Racing Manhattan

by Terence Blacker

  I lie down, pull my spare clothes over me, close my eyes, and soon I am asleep.

  Cheek.

  Against.

  The.

  Turf.

  MAGIC

  I AM AWOKEN by the sound of cantering hooves, horses blowing, the occasional human voice.

  From my den, I watch as a string of racehorses canter by. It is cold and my clothes are wet with dew. Steam billows from the nostrils of the horses with every stride they take.

  I wait for them to pass. Then, packing up my rucksack, I make my way back to the road.

  The sight of horses on the gallops makes me feel stronger. The morning will be a busy time for stables.

  I shall make a note of where the yards are. Then, this afternoon, I shall make my move.

  ‘Paperwork, love. You need the paperwork.’ A tall man in a cloth cap, his hands sunk deep in his green jacket, looks down at me with a pitying fake smile on his face. We are standing at the gate to a big stable yard. Beyond him, I can see horses looking over the stable doors. I feel like a small smudge of nothingness.

  ‘I can ride.’ My voice sounds whiney and desperate. ‘I thought that was what mattered.’

  ‘The reference comes first.’ The man is backing away from me, with an I’m-a-busy-man look on his face. ‘We can’t just take on any passing kid to work here. We’re not a charity, you know.’

  And he is off, leaving me to look foolish and pathetic at the stable-yard gates. I turn to leave.

  I have been brave today, but it has done me no good. Lads have laughed at me. I have been sent from one person to another. The tall man who has just dismissed me was the assistant trainer at one of the bigger yards.

  The story is always the same. They need references from an adult, from my school.

  It is mid-afternoon and I am beginning to lose hope. Wandering down a side street, I see ahead of me a small lad pushing a wheelbarrow full of horse droppings down the street, whistling as he goes. The tune he makes echoes off the walls of the houses above the sound of the traffic.

  It is such a strange and funny sight that, for the first time today, I find I am smiling. Still whistling, the lad turns down an alleyway and I watch him as he goes. At the end of the narrow lane, there is a small door in a high wooden wall. The lad pushes it open with his wheelbarrow and disappears.

  I wait for a moment, then make my decision. Anything is worth a try now. I make my way down the lane and open the gate. It is a stable yard, but less trimmed and tidy than those I have seen today. The lad is nowhere to be seen.

  To the right of the stable yard there is a pathway leading to a big, ramshackle house. It is so covered in ivy that it looks as if it has grown out of the ground.

  Something draws me to the house. I walk around the edge of the yard, then push a small gate, which opens with a creak. I make my way up the path, up the steps of the house between two grey, crumbling pillars. There’s an old sign, with the paint peeling off it. Edgecote House.

  I hesitate, then ring the bell. Beyond the door, I hear a stirring of life, then footsteps approaching.

  ‘Yes?’

  The woman who opens the door moments later is dark-haired, slight and wearing a black trouser suit. She has more make-up on her face than you would usually see in the countryside. She looks like she is on her way to a very important meeting in a big office.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I open my mouth, but suddenly find myself lost for words.

  ‘What d’you want, girl?’ She has the sort of accent which seems to have been sharpened to a fine point by years of telling people off. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘My name is Jay Barton.’ There is something caught in my throat. I sound like a sick frog.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was hoping to talk to the trainer?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl. What’s this all about?’

  ‘I want to work in a racing stable.’

  The woman groans. ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  ‘I’ve ridden in pony races. I’ve had winners. I’d be a good lad, I just know it.’

  The woman looks more closely at me. ‘I don’t believe this,’ she mutters. ‘Write to the assistant trainer, Mr Bucknall. You’ll find his details online.’

  She is closing the door in my face when, out of nowhere, desperation kicks in. ‘Please!’ My voice is so loud that it echoes around the stable yard behind me.

  The woman hesitates. ‘You’ve got a nerve, I’ll give you that,’ she murmurs.

  ‘I really need a job.’

  To my surprise, the woman steps back and opens the door. ‘Oh, come in,’ she says impatiently. I step into a gloomy hall. ‘Wait here. Do not touch anything.’

  She walks down a corridor, leaving me alone. I look around me. On the wooden walls, there are paintings of racing scenes from years ago. An odd musty smell hangs in the air. The place feels more like a museum than a house.

