How do I feel? Not much. After the shock of hearing the news, I start to look at Daddy/Jim more coolly. The truth is I feel no connection to this serious little Polish guy in America. He is a stranger. In my room at night, I think of my mother and the past she never really discussed with me. What were they like together, Jerzy and Debs? In my imagination, I see them as only a bit older than I am now.
They were young, happy, in love. And then I came along.
I look at the photographs of my father at work and with his family. He once dreamed of being a rock star. Now he is a builder.
And perhaps, it suddenly occurs to me, there is a lesson there. I must try to stop myself thinking of the past – about Manhattan, and what might have been. I’ll look forwards, not back. Perhaps I should be a vet’s assistant. I shall work my way through college until I get the right qualifications.
Working with animals. A serious, secure job. I imagine myself, one day, posing like Jim with my little family around me. It will be good. It is all going to be fine.
There is a contact email address on the Jim Thurston website.
I’m nervous, but Michaela insists that we have to contact him. It’s better to know who my father is – even if he doesn’t want to meet me – than to live all my life not being sure.
‘We’ve got to be cunning,’ she says. ‘We can’t just come out with it. Men are scared of stuff like that.’
She is good at this, Michaela. She pretends to be someone called Carrie, a great Helldawgs’ fan. Carrie sends an email asking Jim Thurston if he is Crazy Jerzy, the lead singer of ‘the Dawgs’? Is he in touch with the other Dawgs? Are they planning a reunion?
It is impressive. Reading it, I’m completely convinced.
Within a couple of days Jim Thurston is in touch.
Hey Carrie
Yup, I’m Helldawgs Jerzy but I’m not crazy any more! There’s a fan website you can find online for all Helldawgs-related stuff. You’ll find it at www.realhelldawgs.com.
Thank you for your interest.
Jim Thurston.
There is nothing for it now, but to tell the truth. Jim Thurston is Jerzy Turkowski and Jerzy Turkowski is my father.
I talk it through with Michaela. Then she writes the email. She isn’t really Carrie, she says. She is Michaela. Her best friend is Jay, who was born Jasmine Barton sixteen and a half years ago. Her mother, Deborah Barton, tragically died when she was nine, but she really wants to be in touch with her father. She has reason to believe that you are that father. She doesn’t want anything from him, just contact. She needs to know for certain.
We send the email late at night. An answer is waiting for us when we switch on the computer in the morning.
Oh my God. There’s hardly a day when I don’t wonder what happened to Jasmine. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Michaela. Please ask my daughter to write to me as soon as possible. As I’ve got older, I’ve outgrown having secrets!
Yours very happily, Jim.
Just like that.
I’d been expecting silence, maybe lies, but it turns out that there has been a gap in my dad’s life too. He starts sending me emails. He says he has talked about me in the past to his wife Linda. He has missed me for the past sixteen years, even though we have never met. He asks me to send him photographs, tell him everything about me.
Whoa, there. Easy does it. One step at a time, right?
I tell him about my mum, about school. I give him a tidied-up version of my life as a stable lad. He decides to look for me online and finds stories and pictures of me on Poptastic and Manhattan. At this stage, he becomes a bit over-enthusiastic. He is proud of me, he says. So young, and already I have achieved so much.
He writes about his life in America. His wife Linda is ‘the apple of his eye’. He adores his ‘two little handfuls’, Barney and Jared. His business is ‘pretty darn hunky-dory’ thanks to improvements in the economy. And so on.
At the end of every email he says how pleased he is that we’re in touch.
Your loving father, Jim. That’s how he signs off. Personally, I don’t see how you can love someone if you’ve never met them, but then maybe my dad is a bit free and easy when it comes to love.
He certainly was seventeen years ago.
Just now and then, the four of us – Uncle Bill, Aunt Elaine, Michaela and me – are all at Coddington and manage to have dinner together, just like in the old days. It is on one of those rare occasions that we break it to Uncle Bill and Aunt Elaine that Michaela has found my father and that I am getting emails from him. They surprise me by being quite relaxed about the whole thing.
