‘Crocii, if you’re going to be correct please,’ Tyrone teased. ‘Or didn’t they teach you Latin at that American convent of yours?’
‘Sure they taught us Latin,’ Cassie replied.’ I’ve just forgotten it all.’
As indeed she had. She’d forgotten all her Latin, except for two words: Equo caballus.
And there they all were, Tyrone’s horses, looking out of their immaculate boxes, while the lads picked out and deposited on to lengths of sacking any droppings their precious charges had done since morning stables. The blacksmith had arrived and was hard at work, fitting racing plates, as Tyrone was at pains to explain to Cassie, on to the horses due to run at Thurles that afternoon. Then in answer to her request, he took Cassie over to look at the three-year-old Villa Maria, which was to carry the stable hopes and some of the lads’ money in the Ransom Stakes at Leopardstown.
‘She’s a fine stamp of a filly,’ he announced, as Cassie stroked the dark bay head over the stable door. ‘She’s by Ballygood out of a mare called Molten, who won the fillies’ Triple Crown four years ago. That’s the One Thousand Guineas, the Oaks, and the St Leger. She’s in the Guineas, and she’s certainly bred for the job. We’ll just have to see whether or not she’s good enough. I’ll get Tomas to fetch her out of her box.’
Cassie stood to one side as the filly was led out for her. She was astonished at how big and well grown the young horse was, and how muscled up.
‘When you think that strictly speaking she’s not fully three years old,’ Tyrone agreed, ‘yes, I suppose it would seem surprising how forward she is. But remember, all horses have their official birthday on I January, and since there’s damn few foaled before mid-February, there’s damn few horses around as genuinely old as their race card age. This young lady wasn’t foaled until the beginning of March.’
‘But she’s so big,’ Cassie exclaimed, remembering the young Prince. ‘And so strong.’
‘We grow ’em that way over here, Cassie McGann. It’s the grass. Good grass grown on limestone. That’s what does it. That and having a genius like Tomas here, who knows how to feed.’
He nodded to Tomas to put the filly away, because she was beginning to show signs of impatience, and then walked Cassie over to his office.
‘But you start racing them at two years,’ Cassie said as she went in past him. ‘Isn’t it cruel to race them so young?’
‘Diabolic,’ Tyrone replied, shutting the door. ‘But that’s the business I’m in.’
Tyrone then busied himself going over the entries with his secretary Mrs Byrne, who was so in love with her job that she drove the long journey out from Dublin to Claremore five days a week, every week of her life.
While the two of them talked through the details of which horses were running where and why, Cassie stood and looked out on to the busy yard, and marvelled at what Tyrone had achieved in such an apparently short space of time. He had told her back in New York about the history of Claremore, and how he had been born and bred there, and Cassie had thought it a wonderfully romantic tale. But now she had seen the place for herself, and been shown the yard, the paddocks and the gallops, Cassie could form a much better idea of what it had taken to create a yard such as this.
Claremore had been left to Tyrone on his father’s death twelve years before. Jack Rosse had always been a horseman, but had bred and trained horses really only for his own pleasure. Even so, during the twenty years he had indulged himself in what he called his pastime, he had trained the winners of over three hundred races. He won nothing of particular note, mostly point to points, Hunter Chases, and the odd seller on the Flat, the latter being always the medium of some pretty healthy and usually highly successful gambles. But, as Jack was always at pains to point out to his son, they may not have been Derby horses, but they were all ‘homemade’.
As an amateur jockey, however, Tyrone’s father was one of the very best, having ridden six times in the Grand National, coming third once, and falling at the second last on another occasion when well in the lead and going like the winner. His own favourite race, and probably the greatest he ever rode, was in the Kim Muir at the Cheltenham Festival, riding a horse owned by his greatest friend, Doctor George Grainger, one of the most sporting Irish owners of the time. A painting commemorating his famous victory hung over the fireplace in the drawing room at Claremore. Jack Rosse coming over the last on Dear Me, ten lengths clear of the odds-on favourite. The ensuing celebrations were, apparently, legendary.
