‘Cheque’s in the post, Glanville,’ Constance replied, with a wink to Alice. ‘First-class stamp, too.’
‘Only pity is Anthony couldn’t be here today,’ Alice said. ‘But, of course, too much excitement would not be good news.’
‘There’s going to be too much excitement anyway,’ Constance told her. ‘Anthony said he’s had what he calls a bit of a tilt. Says if the horse wins it’ll pay for his op and a recuperative cruise. For two,’ she added with another wink. ‘I told him I’d stay home and try to keep his lid on, but he insisted I didn’t miss the race – and anyway, what chance would I have with someone who escaped from Colditz twice? We locked him up in his bedroom without even a telephone, in case he rang one of those racing line things. We also gave him an old klaxon horn Rory found in the garage which he can sound in case of an emergency, because Maureen’s on watch. And she’s been told to keep an eye on him and to tell him the result. So now. What are the chances of us all becoming squillionaires, please?’
‘The prize money’s excellent,’ Grenville told her, pointing to the figures on the card. ‘A hundred and twenty thousand pounds to the winner, but since anything has to be divided by four less Rory’s percentage, even if we did win I don’t think we’d be sailing the Mediterranean in our private yachts, right?’
‘Don’t be so vulgar, Grenville,’ Constance reprimanded him. ‘I’m not talking money money. I’m talking about just supposing we won. Winning something like this makes you a squillionaire, which is nothing to do with money. Winning a race like this must be something money can’t possibly buy. This sort of thing can stand life on its head. So here’s hoping,’ Constance concluded, raising her glass, ‘and here’s toping.’
Rory put his head round the door of the box just before the second race.
‘Horse is fine, everyone,’ he said, trying not to sound breathless. ‘Travelled fine, looks fine. Anyone know where I can be sick?’
‘You do look a little pale.’
‘I feel a little pale, Alice.’ Rory breathed slowly in and out. ‘No, I’m fine really. And everything’s fine. The horse is fine, so there we are, and here we are. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry. See you all down in the paddock.’
Down in the pre-parade ring, with less than forty minutes now to go to the off, Kathleen kept her charge walking round in an easy swinging rhythm, talking quietly to him all the time and sometimes singing to him. Then, shortly before she was due to take Boyo into the main parade ring, she happened to look up and away from her horse for the first time for a long time and saw her father and brother leaning on the rails smiling at her.
‘Looks a picture, Kathleen,’ Padraig said with a whistle and a tilt of his head. ‘You’ve done him proud, my girl, you have so.’
‘Everyone’s over,’ Liam told her the next time she came past them. ‘Practically the whole of Cronagh.’
‘The church is clean out of candles!’ Padraig called after her, on her last lap. ‘Good luck, now, girl!’
‘Good luck, Katie!’ Liam shouted. ‘And to the little horse, God bless him!’
The parade ring was packed to the very top with everyone anxious to get a closer look at the contenders for the Gold Cup. Kathleen could hardly believe that she was here and this was really happening. The atmosphere was electric, the buzz around the ring making her flesh turn to goose bumps. She put a hand up to stroke Boyo’s neck. But the gesture was more to calm herself than to soothe her horse, who wasn’t turning a hair, even though the animal in front of him was beginning to boil over already, swishing its tail and kicking out now and then with a hind foot. She glanced up at the huge electronic price board that showed the approximate odds and saw to her astonishment that the price of twenty-five to one that had been on offer some ten to fifteen minutes ago for The Enchanted was now as little as fourteen to one.
Now the parade ring was filling up with trainers and connections – owners, officials, television commentators and reporters, and finally the jockeys, streaming out from the weighing room in their brilliant colours, some of them joking with their colleagues in order to allay the nerves they were feeling, others careless of showing their tension, tapping their boots with their whips as they made their way to touch caps to their owners and take their last instructions from their trainers. Then they were mounting, legged up by trainers, some of whom walked with their mounted horses round the last couple of circuits of the parade ring, calling up their last thoughts, while some of the horses began to prance and play up, others started to break into a slight sweat, and some were as calm as police horses facing a riot. Racegoers abandoned their positions by the ring to hurry to the Tote windows or the bookmakers, while others rushed back to the stands to get the best vantage point possible, as a now orderly line of horses made their way from the paddock to parade in front of the grandstands, lads and lasses at their heads, some assistants following out on to the course in case of any accident or mishap. Red-coated huntsmen on strapping horses waited to escort the parade, and cheers were already rising from the jam-packed stands as the line of horses and handlers walked and jogged in front of them.