‘Never liked the guy,’ says Uncle Bill. ‘Jumping around on stage. Didn’t do the right thing by my sister. She was a fool to fall for him.’
‘Is it true you made him leave the country?’ Michaela asks.
Uncle Bill shrugs. ‘I was helping my sister. What kind of future would she and her baby have had with a long-haired illegal immigrant?’
‘He seems nice now,’ says Michaela.
‘It broke my mum’s heart.’ I say the words softly.
A look of annoyance crosses Uncle Bill’s face. ‘Family comes first. I was trying to help.’
‘But why was everyone so rude about my dad? He thought he was doing the right thing. I grew up thinking he didn’t care about me.’
There is a heavy, guilty silence around the table.
‘Hey.’ Aunt Elaine smiles, as if a thought has suddenly occurred to her. ‘D’you think he might want you to move over there, Jay?’
‘I’m not sure that—’
‘Nice place, Oregon. Lots of horses there. You’d love it.’
The telephone rings in the hall and Michaela goes to answer. She returns after a brief conversation, looking puzzled.
‘It was someone asking for Jay,’ she says.
‘Talk of the devil, it’s your daddy!’ Aunt Elaine laughs cheerfully.
‘No, he had a funny accent – sort of weird and posh. He said he was going to call by here tomorrow afternoon.’
Uncle Bill looks worried. ‘Here? I don’t want strangers turning up uninvited, thank you very much.’
‘I couldn’t quite get his name. Mackerel? Mucking? He had a funny nickname too. Prince.’
I’m aware of a thumping in my chest. It has to be Prince Muqrin.
‘He definitely thought Jay would know who he was,’ says Michaela. ‘He said, “Just tell Jasmine that the prince called”.’
‘I really don’t like the sound of this guy.’ Uncle Bill is staring hard at me. ‘When I was a kid, one of the local tough guys called himself “The Duke”. Ended up in prison. Is this boy in some kind of gang?’
‘Prince? What kind of name is that?’ Aunt Elaine shakes her head. He sounds very unsuitable.’
‘Who is he, Jay?’ asks Michaela.
All.
Eyes.
On.
Me.
A LINE IN THE SAND
BY THE TIME a big black car about the size of a small tank is kicking up dirt on the drive the next day, Coddington Hall has changed.
As soon as Aunt Elaine discovered that our visitor was a real member of the Saudi royal family, she went into action. Books that had been packed up have been returned to the shelves. The best china is making a rare appearance. She has borrowed a few magazines from a neighbour – Vogue, Country Life, Horse and Hound – and they have been left, ever so casually, on the table in the sitting room.
Uncle Bill and Aunt Elaine have spent a lot of time talking about what they should wear. Now, as we wait for the royal arrival, my uncle is in his green country-gentleman suit, and round his neck is a red spotted scarf thing of a type that I have only seen in pictures of Prince Charles when he is out shooting.
Aunt Elaine is in a tweed coat and skirt and pearls. Rather oddly, she has a scarf on her head, which she told Michaela is because the prince is a Muslim and women need to have their heads covered. The fact that she hasn’t had time to go to a ha
irdresser is probably just a coincidence.
Only Michaela and I look even halfway normal.
Through the window, we see the prince’s car as it sweeps up to the front door. Two large men, each the size of a wardrobe, jump out. One looks around as if a sniper could be hiding in the stables, while the other opens the back door. Prince Muqrin, wearing a dark suit, steps out. He says something to his security guards. They remain standing watchfully by the car as he walks towards the front door.
Aunt Elaine opens it as he approaches.
‘Prince Muqrin,’ she says, a big cheesy smile fixed on her face. ‘What a pleasure this is.’
The prince extends his hand, and glances towards me.
‘This is my Aunt Elaine,’ I say. ‘This is Prince Muqrin.’
My aunt actually does a little bob as she shakes his hand. ‘Your highness,’ she says humbly.
‘And this is Uncle Bill.’
‘Welcome, prince,’ he says. My uncle winks as he shakes the prince’s hand.
