So with Value Guide quoted in advance at even money for the Hardwicke, Princess Leonora Hochfeiler stood every chance of her horses pulling off a notable double, while Tyrone’s place at the top of the trainers’ table was already assured.
On Thursday evening Cassie and Tyrone dined early and were in bed by ten. Tyrone had to be up at dawn and Cassie wanted to be on the racecourse when Willie Moore pulled Celebration out of his box first thing to make sure everything was all right with her horse. She barely slept at all, while Tyrone hardly stirred once throughout the night. Even when Cassie put on her light at three o’clock, to read through the runners and their form for the hundredth time, Tyrone never moved. Cassie finally fell into her only patch of deep sleep some time after half past four, with the consequence that she missed Tyrone slipping quietly out of bed one hour later.
By the time he woke her, he was shaved and dressed. Cassie cursed him good-naturedly.
‘Why in hell didn’t you wake me?’ she asked, struggling into her slacks and jumper. ‘You knew I had to get up.’
‘And you know how I always hate waking you,’ Tyrone smiled back. ‘You look so pretty when you’re asleep.’
Cassie rushed to the window to see what the weather was like.
‘It’s raining!’ she exclaimed happily.
‘It is,’ answered Tyrone. ‘Just the job for your fellow.’
They had already pulled Celebration out of his box when Cassie arrived. She only had to take one look at her trainer’s face to know something was wrong.
‘He’s given his old head a bang,’ Willie told her. ‘Nothing to worry about, but he must have given it a knock in the night.’
Celebration’s lad was holding a cold water compress to the horse’s eye, so Cassie couldn’t yet ascertain the damage. Celebration was standing perfectly still while the compress was being applied and Willie ran his hand expertly up and down the horse’s legs.
‘There’s no sign of any other knock, thank God,’ he said. ‘But something must have frightened him, because he’s got a very nasty cut just over his right eye.’
Willie told the lad to leave off the compress, while he showed Cassie the cut. The bleeding had been staunched, but Willie told her that the cut was going to need stitching; but she was not to worry because the vet was on his way. Cassie waited until he had arrived and sutured the wound, rather than return to the house where they were staying and come back after breakfast, as Willie had suggested. If it was bad news, she wanted to know straight away.
‘I’m afraid it is bad news, Mrs Rosse,’ the vet informed her. ‘Your horse is blind in his right eye.’
‘You mean permanently blind?’ Cassie asked, as her legs seemed to turn to jelly.
‘That I couldn’t say,’ said the vet. ‘All I can tell you now, is that at this moment, he can’t see a thing out of this eye.’
To demonstrate, the vet moved his hand sharply up to the horse’s blind eye, and Celebration didn’t move. He did the same to his good eye, and the horse at once threw his head up.
‘He must have banged an optical nerve. It’s a not uncommon occurrence.’
‘Will he be able to race this afternoon?’
‘That, Mrs Rosse, can only be answered by your trainer.’
The surgeon excused himself with a doff of his old brown hat, then moved along the row of boxes to attend to a much sicker animal, whom it was rumoured had been ‘got at’ during the night.
‘Maybe that’s what frightened him,’ Willie said. ‘Maybe there were strangers in the yard.’
Willie’s lad was instructed to get the horse ready for his early morning exercise, while it was determined whether or not to race him. Dermot Pryce arrived and was told the news.
‘Christ,’ he grinned, ‘We’re a right old pair. Me half deaf and the poor old horse half blind. I’d better carry a white stick instead of me whip.’
‘Can he race, do you reckon, Willie?’ Cassie asked as they watched Dermot hop up on him and start walking the horse round.
‘If it had been his left eye, Cassie,’ Willie answered, ‘I’d have said there wasn’t a problem. Ascot’s a right-handed track and he’d at least have been able to follow the rail round with his one good eye. But with the poor old fellow’s right eye out of commission, we’ll have to rethink the whole race entirely.’
They watched Pryce give Celebration a canter, and were moderately encouraged by the result. The horse seemed to run in a true line, although of course Pryce had been instructed not to try turning him right in case the animal panicked. One thing, however, was patently clear to anyone watching: the horse was fighting fit.
