At the first open ditch in the back straight Rumbledumble fell, the horse simply failing to pick up and crashing through the fence, sending his jockey spinning over his head and also bringing down Welsh Harebit, who seemed to be going particularly well at the time. The falls happened in front of Boyo but by then Blaze had tracked to the inside and so had a good, clear and unimpeded run at the line of fences, a row of obstacles that finished before the turn downhill with another ditch where the horizon lay so far below as horse and jockey jumped that it appeared as if they were jumping off the edge of the world. Boyo flew it, landing full of himself and swinging left downhill with only the lightest of instruction from Blaze.
Ahead, with four fences to jump, they had only five horses now in their sights, Boyo having moved up easily but not overly quickly through a fast depleting field, past other horses beaten now but not fallen, more or less running on empty, two of them looking as though they might be pulled up at the top of the hill, so murderous had been the gallop. Blaze wasn’t exactly sure which horses were ahead of him, although he could make out My Pal Joey’s colours, and those of Spun Silk and the mare Moosey, who was still somehow hanging in there, in spite of the regular interference she was suffering from the horse in the hands of Billings. The leading quartet, or maybe quintet, Blaze thought, seemed to be coming back to him, or else Boyo was even more full running than he had thought, but whatever was happening he knew if he hugged the rail down the hill and into the home turn he could come off it at speed, pick up the best of the ground and give it his best shot.
It was then that he heard the sound of a horse behind him, the noise of its rhythmic breathing, the powerful thrumming of its great hooves, and up alongside him, on the very inside of him, up through a gap Blaze had carelessly left, moved the forgotten man of the race, County Gent. As he galloped past The Enchanted, his rider not moving, Blaze felt his blood change. He felt himself suddenly grow cold and he felt suddenly dense and very stupid. For the one thing he had not thought about since he had dropped his own horse back was the chance of some other horse picking him off, having done exactly the same thing.
He remembered seeing Dennis Maloney as he had eased his way back to the pack of chasing horses, sitting as still as a mouse on the big black horse from Lambourn, the easy winner of the King George VI chase. He should have known then to watch for the horse, to trail him if necessary, for the big horse had one weakness. He liked to come from behind and he did not like to be challenged once he had made his move.
Twice before when this had happened the horse had simply downed tools and lost races he was winning easily. Blaze should have remembered this and he knew he should have done so, because during his pre-race briefing the fact had been dunned into him. And now the big horse was through.
Over the first downhill fence they both flew, Boyo now a good length down on a horse that still seemed to be only in third gear. Knowing he couldn’t take his rival here, Blaze did some quick thinking, and then on the run to the next fence he thought some more, but nothing occurred to him until they were flying the most dangerous fence on the course for the second time, the third from home, the last of the downhill fences, where just ahead of them Blaze saw Spun Silk make a mistake that cost him half a dozen lengths and meant Moosey’s pilot had to check her and pull her round the still stumbling Irish horse.
Roars and cries and cheers rose from the stands as the field turned for home, a great wall of sound, a noise that had so intrigued the mighty Arkle long ago that he had turned to stare at where the noise was coming from and nearly fallen for doing so. But today the noise thrilled and inspired not only Blaze but the brave horse under him, who all at once quickened, well before Blaze had even thought of asking him to do so, hugging the rail on his left so tightly that he could have been running on tracks.
‘And now as they turn for home it’s still My Pal Joey!’ the commentator called. ‘My Pal Joey who has made every inch of the running then Jenrich, who will not be shaken off, Tyron, who at last seems to be weakening, Moosey whose task now seems impossible, with Spun Silk, who made that serious blunder at the last dropping back fast – but County Gent is starting his run! County Gent who has been making ground hand over fist downhill is now swinging wide into the straight – followed by The Enchanted! The Enchanted is tight on the rails – The Enchanted, who has also made up an enormous amount of ground to get back into the reckoning – there’s only half a length between County Gent and The Enchanted – and now the two of them are only three or four lengths behind the leaders as they approach the second last!’
