Racing Manhattan

by Terence Blacker

  I shake my head. ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Pete’s in hospital. Smashed leg, three broken ribs, punctured lung and a fractured skull.’

  ‘Did he have a fall?’

  ‘Good lord, no. He was attacked by a vicious brute of a horse. He would have been killed if Angus hadn’t dragged him out of the box.’

  And suddenly I know what is coming.

  ‘Manhattan?’

  He nods, reaching for a copy of the Racing Post on his desk. ‘Nasty animal. One morning she just went for him – teeth, kicking, snorting, trying to crush him against the wall. She’s been put in a bull-pen in the old cowsheds until she’s disposed of.’ He glances up at me, and smiles coldly. ‘Shut the door behind you.’

  On.

  My.

  Way.

  BULL-PEN

  AT FIRST, I can see only little bruises of light in the darkness at the back of the bull-pen.

  Hey, Hat.

  It is a cast-iron cage at the back of the cattle shed. From the sunlight through the main door of the shed, I can see the thick bars from floor to roof, the heavy reinforced door. And in the murk beyond there is a still, dark-grey shape.

  Oh, Hat. What have they done to you?

  No reaction. No movement.

  I’m here, girl. It’s me.

  I slide back the heavy bolt on the door and walk stealthily into the pen.

  The bedding beneath my feet is wet, and a sharp ammonia smell rises when I tread on it. No one has mucked out the pen for days, maybe weeks.

  My eyes are becoming accustomed to the darkness. Manhattan has her back to me. Her head, held low, is in one corner of the pen. She looks like an old, exhausted workhorse who has reached the end of its days.

  OK, girl. There’s no need to be afraid. I understand.

  Manhattan gives a low sigh, and ignores me. Watching carefully for any movement in those hind legs, I move towards her.

  He got back at me through you. The man who was meant to be looking after you was angry with me. I made him look small. He knew how to get his revenge on me – by hurting you.

  Two steps closer.

  And you couldn’t take it. You wouldn’t take it.

  I’m beside her hindquarters now. Her coat is dull, and there are marks on it, which might be muck or scabs where she has been hit.

  I long to touch her, but I mustn’t startle her.

  You’re going to be all right, girl.

  She turns her head towards me, as if noticing for the first time that I am there. The only sign that she has recognised me is that she is showing no fear.

  I stroke her neck as softly as I can. Then, when there’s no reaction, I put both arms around her neck and rest my cheek against her matted coat, breathing in the sharp, ungroomed smell of her, feeling the warmth of her. We stay like that, perfectly still, for a minute, maybe two.

  I’m aware of a heaviness within me lifting. The noise in the world outside the yard. There seem to be tears in my eyes. My nose is running. I sniff and wipe it against Manhattan’s neck. She stirs, then gives a long, heart-worn sigh.

  Maybe I’ve got a carrot.

  I’m reaching into my pocket when her head goes up, her ears flicker back. The sound of brisk footsteps echo on the concrete floor of the cattle shed.

  They won’t touch you, Hat. I’m here now.

  ‘What in the mother of mercy’s name do you think you’re blazing doing, Bug?’

  As the unmistakeable tones of Angus echo through the cowshed, I feel the muscles in Manhattan’s neck tense. She moves, swishing her tail and lifting one of her hind legs.

  Easy, Hat. Easy.

  Angus is swearing quietly beyond the door. ‘Right then,’ he says eventually. ‘Move very slowly away to the side.’ He’s talking quietly like some bomb-disposal expert in a war. ‘I’ll come round to that side and cover you though the bars with this pitchfork.’

  ‘No.’

  I hold Manhattan closer to me.

  I’ll be back soon, Hat.

  Then I pat her, stand back and face Angus.

  ‘A pitchfork will only frighten her.’ I speak in a low voice.

  To my surprise, the head lad leans the fork against the wall. I move calmly past Manhattan’s restless hindquarters to the door, and out.

  I bolt it behind me and face Angus.

  ‘This isn’t a blazing petting zoo, girl’ he says. ‘It’s a racing stable.’

  ‘I’d like to do her, Angus. In addition to my usual work.’

  ‘Got a death wish, have you, lassie?’

