Racing Manhattan

by Terence Blacker

  Later, it occurs to me that it was a slightly weird thing to say.

  Why should I have to look after myself?

  It is late one morning, one day at the end of August. After third lot, I am checking on Ocean Pacific in the main yard when there is a clattering of hooves on concrete and raised voices from the back yard. I hurry towards the sound, a feeling of dread within me. As I enter the yard, I hear the snorting of a horse, half threatening, half fearful.

  A group of lads are gathered around Manhattan’s stable.

  To my relief, Angus strides past me, an angry look on his face. He reaches the stable before me.

  ‘Is she playing up again, Pete?’ Angus looks over the stable door.

  ‘Yeah. She had a go at me. I’m sorting her out for good and all this time.’

  Over Angus’s shoulder, I can see that Pete is standing like an old-fashioned soldier in battle. Only it is not a bayonet in his hands but a pitchfork.

  Manhattan is on the other side of the box. Now and then she swings her hindquarters towards Pete. As he scrambles for safety, there is more laughter from the lads watching.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I ask Liam.

  ‘She’s had a go at him,’ he says. ‘Pete’s teaching her a lesson.’

  ‘She’s just frightened.’ I say the words loudly. ‘Where’s Mr Wilkinson? Bucknall?’

  Liam glances towards the main yard. ‘They’ve all gone to lunch.’

  Manhattan has turned to face Pete. The whites of her eyes flash in the gloom. I can see – anyone could see – that she’s terrified.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask the question loudly to the whole group. ‘I rode her this morning. She was fine.’

  ‘Leave it, Bug,’ Liam warns me. ‘This is Pete’s business.’

  ‘She turned on him,’ another of the lads, Tommy, calls out. ‘She can be vicious, that one.’

  ‘She’s just afraid.’ I raise my voice. ‘You should leave her alone.’

  Pete looks over his shoulder. ‘Who let the little girl in?’ he jeers. He raises the pitchfork sharply and Manhattan throws her head up. ‘Bloomin’ freak,’ he calls out. ‘Shall I give her one?’

  I feel a lurch of anger within me. ‘Angus, please!’ I’m shouting now, and one or two of the lads are looking nervous. ‘This is wrong.’

  To my amazement, the emotion in my voice has an effect.

  ‘Aye, game over.’ Angus raps the stable door. ‘You’ll be late for lunch, Pete.’

  The lads behind me begin to wander off. ‘Lunch time, Pete,’ one calls out.

  Sensing that he has lost his audience, Pete backs towards the door and lets himself out.

  He brushes past me, bumping my shoulder as he heads back to the feed room, the pitchfork hanging in his right hand. Angus and the other lads follow him.

  I look into the box. Manhattan has her back to me, her hind leg twitches nervously.

  There you are, Hat. You’re going to be all right. He’s gone now.

  Her ears, half back, are motionless. I don’t exist for her.

  I spend the afternoon in her stable. I talk, I groom, but for Manhattan I have become one of the enemy. Now and then, her ears go flat against her neck and she swings her hindquarters threateningly towards me, but I hold my ground.

  I know. You want me to leave. But I’m staying with you.

  The red fire is there, but it’s different from the past, slower, more dangerous. It smoulders quietly within me all afternoon. I only realise that I have entered the danger zone when I notice that my hand holding the body brush is trembling violently. In the past, I’ve been afraid of what the flames will make me do when I am in this state.

  Now I welcome them. Rage makes me strong.

  I am just preparing to leave for the evening when one of the younger lads, Davy, calls me from the door of the tack room.

  ‘Hey, Bug. A few of us are going out tonight. D’you fancy joining us?’

  As politely as I can, I tell him I’ll be staying in. He beckons me over. There’s something odd about this.

  As I approach the tack room, Davy ducks inside. I hear voices. Normally I would be more careful, but not tonight.

  I push the door open.

  There are five of them, lounging against the far wall. They are the younger lads, except for Pete, who is at the end of the row, examining his fingernails like some bad guy in an old-fashioned film.

  ‘Hey, Bug,’ he says.

  I look to the right, where there is a doorway leading to the feed room. There are more lads, mostly the older ones – the spectators. I look around for Deej and Laura but they must have left.

