Dead Weight

by John Francome

  But the outcome of the battle ahead was unlikely to have much to do with Adrian or Chronicle. There were tougher contenders in the fifteen other runners now massing behind the starter’s tape. In particular, Phil liked the look of Major Tom, a sturdy chestnut horse who had won at three miles in the wet at Hereford before Christmas.

  May Queen, on the other hand, now pulling out of the line and delaying the start, was surely not a contender. He watched Mark wrestling with the unruly mare, trotting her round in a tight circle and bringing her back to face the tapes.

  Phil turned his attention to the task ahead - two miles and five furlongs of sticky, clogging ground punctuated with solid birch fences four feet high. Beneath him he could feel the bulk of Ashburton humming with energy, eager for the off, and the sensation began to flood into his own veins. Phil laughed out loud, attracting a curious glance from Adrian on his inside. Phil didn’t care. This was more like it. This was how he used to feel.

  I’m back, he thought with sudden clarity. Now let’s get on and win this sodding race.

  Julia almost lost track of time as she worked on Little Harry. When she massaged a horse she often lost herself in the task - it was as much mental as physical. She imagined the positive energy flowing from her hands, soothing jumping nerves, easing strained muscle and sinew, acting like oil on stiff and creaky joints. Little Harry loved the way she pacified his tired flesh, and so did all the other horses she ministered to at Deanscroft and here at Ridge Farm.

  Now she gave the trapezius muscle at the base of the animal’s neck a final stroke and reached for her sweater. Little Harry butted her gently with his big golden head. The message in his eye was plain - don’t stop.

  `Sorry, Harry,’ she murmured as she pulled the shapeless woollen garment over her tousled blonde head. `You wouldn’t want me to miss Phil’s race, would you?’

  He would, of course, she reflected as she rushed from the old stable block to her muddy Fiesta. All horses were the same. No matter how cranky or nervy or just plain out of sorts they might be feeling, once she’d laid her hands on them they never wanted her attentions to cease. Which put them in line with pretty much all the men in her life.

  A male pest was the reason she was running late now. She’d been over at Deanscroft working on a couple of recent runners who needed sorting out. Her plan had been to quit in good time to drive the ten miles back, attend to Little Harry and reach home for the build-up to the race on television. But one of the new vets had detained her. He’d watched her work, giving her the benefit of his unwanted advice, and, when she’d finished, asked if she’d mind taking a look at his swollen knee.

  `I don’t do humans,’ she’d replied, which wasn’t strictly true.

  The vet had refused to take the hint and shifted the conversation to Portland Blue, the horse in the next stall, who had gone lame. As it happened she knew Portland Blue well, and it was hard to get away without being rude. And being rude wasn’t in Julia’s nature.

  It irritated her, however, the way men continued to pursue her when she was clearly unavailable. Wasn’t her wedding ring obvious enough? Perhaps she should hang a sign round her neck saying `Just Married - Off Limits’. She guessed that some men couldn’t help themselves.

  A plain girlfriend she no longer spoke to had put it another way. `You’re so fucking gorgeous, Jules, guys just want to hang around you even if they’re not going to get anywhere.’ She’d said it in an envious tone which had upset Julia. How could she tell her she didn’t want the attention of every heterosexual male in her vicinity? In Julia’s experi

  ence, beauty - and she supposed she had it - was as much a curse as a blessing.

  She drove faster than was sensible down the narrow track, drenching the hedges on either side with plumes of water from the standing brown puddles. Not that it mattered - there was no other traffic on the way to Barley Cottage, half a mile away on the southern edge of the farm. She could have avoided this rush by going up to the farmhouse, where the television in the parlour was tuned to the racing throughout the afternoon. But that would have meant watching with Phil’s mum, Margaret, and she didn’t feel up to that. She liked her mother-in-law well enough, but this race was too important, she wanted to be able to concentrate in private.

