘I think I could still come up one my side.’
‘We’ll both go up one,’ Cassie said, notching the girths up one more hole. ‘Then that should do it.’
She took a step back to judge the all important position of the race saddle with an experienced eye. ‘These aren’t new leathers, are they Jo?’ she suddenly asked.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You know what bad luck it is to ride with or in anything new. What were you thinking of?’
‘It’s OK, Mums,’ Josephine replied. ‘I rode them in this morning when I gave him a stretch. I know better than to ride in anything new.’
‘Sorry,’ Cassie said, giving the girth one last check. ‘I just want to make sure everything’s covered. Right – paddock sheet, please, Deirdre, then do me a sponge.’
After they had rearranged the horse’s smart paddock sheet and fastened it with its matching roller, Cassie took the sopping wet sponge and opening The Nightingale’s mouth pushed the sponge into it and squeezed it out into his mouth. ‘I can never do this without getting it up my sleeve,’ she complained. ‘Just as well I didn’t wear my suede coat.’
Now the horse was ready to do battle. In fact so keen was he to go that he almost pulled himself free of Cassie as for a moment she dropped her guard to turn and drop the sponge back in the bucket. Luckily as instructed Deirdre had a good hold of the paddock strap as well as the side of the big horse’s bridle otherwise he might well have got loose and charged into the parade ring unaccompanied.
With the horse firmly back under her control Cassie led him back into the paddock where the victor of the Arkle, the Nicholson horse Fine Man who had just beaten Dubedat by the shortest of short heads into second place, was finally being led away. As she entered the ring she saw Mattie and Liam in the middle of the lawn talking earnestly. While Liam talked Mattie cast a look in his mother’s direction, smiled briefly, then turned back to finish listening to what Liam had to say.
Meantime Cassie and Deirdre walked the horse round the parade ring.
Someone they passed began to clap when The Nightingale passed in front of him, and within seconds his personal tribute was picked up by everyone around him and finally by the entire paddock side crowd who it seemed were simply applauding the courage of a horse determined enough to make a comeback after the terrible events which had befallen him, in spite of the fact that he had as yet to set foot on a public racecourse. So moved was she by the tribute that Cassie hardly dared look into the crowd, but when she did she saw many women with tears in their eyes and a whole host of gentlemen raising their hats to her horse. In return The Nightingale swung himself half round to look back at them eagle-eyed, beginning to dance and prance on the spot with excitement. The more he did so the more the crowd applauded until even some of the owners of his rivals who were all now gathered on the oval lawn in the paddock joined in the homage.
Then it was time for the jockeys to get mounted. They had already streamed out in a line from the weighing room, led by Robert McDonagh, last year’s champion, who as always
made his entrance into the paddock alone, deep in thoughts as to how to ride his race. He was on the second favourite Glockamorra, with his greatest friend and rival Andrew Squire riding the other solidly fancied horse, Hello Absailor. All the jockeys had tipped their hats with their whips to their horses’ owners and trainers as they joined their respective groups on the lawn for their final instructions and now that the rain had finally stopped they stood around in groups discussing how the change in the going might affect their tactics. Finally as the bell sounded for them to mount up it seemed the last thing they did before being legged up was all turn to take a good look as the rugs came off the horse they all most feared.
‘We’re now clear favourite at six to four in most places, except guess-who who has us at five to four,’ Mattie said as Cassie brought the horse onto the grass and over to where he, Liam and a now green-looking Josephine waited. ‘Glockamorra’s taking a walk in the market and you can have him at an easy three to one and probably seven to two by the off. The thinking is we may well start at evens.’
‘Ridiculous,’ Cassie said, knowing that the very opposite was true. Given an untroubled run, there wasn’t a horse in the field who could beat The Nightingale, not even if he gave them a dozen lengths at the start. ‘Is that what you and Liam were talking about?’
‘Liam didn’t think I should tell you, but I disagree,’ Mattie said, glancing at Liam. ‘They found young Phelim. He’s all right—’ Mattie added quickly, seeing the anxious look on his mother’s face. ‘Someone gave him a real going over and left him half dead up on the Military Road but he’s going to be OK. He’s not in danger apparently. And the reason I’m telling you is because whoever did it to him I’d say did it because Phelim maybe didn’t do as he was told. So you can take that worried look off your face, guv’nor, because I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about – other than making sure Jose here brings Nightie home first.’
‘I’m to jump off first and if no-one wants to make it, I’m to make it all,’ Josephine intoned, trying to control the shakes which were affecting her entire body. ‘If anyone does go on and try to scorch the pace then I’m to lie handy, second but no worse than third, not on the inside but on the outside of the bunch, and even if I’m in the lead I’m to lie two or three horses’ widths off the rails. I’m to take the hurdles bang in the middle, and if there’s no real pace and I’m leading then I’m to have them stretched a good five or six lengths or more by the fourth obstacle, give him a blow after the sixth but not to worry if they start to come at me down the hill, kick him on into the seventh then press the go button on the run to the last. And come home clear.’
‘Six clear,’ Cassie teased. ‘Jack Madigan’s got a hundred to win a grand on the winning distance.’
Cassie kept hold of the horse’s head while Deirdre legged Josephine up into the saddle. While she slipped her feet into her irons, The Nightingale turned a half circle and began to bounce on the spot.
‘Jeez, he knows what he’s here for,’ Josephine said as she gathered her reins. ‘He feels as if he’s ready to run for his life.’
‘When you think about it,’ Cassie said, ‘in a way he is.’
‘Now remember to let him find his own way into the hurdles,’ Mattie said, coming as close as he dared. ‘Don’t try to show him a stride—’
‘I know, I know,’ Josephine cut in impatiently.