First of all Blaze wanted to see where Tyron was, in case the horse was still in the reckoning, and on the run to the second last he could see him only a length or so ahead of him, zigzagging across the course from sheer exhaustion, being severely beaten up by his jockey. Someone behind Blaze yelled at Billings to pull his horse up, but Billings took no notice, driving his semi-conscious horse on in the hope of carrying out yet another challenger. Again Blaze had only a split second to make up his mind about where to jump and how, yet it seemed Boyo made up his mind for him, jinking first to the right then changing legs and heading left of a horse too tired to be able to obey the wilful demands of his rider even if he had wanted to do so. Tyron staggered as Boyo ranged alongside him and in that moment Blaze saw his opportunity and asked Boyo for a big one. At once the horse came up in his hands and they were airborne, yards outside where the leading horses had left the ground, but as they flew Billings took one last chance, sticking his left leg out as Blaze and Boyo sailed by him and catching Blaze’s right foot, knocking it clean out of its stirrup.
How the blow didn’t knock Blaze completely from the saddle he would never know. Perhaps it was due to his legendary ‘stick’ or perhaps it was due to Boyo’s beautiful balance. Whatever the reason, Blaze’s right foot was out of the pedal and swinging loose and in a flash, he pulled his left foot free as well, all at once realising that if he landed acey-deucy, one foot in and one foot out, the odds were one hundred to one on that he would be catapulted out of the saddle and out of the Gold Cup.
So he landed with his horse on the far side of the fence sitting right back in his saddle with both legs stuck out in front of him and reins as long as curtain pulls. Yet he stayed there, he stuck on the horse, and even as Boyo began to power away from the fence the nimble Blaze, blessing his days as the champion pony racer in the west of Ireland, was already slotting his feet back into the irons and gathering his reins for one last fight.
‘Dear God above us!’ Grenville cried to the rest of the box. ‘Did you ever see anything like that!’
‘I didn’t!’ Alice shouted back over the tumult, her hands in front of her eyes. ‘I didn’t see a thing! What’s happening, someone?’
Then she looked and what she saw was what everyone that day saw, one of the very best and most inspiring finishes to a horse race any of them had ever seen.
‘There really is very little in it now!’ the commentator was shouting over the tannoy and above the ever growing crescendo of sound. ‘As the field runs to the last My Pal Joey has finally surrendered the lead to Jenrich! But County Gent is not finished with yet – nor is The Enchanted, in spite of the rider’s losing his irons at the last fence! So on the run to the last there are four horses together – Jenrich, My Pal Joey – the still improving County Gent, who seems to have timed his run just right – and The Enchanted! The Enchanted, who seems to have caught his third if not his fourth wind! And at the last they all rise together – Jenrich landing first and My Pal Joey now making a mistake! The horse’s first mistake and he’s all but down on his knees – and now he’s passed by County Gent who landed yards the other side of the fence – then The Enchanted! The Enchanted lands third, a length down, and still running on – but they both have to face the hill now! The famous Cheltenham hill now faces both these brave horses – and it’s County Gent now! It’s County Gent who is lengthening his stride and beginning to put daylight between him and Th
e Enchanted, who doesn’t seem to have anything left!’
‘Damn, damn, damn,’ Grenville said to himself through gritted teeth.
‘Oh, Geoffrey Alcott Wilson!’ Alice shouted, watching the finish unfolding. ‘Hell and dam’s ladders!’
‘I’m afraid we’re roasted,’ Constance observed sadly, putting her binoculars down.
‘Hang on, everyone,’ Millie said. ‘Hang on – hang on in there!’
Blaze knew he had to wait his moment. If he moved too soon there might not be enough gas left in the tank to complete his challenge, and if he moved too late the huge-striding County Gent would have swallowed the ground up and galloped past the post. He had to time it just right. He knew there was something left in his horse because he felt it still there in his hands, but he also knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t beat the effort out of him, so he waited. And waited. And waited.
And then he pounced.
He was only a length down but there were only a hundred and fifty yards to run and he waited for a sign and when he saw the sign he pounced. They both did.
