Racing Manhattan

by Terence Blacker

Stranger.

  The.

  Spy.

  A BIT OF A PLAN

  ‘AH. THE GREY mare. How is she?’

  It is evening stables, two weeks after the Middleton. Mr Wilkinson, with Bucknall and Angus, lingers in Manhattan’s stable. Suddenly she matters to the stable.

  Manhattan is looking impatient. I have stripped off her rug and the cool late-spring air is making her restless.

  Mr Wilkinson runs a hand down her back, over her ribcage and then, carefully, down one front leg, then the other. She flattens her ears and swishes her tail but the trainer holds his ground.

  ‘Stop it. Silly mare.’ His voice sounds almost affectionate.

  ‘She’s just showing off,’ I say.

  ‘And how’s Bug?’ he asks.

  ‘Fine, sir.’

  ‘Forgotten what the press wrote?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Just words,’ he says. ‘Never trust words. Down with words.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Free tonight? After dinner? About nine?’ The trainer doesn’t bother to wait for a reply. ‘Mr Webber coming to dinner. Prince taking an interest. Plans for the mare. May involve you.’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  He gazes at me for a moment. ‘Scrub up a bit. Try to look your best.’

  A long time ago Uncle Bill once told me that I looked like a junkyard dog.

  ‘Lean and mean, like a junkyard dog’ were his exact words. Tonight after dinner with Auntie and Laura, I prepare to go and see Mr and Mrs Wilkinson, and I hear his voice, the way he laughed.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror on the back of the cupboard door. Even now, out of my work clothes and in my best (all right, only) jeans, I look like a skinny teen nobody.

  My skin is hard and dry from riding out in the wind and rain. Between my eyebrows is the shadow of the scar caused by my fall from Norewest. I am thin and fit and strong, like someone you might see carrying something heavy out of a van.

  I have the look of a delivery boy.

  In the wardrobe, there is a cerise round-necked blouse I bought in the town before going out with Deej and Laura, but in the end didn’t have the nerve to wear.

  Too soft, too girly, I thought at the time. They would laugh at me.

  Now I put it on. No more games. No more trying to fit in. I am beyond caring. In the top drawer, there is some make-up I brought with me from home but have never worn. Eye-liner. Mascara. Some lip gloss. Even a pair of small earrings in the shape of butterflies.

  For this meeting, I am not going to be a lean, mean junkyard dog. I am not going to be Bug. I am me.

  I am sneaking out of the hall when Auntie sees me.

  ‘Oh my,’ she says. ‘The girl’s looking smart for a change.’ She stands between me and the front door. ‘Let me see you.’

  She puts her big hands on my shoulders. Her eyes take in my make-up, my earrings.

  ‘Very nice.’ She smiles. ‘Quite the young lady.’

  ‘I’m going to see Mr and Mrs Wilkinson. Prince Muqrin’s racing manager is there tonight.’

  Auntie is staring at my feet. I’m wearing a pair of old trainers – the only shoes I’ve got apart from my riding boots.

  ‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘You can’t go out in those.’

  I laugh. ‘I don’t have a choice.’

  ‘Wait.’ Auntie trots heavily up the stairs. When she returns, she is carrying a pair of small, black leather shoes with laces and raised heels. ‘Jas gave them to me.’ She wipes off the dust with a handkerchief, then shines them. ‘I used to wear them on special occasions.’

  ‘No, Auntie.’

  ‘Go on, girl. My feet are too fat for them these days.’ She kneels down and unlaces my trainers.

  Her smart, heavy black shoes make me look as if I’m going to church, and the hard leather rubs against my ankles but, as Auntie ties up the laces and gives them one last wipe, I have to admit they look better than my trainers.

  ‘Perfect.’ Auntie stands back and smiles. ‘They could have been made for you. Off you go.’

  I lean forward, give my landlady a kiss on the cheek, and I’m gone.

  It is almost dark by the time I reach Edgecote House, and I’m beginning to regret borrowing the shoes. Every step is agony. I hobble my way up the path.

  When she opens the front door, Mrs Wilkinson is looking different too. She is wearing a black evening skirt, and has even more make-up on her face than usual. A glass of wine is in her hand.