  Barley Cottage was big and draughty. It looked particularly bare this afternoon in the absence of the Christmas decorations which had brightened the place only a week ago. Now they had gone there was no disguising the fact that the hall needed replastering and the kitchen required a complete refit - and that was just downstairs. Phil’s parents had done a remarkable job getting the place in good enough shape for them to move in after their honeymoon in August. The engagement and the wedding had all been rather a rush, they’d said, but they weren’t complaining. Margaret’s bright eyes assessed her with fond anticipation every day and, if the in-laws had their way, there would be decorators upstairs now turning the back bedroom into a nursery. To Julia’s way of thinking, talk of having a family was premature, but it was a topic Margaret could not resist. Maybe that was the real reason she had driven back here to watch the race.

  She hurried into the front room and turned on the television. The runners were already off. Instantly all thoughts of children, decorators and in-laws were wiped from her mind.

  The old feeling stayed with Phil around the first circuit. Ashburton was foot perfect and Phil could feel his confidence grow as they soared over the fences. Though new to jumping, he was a complete natural.

  The main pack of runners were bunched on the inside, taking the shortest route home. Phil was keeping Ashburton wide to stay out of trouble and to avoid the worst of the ground, now badly churned up from the afternoon’s racing.

  Ahead of him, some five lengths clear of the pack, was May Queen.

  Phil could see Mark working hard to get the mare round. She had schooled half a dozen times at home since her fall at Worcester but her jumping had not improved much. She was small and the soft ground made the fences that much bigger. She was hitting the top of most of them, bouncing off the packed birch, being knocked out of her stride. Yet there was no denying her spirit as she gamely kept picking herself up and working back into the race.

  By the last on the far side the field had unravelled, and Ashburton was going well. Major Tom, the chief danger, was keeping pace just to his rear, with May Queen ahead by a couple of lengths. They were approaching the last open ditch, and Phil kept one eye on the fence and the other on May Queen. As he expected, the mare gave it a real thump and knocked out a cloud of birch. Ashburton swept past, sailing over the jump, and landed running. Phil caught a glimpse of Mark struggling to keep May Queen on her feet, but her nose was touching the grass and she looked about to keel over. He hoped to God Mark was all right.

  They were galloping downhill now towards the fourth from last. Suddenly Phil was aware of Major Tom making a move on his inside. Ashburton was eager to go too but Phil kept the big horse in check. He knew this course well and was aware of the sharp bend to the right into the home straight that followed the next fence.

  Major Tom shot past, coming down the slope like a car without brakes, and took the jump three lengths ahead. But he was too tight to the rail on the sharp right hand bend and, as a consequence, was forced wide into the straight. Phil kept Ashburton on the optimum racing line and swept into the lead. Now he had the benefit of the rail to run against.

  Phil knew the race was his. Ashburton was tiring now but his jumping remained rock steady as he carried them over the next two fences. Phil kept squeezing with his legs, keeping the horse up to his work. All he had to do to win was get over the last. Approaching the fence, he became aware of the crowd in the stands to his left. For a wet and wintery afternoon they were demonstrating remarkable enthusiasm.

  Suddenly he understood why. At his shoulder, unbelievably, was Mark on May Queen. Somehow the horse was still on her feet and Mark was urging her on, hunched forward in the stirrups, his hands working as he screamed in
the horse’s ear.

  Phil assessed the situation in a split second. Get stuck in NOW. It

  wasn’t a conscious thought, more a reflex - the kind of instant racing reaction that had rescued him many times before.

  But he was slow to respond, his body frozen, somehow unable to communicate the urgency to his horse. In a flash the fence was upon them and Ashburton seemed to take for ever in the air. Beside them, Mark threw May Queen forward as if the fence didn’t exist. For once the mare nailed it, and landed half a length clear.

  And that was it. There’s next to no run-in at Wincanton after the final fence. Even if Ashburton had had enough in the tank to catch May Queen he’d run out of room.

  Phil crossed the line second, as downhearted as he’d ever been at the end of a race.

  He caught up with Mark as he slowed his mount beyond the winning post.

  `Well done,’ he said. `I thought you’d gone at the last ditch.’

  Mark pulled his mudspattered goggles down around his neck. His eyes sparkled. `Told you I was gonna win, didn’t I?’

  Phil remembered. He’d thought it was just bravado.