There were in fact two signs. First County Gent’s head went up – only marginally, but one thing young Blaze had learned on the sands of Kerry and of Cork is that the very second an animal’s head goes up is the moment it is beat; and the other sign was from Dennis Maloney, from the champion jockey in person, who could not resist a quick look round. It was only a very quick look, but he looked over the wrong shoulder. Expecting the young thruster to be coming up on his inner, he took a split-second look over his left shoulder and when he saw it Blaze knew he had got him.
Down in the drive position he sat, down he went and hard he drove, throwing the reins at the back of Boyo’s head, shouting battle cries of victory at him in Gaelic, thrusting and driving the horse up the final lung-bursting, heart-popping hundred yards, the two horses now neck and neck, Dennis Maloney throwing everything at his horse, producing all his great skills, riding one of his greatest finishes ever – but it just wasn’t enough. It just wasn’t enough to beat the horse racing at his side, sticking out his proud head, all but leaving the ground to fly home the winner, finally by no more than a head.
For a moment no one knew who had won. The crowds that had been roaring a sound that could be heard for miles fell all but silent as the two gallant horses slowed to a canter then to a trot and finally to a leg-weary walk as they too awaited the result.
‘Did you get up, lad?’ Dennis Maloney gasped, barely able to catch his breath. ‘God, I don’t even know who you are.’
‘Blaze Molloy, Mr Maloney sir.’ Blaze grinned at him, sticking out a muddy hand, which Dennis shook.
‘There’s a thing,’ the other Irishman grinned. ‘They’ll all be saying – look at those two fine sportsmen – when little will they know all we’re doing is introducing ourselves!’
‘Here is the result!’ the official announcement rang out. ‘First number eleven – The Enchanted—’
Boyo’s name was hardly heard, such was the roar from the stands.
‘First number eleven – The Enchanted!’ the official repeated. ‘Second number one, County Gent—’
Drowned by another mighty cheer.
‘And third number three, Jenrich! The fourth horse was number nine, Spun Silk.’
‘Well done, Blaze,’ Dennis said, this time putting an arm round the young tyro’s shoulders. ‘Say what you like about old Mother Erin, but she doesn’t half turn us out.’
Blaze touched his cap to one of his great heroes, thanked him, then turned Boyo round to face the stands and the long walk back into the unsaddling enclosure. He had never even imagined this moment, not in his wildest dreams, so he had no idea of what it might be like. In spite of his bravura, the most Blaze had ever hoped and prayed for was that one day he would just ride in a race at Cheltenham, and now that it had happened he still didn’t know how. Nor had it really sunk in that not only had he ridden in a race, he had ridden in the greatest steeplechase of them all. And not only that – it seemed he had won it.
Kathleen was waiting for him at the entrance to the track that leads past the stands and into the unsaddling enclosure. She had watched the entire race away from everyone she knew. Once she had turned Boyo away to the start she had taken up her selected position, and simply prayed. Now she was proudly leading in her horse, the horse she had helped deliver into the world, the horse she had reared herself. The people in the enclosures she and her horse passed by were still beside themselves with the power and magic of the great race, showering love, compliments and congratulations on horse and jockey alike. Television crews with cameras on their shoulders and microphones stuck on sticks ran backwards before them, twenty thousand flash bulbs burst around them, hands were clapped sore, throats were roared red. Yet nothing could match the noise and tumult that awaited them in the unsaddling enclosure.
Rory was there, waiting at the last turn in the path before it opened to reveal the packed enclosure. Kathleen put out her free arm and hugged Rory to her and he hugged her to him. He slapped Blaze on the thigh and Blaze took Rory’s cap and threw it into the crowds. As soon as the people saw the horse and rider a roar went up that was loud enough to have announced victory in a great battle. Eyes filled with tears, hats were thrown in the air and the police had to link arms to cordon off what looked as if it might be a stampede to greet the victors in what would go down as one of the most enthralling Gold Cups ever run. And there in the paddock were waiting Boyo’s faithful band of ecstatic owners: Constance, Alice, Lynne and Grenville, transformed by the horse, transformed by the moment.
