Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc

by Gene

  He'd learnt that your whip should always be on the open side, or in the hand closest to the wing of a fence. When you rode with your leg against the paint there was always a chance that a horse might try and run out through the wooden uprights. A good rider could sense what was about to happen and, if your whip was in the correct hand, you could give the horse 197

  a crack down the shoulder and save yourself. Jamie prided himself on being comfortable with his whip in either hand, but it amazed him how many of his competitors weren't.

  Sunny was a nice horse to ride, with a broad back and a seat as comfortable as a familiar armchair. Fences, ditches and water jumps came all the same to him and he sailed over them with ease. Jamie felt he could have sipped a cup of tea at the same time and not spilt a drop.

  Completing the first circuit, Butterfingers had had enough of the leader's sedate progress and slipped past him at an improved clip. Jamie was alert to the move and nudged Sunny on, not letting the bay horse steal a march on them. At the turn for home, Butterfingers' rider darted a quick look over his shoulder to gauge Jamie's proximity and began to pile on the pressure.

  Jamie urged Sunny into another gear. The horse was still jumping with effortless style and seemed to have plenty left in the tank. Together they closed the gap on Butterfingers as the last obstacle arrived. Jamie kicked Sunny into the fence and the pair landed neck and neck. Next to him, Jamie could hear his rival whipping the bay on.

  With no fences remaining, this was now a Flat race uphill to the winning post. Jamie realised that he'd been in this situation many times before. He felt his old confidence flow through him. The horse beneath him was tiring but still game - he just had to help the animal dig deep into his last reserves of strength. Keep his rhythm.

  The post was arriving fast now and the bay had his neck in front. Jamie stayed cool. Time seemed to have slowed for him, just as it used to do.

  Riding high on Sunny's shoulders, his hands in close contact with the horse's mouth, he applied the accelerator and Sunny slipped past Butterfingers on the line.

  It was his first winner over jumps and it felt just like the old days. Clem witnessed Jamie's victory with ashes in his mouth. He could have predicted the outcome - in fact, he had. `Senegal Sunshine will win,' he'd said to his bookie on the phone. But he'd not been able to put his money down - not with Hutchison on the horse's back.

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  Instead he'd kept his powder dry and watched the race with ghoulish fascination, hoping fervently that the winning jockey would fall off and break his neck.

  Jamie spent an exhilarating five minutes in the unsaddling enclosure after the race. It seemed he knew more people on the course than he'd realised.

  Among the crowd was Desmond Hartley, Vanessa's father.

  'I'd recognise that smash-and-grab style of yours anywhere,' the owner said. Ìf you'd left it any later you'd have been in the next race. Good to see you back, old boy.'

  So Jamie lined up for his second race - a two-mile novice hurdle - on a high. He banished the euphoria of his victory, and the deluge of congratulations that had followed, from his thoughts. He didn't deserve it.

  The young lad he'd killed would never enjoy moments of success like this, so why should he?

  He tried to push the guilt to the back of his mind but it was there all the same, like a cloud over the sun.

  Many people, it seemed, shared Desmond Hartley's pleasure at seeing him back winning races. What's more, in a snatched phone call with Pippa, he'd learnt that Bertie Brooks, his former agent, had left a message for Jamie to give him a call. With Bertie representing him he could soon be very busy indeed. It was an enticing prospect.

  He shut it out and focused on his mount, Brindisi, a well-made five-year-old trained by Ferdy Gates. The trainer had only recently taken charge of him and Jamie had the impression the horse was a bit of an unknown quantity. If he possessed any special attributes it would be up to Jamie to unearth them during the next four minutes.

  Brindisi shot off brightly and Jamie had to pull him back into the pack.

  The only advice Ferdy had offered was to keep the horse from hitting the front in the early stages. On the way down he'd felt relaxed, just taking a nice hold of his bit, but as the tapes flew up he'd suddenly come to life and Jamie had to take a firm grip.

