by Gene
Whatever, he was determined not to go blundering in. This wasn't his business. Besides, he might have got the wrong end of the stick - though that was hardly likely unless he'd completely misread Pippa. He supposed she could know all about Malcolm's habits. Maybe they had one of those marriages you read about - an òpen' marriage. If that were the case, he himself would be first in the queue to help Mrs. Priest fulfil her end of the bargain. He didn't believe it for one minute. Open marriages were Sunday tabloid wish-fulfilment or, in his observation, bad marriages about to hit the rocks.
But only last week Pippa had told him that if she didn't turn the training around she might as well pack it in and have kids, like Malcolm wanted.
That didn't sound like a man unhappy with his wife. Unless, of course, the thought suddenly burst upon him, her refusal was why her husband was playing touchy-feely with Beverley Harris.
`What now, Dave?’ Jill, Pippa's travelling head lad who tagged along when she wasn't racing, was at his elbow.
'Um. . .' He hadn't been paying much attention. `What do you think?'
'I think Stickleback's had enough because that cut on his off hind still looks sore. But don't you want the others to let rip?'
She was poking fun because he always got them to finish off with a head-to-head gallop, yelling, `Go on, let 'em rip!'
`Yeah, I suppose I do. You tell 'em.'
She did as he asked and then, as they watched the three horses streak across the turf away from them, she asked, Àre you all right, Dave?' But she didn't get an answer. His thoughts were elsewhere.
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Jamie was no stranger to stage fright. As an apprentice, faced with his first professional rides, he'd been consumed by nerves - barely sleeping the night before, vomiting in the toilet before the race, standing tongue-tied in the parade ring. Fortunately, the symptoms had vanished the moment he rode down to the start. Then he'd been ice-cool, able to make split-second choices by instinct, reacting quicker than most riders. In the crazy rush of a horse race it seemed he had more time than others.
At first he'd reasoned that the distress he suffered beforehand was counterbalanced by his efficiency in the saddle. It seemed a fair tradeoff.
Then he hit a rough patch - twenty rides without even being placed, and on some good horses too. And when his mount decided not to run, or got knocked off line in the crush, or simply ran out of steam with the post in sight, Jamie had still gone through an agony before climbing on board. It no longer seemed fair.
Round about this time, he took his first drink `to steady his nerves'. It had worked like a charm, calming his racing blood and banishing the butterflies in his stomach. He started winning again, too, and he decided it couldn't be a coincidence. If he could ride well without sleep and half dizzy from being sick, surely he could perform even better after the calming effect of a little drink? It seemed like a licence to indulge - and he had.
In retrospect, Jamie could see that back then he'd been like a ticking bomb.
His wild behaviour had guaranteed that it wasn't a question of if but when the bomb would go off. And it had. He'd be living with the consequences for the rest of his life.
So now, in the weighing-room at Doncaster, he fought the urge to step into the toilet and throw up. Instead he took a deep, controlled breath and accepted discomfort as his lot. It was the price he paid for getting back into the saddle fuelled with nothing but his ability.
He knew the reason his nerves were running riot. Ahead was his biggest test yet as a jump rider and he was facing it on his own. Jamie had travelled to Doncaster to ride a hurdler for Ferdy Gates. He'd cadged a lift in the horse box with Ferdy's stable staff. He could have asked Dave to drive him in the Land Rover or Ros might have been free. But they had 173
business of their own to attend to and it was time he stood on his own two feet.
The two-mile race had passed uneventfully with his mount putting in a safe-and-steady performance - they'd finished sixth out of a field of thirteen. There had not been anything Jamie could have done to improve matters, since his horse had never been in touch with the leaders.
Ì'd try him over a longer distance next time,' Jamie said to Ferdy afterwards. Ì'd like to ride him again if I could.'
After that minor excitement Jamie had changed and sat twiddling his thumbs in the weighing room, waiting for his ride back at the end of the afternoon. Suddenly a large woman with a weather-beaten face had appeared and asked for a word. Irene Bolt had got his name from Ferdy.