‘The runners are parading in racecard order,’ the course commentator called. ‘At the head is the favourite, County Gent, followed by number two, Duke’s Biscuit, three, Jenrich, followed by number four, Jenuflecked, five the French challenger, Le Corbeau, six the second favourite, My Pal Joey, number seven one of the Irish, Na Shonaca, followed by Rumbledumble, number eight. Out of order at nine for some reason is number ten, Stopdat – then number nine, another Irish challenger, Spun Silk, number eleven is The Enchanted, followed by the raider from north of the border, Ticketpleez, number twelve, thirteen is Tyron, fourteen is Vulcan Flyer, fifteen is Welsh Harebit and last but not least the only mare in the field, Moosey.’
A great roar went up as, with the parade over, the horses, released by their lads, about-faced to the left and began to canter down to the start at the bottom left-hand corner of the track.
‘My,’ Alice sighed, standing at the front of the box and watching the spectacle. ‘What excitement.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re actually going to watch the race, Alice?’ Grenville laughed.
‘Of course not,’ Alice replied, heading for the door. ‘I shall be out here if anyone wants me.’
‘Did he go down all right, Grenville?’ Lynne asked, still watching through her race glasses. ‘I don’t know the difference between going down well and going down badly.’
‘He’s nice and calm, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Millie told her. ‘One or two of the others have got pretty hot, even though there’s quite a cold wind.’
‘I’d have thought horses would run better hot than cold,’ Constance said, lighting a cheroot. ‘I was always better for the sun on my back.’
‘Hot as in sweating up, Connie,’ Grenville said. ‘Means they start taking it out of themselves.’
‘Of course, horses can sweat, can’t they?’ Constance mused. ‘It’s only we ladies who glow.’ She thought she felt and looked calm. It was only when she put her glasses to her eyes that she realised she was having difficulty keeping them steady, to say the least.
‘They’re under starter’s orders!’ the course commentator called, as the horses got into line by the starting tape, only for two of them to break the formation and so necessitate another call-in from the starter.
‘He’s squeezed right up on the rails,’ Lynne observed. ‘Hope he’s OK.’
‘Rory’s told Blaze to try to get an inside berth first time round, and also to kick on if he can and make it,’ Grenville put in.
‘No – a horse has come right in front of him!’ Lynne exclaimed. ‘Practically pushed him through the rails!’
‘They’re in line …’ called the commentator.
‘It’s number thirteen,’ Millie observed. ‘Eddie Rampton’s other runner.’
‘And they’re off!’ the commentator announced, his proclamation almost drowned by the almighty
roar that rose from the grandstands and enclosures as the race began.
‘They’re away to a good level start – except for Vulcan Flyer who’s wheeled round, and The Enchanted who must have lost a good six lengths as they set off.’
‘Blast,’ Grenville cried. ‘That looked quite deliberate to me.’
Blaze knew it was deliberate. He’d had Kevin Billings’s mount Tyron in his own horse’s face ever since they filed out on to the racecourse proper, Billings shadowing Blaze’s every move and leaning his horse on Boyo at every opportunity, so Blaze knew something was up. He kept trying to avoid Billings, and then just before the tape was released Blaze and Boyo were all but knocked sideways through the guard rail by Tyron. Seeing the field charge off without him, Blaze thought better than to panic his horse by kicking and flapping at him, so once he had got him straight he jumped him off just as if he hadn’t missed the break at all. Boyo picked up at once, deciding for himself to cut down the distance between himself and the back markers, an objective that by the time they cleared the first fence to all intents and purposes he had achieved. In the run from the second fence to the next, Blaze and Boyo made up more ground, going from tenth place into seventh, only to have Billings on Tyron loom up on their outside.