Since as long as he could remember, Tyrone had worked under his father in the yard, which was then a row of just ten old wooden boxes. Having devoted his whole life since the premature death of his beloved wife to the study of horses, there wasn’t anything Jack Rosse didn’t know about them, and he passed all his great knowledge and horse sense on to his only son and heir.
Tyrone loved his father and the life he was teaching him to lead. He also loved all their horses.
‘There’s no damn good going into this game, Ty,’ his father used to tell him, ‘unless you love these creatures. The day horses become a business, as far as I’m concerned, is the day you can forget it.’
And as good as his word, if Jack Rosse produced the horse right on the day, and it ran what he liked to call a decent sort of a race, if it finished ninth or tenth, Tyrone’s father enjoyed the experience as much as if the horse had won.
‘The only difference between winning and losing, Ty, is there’s no prizes for coming fifth.’
A lot of his critics said that because Jack Rosse had money, he wasn’t ‘hungry’, and therefore he could adopt a more cavalier attitude to the racing game than those less financially fortunate than himself. But as Tyrone grew up, he learned his father’s debonair attitude concealed what he truly felt, which was acute disappointment with himself and a sense of shame if the horse wasn’t ‘right’ and failed to give its true running.
Then, when Tyrone was nearly twenty, his father realised that one of his ‘home-cooked’ youngsters was starting to show some promise late in his two-year-old career, and seemed to have the makings of a decent horse, maybe even one good enough to run in a classic. The horse, called By Myself, never actually won as a two-year-old, because although extremely fast, when produced to come and win his first race, he revealed an aversion to the whip. His tail went round in a fury, and he skedaddled across the racecourse sideways like a scalded crab. Then next time when his jockey rode him without a whip, he took fright when he saw the other horses being hit, and round went the tail again, and away across the course he flew.
So for his first race as a three-year-old, they fitted him with blinkers. He was a very nervous horse, and the blinkers frightened him so much that he dwelt at the start and lost a good three or four lengths, which is a critical amount over a seven-furlong trip. Then he suddenly got the hang of the blinkers and fairly flew past the opposition, which contained two Two Thousand Guineas candidates, to win by three lengths. Jack had entered him for the Guineas, more from hope than belief, but after that victory, Tyrone’s father backed him to win £20,000 to £1,000 for the Newmarket classic, and the punters backed him silly, until his pre-race odds were reduced finally to 3/1. He was, according to one talkative Dublin bookmaker, the biggest loser on his books, laid to lose him over one million as the winner. On the morning of the Guineas, Jack and Tyrone found the horse doped and half dead in his box. He never recovered and died six months later. According to Tyrone, it broke his father’s heart, and he followed the horse to the grave only three months later.
‘Which is why I have to win the Derby,’ Tyrone had told Cassie, when relating the story to her. ‘For the old man. For By Myself. And for the bookmakers, God help them.’
Saturday was Cassie’s very first visit to a racecourse. And she imagined that there could be few more charming places to enjoy such an experience than Leopardstown on such a fine spring day.
Tyrone had left her in the charge of the wife of another trainer while he went to saddle up Villa
Maria. The woman was en route to the bar, and assumed that Cassie wanted to come along with her. Cassie politely demurred, preferring to stay where she was and take in the new sights all around her. For a start, she had never imagined seeing so many priests at a racecourse. They were everywhere, looking closely at the horses, reading up the form and scrutinising the odds. Cassie couldn’t help it. She felt quite shocked.
She walked over to the paddock, into which the horses for the next race were starting to file. She found a place on the rails and looked for Villa Maria in her green and yellow Claremore paddock sheet. There she was, walking out very keenly on the opposite side of the ring to Cassie, with Tony her lad jiggling her leading rope to stop her from getting too far ahead of him.
‘She’s looking well, number three,’ said a man to his companion next to Cassie. ‘I think I’ll have a touch on her. The Rosse stable seems to be coming in form.’
He wandered away to place his bet and Cassie watched him go, before returning her attention to Villa Maria, contemplating her new life, with its undreamed-of connection with her beloved horses. Villa Maria was passing now, right in front of her, with the lad still having trouble holding her head. The filly’s eye was very bright, and her big ears were pricked sharply forward, as she took in all the strange sights and sounds. Yet she wasn’t at all hot, not like a lot of the other fillies who were beginning to break out in a lather of sweat. Seeing them, Cassie could understand now why it was called a lather, because the white foaming sweat on the dark skins of the horses looked for all the world like soap suds.