Ì've a spare ride going,' she said. `Jockey hasn't turned up - I won't use that little sod again. You interested?'
So now Jamie was facing the prospect of riding High Sierra, a seven-year-old novice chaser, in a two-and-a-half mile handicap.
Ì can't say he's the most popular fellow in my yard,' Irene had said. `He's raw but he's got potential.'
Ì'd watch out, if I were you,' called another jockey as Jamie returned to change back into his riding clothes. A couple of the other lads also told him to be careful. Irene Bolt reputedly had a stable full of lousy jumpers with little or no steering. It seemed Jamie was the only jockey in the country who didn't know what you were up against when you rode one of her dodgy animals.
It was too late to do anything about it now. Jamie strode into the ring with a reasonable amount of trepidation. There had not been time to look up the form - there had barely been time to change into the right colours - and he was keen to see what he'd let himself in for.
High Sierra was a mean-looking bruiser of a horse. He gazed at Jamie with a disdainful eye, his tail twitching. Jamie noticed he was sweating heavily.
`Watch out for him biting the other runners,' Irene said cheerily as she gave him a leg-up. Ìt's jolly embarrassing when he does that.' `Bad-tempered, is he?’ Jamie asked.
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`He can be. The lads call him Psycho Sierra. He's quite a character.' That was one way of putting it, thought Jamie. No wonder his jockey hadn't turned up.
The horse pulled hard on the way to the start and Jamie took a firm hold, keeping the animal's head twisted over the running rail to prevent it bolting. The irony of the trainer's surname might have raised a smile had he not been hanging on for dear life.
High Sierra sullenly obeyed but Jamie could sense that rebellion wasn't far off. They joined the fourteen other runners milling round before the start.
Mindful of the trainer's remarks about biting, Jamie dragged his head away from the grey horse on his left. High Sierra appeared to obey instructions then suddenly jerked backwards. An oath split the air from the grey's jockey.
`Watch that sod. He tried to kick mine!' the rider shouted at Jamie. Bloody hell! What had he got himself into? Jamie pulled his horse away, out of the line, to prevent any further interference. At that moment the tapes went up, stranding them at the start as the rest of the field raced away.
It amounted to the worst possible start - literally. Jamie urged his troublesome mount after the others with murder in his heart - which probably made two of them, he thought.
It was almost a relief to play tail-end Charlie round the sharp end of the pear-shaped course. The tight corner didn't suit the big lumbering Sierra and Jamie took it with care and at no great speed. At present his aim was simply to get the animal down the back straight and over the fences in a smooth rhythm. If they got to the start of the long sweeping curve for home in one piece, then he could think about the contest itself.
This jump racing was a far different method of riding to what he had been used to. As Ros had pointed out, riding for the best part of five minutes over obstacles required a different mental technique to a minute-long wham-bam sprint on the Flat.
Now he'd got the horse thinking about running and jumping, instead of beating up his fellow competitors, the animal was moving smoothly. Or maybe Psycho Sierra simply wanted to catch up with the other horses so he could take his bad temper out on them.
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Whatever the reason, the horse was em
ploying his massive strength in a steady gallop. By the end of the outward straight - the big end of the pear -
they had caught up and passed half the field. When Sierra decided to apply himself, be could certainly shift.
The horse sailed over the open ditch on the shallow curve of the bottom end and pinged the first fence leading into the home straight. He was eating up the other runners as fast as he was devouring the ground.
Suddenly, Jamie found himself assessing his position in the race. There were five horses ahead of them and four fences to go. They took the next couple with powerful leaps, leaving two more of their rivals in their wake.
The three leading horses were a few lengths ahead, racing almost abreast.
Jamie kept his mount wide on the stand side, praying he could keep up this remarkable display for another couple of furlongs. If they could just nose out one other runner they'd be in the places and that would be something.
But the three ahead weren't giving up and Sierra made little impression.