  The horse jumped well and, until halfway round, seemed keen on the task in hand. Then he began to lag. Jamie tried to shake him up a bit. But Brindisi's enthusiasm had faded. It seemed he'd come to the conclusion that this running and jumping lark was too much like hard work.

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  On reflection - and Jamie had plenty of time for that as a result of what happened next - maybe he tried too hard with the horse in an effort to throw off his lethargy.

  As they approached the last hurdle on the far side, he went after the horse with his stick. Brindisi took off two full strides from the obstacle, his front legs paddling desperately as he tried to clear it. He failed. The next moment Jamie was flying through the air and landing with a thump on the springy turf. As he rolled over, a hammer descended on his head.

  Clem hadn't been enjoying his afternoon. Racing, particularly National Hunt racing, was the one thing that took his mind off his disability and made the time pass quicker. In the scheme of things his bets were not important - a few pounds here and there - but like any punter he enjoyed his winners and cursed his losers. This afternoon there had been plenty of cursing.

  But the big blot on the landscape of his pleasure was Jamie Hutchison's victory. This was the first time he'd seen the jockey ride since his release from prison. Obviously it would not be the last. Despite his antipathy towards the man, Clem could recognise a skilful rider when he saw one and Hutchison, there was no denying, had a future in National Hunt. The thought of many more afternoons in this chair, gasping for breath as Jamie Hutchison rode winners, was profoundly depressing. Hadn't the man robbed him of enough?

  He considered his prospects, as he had done many times before. He was hard-headed about his illness. It could not be cured or alleviated. Ahead lay only a further diminishing of his life and, in the end, a painful death.

  He didn't intend to let it get that far. At some point, he had long ago decided, he would take matters into his own hands. But he'd hoped that would be at a time in the future when Marie had fled the family nest. In an ideal world she'd be with a good man, considering a family of her own.

  That would be the point to relieve everyone, including himself, of the burden of his existence.

  The next race, a novice hurdle, had begun while these unhappy matters churned around in his head. He was miserably aware that Jamie Hutchison was riding once more though not, thankfully, on his own fancy, Palace Party, a 10-1 chance who was running strongly in the leading group.

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  Slowly the race began to exert its familiar magic. Clem's worries were pushed to one side as the excitement of the moment began to grip. Palace Party was lying second as the commentator announced a faller out of shot.

  Clem cursed as the producer switched to a riderless horse then back again to the leading runners.

  Approaching the last, Palace Party strode clear. The horse flew the final hurdle and galloped to the line to win by five clear lengths. `You beauty!'

  growled Clem, savouring the small moment of satisfaction in the gloom of his afternoon.

  Then, as the camera switched away from the winner's smiling connections back onto the course, Clem began to realise that something more momentous had taken place. The picture showed a knot of paramedics surrounding a man-shaped bundle lying on the track. An ambulance was in attendance and the voiceover spoke in concerned tones. The race began to run again onscreen, cutting to the point where a runner clipped a hurdle and unseated his rider. Clem clearly saw the jockey rolling over the turf ahead of the last runners in the race. His body spun towards the galloping animals. They passed within a whisker and then, at the last, a trailing hoof smacked the jockey squarely on the back of t
he head.

  `Yes!' roared Clem in triumph.

  He'd wanted Jamie Hutchison to break his neck - and it looked as if he just had.

  Chapter Eleven

  The doctors insisted that Jamie spend forty-eight hours in hospital under observation. After the injuries he had suffered in the car crash, which included severe trauma to the skull, no one was prepared to take any chances. The consensus of opinion was that he had been lucky. All he appeared to have suffered was bruising and a nasty headache.

  Jamie didn't mind the restriction - he was used to being confined in one room, as he reminded his many visitors. One of the first was Vanessa. She told him she'd been at the course with her father and seen the incident.

  She'd followed the ambulance to hospital and kept Pippa up to date on his progress until she could get there herself. Then Vanessa had fielded all 201

  enquiries, including press interest, and run errands for Pippa throughout the night. She'd been a heroine.