  The door closes behind me.

  Trouble.

  Oh yes, thank you. Trouble is on the way.

  Among the lads over by the feed room, someone starts softly whistling ‘Nelly the Elephant’. I glance in that direction and the tune quietly fades.

  I step into the centre of the room. The red fire is crackling, burning, gaining strength. All the pain I have felt within me since seeing Manhattan being taunted this morning is concentrated in the core of my being.

  I smile at the lads in front of me.

  ‘We’re not here for a joke, Bug.’ Pete speaks in a low, tough-guy voice.

  ‘No?’

  ‘We’re here for a bit of schooling. You know what this is, don’t you?’

  ‘Schooling? You mean, like you were schooling Manhattan this morning?’

  Pete frowns. ‘What are you talking about? Schooling is the name we give to initiating you into the yard. It’s traditional in racing yards – just a little game. A ritual. I got all my hair shaved off and a bit of carpet glued to my skull. We’ve all had it.’

  I look about me. There is something wolf-like in the way those eyes are looking at me.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’ I ask.

  Pete ignores the question. ‘Normally we wait a bit longer before we school someone, but we’ve decided to make an exception in your case.’

  ‘Take it as a compliment,’ someone says behind me. I can hear the excitement in his voice.

  Now I see the set-up. The younger ones, like Davy, Liam and Amit, are here to prove themselves. The older lads looking on from next door are enjoying the laugh. Angus has left for the night.

  There is only one person behind this, and he’s the bully of the Wilkinson yard.

  Pete.

  ‘So here’s what we are going to do to get the little Bugster schooled.’ He rolls his shoulders and sticks out his chin, reminding me of something you might see behind bars in a zoo. He sniffs, then smiles at the other lads. ‘Bring out the bath.’

  Behind me, Liam and Davy lift a zinc bath, full of a dark, oily liquid, into the centre of the room.

  ‘Tractor oil.’ Pete step forward. ‘Used. A bit dirty. You’re going in there. Then you’re going to be locked in the feed house with the rats overnight.’

  There’s laughter from one of the older lads standing at the doorway, looking on.

  ‘Nice one,’ somebody says.

  ‘Then, in the morning, you’ll be what we call “schooled”. You’ll be part of the yard. All right, Bug?’

  ‘What about Mr Wilkinson? Angus?’

  ‘They know about schooling. It’s part of racing. They leave us lads to sort it out. In our own way.’

  I stare deep into his eyes. In my mind, I see Manhattan, her ears flat back against her head, the whites of her eyes flashing. My skin is burning now. I taste revenge at the back of my throat.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’ Pete glowers at me, as if I have just insulted his mother. ‘What did you just say, Bug?’

  ‘No.’

  His eyes glittering with threat, Pete speaks more quietly. ‘You don’t understand? Have I made it too complicated for you?’

  I stay silent, waiting for my moment.

  ‘Here’s the thing with schooling, Bugster,’ says Pete. ‘It can be done the easy way. Or … not.’

  He wanders across the
tack room, a big, stupid smile on his face. Leaning against the saddle-rack is his favourite weapon, a pitchfork. He takes it, weighs it in his right hand like a spear, then ambles back to me.

  He is relaxed, enjoying the moment. That’s a mistake. As he approaches, he glances in the direction of the lads watching him. In that instant, I step forward and grab the pitchfork. Trying to hold onto it, he loses balance, and at that moment I kick his legs from under him.

  There is such a thing as justice. Falling, Pete hits his head on the side of the zinc bath. As he lands on the floor, he lies dazed just long enough for me to push the points of the pitchfork against his neck, holding him down. I press downwards. Pete’s eyes stare up at me.

  The red fire is raging.

  ‘How about the easy way, Pete?’ I say. ‘Shall we try that?’

  He looks up at me, then his eyes dart helplessly at the other lads. None of them makes a move.

  More weight on the pitchfork. The skin of his neck is white where the points press into the flesh. Pete raises his hands, like someone out of a cowboy film.

  ‘Easy, Bug,’ someone calls out.

  ‘This is for Manhattan.’ I hiss the words.

  ‘Wha—?’ It is a croak of fear.

  ‘Leave her alone.’ The words are a hiss of rage. ‘Right?’