‘Don’t try to show him a stride,’ Mattie repeated, deliberately slowly. ‘Even if he gets one wrong he’s so smart he’ll fiddle it. Just don’t whatever you do ride the rail.’
‘No,’ Cassie agreed, indicating to Deirdre to pull the horse’s number cloth straight. ‘Remember not to ride the rail and particularly on the home turn. Time after time the Champion’s been won by horses coming up the middle of the track, having jumped the last flight smack in the centre. You come up on the left and the chances are you could get pushed into the wings. So don’t come up the inner, don’t get squeezed and ideally try to be two or three widths off the rail on the final turn. Jump the last in the centre and if anything try to make your run up the right hand side of the track where the going’s better.’
‘Good luck, sis,’ Mattie said, seeing the other horses beginning to make their way out. ‘See you in the winner’s enclosure.’
‘You bet,’ Josephine said, the colour beginning to return to her cheeks now she was up on the great horse. ‘I can’t tell you the feel he’s giving me. Even just at the walk. He feels as if he’s going to explode.’
‘Don’t let him,’ Cassie said, following on behind Glockamorra and in front of Butler’s Perk. ‘We don’t want any explosion to happen until after the second last. We know he can still quicken like nobody else, so save it, even in this mud. You’ll have plenty of horse under you all the way round.’
In those few final moments as they walked round the paddock before going out onto the course to parade, Cassie noticed little else except how her horse was walking and whether Josephine was relaxing. She knew if the jockey was tense, the horse always felt the tension through the reins, so although she could not order her daughter to loosen up, she kept talking to her about all the other horses and their riders, commenting on their general condition and turn-out, keeping the chat going so that Josephine would not have any time left to brood about the ordeal facing her. As soon as the horse was cantering to the start Cassie knew the worst would be almost over, and that once the race actually started fear would be gone altogether because once the tapes had flicked open there’d be no more time for nerves, only for raw courage and the utmost skill.
So although Cassie was taking in the other horses as they walked in a circle round the paddock, she took no notice whatsoever of their owners, which was why it was not until she was just about to turn away to lead The Nightingale out and onto the long track which wound its way down from the parade ring through the tented village and past a long double-sided line of spectators that she saw him, and then, at first, only out of the corner of her eye.
He was standing with a small party of half a dozen people, by the side of a tall woman in a scarlet coat and hat, and once Cassie had caught sight of him she turned to make sure that it was in fact who she thought it was, only to see that it was. It was Gold’s subordinate, the ferret-faced man who had been standing in the corner of the bookmaker’s private box at Ascot.
What’s he doing in the paddock? Cassie wondered to herself, her blood running cold from the look he had given her. What’s his connection? Surely to God he doesn’t own one of these horses?
As she walked down the track and on towards the racecourse to the sound of further cheering and applause, followed closely by Deirdre and Mattie, Cassie racked her brains as to who owned which of the horses. Most of the owners she knew well, either by reputation or in some cases personally, and all of them as far as she knew were above suspicion. He must be just hanging on, Cassie assured herself. He’s probably with the big party that was going on around Katwandra who’s owned by that couple of cheery so-called scrap merchants from somewhere in Essex. Whatever he’s doing here, he never got near the horse, so put it out of your mind, Cassie Rosse, in case anything transmits itself to your daughter.
‘OK, sweetheart?’ Cassie said as they took their place in the parade which was to lead past the stands. ‘So far the old boy’s behaving himself. There’s not a bead of sweat on him anywhere.’
‘He’s always loved parades,’ Josephine said. ‘You know what a show-off he is.’
Once more spontaneous applause greeted their horse as he paraded himself in front of the jampacked stands. In the public enclosure in the middle of the course a party unfurled a huge banner which read: FLY HOME THE NIGHTINGALE in front of another whose slogan proclaimed: MAKE THE OTHERS SING FOR THEIR SUPPER, while a party of Irish all with shamrock pinned to their lapels, it being St Patrick’s Day, began to sing ‘A Nightingale Sang in Cheltenham’ as Cassie led the horse by them.
‘Good luck, Cassie Rosse!’ one of them cried. ‘God bl
ess your endeavours! And may your horse come home safe!’
Now she let the horse go, with one last call of luck to Josephine who had already set her face to the starting line. The big horse kicked away from her at once, tucking his head down into his chest and cantering his way down the chute which led to the start of the two mile hurdle course set down at the bottom left hand corner of the course but still well in sight of the stands. Cassie stood and watched him go, and failing to move out of the way of the horses behind her might well have got herself knocked for six had not Mattie pulled her out of the way of Demerara who was plunging and bucking his way to the start, trying his poor jockey’s skills to their limit.
None of them said anything as they made their way back to the stands to join the Claremore party in their private box. Not until Cassie suddenly stopped dead in her tracks to say out loud: ‘Of course.’
‘What now?’ Mattie said, taking his mother’s arm and steering a way through the crowds. ‘Not that it matters because whatever it is you forgot to tell Jo it’s too late now.’
‘That woman, Mattie,’ Cassie said urgently. ‘The woman in the bright red coat and hat. She’s Jump For Fun’s new owner.’
‘So what?’ Mattie said, still hurrying her along.
‘So what?’ Cassie echoed. ‘She only had Gold’s creepy little sidekick on the other end of one of her arms!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure, Mattie. Once seen never forgotten.’
As soon as they made it into their private box both Mattie and Cassie pointlessly examined their racecards as if the information contained would offer up a clue, which of course it did not. All they gathered was as indeed the sporting papers had already stated that Jump For Fun now ran in the name of Ms Diane Danielle.
The Nightingale Sings Page 63