‘And here’s my best friend, Michaela.’
‘Michaela, charming name.’ The prince smiles as he shakes her hand, then turns to me. ‘And how’s my friend Jay?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, your highness.’
Prince Muqrin addresses us all. ‘I apologise for having to bring my colleagues.’ He nods in the direction of the two giants standing by the car. ‘There have been one or two security issues recently.’
‘Shall we have some tea, your highness?’ asks Aunt Elaine.
‘Please,’ says Prince Muqrin. ‘Call me Tariq.’
We take tea in the sitting room. It is the most awkward ten minutes I have ever had to sit through. Aunt Elaine, perched on the edge of her seat, makes panicky small talk. When Prince Muqrin asks Uncle Bill about his business, there is a brief, awkward silence.
‘Import and export – tough old business, Tariq,’ he says.
‘I’m sure.’
The prince, I notice, drinks his tea rather quickly. He nibbles politely at a cucumber sandwich.
‘What fun this all is,’ he says when there is a pause in the conversation. ‘Now I know where Jay gets her perfect manners.’
I can’t help glancing at Aunt Elaine. Her smile wavers just for a second. ‘We do our best, Tariq,’ she says. ‘She’s a good girl. In her own way.’
‘Now, Elaine and Bill, Michaela.’ The prince’s general smile is like a full stop on the conversation. ‘I have one small request. I mustn’t take up too much of your busy time. Could I possibly have a moment with my friend Jay? I need to discuss something rather private with her.’
‘Of course, Tariq. Feel free.’ Aunt Elaine sits back in her chair.
‘Private,’ Michaela murmurs. ‘That means without us.’
‘Sorry, your highness.’ Aunt Elaine stands up suddenly. ‘We’ll leave you two to chat.’
The prince stands. ‘How kind you are.’ When we are alone, he sits down again. ‘What a nice family.’ He smiles at me, and seems to relax.
‘Yes. They are. In their own way.’
He laughs, then considers me for a moment while sitting very still. It is as if he has been told that, if you are a prince, you should never make any sudden movements. ‘I hope you don’t mind my descending on you, unannounced,’ he says softly. ‘I needed to talk to you about something rather important, and I didn’t want other people involved. This is just between you and me.’
‘Right.’
‘I think you are aware that I have been having a few problems back home.’
‘Yes. I heard.’
‘I belong to an absolutely maaarvellous family. Al Saud, the House of Saud. Very important in Saudi Arabia. Quite powerful, I suppose. A bit like your Royal Family, the Prime Minister and Parliament all rolled into one.’
‘Great.’ It’s not quite the right word, but it is the only one that comes into my head at this point.
‘Great, indeed.’ He gives a sad, little smile. ‘Tradition is very important in my country. Certain things are expected of one.’
‘Yes.’
‘No need to go into details. I have been very lucky. For my twelfth birthday, the king gave me a ring containing one of the biggest diamonds in the world.’
‘Nice.’
He laughs. ‘Not really – I wanted a PlayStation. So now I’ve grown up and I have a choice. To be me, living the life I want to live, or to be Prince Tariq Muqrin bin Rashid al Saud, the keeper of tradition like my father and grandfather and his grandfather before him.’
‘I see.’
‘When I saw you on the gallops, and watched on TV how you did with Manhattan at York, it was a moment of revelation for me.’
‘It was?’ Something in my voice tells him that I am wondering what all this family history has to do with his visit today.
The prince sweeps a crumb from the table. ‘It wasn’t the horse I admired, although I love the rascal dearly. It was you.’
I sit back in my chair, slightly worried now.
‘You’ve broken out. I’ve heard all about your dad disappearing, how your mother passed away when you were young. You haven’t been terrifically successful at school, I gather.’
‘Well—’ I’m about to start making excuses when he holds up a neatly manicured hand.
‘You’ve escaped from your past.’ He pauses for a moment, then leans forward slightly, fixing me with his dark eyes. ‘No one has been on your side. The world has been against you. You’ve just kept going.’ He looks around him, and suddenly seems a bit small in his perfect suit and cufflinks and sober tie. It is as if they have been there all the time, waiting for him to fill them. His cage.