  ‘Right.’ His face is going red.

  ‘Am I schooled now?’ I ask, my face close to his.

  Pete opens his mouth, but seems unable to speak.

  He nods.

  ‘So everyone can go home?’

  Pete is recovering himself. Never drop your hands before the winning post. I give the pitchfork a little push against his throat.

  ‘Yes!’

  I allow my eyes to take in the rest of the room.

  ‘Party’s over.’

  Slowly, I take the pitchfork away from Pete’s neck. Then, carrying it in my hand, I walk calmly across the room. The lads make way for me as I pass. I glance back at Pete, sitting on the floor, rubbing his neck. Then I push open the door and walk into the daylight.

  Outside, I lean the pitchfork against a wall, feeling suddenly tired and sad. I walk in silence out of the yard.

  End.

  Of.

  School.

  TOO FAR

  THE NEXT MORNING, on the way to work, I tell Laura what has happened. She gives me a funny look when I mention holding Pete down with a pitchfork.

  ‘Whoa, psychobabe,’ she says. I get the feeling it is not a compliment.

  ‘What else could I do? I had to teach Pete a lesson.’

  Laura looks away. ‘Trouble is, you taught everyone else a lesson too. They won’t like that, believe me.’

  She is right. I go to the tack room to look at the List. My name is nowhere to be seen. As I stand there, checking it once again, Amit and Liam walk in. They ignore me. I go to Ocean Pacific’s box and I find Davy mucking out. He tells me he has been asked to do my horse today. The other two are being done by Tommy and Deej.

  Walking more slowly now, I make my way into the main yard.

  Angus emerges from one of the stables and brushes past me as if I’m not there.

  ‘My name doesn’t seem to be on the List, Angus.’ He keeps walking, so I follow him. ‘Am I riding out?’

  ‘No.’ The word is spoken quietly. ‘And you’re not doing your horses, either.’

  ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘Muck out all the horses in the back yard, except the grey. Then go home and pack your bags. You’re out, girl. You’ve gone too far. Go to see the guv’nor at six tonight.’

  ‘I had to do something, Angus. First Norewest, then Manhattan.’

  Angus shakes his head. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave it to me?’

  Because you had done nothing. Because Pete was still mistreating Manhattan. Because I couldn’t wait any longer. These are some of the things I could have said to Angus, but didn’t.

  ‘Time,’ he mutters. ‘These things take time.’

  ‘Ah. It’s Bug Barton.’ Opening the door to Edgecote House that evening, Mrs Wilkinson gazes at me with chilly disapproval. I step into the hall. With the usual mustiness, there is another smell, one that I recognise.

  Cigars.

  I hear men’s voices from the sitting room along the corridor. Mrs Wilkinson leads me into the room. There, sitting on a chair beside the fireplace, a cigar between his fingers, is the man who, in the whole wide world, I least want to see right now.

  ‘Uncle Bill. I don’t understand.’

  My uncle winks, as if we are both enjoying a secret joke. ‘All right, doll?’ he says.

  Mr Wilkinson, sitting in his normal chair, waves in the direction of the sofa. ‘Seat. Barton. Won’t keep you long,’ he says.

  I notice that there is half-full glass of what looks like whisky on the table beside his chair.

  ‘Clive and Rosemary have been telling me how you’ve been getting on,’ says Uncle Bill in his best fake-relaxed voice. It’s as if he’s popped in to meet the teachers on parents’ evening. ‘Bit of a mixed bag, it sounds like.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Detective work, girl. I knew you’d go to Newmarket. I got my contacts to ask around. New girl in town. Nice little rider. Small, dark-haired, young. You know me, doll. What I want I get.’

  There is an awkward silence in the room. For the first time, I realise that my uncle is wearing a bright green tweed jacket and smart trousers with a crease. I have a horrible feeling he thinks this is what you should wear when visiting a racing stable.

  ‘Your uncle has been in touch with us for a while,’ says Mrs Wilkinson. ‘After Angus told us about your behaviour yesterday, we asked him to come over to collect you.’

  A low rumbling noise comes from Mr Wilkinson. ‘Have to fit in. Racing game. Not just about riding well. Attitude. Like the ’orses. Ability? Not enough. Character. Can’t go off like a two-bob rocket.’