  Mark was regarding him shrewdly. `I’d’ve won on your horse too, you know.’

  Phil took most things with a smile on his face, but he wasn’t amused as Mark rode off to the winner’s enclosure.

  The hounds were making a fair old racket out the back but Keith Jeffries didn’t hear them as he stared at the television on the sideboard to the left of the empty fireplace. Even though he’d had nothing on this race, the drama of it gripped him, shutting out everything else. The unlit room was dark in the late afternoon gloom, and the reflection from the screen danced across the pages of the old exercise book open on the table in front of him, illuminating the neat rows of figures inscribed in blue and red ballpoint. A rank of reference books - Chaseform, Chasers and Hurdlers, A Guide to Racecourses - stood by his elbow; a calculator, pad and pencil lay directly in front of him; and, within easy reach to his right, newspapers were stacked, open to the racing pages. He was a man who took his betting seriously. As with everything in this life, it required forethought, organisation and luck - a commodity forever in short supply in Keith’s experience.

  But at least, he thought as the television camera cut to an interview

  with the winning trainer, he’d never considered putting money on May Queen. If he’d had the urge and then rejected it - which, on her form, he would have been bound to do - then he’d be cursing his luck right now to see her pull off such an unexpected victory. You often got one complete turn-up for the books in an afternoon’s sport and Keith was rarely the beneficiary - unlike some he could think of. His system didn’t allow for flukes. The best he could hope for was to avoid them and, thank Christ, he just had. The next race was the one that counted. With serious money at stake he was relieved to have the afternoon’s freak result out of the way.

  He was aware now of the hounds’ commotion. Mind you, they always kicked up a racket - a pack of hunting hounds was never quiet. Most of the time he tuned the noise out. It was just background clamour, like the wind in the trees, though he’d taken comfort in it since Denise had left. He wasn’t some sad sod living on his own in the middle of nowhere, not with a hundred hungry, rapacious creatures dependent on him. Denise had hated them, surprise, surprise. Now there was a lucky cow when it came to a flutter. She’d have piled on May Queen and picked up her windfall as if she deserved it.

  The whore Denise. Walking out on him for an accountant, that was a laugh. Shed soon unbalance his books for him. Now it would be his turn to shell out for designer dresses and other expensive women’s crap, like all that stuff gathering dust upstairs. If Denise wanted any of it back she’d have to come and get it herself - and somehow, after last time, Keith didn’t think she’d have the guts.

  The doorbell rang, diverting him from thoughts of his estranged wife. So that was why the hounds were kicking up a fuss - he had a visitor. He wondered why he hadn’t heard a car engine. Keith heaved himself from his armchair. Whoever it was they could bloody well shove off sharpish. He had a lot - a heck of a lot - riding on the next race.

  Keith didn’t recognise the bespectacled old gent standing on his doorstep. The newcomer was togged up for a winter’s walk: Barbour, wellies, walking stick and a cap with earflaps that looked like a family heirloom. He had a thin grey moustache and spoke like a toff.

  `Mr Jeffries?’

  Keith grunted, on his guard.

  `Awfully sorry to drop in unannounced.’

  `You got a car?,

  ‘I’m parked out in the lane. Thought I’d stretch the old legs.’ So that explained it.

  The toff hesitated for a moment before he spoke.

  `Look, Adam Jellicoe gave me your name. Said you might be able to help me out.’

  Captain Jellicoe, master of the Latchbourne Hunt - Keith’s boss. `Help you in what way, sir?’ Keith dropped effortlessly into deferential mode. It worked a treat with Jellicoe’s crowd.

  `Adam tells me you’ve got a humane killer.’

  Keith nodded. Part of his job was destroying old or injured farm stock to feed to the hounds.

  `The thing is, my old hunter is too long in the tooth to ride out and I don’t think he can cope with much more of this dreary winter. I can’t put it off any longer and I wonder if you would take care of him for me.’

  So that was it. He wanted Keith to kill his horse. He probably didn’t dare ask the local vet who, at the very least, would question the necessity of ending the life of an old and faithful servant. For a second Keith’s stomach turned over. Was this what he’d come to? Slaughterman? He deserved better than this.