Then she saw Tyrone entering the ring, and her heart leaped. From afar, he looked even more handsome. As he walked to the middle of the ring, he was bending down slightly in order to listen to someone Cassie took as the owner, a small woman in middle age, dressed very smartly in a very expensive dark blue costume, with a matching hat. Tyrone was carrying his own hat behind him, and the wind ruffled his hair. Every now and then he would smooth it back nervously as he listened and nodded, and then as the horses were turned in towards their trainers and jockeys, Tyrone put his hat back on and set about the serious business of checking that all was well with the horse.
Cassie watched him intently as he folded the paddock sheet back over the filly’s quarters and flicked the stirrups down from the tiny racing saddle. The jockey, in pink silks with a black crossband, stood half behind him, tapping his shiny boots with his whip. Tyrone checked the girths, and as he did so, the filly whipped round, pulling her lad with her. Cassie saw that it didn’t bother Tyrone, because he moved with the horse as if he had been expecting such a reaction. Then seeing that all was well, he legged the jockey up so easily, Cassie thought, that it was almost like a move in a ballet. Last of all Tyrone removed the folded sheet from the horse’s quarters as the jockey started to walk her away, then turned back to talk once again to the owner.
The racegoers were all making their way back to the grandstand now, or hurrying to the Tote to have a last-minute bet. Cassie had no idea how to bet, but she was dying to have what Tomas called a few bob on their horse. She went up to the Tote window and opened her purse, taking out two pounds.
‘Can I have this on Villa Maria to win, please?’ she asked. ‘If that’s all right?’
‘You have to tell me the number, miss,’ the man behind the grille replied. ‘Sure the name’s no good whatsoever.’
‘Oh my, I am so sorry,’ she replied, consulting her race card. ‘Villa Maria’s number three.’
She collected her ticket, carefully folding it inside her glove, then hurried over to the grandstand. She saw Tyrone standing high above her, his race glasses to his eyes as he watched the horses cantering down to the start. She wanted to be at his side, but he had made it quite plain that while she may be at the races for pleasure, he was there for business and must have no distractions.
So she stood some way below him and tried to focus her race glasses on the horses which were now down at the start. She just got them right as she heard the course commentator announce that the white flag was up, and a moment later they were off. Villa Maria broke in the middle of the pack, and Cassie could see the jockey settle the filly down behind the leading group as they covered the first furlong. She seemed to Cassie’s untutored eye, to be running very sweetly and easily, while several of the fillies in front of her appeared to have taken a good hold and were running too freely. As they turned left-handed into the straight, a gap opened on the rails and Cassie saw Dermot Pryce, Villa Maria’s jockey, pounce on the opening at once and kick for home. The field was fully two furlongs from the post, but the result was already a foregone conclusion. As soon as the dark bay filly with the big white blaze saw daylight, she flew. Cassie’s race glasses started to shake up and down in her excitement, but she gripped them as tightly as she could so that she could see in close-up every moment of the finish. Pryce hardly moved on the filly once he had given her that initial command. She just quickened, lengthened her stride, and the race was over. Cassie shouted the horse home in her excitement, but there was no need. Villa Maria won by six lengths, with her ears pricked.
It was, as Tomas always had it, a handy win, and a popular one. Villa Maria had started 2/1 favourite, and the crowd were well pleased. They were already applauding the filly as Pryce steered her through their midst back to the winner’s enclosure. As Cassie hurried after her, Tyrone passed her by.
‘I could hear you shouting her home from the top of the stands!’ he teased.
Cassie smiled happily and hurried after him.
When she fought her way finally through the crowd to the rail, the jockey was already off the horse and in the process of undoing the saddle. He was bending down under her to loosen the girth, all the time chatting sideways back up to Tyrone who towered above him. The woman Cassie thought was the owner was patting the filly’s neck delightedly, while Tomas stood ready to throw a sweat sheet over the horse. The jockey touched his cap and disappeared into the weighing room. Tyrone saw Cassie and signalled for her to come through. Cassie beamed back at him and hurried round the crowd to join him.