  ‘She’s not a bad horse, Angus.’

  ‘Aye, she’s not.’ The head lad looks into the bull-pen. ‘She’s a lot worse than that. She’s a bad mare.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mares don’t change, girly.’ His voice takes on a steely tone. ‘You’ll learn that when you’ve been in the game as long as I have. If you have a colt or gelding who’s developing bad habits, you can sort them out. They learn. Once a mare goes to the bad, there’s only one thing you can do. Try to break her. Show her who’s boss. Doesn’t always work.’

  ‘There’s another way. You saw how Pete treated her. She was just fighting back. Let me talk to Mr Wilkinson about it.’

  ‘You can, as it happens. That was why I was looking for you. The guv’nor wanted to see you at the big house.’ Angus’s mouth does an odd little twitch, which may or may not be a smile. ‘You don’t know when you’re beat, do you, girl? You’re a tough little thing – for a lassie.’

  ‘I’m not a lassie, Angus. I’m a lad.’

  ‘Och aye.’ He turns away, but not before I see the smile he is trying to hide.

  When Mrs Wilkinson opens the front door, she actually seems pleased to see me.

  ‘Jay. And how was the course?’

  My mind is still in the bull-pen. ‘It was good. Can we talk about Manhattan?’

  ‘No.’ The smile leaves her face as she turns to lead me across the hall. ‘We have more important things to discuss.’

  I follow her into the dining room. Mr Wilkinson is at one end of a long table, reading a copy of the Racing Post.

  ‘Jay Barton is here, Clive.’

  The trainer, in a world of his own, glances up at her, then sees me. He makes an odd mumbling noise, which could be a groan or a grunt of welcome.

  Mrs Wilkinson takes her place at the other end of the table to her husband. She nods in the direction of a spare chair. ‘Jay wanted to talk about Manhattan, Clive. I told her we needed to discuss something else.’

  ‘I just wanted to ask if I could do her,’ I say. ‘In addition to my normal work.’

  ‘She’s rather blotted her copy book, that mare.’ Mrs Wilkinson sounds more bored than usual. ‘On the whole, it’s not thought to be a terribly good idea for a racehorse to try to kill someone. People tend to disapprove.’

  ‘Just give me a few weeks. It’ll be my risk if anything happens to me.’

  ‘Death wish,’ mutters Mr Wilkinson, turning a page of his Racing Post. ‘Talk about. Something else. Reason you’re here.’ He looks at me, like a sorrowful toad. ‘Put you down. Lads’ race. February. Poptastic. Six furlongs. Kempton.’

  ‘Lingfield,’ says Mrs Wilkinson.

  ‘Lingfield, yes. Ride the horse second lot. Bit green. Never raced before.’

  I’m staring at him in amazement. ‘Thank you, Mr Wilkinson. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘Better blinkin’ not.’ He reaches for his paper.

  ‘So maybe now that you’re going to be a jockey, a few second thoughts about Manhattan are in order.’ Mrs Wilkinson gives me one of her polite society smiles. ‘The last thing you need is an injury before your first ride.’

  I don’t even have to think. ‘I’ll do both. I won’t get injured.’

  Mrs Wilkinson looks at me, surprised. ‘And if we say you have to choose?’

  ‘I’ll take Manhattan.’

  The trainer shakes his head, as if his worst suspicions have been confirmed.

&n
bsp; ‘It would solve a problem, Clive,’ says Mrs Wilkinson. ‘Pete’s decided to get out of racing, and none of the lads want to do the mare. We can’t have her looking like a hat-rack if the prince comes down. Maybe we should take Jay at her word.’ She looks at me, a chilly smile on her face. ‘All your Manhattan work will be in your own time.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nods. ‘I’ll tell Angus.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilkinson.’

  ‘Now leave us alone,’ she says. ‘Second lot will be going out soon. You’ve got a racehorse to work.’

  I leave the big house, blinking in the sunshine as I stand on the steps, looking across the paddocks.

  My heart is thumping in my chest. I’m no longer just a lad. I’ll be riding work with professional jockeys. Soon I’ll take the first step to becoming one myself.

  But none of that is the reason why a big smile settles on my face as I walk slowly back to the yard for second lot.