  The woman returns. ‘You have a minute.’ With a nod of her head, she leads me down the dark corridor, then pushes open a door. I walk ahead of her into a sitting room. A figure, broad and hunched, is at a desk in front of the window, silhouetted by the sun shining into the room.

  ‘This is Mr Wilkinson, girl. He’s the trainer. I’m Mrs Wilkinson, the trainer’s wife. You have disturbed our afternoon.’

  The man looks up from the newspaper in front of him, and gazes at me wearily. I recognise him from the racing papers Uncle Bill used to have.

  ‘Magic,’ I say.

  ‘Hm?’ The trainer grunts irritably.

  ‘Magic Wilkinson. The only trainer in history to have trained all five Classics winners in one season.’

  Behind me Mrs Wilkinson gives a brief, snorting laugh. ‘Knows her racing, the girl. I’ll give her that.’ Watching me, she sits at a paper-strewn desk in the corner of the room. Beyond her, on the desk, there is a computer which looks out of place in this old-fashioned room.

  ‘Ride?’ A surprisingly squeaky voice comes from the trainer. ‘Jockey, are you?’

  ‘I’ve ridden a lot of winners in pony-racing, sir.’

  ‘What was your name again?’ asks Mrs Wilkinson. ‘Some of the trainers’ children ride in pony races.’

  ‘I was christened Jasmine, but I’ve always been called Jay. I’m Jay Barton.’

  She turns to the computer and taps at the keyboard. ‘They won’t have heard of me,’ I say. ‘The racing wasn’t official.’

  Mrs Wilkinson stops typing.

  ‘Gypsy racing?’ Mr Wilkinson looks at me with more interest.

  ‘They said it was “unofficial”. That’s all I was told.’

  ‘Blinkin’ cheek,’ Mr Wilkinson mutters to himself. ‘Walk up to my front door. Interrupt. Girl. Job. Bloomin’ nerve.’

  I keep quiet. He is not at all what I expected a trainer to be like, this confused-looking man with a squeaky voice. When he talks, it is in short bursts, like a mobile phone with bad reception.

  ‘Wants a holiday job. Pocket money. Be with the ’orses. Same old story.’

  ‘Would you need somewhere to stay?’ asks Mrs Wilkinson.

  I nod.

  ‘We are short-staffed, Clive,’ Mrs Wilkinson murmurs.

  ‘Two lads. Walked out. No notice.’ Mr Wilkinson looks at me with fury as if all this was my fault. ‘Muck out?’

  Again, I nod.

  ‘Pay you pocket money. Give you a bed and board.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The trainer picks up a telephone on his desk and dials a number. The person at the other end answers almost immediately. ‘New girl for the yard,’ says Mr Wilkinson in his high voice. ‘Calls herself Jasmine.’

  There’s an explosion of angry noises from the other end of the line. I’m sensing that the person receiving the call is not thrilled by this news.

  Now there’s so much swearing and shouting down the phone that Mr Wilkinson takes it away from his ear and then, after holding it in the air for a moment, places it in the receiver.
/>   ‘I prefer to be called Jay.’ I say these words quietly.

  He frowns, as if I have suddenly spoken in a foreign language.

  ‘I’ve never really felt like a Jasmine,’ I explain.

  There’s a brief bark of laughter from Mrs Wilkinson.

  ‘See how you get on. Few days,’ says Mr Wilkinson.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wilkinson.’

  ‘Got to last the week first. In the yard. Office. Find the assistant trainer. Mr Bucknall.’ He suddenly seems full of rage at what has just happened. ‘You’re on your own,’ he snaps. ‘Remember that. Any problems. Out. No room for silly little girls here.’

  He jerks his head towards the door. As I make my exit, I look towards Mrs Wilkinson. She is staring at me, narrow-eyed, with a look I can’t quite read.

  Friend.

  Or.

  Enemy?

  A BACK YARD SORT OF PERSON

  I WALK DOWN the pathway into the stable yard. It is as old and ramshackle as the house, with an overgrown lawn at its centre, surrounded by pathways of black stable bricks. From stables on every side of the yard, horses watch me.