  `You've been on my conscience,' she explained to Jamie when he'd said as much. Ì promised I'd find you a girlfriend and I've done nothing since that ghastly night with poor Georgie. Anyhow,' she continued, òrganising my wedding is turning out to be such a hassle, I just leapt at something else to do. Sorting out one crocked jockey is easy-peasy compared to dealing with my mother and a seating plan for two hundred.'

  Back at Shelley Farm, Jamie found himself the recipient of get-well wishes from many quarters. One of the oddest came from Irene Bolt.

  `You're a bloody fool, young man,' she bawled down the phone at him.

  Ì've got High Sierra down for Catterick next Tuesday. I suppose you'll have to miss out now. Unless, of course, there's a chance the doc might give you the all clear?'

  With a show of regret Jamie had dashed her hopes. What Palace Party had started, there was a good chance Psycho Sierra would finish off.

  An elaborate flower display had been received from the office of Bertie Brooks. The message I'll call when I get back from Dubai was scrawled on a card embossed in gold leaf with the letters BBG. It took a moment for Jamie to work out that this stood for the Bertie Brooks Group. Since when had Bertie become a group? Five years ago, he'd been just another bandy-legged jockey scratching around for second division rides. And the elegant handwriting that flowed across the card was not his, unless he'd been back to school recently. Jamie had to laugh.

  The message which most captured his attention was less eye-catching, just a postcard of the Dales stuffed into an envelope. It read: I was sorry to hear of your accident and hope you make a good recovery. Thank you for helping me with Spring Fever. Yours sincerely, Marie Kirk-stall.

  Now, why on earth had she done that?

  Dave directed Walter down the rutted path, the Lexus cruising through the puddles, spraying water into the hedgerows. Finally the caravan, its weatherbeaten sides flaking paint and the wheel arches stained with rust, came into sight.

  Dave could see that his friend was appalled. `You don't really live in that, do you?'

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  'It's not so bad. Come in and I'll make you a cuppa.'

  Nevertheless, as he poured boiling water over tea bags in the tiny galley, he noticed Walter staring round uncomfortably. The moth-eaten curtains and cheap plastic fittings were not, Dave knew, to be compared with the Italian chic chez Clark.

  They'd spent the morning in an amiable five-mile jog with a couple of Walter's running mates, followed by a session in the pub which Walter had cut short at Dave's request. The meeting had been instigated by the vet, who was plainly enjoying their past association. Dave would have thought that his prison conviction and public fall from grace might have taken the gloss off his reputation. But that was not the case where Walter was concerned. Dave had been paraded like a trophy of the glorious past.

  Walter's eyes were flicking back and forth, taking in every detail of their shabby surroundings. They came to rest on Dave. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought the better of it. Dave watched with amusement, wondering how long it would take.

  `Can I ask you a question?'

  Dave nodded. Here it comes, he thought.

  Àre you happy living like this?' Walter pushed a bony index finger along a grime-ridden crack in the Formica of the table top. Ì mean, you're one of the best athletes this country has ever produced. You've held national records at every distance from the three thousand metres to the marathon.

  You've represented your country at the Olympic Games.'

  Dave said nothing; best to let him get it off his chest.

  `People with half your experience are all over the radio and TV They write columns in newspapers and give after-dinner speeches at five grand a pop.

  You could do the same. At least get together with some journalist and write your autobiography - you've got a great story to tell.'

  `Why would I want to do that, Walter?'

  The other man's eyes bulged incredulously as he shouted, `To make some money, of course! Surely you don't want to live in shit heaps like this for the rest of your life?'

  Dave said nothing in the silence that followed. Walter looked anxious, worried maybe that he had offended his hero. He pressed for an answer; however, his voice was low this time.

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  `Come on, mate - you can do better than this. I can help.'

  Dave sipped his tea. The truth was, life was simpler without possessions and expectations and all the baggage that went with having a ,career'.