  ‘Jay, how nice.’ The voice is less fierce than usual.

  I follow her across the hall, Auntie’s shoes clacking loudly on the stone.

  Mrs Wilkinson looks back. ‘Are you injured?’ she asks. ‘You seem to be going a bit lame.’

  ‘New shoes,’ I say. ‘They’re not exactly comfortable.’

  Mrs Wilkinson laughs. ‘We have to suffer for our beauty, don’t we?’

  She leads me into the sitting room, where Mr Wilkinson and Mr Webber are sitting on each side of the fireplace. To my surprise, they stand up as I enter, almost as if I’m a proper guest.

  ‘Jay.’ Mr Wilkinson waves in the direction of an armchair. I sit, nervously. ‘Or Bug? Not sure.’

  ‘I don’t mind, sir.’

  ‘You remember Mr Webber.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The prince’s racing manager gives me a cool, professional smile. I get the sense that he is weighing me up, assessing me as if I were at some kind of interview.

  Mrs Wilkinson pours herself another drink at a table in the corner. ‘Wine, Jay?’

  ‘Just something soft, please.’

  She pours me a fizzy water, gives me the glass, then ambles over to the desk in the corner where she takes up her usual place. She watches us, as if from a distance, now and then sipping at her wine.

  ‘The prince wanted me to thank you for the way you rode Manhattan the other day,’ says Mr Webber. ‘She can be a tricky ride.’

  ‘She’s really cool once you get to know her.’ I blurt the words out, then realise that I am sounding a bit girlish and over-enthusiastic.

  ‘Cool?’ mutters Mr Wilkinson. ‘Cool?’

  Mr Webber sits forward in his chair. ‘D’you think we saw the best of Manhattan at York, Jay?’

  ‘No!’ I almost shout the word, then bite my lip. ‘Sorry, but no. She hardly had a race. She is so much better than that.’

  ‘The prince thinks so too. He wants to give her one more run – a real test, then retire her. If she doesn’t disgrace herself, he’ll keep her as a mare and breed from her. Otherwise, she’ll be sold.’

  I nod, now nervous as to what I am about to be told.

  ‘Plan.’ Mr Wilkinson takes a long sip at his whisky. ‘King George. Run her. Prince wants you on board.’

  ‘He was most impressed by the way you rode,’ says Mr Webber. ‘And also the way you haven’t been upset by what has been written in the papers. We thought that was very professional of you. Quite grown-up.’ He frowns. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  For the first time, I realise that I am sitting, mouth open, with a stunned smile on my face. I actually feel slightly sick with excitement.

  ‘No. Yes. Thank you. I’m … fine, sir.’

  ‘The press thing is important.’ Mr Webber glances at his watch. ‘Prince Muqrin has been having one or two problems at home. There are people in Saudi Arabia and other parts of the Middle East who don’t exactly approve of girl jockeys.’

  ‘Saudi women aren’t allowed to drive cars,’ says Mrs Wilkinson from the shadows behind me. ‘So you can imagine what people think about a prince allowing a girl jockey to ride his horse. It has been a bit of a scandal.’

  ‘Keep your ride quiet,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘Secret. Good at keeping secrets, Bug?’

  For a brief moment, an image of me sitting in a park talking into a telephone flashes through my mind, and then is gone.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We’ll announce it. Last minute. Keep ’em guessing
. No fuss about female jockey.’

  Mr Webber stands. ‘I’d better be on my way back to London,’ he says.

  Something about what I am being told confuses me. ‘Who’s King George?’ I ask. ‘You mentioned something about Prince Muqrin and King George.’

  The three of them laugh. I sit there, feeling foolish.

  ‘It’s the race,’ says Mr Webber. ‘The King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Ascot. In July. Up for that, Jay?’ He shakes my hand. I nod dumbly. ‘I’ll see you again soon.’

  As Mr and Mrs Wilkinson see Mr Webber to the front door, I sit taking in what I have just been told so casually.

  ‘King George,’ I say the words out loud. ‘That King George.’

  In the racing calendar, the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes is one of the biggest races of the season. It is where the best of the year’s three-year-olds race for the first time against the cream of the older horses.