‘Well?’ he asked her, in the same tone of voice he had used every time he had asked her to marry him.
‘That was fantastic,’ she replied. ‘Well done.’
‘The horse did it, not me,’ Tyrone said, straightening the sweat sheet.
‘You’re too modest, Tyrone Rosse,’ said the woman in the blue suit. ‘It’s always been your trouble. You know you’re brilliant.’
Then the woman turned round and saw Cassie. She smiled at her and then looked at Tyrone.
‘Introduce us, Tyrone,’ she commanded. ‘There are other living things on this planet besides horses, you know.’
‘Cassie, this is Lady Meath,’ Tyrone said. ‘Sheila, my wife Cassie.’
‘Congratulations,’ Cassie said. ‘What a terrific victory.’
‘Yes, it was, wasn’t it?’ Lady Meath replied. ‘But I don’t own her, you know. No, no, I only bred her.’
‘Only indeed,’ Tyrone snorted. ‘As if it was like boiling an egg.’
‘I think it’s far more clever to have bred her, Lady Meath,’ Cassie said, ‘than to have bought her.’
‘Well said, Mrs Rosse,’ Tyrone concluded. ‘Well said. Now out of the way, or you’ll get yourself killed.’
Cassie stepped back as Tomas wheeled the filly round and led her away from the enclosure. Tyrone gave the horse a loving pat on her quarters as she went past him.
‘Well done, old girl,’ he said.
To the members of the racing press, who were waiting to pick his brains, Tyrone simply said he was well pleased with the filly’s performance, and that she would indeed be aimed at the English One Thousand Guineas. But to Cassie and Lady Meath, over a quick glass of champagne, he confided that provided she had no setbacks over the next couple of weeks, she only had one to beat at Newmarket, and that was Arthur Marshall’s filly Time To Remember. Then he hurried off to saddle Needless To Say for the big han
dicap.
‘Who does own Villa Maria, Lady Meath?’ Cassie asked as they left the bar to watch the race.
‘Do you know, I’ve completely forgotten?’ Lady Meath laughed in return. ‘But I’ve a feeling it’s a fellow compatriot of yours.’
In the big handicap, Needless To Say finished last, having led for most of the way. On the journey home, Tyrone told Cassie the horse had swallowed its tongue. Cassie couldn’t imagine such a thing, but then, as she herself knew, she still had an awful lot to learn about racing. As she peeled off her gloves and a tote ticket fluttered to the car floor, she discovered that she’d even forgotten to pick up her winnings.
Tyrone’s percentage of the prize money came to less than £50, but happily she gathered from snatches of some of his telephone conversations she’d overheard in the house that he had also had a sizeable bet, so Cassie decided the time was ripe to bring up the subject of redecoration once again. After all, Tyrone had promised that if Villa Maria had won her prep race she could go ahead with her plans for redecorating.
She asked him after dinner, after he had drunk his whisky, and after she had taken him up to bed and made love. Tyrone lay on his back completely naked and roared with laughter.
‘Cassie McGann I love you!’ he cried. ‘You’re the complete woman!’
Then he had rolled over and stared at her lying beside him.
‘I’d have said yes to you before dinner. Even if it had been a dish of cold potatoes and beans, and even if you’d denied me my rights.’
Cassie grinned back at him.
‘You would?’
‘Of course I would! I love you!’
Then he rolled a little further over towards her and they made love all over again.
Cassie’s plans for Claremore were carefully considered ones. She made Tyrone give her a budget, and although the very idea of budgeting seemed totally foreign to Tyrone’s spendthrift nature, Cassie was determined to stick to it. The local builders were invited to quote for the all-important repairs to the roof and for the replastering and painting of the main rooms. Cassie had decided on wallpapers for the drawing room, dining room and their bedroom, but after getting the initial estimates for the building repairs alone, she had to economise and get a price for painting the rooms instead. But she then discovered that by carefully mixing some of the suggested paints, she could get some wonderful pastel effects, which in the end could well prove, taking into account the size of the rooms, less overpowering than papered walls.
To Hear a Nightingale Page 27