Over black coffee laced with brandy, drunk in Willie’s unbelievably untidy old Jaguar, Cassie, her jockey and her trainer examined the problem from every angle.
‘I’m all for pulling him out,’ Willie said. ‘He’s a cracking good horse, and if the eye’s only temporary, he’ll come out and win again for you.’
Cassie agreed and was on the point of pulling her horse out, when a voice spoke up from behind her.
‘He could do a leg next time, guv’nor,’ Pryce said. ‘Or drop down dead. You’re forever tellin’ us all there’s no such thing as a next time in racing. That it’s the race you’re in that counts. And not only that, I’ve never known the horse so fit.’
Willie fell to silence and poured himself some more coffee.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re on. But – and make sure you’ve your good ear turned this way, Dermot – you’re going to have to ride an entirely different sort of race.’
‘I’m all ears,’ Pryce replied. ‘Even me bad one.’
They agreed to tell no one of the incident, not even Tyrone.
‘Particularly Tyrone,’ Willie reiterated. ‘If he finds out, he’ll stitch us.’
‘He’s my husband!’ Cassie protested.
‘He’ll still stitch us,’ answered Willie, ‘and all the more so.’
Nevertheless, rumours flew around the course that all wasn’t well with Willie Moore’s runner. Willie saddled him up last, and led him late into the paddock, so that his eye would get as little a public airing as possible. Fortunately, horses always parade clockwise round the ring, so, it being the right eye which was damaged, at least nobody on the rails could get a close view. Willie had skilfully trimmed the gut on the stitches right back, and applied a good coat of Vaseline and brown shoe polish to the wound, with the result that someone would have to know what they were looking for to spot anything wrong at a distance other than close. And Celebration behaved himself perfectly, not fussing, or wheeling round or swinging his head at all. To all intents and purposes he looked a worthy second favourite – which he had been in the pre-race lists. But now he was drifting ominously in the betting, as the word got stronger and stronger that all was not well with the horse.
‘That doesn’t mean he still won’t trot up,’ Willie hissed at Cassie as he checked the horse’s girths. ‘As long as Dermot here has heard what I’ve told him—’
‘Just put the champagne on ice, guv’nor,’ Dermot grinned down at them from atop the big bay horse. ‘’Cos if we don’t win, we’ll only have yourself to blame.’
Pryce avoided slipping the horse in behind one of the outsiders, a French challenger who was kicking out at everyone and everything in sight, and elected to follow Value Guide out of the paddock – which gave Cassie and Willie a chance to see the horses together for the first time since the previous season.
‘He looks to have done better than ours,’ Willie muttered. ‘Will you look at that neck on him?’
‘But he’s always been a big sort,’ Cassie countered. ‘You said exactly the same thing down at Gowran.’
‘I did. And didn’t we get beat?’
‘No we didn’t, Willie. And you know it. Now stop being such a Jeremiah and let’s go and watch our horse bury the favourite.’
But Cassie’s optimism was only skin deep. Even on the way down to the start, Value Guide looked as if he could
win if he ran the race backwards. The big horse was taking such a hold with Dirk Norton, who as usual had the ride, that by the time the field was under the starter’s order Leonora’s horse had shortened to 2/1 on, while Listen Willya, the second favourite, could be backed at shades of 3/1 against. Celebration had drifted right out to 8/1.
On her way to the grandstand, Tyrone caught her up and kissed her, knocking her hat back on her head.
‘Good luck, Cassie McGann!’ he called as he hurried on to catch up with Leonora and her party. ‘Even if you win, I’ll still love you!’
He disappeared into the crowd, leaving Cassie to straighten her hat.
Willie appeared at Cassie’s side in the portion of the stand reserved for owners and trainers, bright red in the face. He was holding a clutch of bookmaker’s tickets which he stuffed in his top pocket.
‘He’s at eights all over the shop!’ he told her. ‘One stupid ejeet has him at ten, and we’ll never get that price about him again!’
He handed Cassie a single ticket, with the name Honest Joe Brady.