‘I didn’t have much choice,’ I say. ‘I just like riding horses. It wasn’t complicated.’
‘Not complicated maybe, but difficult – challenging.’ The prince frowns, silently discouraging any discussion of the matter. ‘And now,’ he says, ‘you’ve given it all up.’
‘I’ve done enough. It’s time to move on, now that Manhattan is safe.’ A thought occurs to me. ‘She is safe, isn’t she?’
‘Of course. The mare will be fine, whatever happens. You saved her from a nasty end.’ He looks out of the window. ‘My family want me to give up too. They think I’m not serious. The press seems to agree.’
‘“The playboy prince”.’
‘Exactly.’ He smiles sadly. ‘Some people in my country are very worried about me. They think I have been corrupted by my life away from Saudi Arabia. I actually want a woman jockey to ride one of my horses. A female! Back home, women are supposed to be at home, being good wives, raising a family.’
‘Bit sexist,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘We have different values. Unfortunately, my family saw the idea of you riding a horse owned by me as a slap in the face to our great traditions, our culture. They said I would be giving ammunition to the enemies of my family. Look at al Saud, these people would say, they are as immoral as Europeans, even Americans.’ He gives an angry laugh, and sits staring at his fingernails for a moment. ‘It is why I made the decision I did over the King George.’
‘Manhattan went well for Dermot Brogan. If he hadn’t shown her the whip, she might have won.’
The prince gives a small, dignified shake of the head. ‘I’ve seen how she goes for you. Something magical happens when you ride her. You bring out the best in each other.’
‘But maybe—’
He gives me a look which freezes the words in my throat. ‘Here’s the position,’ he says, suddenly business-like. ‘Ishtagah has been invited to run in the Breeders’ Cup Classic in America. The best horses in America, three-year-olds and upwards, will compete. Two European horses have been invited. Sweet Dreamer – the French colt who beat us in the King George – and my horse. Ishtagah’s not going that well at home now though, and has never liked travelling. I asked the Americans if I can run the mare instead. They have agreed.’
‘That’s great.’
‘I’ve been thinking a lot rece
ntly, Jay. I have to be true to myself, like you – escape from the past. If I compromise now, more compromises will follow. Tradition isn’t everything. I want to show the world that there is a new generation in the House of Saud. I am prepared to run Manhattan in the Breeders’ Cup Classic … but only if you ride her.’
I must be looking scared by this speech, because the prince smiles.
‘It isn’t just politics. I also want to win one of the biggest races in the world,’ he says. ‘But I shall absolutely understand if you refuse. If that is the case, I shall probably sell all my horses.’ I must be looking shocked, because he adds, ‘There’s more to life than horses and racing, isn’t there?’
I can’t think of anything, but I nod politely.
‘What happens on a racecourse in America – a woman jockey riding for a Saudi prince – could bring change,’ says the prince. ‘I will have shown that the House of Saud is not the slave of the past, that it can make history as well as following it. We could make history – you, Manhattan and me. We could draw a line in the sand – the desert sand.’
‘No pressure then.’
He laughs. ‘You can handle pressure, Jay. I’ve seen that. However the horse runs, everything will have changed by the simple fact that you rode it.’
‘What about all those protests?’
‘Saudis love racing. It will be the perfect way to change attitudes. Sport can go where politics can’t.’ He looks at a large gold watch on his wrist. ‘That’s it, really. I just wanted to tell you personally that, between us, we can do something extraordinary.’
‘I don’t do extraordinary things. I just ride. If I do come back, it won’t be for some great cause in the world. It will be for me.’
‘And for Hat.’
I laugh. ‘Yes. And for Hat.’
He stands up, reaches into his top pocket and takes out a heavy, embossed business card and lays it on the table. ‘Call me if you want to discuss this.’
He walks to the door and opens it. Aunt Elaine is in the hall, fiddling with some flowers in a vase. I’m pretty sure she has been listening at the door.
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