  `Of course, sir,’ he replied. `You’ll have to bring the horse up yourself, though.’

  The old boy looked relieved. `Righto. No problem. And what will it, er … ?’

  `A hundred pounds.’

  `Oh.’ The man’s face fell. Keith could see him calculating whether it was worth him risking the vet’s wrath after all.

  `Eighty for cash,’ he added.

  The other agreed quickly, offering his hand on the bargain.

  `Bring him up tomorrow,’ Keith said. The visitor nodded and would, Keith could see, have engaged him in further conversation - doubtless justifying his decision to get rid of his horse. But Keith was already turning back into the house. The runners in the last would soon be going down.

  Phil sat in silence in the noisy weighing-room. He should have been more positive, committed Ashburton from the turn for home, but he hadn’t, and he knew why.

  For Phil, race-riding had always been simple. He never analysed his technique or agonised over tactics or spent his every waking moment studying form like some other riders. As far as Phil was concerned he got a leg-up from the trainer, listened to a few words of advice and then instinct took over. He knew he was lucky. He could climb on an unknown horse in the ring, take it down to the start and, in those few minutes, learn what kind of animal he had beneath him and how to get the best out of him. Owners had often been amazed at the performances he coaxed out of the most unpromising beasts. It was as if he were a musician able to pick up any battered old guitar and, after a few seconds of strumming, produce sweeter sounds than it had ever made before. He had no idea how he did it.

  But now, though his instinct was still as attuned as ever, he wasn’t able to act on it the way he had since his fall at Worcester. It was some kind of breakdown in communication between his brain and his body. When the going got tough these days, he just froze. He’d been brooding about it all through Christmas and every time came to the same conclusion: since the accident he’d lost his nerve.

  He’d seen other riders lose their bottle. It didn’t always follow a bad fall; sometimes it was an accumulation of minor injuries and the knowledge that it was only a matter of time before you copped for something serious. But when it happened to you there was no hiding from it. As much as you wanted to be brave, to go for gaps and throw caut
ion to the wind when it was necessary, you couldn’t make yourself do it. You only ever saw the short, safe stride into a fence. And when the race was over, everything seemed fine - until the next time.

  Some jockeys managed to ride through the bad patch and regain their confidence. A rare few packed up straight away. Most just plugged on, going through the motions but never giving horses a proper ride. Eventually trainers’ loyalty from past service wore thin and rides dried up. In that position, a jockey had no option but to find another job. Phil didn’t want to end up like that. That was why he’d made the appointment at the clinic last week.

  `Wakey-wakey, mate.’

  Phil looked up. Mark was standing by his side in clean silks. Phil suddenly realised he’d been slumped on the weighing-room bench for nearly twenty minutes. He leapt to his feet - it was almost time to weigh out for the last.

  `I must have nodded off,’ he said.

  `Too much shagging,’ came a voice from the other side of the room. Adrian was putting out some dog biscuits for Beatle, his scruffy terrier who spent race afternoons asleep on a sweater under his peg.

  `And who can blame him,’ came another voice. Almost all present had been at Phil’s wedding and admiration for his bride was universal. `No wonder he’s knackered,’ said Adrian. `All day riding horses and all night riding the lovely Julia.’

  Phil joined in the laughter. Much better that they had no idea what was really on his mind. He’d never live it down if they knew he was seeing a shrink.

  On the off-chance of finding an old packet of cigarettes, Julia rummaged through the downstairs drawers and poked in all the hidey-holes where household junk fetched up. She hadn’t had a smoke since the wedding and, after the first few weeks, she’d not missed it. But now a sudden craving for nicotine gripped her. She longed to dull her disappointment in silky clouds of tobacco smoke. But she was out of luck. She banged the kitchen drawer shut with a petulant slam and returned to the sitting room.

  She’d been involved with jockeys before, so she was familiar with the rollercoaster of emotion that went with watching them race. She was aware she had to take the rough with the smooth, to treat triumph and disaster just the same - and all the other well-worn cliches. But at the moment that was difficult. She knew how much it mattered to Phil to have a winner right now. And Ashburton had been his best hope for the day.