‘Going somewhere, Mick?’ Billings yelled at him, over the thunder of hooves, the slapping of leather and the shouts of the other riders. ‘Because if you are, I’m coming with you!’
‘What’s going on out there?’ Grenville wondered, race glasses trained hard on the action. ‘It’s that horse again – Tyron. He’s crowding Boyo!’
‘What?’ Lynne cried. ‘God, he is too! Look – he’s running into him!’
‘And as they approach the third,’ the commentator called, ‘My Pal Joey continues to make the running a good two lengths clear of Le Corbeau, while behind there seem to be some traffic problems with Tyron, The Enchanted and Duke’s Biscuit – and Duke’s Biscuit has gone at that one! Tyron appeared to cannon into him and Duke’s Biscuit has gone – leaving The Enchanted now third with Tyron ranging once more up alongside him as the rest of the field have all flown that fence – with Le Corbeau still in second, Tyron now third, The Enchanted fourth, followed by Spun Silk, County Gent, Jenuflecked, Na Shonaca, Rumbledumble and the mare Moosey.’
‘He’s trying to break his rhythm,’ Grenville said over the commentator. ‘Look! Every time Boyo goes to pass him, the other horse cuts in front of him and then slows down. What a dirty trick. What a simply filthy trick!’
‘Is it allowed?’ Constance wondered. ‘Should they not perhaps stop the race?’
‘They can hardly do that, Connie!’ Grenville called back, glasses still trained on the action. ‘Blaze is just going to have to find a way of dealing with it!’
At the first of the line of fences in the back straight, having forced Blaze to take a pull on The Enchanted to avoid being run into the wing of the fence, Billings straightened his horse and did his best to run into the back of the French horse that was still lying second. Disturbed by the proximity of the animal all but jumping up on him, Le Corbeau made a mistake, went through the top of the fence and down on to his nose on the landing side. His jockey made a fine recovery to get his horse racing again, but by then Billings had pushed Tyron past Le Corbeau so that he was lying in second place, some four lengths off My Pal Joey, exactly where it had been planned he should be. As soon as he slotted himself in behind the leader, Billings kept his mount in hand, all the time glancing over his shoulder at what was coming at him, then riding across any horse that tried to overtake him. At the last fence along the back straight Tyron ran Na Shonaca out, to the sound of a huge roar of disappointment from the enormous Irish contingent, many of whom, knowing a thing or two, had backed the horse in from twenty-five to one to sixteens.
Swinging out of the back straight and heading now downhill for the first time the field faced two of the most formidable fences on the course, both downhill, the second one being the harder since the ground on the landing side fell away while the running rail into the straight suddenly came into play, bowed as it was into the course so as to carry the horses out before they swung left-handed into the home straight.
Blaze knew what was going on. He had ridden in far too many bareback, rope-bridled pony races on the strands of Cork and Kerry not to know a dirty trick when he saw one, so the slow, slow, quick-quick slow tactic employed by the broken-nosed Billings came as nothing new to him. But what it did mean was that Blaze could not now allow Boyo to run his usual race, which was of course the whole point of the exercise. Rory, Blaze and Anthony had gone through every possible aspect of the event the previous evening, a discussion that had left nothing to chance and so had included possible spoiling tactics, the sort of so-called jockeymanship that had previously marred several of the more prestigious races, particularly those with a lively ante-post market.
‘Which is why I always say we should have a Tote monopoly, like the French,’ Anthony had pronounced. ‘About the only thing I like about the French, though.’
‘Besides their wine, their food, their women, their cities, their bread, and practically everything else,’ Rory had replied.
And so now here it was happening to Blaze and Boyo as the race unfolded, a horse entered deliberately as a spoiler, a horse whose jockey was riding under strict instructions to do everything he could within a certain amount of reason to put off the opposition and allow the stable’s favoured horse the best and most trouble-free run possible. So Blaze and Boyo’s only hope of salvation lay in running a race that was the opposite of those they had run so far, a dangerous tactic which could easily backfire, since it meant dropping the horse out of the race – and often when a rider did that the horse switched off and the day was lost.