‘In case you haven’t had a bet,’ he told her. ‘Christ he’d better win now, or be tomorrow I’ll have nowhere to live!’
Cassie didn’t have the time to ask him how much he’d had on for her as the course commentator called the field off.
It was a good-size field of fourteen runners, and as Cassie trained her race glasses on the runners she could see that the French outsider Histoire was determined to earn his fare over by setting a blistering gallop. By the time the field reached Swinley Bottom, the pace was starting to tell, and the runners were beginning to get stretched out. But as they turned right out of the back straight, Histoire was off the bridle and falling back quickly, the lead now being taken by Tonan, the Mahmouds’ son’s horse Chirador, which to Cassie’s way of thinking was the horse both hers and Leonora’s had to beat. Listen Willya was not at the races and was already tailed off at the back of the field. Meeting the rising ground, Chirador’s jockey, hugging the rails, kicked on, and opened up a gap of two to three lengths between him and the second horse Scales of Justice who was having to be pushed along to keep in touch. Then third and fourth and making up ground fast were Value Guide, going exceptionally well, and Celebration, right on his tail, but apparently beginning to hang away from the rails.
As they turned into the straight, the bell rang as it always does at Ascot, and the race was suddenly on in earnest. The run-in at Ascot is barely over two and a half furlongs, so for a horse to have a chance in a true-run race, as Tyrone had repeatedly told Cassie on the journey over, it is vital for it to be in the first half dozen as the field swings for home.
Value Guide and Celebration both were.
Then Celebration suddenly swung very wide on the final part of the turn, coming right away from Value Guide, behind whom Pryce had carefully tucked Cassie’s horse so that he’d have something to follow since he couldn’t see the rails. As Norton pulled Value Guide off the rails in order to attack Chirador in line in front of him, Celebration for the first time in the race must suddenly have become aware of his blind eye, and as a result started to wander across towards the middle of the course, losing a good three or four lengths in the process.
Willie swore under his breath and took a deep breath.
‘He’s got nothing to run against now!’ he shouted over the noise of the crowd to Cassie. ‘Our only hope was to track Norton and take him on the rails, so as the horse could see him with his good eye!’
Now, with less than two furlongs to go, Celebration, with the leading three horses all on his blind side, apparently had nothing to race against, and began to idle. Norton, on the other hand, forced his way through on the rails and kicked for home, as Scales of Justice tired, and now had only Chirador in front and to the left of him. Scales of Justice, under heavy pressure from his rider, also began to wander, and as he did, Pryce saw his chance of saving the day. He took a pull at Celebration and in a couple of strides switched Cassie’s horse to the right of Scales of Justice.
Now Celebration could see a horse and had something to race against. Pryce sat down and started to ride a finish. Celebration, as soon as he could sight the horse on his left, picked up and began to gallop in earnest. So too, ominously, did Scales of Justice again, whose jockey, having pulled his whip through to his left hand and managed to straighten the horse out, was now producing a magnificent rally.
All four horses were now flying and locked together in a line of four, with Norton, his whip in his right hand, hitting his horse on every stride. But Chirador was the first to crack, dropping away beaten at the furlong pole. Celebration now became the meat in the sandwich as Value Guide, under the merciless beating he was getting from Norton, began to hang badly away from the rails, as the gallant but tiring Scales of Justice began to lean in to his right. Norton made no attempt to pull his whip through into his left and straighten his horse up for fear of losing a vital moment of impetus, so with one horse bumping Celebration and the other leaning in on him, Pryce himself had no room to give his horse the one reminder he thought Celebration might need to get home.
So instead he could only ride the horse out to the best of his ability with his hands and heels, kicking and pumping, driving and urging the horse on until Celebration, responding to Pryce’s inspired riding, found that extra something that distinguishes great horses from the simply good, and stuck his half-blind head out, forcing his way up between the two horses who were closing in on him ever tighter on either side.
‘Photograph,’ the commentator called. ‘Photograph.’
‘They seem to like havin’ their picture took, these two,’ Willie said, as he and Cassie fought their way through the buzzing crowds.