  Before he'd been banged up he'd had plenty of things - a flat, money in the bank, a girlfriend. All of that had gone down the tubes when he'd been convicted. He'd sold up and spent the money on lawyers. The girl had kissed him goodbye on the day he went to court with his overnight bag and he'd not seen her face since. Apart, that is, from the photographs in the paper illustrating her lurid account of their life together.

  `Thanks, Walter, but I'm quite happy as I am. I'm not bothered whether I've got a couple of cars and a Jacuzzi.'

  The vet exhaled noisily, trying no doubt to curtail his exasperation. It was plain that the number of cars a person owned bothered him a lot. `But surely you don't object to money on principle?'

  Dave was tempted to say yes, he did, just to enjoy Walter's reaction but he didn't want to upset him. He guessed there was at least one topic on Walter's agenda that wasn't a subject for jest.

  `Well, I don't mind a few quid in my pocket, if that's what you're suggesting.'

  Walter looked relieved. `Thank God for that.' He leant forward, elbows on the table and said, `Look, I'm going to give you a little steer. Do yourself a favour and make a note of it.'

  Dave was intrigued. Òh yes?'

  Ì shouldn't be telling you this but there's a horse running at Newbury tomorrow.'

  `You told me you didn't gamble.'

  Ì don't.' Walter was indignant. Ì just want to help you out, that's all.'

  Ìs this a horse you've been treating?'

  Ì'm not answering any questions, Dave. Let's just say I know of the animal and it's got a good chance. I'll lend you the stake money if you're short. Pay me back if you win.'

  Ànd if I don't?'

  Walter shrugged. The possibility appeared not to have entered his head.

  Dave was curious.

  ÒK, I'll buy. What's the horse's name?'

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  'A novice hurdler in the fourth race. Beaufort Bonanza.' Now Dave was seriously intrigued.

  Malcolm drove to Newbury with confidence that this time Adolf would pull off a victory and justify the hoopla that surrounded his every appearance on the track. And when that happy event took place, Malcolm expected to be the recipient of Beverley's gratitude.

  He was sorely in need of Beverley's hands-on appreciation. He'd not seen much of her since he'd persuaded his father to go along with Beaufort Holidays' plans for the horse. She'd visited Ridgemoor once to run her eye over a new jockey - they'd agreed on the yard's top apprentice who'd been schooling the horse intensively - and go
ne along with Toby's suggestion that Adolf have a stab at a longer distance. Barney had been all in favour of an outing at Newbury on the basis that it spread the Beaufort Holidays word in the southern half of the country.

  But it had been some while since Malcolm had enjoyed a cosy evening tucked up with Beverley in her pink boudoir. The closest they'd been recently was during that trip to the yard when he'd steered her into the woods after watching Adolf run through his paces. It hadn't been entirely satisfactory. Though there was something to be said for reliving your teenage thrills, these days he preferred a large double bed behind a locked door. And that's what he'd be angling for with Ms Harris once Adolf brought home the bacon today.

  Jamie was in two minds about watching Adolf's latest race. He'd been jocked off enough horses in the past not to feel too sore about it but this situation was a bit different. He'd spent so much time with Adolf in recent months that, cussed animal that he was, Adolf did seem likèhis' horse.

  On the other hand, even if Jamie had originally been booked for the ride, he'd have had to cry off. His jockey's licence had been marked with red ink at Wetherby, and until the last entry was initialled in blue by a Jockey Club doctor he wouldn't be allowed to ride anywhere in the world.

  Anyhow, at present, he didn't feel fit enough to sit on a garden swing.

  To Jamie's surprise, Dave sat down to watch the race with him, cutting short his afternoon training session with Pippa's horses.

  `Your sister was right. If horses are happy, you can do what you like with them,' he said as he sprawled on the sofa. Ìt's taken me three weeks to 205

  discover that that big grey one loves being in front. He's a different horse when he's leading. He works better, eats better. It's amazing.'