  I am thinking of the great champions who have won the race in the past. Ribot, Dancing Brave, The Minstrel, Shergar, Lammtarra, Nijinsky. It was the race where Petite Etoile was hot favourite and got beaten.

  ‘Not bad news, eh?’ Mrs Wilkinson appears at the door. ‘We thought you’d be pleased. Now you won’t be riding in races until then. We want you to concentrate on the mare. The prince is very important to this stable and he still seems to believe that Manhattan can win a decent race.’

  ‘So do I, Mrs Wilkinson.’

  ‘We’re quite aware of that.’ She smiles at me.

  Back in his armchair, Mr Wilkinson mutters something to himself, then reaches for his whisky. I’m about to stand to leave when Mrs Wilkinson holds up a hand. ‘There was just one other little matter we wanted to ask you about since you’re here. Absolutely in confidence.’

  I sit back in my chair, suddenly on my guard.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a glass of wine?’

  ‘No thanks, Mrs Wilkinson.’

  She laughs. ‘Don’t look so worried, Jay. We just thought you might be able to help us with a little problem we’ve got.’

  ‘Something happening. In the yard.’ Mr Wilkinson gazes at the fire, the glass of whisky held between his hands. ‘Tips. Getting out. Bookmakers. Money. Not helping.’

  ‘Tips?’ My mouth is suddenly dry, my voice strangled. ‘What kind of tips?’

  ‘Over the past few weeks, money has been going on our horses,’ says Mrs Wilkinson. ‘We’re pretty sure that someone working for us is leaking information.’

  ‘Bad for the yard,’ mutters Mr Wilkinson. ‘Owners asking questions. Suspicions. Bad smell about the place. Whenever one of the horses runs. Stewards ask questions. Think we’re in the pocket of the bookies.’

  Mrs Wilkinson’s eyes are fixed on me. ‘Jay, I’m afraid we have a spy in our midst,’ she says.

  I breathe evenly, my eyes not flickering in the slightest as I stare at her. When I speak, my words are as calm and cold as any spy could make them. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Never mind that. You haven’t heard or seen anything suspicious? None of the lads have said anything?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  Mrs Wilkinson smiles, drains her glass and stands up. ‘Just a thought since you were here. If you hear anything, let us know, will you? These things need stamping out. A yard depends on trust.’

  I stand. I say goodnight to Mr Wilkinson. He looks up, grunts, and a look crosses his crumpled features which might almost be a smile.

  I follow Mrs Wilkinson to the front door. We say goodnight. The door closes behind me. I stand for a moment, gazing across the stable yard, lit up by moonlight.

  I think of a conversation I had with Mr Wilkinson when I arrived here. He said he expected two things above all from his lads – that they were punctual, and they always told him the truth. ‘Don’t have to be the best,’ he said. ‘On time. Straight with me. That’s what matters.’

  I trudge slowly down the steps, Auntie’s shoes knocking on the stone like the crack of doom.

  Liar.

  Liar.

  Liar.

  Liar.

  FAMILY HERITAGE

  THE WORLD CLOSES in. It should be the best moment in my life, and yet it is the worst.

  Every day I ride a great grey miracle of a horse. Together we feel as if we can conquer the world.

  Every week, I take her out on Wednesday afternoons to work away from the prying eyes of the journalists and tipsters who watch the morning gallops through binoculars from the road. Manhattan covers five or six furlongs with the best sprinters in the yard and makes them look slow. When she gallops over longer distances with the milers and Classic hopefuls, Ishtagah and Drive On, she is pulling my arms out at the finish.

  Every morning I awake long before the alarm goes off and lie there, taking time to believe the impossible. I, Jay Barton, am going to ride a brilliant horse in one of the biggest races in the British racing season.

  And yet, always within me, there is the knowledge that it could all disappear if it is discovered that I am a traitor.

  Uncle Bill talks to me now in the way that I heard him doing to his business partners and enemies back in the old days. He’s in a dangerous, goodnight-nurse mood.

  I beg him to leave me alone. Surely, I say, I have done enough to save Dusty.

  ‘Never mind Dusty,’ he says. ‘You stop helping me, and I’ll tell my pal Clive Wilkinson about what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘But that will incriminate you too.’