Jamie gave the horse a smack with his stick as they approached the second to last and felt him respond. He saw the nearest horse clout the top of the fence just before Sierra took off. The other horse faltered and they were past him in a blur of wind and mud. Third - fantastic!
They were level with the second horse going into the last fence. Jamie looked to his left and saw his rider giving everything he'd got. It didn't seem to be doing much good; the animal was operating on autopilot.
Sierra was also tiring, Jamie could sense it. They only scraped over the last fence. For a moment, as his horse stumbled, he thought they were about to fall but he yanked Sierra's nose up just before it kissed the turf and the animal stayed on his feet. That was their chance gone, though.
They finished six lengths behind the winner in second place.
Irene was delighted. Ì say, how marvellous!' she crowed. Ì knew he had the ability but it's not easy to get the best out of him. You two got on like a house on fire.'
Jamie made a noncommittal noise and grinned; he didn't want to spoil the party atmosphere.
`You're a marriage made in heaven!' the big woman continued. `You will ride him next time, won't you?'
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Five minutes earlier, Jamie's first instinct would have been to say no, loudly and forcefully. But a ride was a ride - was he in any position to be choosy at this stage of his new career? And, to be fair, once he'd got going the horse had done nothing wrong. If he was to get to the top of this jumping game, Jamie knew he'd have to ride all sorts of animals, not just the good ones.
Ì'll look forward to it,' he said.
`Bloody well done on Psycho, mate,' said Ferdy's travelling head lad, Padraig, as the horse box turned onto the A1. Ì'd have had a couple of quid on him if I'd known.'
`Known what?'
`That you were going to ride him. I found out too late.'
`Really?' Jamie was chuffed. If knowledgeable lads like Padraig were beginning to rate him, then he must be doing something right. The journey back passed quickly. After just under an hour and a half they turned into the Ridgemoor Valley, past the familiar landmark of the Lord Nelson public house. A shadow fell over Jamie's good spirits as its Victorian bulk loomed. He'd been down this road before. Jamie gunned the car into the pub car park and reversed it at speed into a spot by a battered Mondeo. It had been a hard but exhilarating hammer north from Ascot and the thought of a long drink had been tantalising him since he d got off the motorway at Leeds.
He flashed his new Rolex and turned to his passengers. `Two hours fifty-six,' he announced proudly. `Told you I could do it in under three.' `You drive like a maniac,' murmured Richard from the back seat. Jamie noted that he looked a bit green around the gills. Rich could be a wimp sometimes. A thirsty maniac,' he said. `You guys owe me a beer.'
Ì thought you were buying, maestro.’ Malcolm opened the passenger door. `You're the day's big winner.'
That was true enough. First past the post three times at Ascot, including a cracking performance in a quality race like the Diadem. A nice present stuffed in his back pocket from a top owner. And that didn't include the morning in bed with the owner's daughter. It was his day all right. And the way he was going there d be many more like it.
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Jamie ordered a pint of lager and the same for Malcolm. Rich asked for a slimline tonic. Jesus.
`Sure you don't want a proper drink? Go on, man, live dangerously.' Rich didn't laugh. He was being a bit of a misery this evening. Well, screw him.
`You know your problem, Rich? You're afraid to get stuck in. You had a gap in that last race and you hesitated, so you missed your chance.' Rich's face crumpled, like a kid who d dropped his ice cream, so Jamie knew he d hit a nerve.
Ìt's the same with women. You hang back and some other bugger's off the mark ahead of you.' Jamie turned to Malcolm. `Some other bugger like me.’ They both laughed.
'Seriously, mate,’ Jamie continued, 'you've got to stick up for yourself more. I reckon the best thing you could do'- he d been meaning to get this off his chest for a while and now seemed a good time - ìs jack in working for your old man.'
`What's that got to do with it?'
Ìt's not very impressive working for your daddy, is it? I mean, people will always wonder why you got the gig. I think you should go and sling your leg over some other trainer's horses. You know, just to prove you can.