‘What do you think?’ Cassie asked him anxiously.
‘What do I think?’ Willie replied. ‘What I think at times like this is that me mother was right and I should have gone into the Church.’
Leonora passed them by ashen-faced – and without a word. Tyrone hung back and took Cassie aside.
‘A head, I’d say,’ he informed her. ‘Not even a short head. And if I’m wrong, which I’m not, you’ll win it in the Steward’s Room.’
Tyrone was right on both counts. Celebration won the race by a head and a neck, and there was also a steward’s enquiry.
Surprisingly, there was also an objection, lodged by Norton against Pryce for bumping and boring and taking his ground. Unsurprisingly, Norton’s objection was quickly overruled, and he lost his deposit. The result of the enquiry took a little bit longer to be announced. When it finally was, the racegoers learned that Norton had himself been found guilty of bumping and boring, and of excessive use of the whip. For the latter offence he was fined £25, and spat at by certain angry punters who saw the angry weals on Value Guide’s quarters when the horse was led in after the race. For his appalling race riding, Norton was later suspended for two weeks.
Tyrone looked everywhere for Cassie and finally found her walking her beloved horse around to cool him off down by the stables.
‘Look at the two of you,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that the prettiest sight in the world?’
‘Isn’t this the bravest boy in the world?’ Cassie replied, stroking Celebration’s neck. ‘You didn’t know he’d lost the sight in his right eye last night, did you?’
‘No I didn’t,’ Tyrone confessed. ‘The rumour was he’d been cast in his box and had jarred himself up. Talking of which, I’ve a bottle or two on ice in Leonora’s private box.’
‘I’m not going to drink the boy’s health in Leonora’s company, thank you,’ Cassie replied, handing her horse over to his lad.
‘You won’t have to,’ Tyrone grinned. ‘She left straight after the race in high dudgeon. She waded in a little too deep for her liking on Value Guide, I’m afraid.’
‘And what about you?’ Cassie enquired.
‘Oh I had a good touch as well,’ Tyrone confessed, nodding. ‘On yours.’
While they were drin
king champagne in Leonora’s almost deserted box, overlooking a fast emptying racecourse, Cassie suddenly remembered her bookmaker’s ticket. Willie Moore, who was celebrating with them, told her not to get anxious because he’d collect her winnings for her the following day, the first day of the Heath Meeting. For once in his life, the lugubrious Willie Moore was actually smiling from ear to ear, so Cassie knew he’d been serious when he said he’d had a tilt at the ring.
‘Aren’t you going to give us even a rough idea of what you took off the bookies?’ Cassie pressed him.
‘For you, because it’s you, maybe,’ he replied. ‘Just don’t tell the missus or she’ll be after wanting a new dress or something daft.’
‘So how much was it?’
‘All told, Mrs Rosse,’ Willie said, closing his eyes blissfully, ‘all told that grand horse of yours has won us over twenty thousand pounds.’
Cassie stared at him, but Willie just laughed.
‘You have to be kidding.’
‘I am not. Between us we’ve picked up twenty grand. And that’s not counting the prize money.’
‘Oh. Sure. That’s what you mean by “us”. I’d forgotten the prize money.’
‘That’s not what I mean by us. By that I mean I also put a hundred pounds on him for you.’
He turned her betting slip over, and there on the back the sum £100 at 10/1 was written.
‘Why, Willie?’ Cassie asked him. ‘After what happened last evening, how could you be that confident?’
‘Listen, Cassie,’ he replied, refilling their glasses. ‘That horse of yours, if he’d lost the sight in the both of his eyes, he’d have won even farther. That’s the sort of horse he is, God love him.’
He raised his glass. Cassie touched it with her own. ‘To Celebration,’ she said.
Tyrone came across and joined them.
‘Well done again, Willie,’ he said. ‘It couldn’t have happened to a more committed trainer. Nor to a more compassionate owner.’
He smiled at Cassie, and kissed her, then raised his own glass.
‘And that’s the toast I’d like to propose. To the three things that matter most in this life. Compassion. Commitment. And Celebration.’
To Hear a Nightingale Page 43