As things began to calm down and the snappers came forward to take their pictures, a most beautiful Irish tenor voice was raised somewhere in the middle of the throng. And at the sound of it, everyone stopped to look and to listen.
‘Bless this horse, O Lord we pray!’ the singer sang, and when they heard the words the crowd roared once again, before the song was taken up by a whole choir of racegoers from Ireland.
‘Bless this horse, O Lord we pray –
Make it win a race each day!
Bless the jockey, chimney thin –
Bless his mum for feedin’ him gin!
Bless this horse that we may be
Richer for each victor – eee!’
‘Three cheers now!’ another Irish voice commanded. ‘Three cheers for Blaze Molloy – and three more for a great racehorse!’
‘Well,’ Constance said when the cheers had died down. ‘I think that’s the last we’ll ever hear of his being little, don’t you?’
Then all at once, as the sound of the cheering died away, the odd and quite unexpected sound of the very opposite was heard coming from a crowd that had gathered round the unmistakable figures of Eddie Rampton and the owners of My Pal Joey.
‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ Lynne said, having caught sight of the objects of the crowd’s derision. ‘If it isn’t my ex and my ex.’
‘Ex and ex what, precisely, Lynne dear?’ Constance wondered, putting up her race glasses and directing them at what seemed now about to be a skirmish.
‘Ex-old man and ex-best friend.’ Lynne grinned. ‘Seems they’re getting the bird.’
‘You’re going to enjoy this, Rory,’ a tall, languid man remarked, joining the group by the winners’ enclosure. ‘You should be there, rubbing your hands in glee. And by the way, one and all, well done with your horse. What a champion, eh? James Roderick from the Sporting Life.’ He shook all their hands and gave The Enchanted a well-earned pat on his steaming neck.
‘What’s going on exactly, Jim?’ Rory asked. ‘It seems the people are taking against Eddie Rampton. Right?’
‘Spot on, cocky.’ James laughed. ‘He can never shut it, can he? Starting mouthing off his owners, saying his jockeys’ race tactics were all their idea. At which the owner, whatever his name is—’
‘Gerry Fortune,’ Lynne volunteered. ‘He can never shut it either.’
‘Too right, my lovely. Mr Fortune starte
d slamming back at old Eddie, saying he’d cooked it all up and that he never knew a thing about it. Whereupon all hell broke loose, and …’ He stopped to look round at the crowd surrounding the still wildly gesticulating figure of Eddie Rampton. ‘And to judge from the sound of it,’ he continued, ‘is breaking even more loose. Not the sort of thing one wants to see here in the Holy of Holies.’
At that moment a tall, well-dressed figure with a pair of large race glasses slung over one shoulder appeared on the scene, followed by a retinue of assistants, reporters and policemen, all headed for the skirmish.
‘Ah,’ James said. ‘The cavalry have arrived. I would say any moment now the connections will be called in to have a quiet word with the stewards – or, seeing it’s old Eddie, not so quiet will be more the order of the day.’
‘And what will happen to them, do you think, James?’ Lynne asked, giving him her very best smile, much to the discomfort of Grenville, who began slapping the side of his leg with his racing hat. ‘I do hope they’ll all be clapped in irons and set adrift.’
‘Very possibly, Miss …?’
‘Faraday,’ Lynne replied. ‘Lynne Faraday.’
‘Soon to be Lynne Fielding,’ Grenville said with a smile and a nod. ‘Very soon to be Lynne Fielding.’
‘Well, Miss Faraday soon to be Mrs Fielding,’ James said with a grin, ‘I would say there’s every chance of that happening. Mr Rampton is forever getting himself into trouble, and having seen that race I doubt if this time he’ll get off with just a warning, I don’t think any of them will. One thing racing’s powers-that-be most certainly do not like is anything that brings the sport into disrepute – and there’s no doubt that the way they ran that second horse did exactly that.’
The Enchanted Page 41