What do you say, Mal? '
Jamie could tell that Malcolm was enjoying watching his brother squirm.
:Jamie might have a point, Richard,' he said. 7 bet Dad would be impressed if you made your way at another yard.'
Richard glared at him. `You can talk. You don't wipe your arse without his approval.'
Ì spent six years on my own in the Army, mate.'
And came running straight home when you ballsed up.'
Jamie was amused. Talk about light the blue touch paper and retire. `Now then, lads, you're spoiling my night.’ He pulled a £SO note from the bundle in his pocket and caught the barman's eye. Ì'm switching to vodka
- what about you?'
Richard declined, of course, but Malcolm opted for Scotch. Jamie cast his eye around for other likely recipients of his generosity. He had a good feeling about tonight.
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There were some Ridgemoor stable staff in the far corner, lads and lasses who worked all hours for not much. When his drinks arrived Jamie handed the barman the banknote. `Stick this behind the bar, would you, Charlie?
Anything that lot over there wants is on me. And yourself, of course.'
Charlie grinned. 7'11 take a half, thanks.'
Jamie added a splash of Coke to his vodka - Diet Coke, of course, as he had to keep an eye on his weight. `Let me know when the cash runs out.
There's plenty more.'
`Been a good day, has it?'
`You could say - and it's just getting going.'
Richard had taken himself off to talk to some of the lads and Malcolm had been joined by one of the Ridgemoor stable girls, a blonde bubbly sort.
Jamie moved in swiftly, aware it was his brotherly duty to keep an eye on his sister's boyfriend. Not that it was any of his business what either of them got up to.
The rest of the Ridgemoor group joined them and congratulations rained down on Jamie, inspired by his Ascot exploits and the free drinks. He was the man of the moment and it felt damn good.
The vodka hit him after a quarter of an hour. He got up to go to the Gents and sat straight back down again. It was if he d been sandbagged behind the knees. Well, he had been living on the edge all day. By rights he ought to be spark out somewhere, recharging his batteries. Stuff that, though, he was having too good a time.
The trouble was, he had no more of his magic pills and what he needed right now was a pick-me-up. Booze was all very well but there was nothing like a chemical stimulant to keep a man's motor running. He looked around for assistance. This crowd wasn't cool enough or rich enough to
be carrying what he needed. Their idea of a wild night out was getting blatted on Alco pops.
He looked around the bar and recognised a couple of girls at a table on the far side of the room. His luck was in - of course. He took it carefully crossing the room - he could do without an attack of the wobbles. His target was a woman in a scooped-out pink top with appliqued sequins and a leather skirt. He knew she was pretending not to see him.
`Hi, Cassie,' he said.
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She looked up in feigned surprise. Her companion, Helen, followed her glance and said, `You can get lost for a start.'
Jamie ignored the spotty bitch. Quite why Helen had it in for him he wasn't sure - it wasn't her he d dumped, after all.
`Can I have a word, Cassie?'
`No, you bloody can’t,’ said Helen. `You've done enough damage.' But Cassie took no notice and got to her feet, as he d known she would. He put his arm around her waist and led her away from the table.
`Have you got anything on you?'
She stared at him without comprehension. `Pills? Coke? Anything but hash.'
He felt her stiffen. Oh God, surely the silly cow hadn't thought he was still interested in her?
,Sorry, Cassie, that came out wrong. It's just that I'm in a rush tonight. I was going to call you.'
`Were you?’ Her mouth softened. `Were you really?'
They d spent a boozed-up weekend in bed three weeks back. Just long enough for Jamie to enjoy all that she had to offer and leave well satisfied.
The trouble was, her appetite had only just been whetted - or so he gathered from the phone messages and notes that had followed him since.
`Look, I'm tied up tonight but what about tomorrow? We could do dinner out or pizza in, you choose.'
She was wavering, he could see. Id like that,’ she said at last. `Great. I'll call tomorrow morning.’ Fat chance. `But I'm dead on my feet, Cassie. I just need something to keep me going.'