  Hey, guys, I’m here.

  I feel stronger than when I was in the house moments ago. There is something about the presence of horses which makes me more at ease. Right now I may be alone in the world, but those eyes following me, those pricked ears, give me strength.

  I walk to the corner of the yard where there is a small door marked ‘Office’. I knock.

  No reply.

  I knock again.

  Silence.

  After my third knock, there’s an angry ‘Yes! Are you deaf?’ from inside.

  The small room is more like a ship’s cabin than an office. Behind a table, there sits a man in his thirties. He is reading a newspaper and ignores me.

  I smile politely. ‘Mr Wilkinson sent me.’

  The man looks up slowly, and runs a hand through his heavy, slicked-back hair. He has a reddish cheeks and a big face with sleepy eyes. He yawns, mouth uncovered, as I stand there.

  Mr Harry Bucknall, the assistant trainer.

  ‘Are you Jasmine?’ he drawls. Jyaaasmine.

  ‘They call me Jay.’

  ‘Do they now? Well, I prefer Jasmine. Friend of the missus, are you? Bit of girl power going on, is there?’ A cold sarcastic smile appears on his face.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Jasmine. How else could you have got a job here without even an interview with me? It’s your friend, the Empress Josephine in there – interfering as usual.’ He makes a sneering face and puts on a trilling, womanish voice. ‘Oh, we’ve got to have more girls here, Harry. It’s about equal opportunities these days. Girls are just as good as boys with horses, Harry.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘What does she know?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I mumble.

  ‘We’ve had quite a few girls here, in fact. They just don’t seem to want to stay. Can’t think why.’ Suddenly he seems bored by the conversation. ‘Can you ride?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘Not little ponies, Jasmine. I mean really ride – horses.’

  ‘I’ve ridden winners in pony races.’

  ‘Oooh.’ He makes a mocking little noise, then stands up, reaching for a tweed jacket which is hanging on a nail in the wall. ‘Better find someone to show you around.’ He strides towards the door. ‘Not that you’ll be here for long.’

  We step out into the sunlight.

  ‘Main yard. For the better horses,’ he says. ‘You won’t be here.’ He walks towards an archway, his heavy shoes echoing on the bricks. A passage leads to a second, smaller yard. There is no lawn here, no hedge or stable bricks. The stables are smaller, with a sad farmyard look to them. In the far corner, steam is rising from a heap of manure.

  ‘Back yard,’ Mr Bucknall mutters. He looks down at me. ‘You look like a back yard sort of person, Jasmine,’ he says, and laughs as if at some private joke that I wouldn’t understand.

  I notice one stable, set back from the others and slightly larger, which has a grille across it. For some reason, I’m curious about it.

  The assistant trainer notices where I am looking. ‘Keep away from that stable,’ he says. Before I can ask why, he has pushed open a door in the wall beside him. ‘Tack room—’ He walks into a room with rows of saddles, bridles, rugs, head collars, bandages and boots along the walls.

  Seated on a chair at the far end of the tack room is a slight, long-haired man in his twenties. A tin of saddle soap is on the table in front of him and he has a small sponge in one hand, a bridle in the other.

  ‘On tack duty, eh, Deej?’

  The man called Deej ignores him and nods at me. I smile.

  ‘Now, Deej. This little toe-rag here is called Jasmine. For reasons which remain mysterious, she been taken on by Mrs Wilkinson for a few days.’

  ‘I like to be called Jay,’ I say. ‘And it was Mr Wilkinson who took me on.’

  ‘I don’t mind a bit of totty in the yard,’ Bucknall murmurs to Deej. ‘But this one looks like something the cat brought in.’

  Deej smiles at me and shakes his head.

  ‘I’d like you to show Jasmine the ropes, tell her what’s what. Apparently, she’s staying at Auntie’s place.’

  Deej continues to clean the bridle. ‘How’s that working then?’ he asks casually. ‘With the rent.’

  ‘We pay the rent, Jasmine.’ The assistant trainer clears his throat. ‘It gets taken out of your pay. Understood?’

  I glance at Deej, sensing that he is looking after my interests. He gives a little nod.

  ‘That sounds good,’ I say.