But there was nothing else Blaze could now do. Ahead of him he saw Billings perched up on his tall and burly horse’s neck, taking good looks around him as they approached the first of the downhill fences. It was clear this was not going to be a short-lived diversion, so Blaze knew he had to start steadying his horse without for a moment allowing him to become unbalanced – and all of this at the most dangerous part of the course. Any loss of momentum coming downhill could easily result in the horse’s not having enough power to take off safely as it ran towards the intimidating obstacle, and that would mean end of story. So Blaze chose to decelerate not going into these two downhill fences but after them, as he and Boyo turned into the home straight for the first time – if they got that far. This meant he now had to outsmart Billings, and once again his pony-racing skills came to the fore as he feinted to come up on the inside of Tyron, only at the last moment, as Tyron closed the gap, to switch to the outside, hoping and praying that in doing so he hadn’t broken The Enchanted’s fine rhythm.
He hadn’t. Swinging right of Tyron at the first downhill fence Boyo jumped fast and immaculately, landing running, but not quite fast enough to get clear of Tyron, on whom Billings was now hard at work, beating the horse and turning the air blue with his curses against Blaze and Boyo. Dropping down faster and faster to the second downhill fence, again Blaze pre-guessed his adversary, reckoning that Billings, predictably enough, would think Blaze was about to do the same thing at this next fence – go round the outside – which indeed Blaze feinted to do. Billings immediately pulled Tyron wide to cut off all sight of the fence whereupon Blaze at once shortened his left rein to cut inside and safely up and over, using to the full the deftness and agility of the little horse.
‘What is happening, please?’ Alice asked, putting her head round the box door for the first time. ‘Are we still in one piece?’
‘Just about, Alice,’ Grenville called back to her. ‘You ought to come and see this. This promises to be the race of a lifetime.’
Alice crept into the box and half hid herself against the wall at the edge of the open window, peering round through half-closed eyes as the race continued.
‘But this I don’t understand,’ Grenville continued. ‘Ju
st as he appeared to have the measure of that horse, Blaze seems to be taking a pull.’
‘Yes, he does,’ Millie agreed. ‘I hope everything’s all right. I hope the horse hasn’t gone wrong.’
What Blaze was hoping was that the horse wouldn’t go wrong, that he wouldn’t switch off and go to sleep. Knowing Boyo he somehow doubted it, but equally well did he know that horses have minds and moods of their own, and that the one thing a really good horse hates is being disappointed. So somehow – and he didn’t know quite how – he had to keep the horse sweet. He had to keep him believing. So as he eased him ever so slightly back off the pace, Blaze began to sing to him. As he turned the horse into the home straight, in a fine lyric tenor voice Blaze sang ‘The Minstrel Boy’ to his horse, to the slack-jawed astonishment of other jockeys now ranging up alongside them.
He saw Billings looking round again, and guessed that seeing Boyo dropping right back through the field, the mean-minded rider would turn his attention to more ready dangers, which indeed he did as the field jumped the two fences in the straight for the second time. Billings now proceeded to try to disrupt the rhythm and racing flow of what now appeared to be My Pal Joey’s closest rivals, Jenrich, who had made a move up through the field, Spun Silk, who was going exceptionally well and the bay mare Moosey who as always was running her gallant heart out.
‘So as they go out into the country for the last time,’ the commentator called, ‘and with Stopdat and The Enchanted going backwards through the field, both appearing to have run their races, it’s still My Pal Joey taking them along at a really good gallop, My Pal Joey, Jenrich, Spun Silk, Moosey the four leading horses with Tyron still in close attention and now moving up to jump into third place at that one, almost carrying Moosey out through the wing there …’
With the hill in the straight climbed and now behind him, to everyone watching it might seem as though The Enchanted had indeed shot his bolt, and yet even as he began another verse of his song Blaze felt the horse come back on the bridle, which was what he had been praying for all the way up the stiff climb past the grandstands. Of all places to choose on the course, switching a horse off when it was going uphill was the most dangerous, as passing the winning post the horse could easily think his work for the day was over. So when Blaze asked the horse to pick up he half expected Boyo not to do so. Instead, to his delight, Boyo took a hold once more of the bit and swung back out into the country full of running and – Blaze suddenly felt – determination.
The Enchanted Page 40