  ‘Got nothing to lose, girl.’

  ‘What proof have you got?’

  He laughs as if I have said something genuinely funny, then drops his voice. ‘You must think I just got off the bus, love. I’ve been recording these calls. I’ve got evidence here, on my phone.’ He pauses. ‘So, no more funny business, eh? What can you tell me this week?’

  I’m trapped, Hat.

  I can’t talk to Laura or Deej or Auntie. They are all good friends now, but none of them can help me.

  I talk to a horse instead.

  We’ll win. That will be my escape. Once we’ve shown the world what we can do, I’ll be strong. I’ll tell Mr Wilkinson. I’ll come clean. Whatever he does then, he won’t be able to take away what we do at Ascot.

  Manhattan looks at me, ears pricked, as if to tell me I’ve got nothing to worry about.

  Oh, Hat. I wish you could understand.

  She makes me feel ashamed. She has come through by being strong, being herself. I have betrayed everyone, including me.

  Michaela calls more often, and that’s not the only surprise. She talks less about herself than in the old days, asking questions about my life.

  We have been through some tough times. We’ve both been selfish in our way. But a friend is a friend and Michaela, for better or for worse, is the best I’ve got.

  Sometimes I have a niggling sense that she is trying to find out something about me. Could she be acting for her dad? Nothing would surprise me with him, but surely Michaela wouldn’t play Uncle Bill’s game. Perhaps that’s what happens with spying. We catch it from each other without noticing.

  One night I’m talking to her just before I go to sleep when she mentions something in a suspiciously fake-casual tone of voice that she has a project at school about family history.

  ‘Project?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ Michaela is on the defensive. ‘After exams, we’ve had to choose some project to keep us busy until the end of term. I chose family heritage.’

  What? I can imagine Michaela choosing many projects (boys, parties, dancing) but family heritage would be pretty near the bottom of the list.

  ‘I’ve been researching my dad and your mum,’ says Michaela. ‘It’s kind of interesting, actually.’

  She is right about that. Bill and his younger sister Debs were left alone in the world when he was twenty-two and she was nineteen. Their parents, taking their first holiday alone for years, were killed in a crash with a lorry in northern Spain. Their
house was sold and the money made from it was divided between Bill and Debs.

  ‘What really surprised me,’ Michaela is saying, ‘is that they were really close as children.’

  ‘But he’s always so mean about my mother. And so is Elaine.’

  ‘He’s been talking about that recently. This whole situation he’s in has made him a bit more open about the past somehow. He says that he and your mum were both really hit hard. He says they each reacted differently. He invested the money in houses and stuff and became a full-time businessman.’

  ‘He turned into Uncle Bill.’

  ‘– and she, your mum, went a bit crazy. It was as if nothing mattered to her. She spent the money on having a good time. That was when she and my dad drifted apart.’

  I remember Debs’ parties, how I learned to be invisible, like a cat. There were mornings when she was ill from drinking too much the night before. Now and then, I found myself having breakfast with a man I had never met before. It’s a part of my mother that I have tried to forget.

  ‘I’m glad she had fun,’ I say quietly. ‘While she could.’

  ‘It was your dad I was wondering about.’

  ‘My dad?’ I tense up. Mention of my father makes me feel vulnerable in a way I really don’t want to be right now. ‘What about him?’

  ‘What did your mum say about him?’

  ‘Just that he was foreign – Polish. He was a musician of some kind. She said that they loved each other very much, but when she found she was going to have a baby, he suddenly disappeared out of her life. He was gone before I was born.’

  ‘Maybe he’s in Poland now, and we could find him. You might have half-brothers and sisters. How cool would that be?’

  I have heard enough. ‘Michaela, what is this? What’s going on here?’

  ‘It’s just interesting. How we become what we are.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m concentrating on the present. I’ve got a race to think about.’

  There is a silence from the other end of the phone.

  ‘I’d better turn in, M.’

  ‘Just stay strong, Jay.’ She speaks quietly, and just for a moment I wonder if she has a suspicion about the calls that her father makes to me. ‘That’s what I keep thinking when I’m working on this family heritage thing. We have to be ourselves – whatever the pressure.’