  ‘Right.’ Bucknall puts his hands together in a nervous clapping movement. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  As the door closes, Deej shakes his head. ‘Eejit,’ he mutters, and we both laugh. He hands me a sponge and a bar of saddle soap. ‘You can make yourself useful, Jay,’ he says.

  I spit on the saddle soap and get to work on a bridle.

  Deej looks surprised.

  ‘Sorry, not very ladylike,’ I say.

  He reaches down for a bucket of water and places it between us. ‘Save your spit,’ he says. ‘You’re at Wilkinson’s yard now.’

  ‘Yeah. Magic Wilkinson. I can’t believe it.’

  Deej gives a little laugh. ‘Don’t hold your breath for any magic,’ he says, frowning as he rubs down a brow-band. ‘Just do your best one day at a time, keep on the right side of Angus, and take it from there.’

  ‘Who’s Angus?’

  ‘Head lad.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Deej thinks for a moment. ‘He’s OK. Scottish. Bit old and grumpy. He has issues.’ Deej laughs, as if something has just occurred to him. ‘Pretty much everyone has issues at Wilkinson’s. Humans, horses, the lot.’ There are voices from outside. Deej glances at his watch. ‘Evening stables. Stick with me and keep your mouth shut.’

  Outside, there is an atmosphere of quiet activity in the yard, lads carrying buckets, pushing wheelbarrows. I notice that there’s no shouting, that when the lads speak to one another, it is in low voices.

  ‘Horses come first,’ Deej explains as we make our way into the main yard. ‘It’s the guv’nor’s golden rule. Lads can come and go. There can be all kinds of human stuff going on. But nothing must ever be allowed to disturb the horses. No mobiles in the yard. No smoking. No shouting.’

  A couple of lads walk by us. They greet Deej and glance briefly in my direction.

  Over the next half an hour we look after the three horses Deej ‘does’ – that is, looks after. We give them fresh hay and water, and muck them out, then tie them up ready for Mr Wilkinson’s evening inspection. I do as Deej has told me – I do what he tells me and keep my mouth shut. It is like being at a new school where you know no one.

  Fetching a bag of bedding from the barn, I pass by the corner of the yard where earlier I noticed the strange, cage-like grille on a stable door.


  I hear Bucknall’s words in my head. Keep away from that stable.

  Glancing around to check that no one is looking, I approach it. The stable is out of the sun and has no windows. It is as dark as a cave inside. At first, peering through the bars, I can see no sign of life.

  So why should I keep away from it?

  Then, as I stand there, I see a movement, like a dappling of light in the darkness where none should be.

  Hullo.

  Another movement. There’s a horse in there – a big grey. A glint of a dark eye catches the light. From the shadows, there comes low, loud breathing, almost like the growl of a beast.

  Who are you?

  The eye gazes back at me. Whatever is in there shifts slightly. The splashes of brightness in the gloom catch the light for a second and quiver like sunlight on water.

  ‘What the blazes are you doing?’

  It is a low angry rasp, in a strong Scottish accent from ten metres behind me. I turn to see a small, wiry man standing, hands on hips. He is wearing dark blue exercise breeches and looks much older than the other lads. His grey hair is neatly parted, like a character out of an old-fashioned film. Angus.

  ‘I was just looking.’

  He strides towards me like an angry bantam cockerel. And stands uncomfortably close to me. ‘And who the blazing blazes might you be?’

  ‘I’m Jay. I’m new.’

  ‘Who the blazes says so?’

  (I should explain that Angus never actually uses the word ‘blazes’. He is the sweariest person I have ever met. He swears like other people breathe.)

  ‘I saw Mr Wilkinson this afternoon. He said—’

  ‘He’d take you on for some holiday work, I know.’ Angus laughs wearily. From the far side of the yard, a lad – dark-haired and with a powerful, stocky build – walks towards us, carrying a bucket of feed. He whistles loudly and out of tune, and as he passes us, he says, ‘Pony club day, is it, Angus?’

  The head lad laughs. ‘Evening, Pete.’

  The lad called Pete heads for the stable containing the big grey. He reaches for the pitchfork and, entering the stable, makes a rasping growl. There is a clatter of horse’s hooves from within the stable, followed by curses.