  ‘The kid’s got loads of character,’ says Uncle Bill. ‘Too much bloody character sometimes.’ He winks at me. ‘Eh, doll?’

  Now all three adults are looking at me, as if expecting me to say something.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened to Pete,’ I say quietly. ‘It was just that Manhattan—’

  Mrs Wilkinson groans. ‘Leave that animal out of it,’ she drawls. ‘She’s cost her owner a fortune, she’s useless on the racecourse, and is vicious in the stable. If the lads are a little tough on her, I don’t blame them frankly.’

  ‘And before that, there was Norewest. I didn’t want to tell you this.’ I look at Mrs Wilkinson, then Mr Wilkinson. Their faces are telling me the same thing. ‘You knew.’

  ‘We’re not idiots,’ says Mrs Wilkinson. ‘But it’s more complicated than you think. Pete’s father worked here for years. The family have been very loyal to the yard. We’ve been looking for a job for Pete away from horses. After the Norewest thing, we gave him a final warning.’

  ‘Racing family,’ mutters Mr Wilkinson. ‘Can’t throw ’em out on the street.’

  ‘What about Manhattan? Doesn’t she count too? I was told that horses came first in this yard.’ My words are an angry wail.

  There is a moment’s silence.

  ‘Girl’s got a bit of a temper on her,’ says Uncle Bill, trying to cover for me. ‘Too emotional for her own good sometimes.’

  ‘We noticed,’ says Mrs Wilkinson.

  ‘Horses is horses.’ The cold, watery eyes of Mr Wilkinson are fixed on mine. ‘Mare. Jinxed. Nothing but trouble.’

  I know there is nothing I can say. Any words that leave my mouth seem to make the end of my life in racing more certain.

  ‘Had your chance,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘Messed it up.’

  ‘Big time,’ says Uncle Bill.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  And I am. I’m sorry for Manhattan and Norewest. I’m sorry for all the horses in the world who have to suffer the cruelty of the human beings who control their lives. I’m sorry that caring about an
imals has brought me to this.

  ‘Really?’ Mr Wilkinson can see the defiance in my eyes.

  ‘Yes, guv’nor.’ I manage the lie quite impressively under the circumstances. ‘Really.’

  ‘Learns her lesson.’ A big, chummy smile is on Uncle Bill’s face. ‘Typical teenager.’

  Mrs Wilkinson sits forward in her chair. ‘You ran away from home. You turned up on our doorstep and demanded a job.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Shut up and listen, Jay. You had a crashing fall and rode out the next day. You’ve got the most hopeless animal in the yard going rather well for you. You’ve’ – there’s an irritated twitch to Mrs Wilkinson’s lips – ‘stood your corner with the other lads who are stronger and older than you.’

  ‘The girl’s tough,’ says Uncle Bill. ‘You’ve got to give her that.’

  Mrs Wilkinson ignores him. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. Your uncle will take you home.’ She holds up a hand to fend off any interruption. ‘At the beginning of next month, there’s a course at the British Racing School just outside Newmarket. We’ve got you a place on something called a Level Two Apprenticeship in Racehorse Care. It’s not just learning about racing. You’ll do some school work there – this is still part of your education because you can’t work full-time until you’re eighteen. If you pass the course, you’ll complete your apprenticeship here.’

  ‘What?’ I swallow hard, unable to believe what I’m hearing.

  ‘Told your school back home,’ says Uncle Bill. ‘They were not exactly heartbroken.’

  ‘You mean—?’ I look from the trainer to the trainer’s wife and back again. ‘I’m being given a second chance?’

  ‘No,’ says Mrs Wilkinson in her coldest voice. ‘You’re being given a last chance.’

  I smile uncertainly at Mr Wilkinson. ‘Thank you, guv’nor.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Not my decision.’ Mr Wilkinson suddenly looks annoyed, as if he has been tricked into making a decision he will regret later. ‘Behave yourself. Do what you’re told. Keep your mouth shut.’

  Uncle Bill stands up, eager to get me out of there before I say the wrong thing again. ‘Better be making tracks,’ he says.

  ‘You shall not visit this yard again until after you have finished Racing School,’ says Mrs Wilkinson.