  Something important has happened. I am riding into the future.

  Me.

  And.

  Hat.

  POPTASTIC

  I CHANGE INTO my new clothes, dark blue jodhpurs and boots, in one of the empty boxes in the main yard, then make my way to the stable of Poptastic, the horse I am riding for the second lot.

  He is a big, gangling bay three-year-old who has yet to grow into his strength, but he is bred for speed.

  His lad, Tommy, is running a body brush over him when I arrive. He glances at me in my new gear.

  ‘Getting the leg-up today, are we?’

  ‘Yup.’ I undo Poptastic’s head collar, put the reins over the horse’s head and slip the bridle on him. ‘What’s this one like?’ I ask.

  ‘Bit of a baby, but there’s no harm in him. He wasn’t strong enough to race as a two-year-old. Hasn’t even done any serious work before today.’ Tommy pats him on the neck. ‘Got to look his best, he has. The owner’s in today.’ He darts a look over his shoulder in my direction. ‘Now that you’re a work jockey you’d better be at your best too.’

  I frown, not quite clear what he means.

  ‘Look outside the door.’

  I do. There, on the ground, is a whip.

  ‘Angus left it for you,’ Tommy calls out from the box.

  I pick the whip up. It brings back bad memories of when I first rode Manhattan, but I know it means a lot. Unless they are riding ‘problem horses’, only jockeys and lads who ride work can carry a whip. It is a sign of promotion, like the first stripe on the arm of a soldier.

  On the way to the covered yard, Poptastic is on his toes, as if he can sense that today is the day when he has to grow up, become a racehorse. He jigs restlessly, looking about him with wild-eyed, babyish enthusiasm.

  Maybe because my thoughts are still on Manhattan, I’m completely relaxed. As we walk around the covered yard, I notice that the other lads are taking in the change to the way I look.

  I look smarter. I am carrying a whip. I am riding a main-yard horse whose owner will be watching this morning. I may be small, and I may be a girl, but I’m not the kid who helps out in the yard any more.

  Poptastic is seeing spooks in every shadow as we make our way out to the heath and, when the string does a slow canter on the all-weather track, he pulls hard, throwing his head around.

  Easy, boy. You’ll get your moment.

  He’s a strong horse, but he is clumsy and needs to be held together to avoid him striking into himself. By the time we pull up, Mr Wilkinson’s battered estate car has arrived. When the trainer gets out, there are two people with him – a small, powerfully built man wearing a green checked suit, the sort of clothes a city dweller wears when visiting the country, and tottering behind him is a younger, taller woman with red hair and a short skirt. Her high heels make walking difficult on the springy turf.

  One of the lads gives a low whistle. Angus mutters something sexist under his breath.

  Behind me, Deej says, ‘Here come your owners, Bug.’

  I glance towards him, mouthing the word ‘Who?’

  ‘Pete Lukic. Most of the nightclubs in Essex belong to him. And I’m guessing that’s probably not his daughter.’

  The eyes of the trainer and his guests are on Poptastic as the string circles around them.

  ‘Jay.’ Mr Wilkinson beckons me in.

  ‘This my jockey?’ The small man, Mr Lukic, has an I’m-just-about-to-make-a-joke look on his face. ‘Shouldn’t she be at school?’

  I smile politely.

  ‘That horse looks dead frisky, Pete.’ His girlfriend giggles. ‘A bit like his owner.’

  ‘Leave it, Paloma,’ mutters Mr Lukic.

  Mr Wilkinson calls Liam and Deej to join us. Liam is on Poker Face, a useful three-year-old who has won a couple of races, and Deej is riding Norewest.

  ‘Serious piece of work from the five-furlong pole,’ the trainer says. ‘Pass the two-furlong mark. Let them stride out. Bug in the middle on the three-year-old. Bit green. Don’t go mad.’

  We canter away from the string, with Deej and Liam joking about the red-headed girl as they go. When we reach the five-furlong post, I pull my leathers up three or four notches. I want to feel and look like a jockey. Deej and Liam take their positions on each side of me. While they are not looking, I do the heart trick, tracing a shape on Poptastic’s shoulder. It is more to calm me, than him.

  When we turn and set off, it takes a while to settle Poptastic. I play with the reins, changing the pressure on his mouth to keep him distracted, and soon he begins to relax into his stride.

  There you go, boy. This is the way it’s done.

  I drop my hands on his neck and crouch lower in the saddle.

  To my right Liam is going easily. Deej, on the other side, gives a little whoop of joy as the wind whistles past our ears.

  At the four-furlong pole, I change my grip on the reins and begin to push him out, hands and heels.

  Let’s see what you can do, boy. Here we go.

  For the first time in his life, Poptastic gets a taste of what he has been bred to do. He lengthens his stride and, by the time we pass the group of onlookers beside the gallop, we are half a length ahead of the other two and going well within ourselves.

  We pull up, canter back to the trainer.

  ‘Said don’t go mad.’ Mr Wilkinson is scowling at me, but by now I know him well enough to see that he is quite pleased by what he has seen.

  ‘I had a lot more in hand, sir.’

  ‘Oh, he’s so sweet, Pete.’ The girl is holding onto Mr Lukic’s arm and jumping up and down like a little girl at a birthday party. The owner turns and says something quietly to Mr Wilkinson.

  ‘Want you to keep him covered up at Lingfield, Jay,’ the trainer mutters.

  Covered up? I have no idea what he is talking about.

  Mr Wilkinson senses my uncertainty. ‘He’ll need the outing.’

  I’m no wiser, but I’d be a fool to give myself away. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘His moment will come.’ The trainer nods. ‘Take ’em home, then.’

  As I follow Deej back to the string, I call out to him, ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘The guv’nor was telling you that you won’t be riding a winner in your first race.’

  I laugh. ‘Just watch me.’

  ‘You don’t get it,’ he says. ‘You’re not riding a winner. That’s what he was telling you.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Covered up. Need the outing. Not his day. That’s racing-speak and it all means the same thing. You’re not meant to win.’

  I’m aware of a lurch of disappointment within me. I’ve been in racing long enough to know that races are sometimes fixed. It’s illegal, but not every trainer obeys the rules. Somehow I never thought that Mr Wilkinson would play that game.

  ‘I don’t like it.’ I say the words quietly, more to myself than to anyone else.

  ‘We’re a gambling yard, Bug,’ Deej calls over his shoulder. ‘It’s all part of r
acing.’

  The.

  Real.

  World.

  NO FUNNY BUSINESS

  YEARLING TIME HAS arrived. Day to day I have too much to think about to spend time worrying about my first ride in a month or so.

  Throughout November, many of the older horses leave the yard. Horseboxes arrive and take them to their new futures – at stud, or to go hurdling, or abroad. I try not to think too much about what is going to happen to the horses I’ve come to know so well.

  Of mine, Norewest is to be trained in a jumping yard and Ocean Pacific has been sold as a stallion to Japan.

  As the yearlings begin to arrive they are scruffy, wild-eyed, pot-bellied, more foals than horses. They look about them, amazed and scared. Until now, they have been in a field. Some come directly from sales. For them, everything is new and different.

  It is our job over the winter months to turn these babies, who have never had a weight on their backs, or a bridle in their mouths, into racehorses.

  The atmosphere in the yard changes at yearling time. Mr and Mrs Wilkinson are rarely to be seen.

  Harry Bucknall, grumpy at being in charge during the darkest, coldest part of the year, shows how important he is by doing as little as possible.

  The lads are in a bad mood too. Most of them hate breaking in the yearlings, and some of the older ones, including Angus, avoid the work altogether. You have to be patient. The weather is miserable. Any day, you risk getting hurt by an over-excited yearling.

  I love it all – getting them to stand and become used to human company, grooming them gently, picking up their legs, putting on a breaking bit, lunging them in the paddock, long-reining them around the yard, through the starting-stall, getting them used to a saddle and girth, lying across them in the stable so that they become used to carrying weight, sitting quietly on them while they are led by another lad in the small paddock, then ‘riding away’ when, snorting and confused, they are taken out for the first time to the part of the heath reserved for yearlings.

  Each of them is different. One or two take a look around and accept their new life as if it was that they have been expecting all along. Others dash here and there whenever they can, play up when they should be learning how to work. A few want to fight you all the way.