As she walked back into the weighing room, she bumped into Dex.
‘Mr Brogan said I’d find you here,’ he said, dumping his bag on a bench. ‘What gives?’
Cassie walked him out of anyone’s earshot and explained the situation. Dex listened without interruption, and when Cassie had finished, asked what the chances were of getting the horse to post.
‘They’re improving with every minute,’ Cassie told him, ‘And if every minute could only be a hundred seconds long today, we’d be home and dry.’
‘And you’re really serious about me withdrawing him if I think he’s feeling a little tender on the way down?’ he asked her.
‘Absolutely. It’s only fair on the public. Whatever you do, he mustn’t come under starter’s orders.’
‘It’s going to be awful difficult to know if he’s feeling it,’ Dex warned her, ‘with that funny old scratchy action of his.’
‘I know what this means, Dex, believe me,’ Cassie replied. ‘But I have to have your word.’
‘You’ve got more than my word, Guv’nor,’ Dex told her. ‘You know that.’
After Cassie had recorded her pre-race interview with Brough Scott, she and Dexter hurried over to the stables to see what progress the patient was making. They were enormously cheered to see the horse out of his box, and being walked up and down the yard by Liam, under the watchful gaze of Niall Brogan.
‘You want the good news or the bad news, Mrs Rosse?’ he asked her.
‘I’ll take the bad,’ she replied, the prayers flying out of her and up into the sky.
‘The bad news is I was wrong,’ Brogan said, poker-faced. ‘The good news is you weren’t.’
Cassie flung her arms round Niall’s neck and kissed him.
‘That’s the first time I’ve been kissed by a trainer,’ he grinned, ‘and you’re not home and hosed yet.’
‘Dear heaven!’ Cassie laughed. ‘Is every Irishman descended from the same tribe as Tomas Muldoon?’
The horse was put back up in his box, with the ice-packed boot laced once more on to his foot for good measure, while Liam and Frank started their labour of love in getting the horse ready. The time was flying by now, with the horses for the first race already making their way across to the pre-parade ring. Cassie rushed back up to the pre-parade ring, where she was due to meet Josephine, who had just arrived with a party of friends from the theatre. Cassie told them of the dramas, and as they were actors, she couldn’t have had a more appreciative audience. Cassie finally told her daughter that as far as she was concerned Josephine would win Best Turned Out, kissed her, asked her to look out for Sheila Meath, and left to go and saddle up her horse.
Mattie rushed out of nowhere and caught her up on the way to the saddling boxes.
‘He’s firming up now,’ he told his mother breathlessly. ‘I got him at evens an hour ago, but you can’t do better than 4/5 on now. I reckon he might even start at 4/6.’
‘He won’t be the housewife’s choice, and that’s for sure,’ Cassie said. ‘Not at that price.’
‘No,’ Mattie agreed. ‘They all seem to be going for Never Mind. He’s 7/2. Four points in since yesterday.’
But once they caught sight of The Nightingale being led round the pre-parade ring by Frank, all their worries about the opposition faded. He was strolling round completely relaxed, as if standing for hours in an ice-filled boot was something he did every day. Cassie signalled Frank to bring the horse in to be saddled, and she and Liam went quietly and efficiently through their familiar routine.
‘Another notch more your side, Guv’nor,’ Liam called, as the girth was done up.
‘And remind me to tell Dex to check his girths twice at the start,’ Cassie muttered.
‘You always do, Guv’nor,’ Liam grinned, straightening the number cloth. ‘It’s engraved on your memory.’
‘Tell them, tell them, and then tell them again,’ Cassie replied. ‘That’s what my husband drummed into me. And you know what an old windbag Nightie is,’ she added, throwing the surcingle over the saddle. ‘As soon as he sees his girth he blows himself out.’
Frank fixed on his own arm band, bearing the number of the race, and the horse’s name, as Cassie ran a final check over her charge. As she did, Liam squeezed a sponge in the horse’s mouth, and then crossed himself as the horse was led away to the main paddock. Cassie and Mattie both dwelt for a moment, watching the big horse amble off, then Mattie took his mother’s arm and escorted her off to the nearest champagne bar.
‘There’s nothing more you can do now, Ma,’ he told her, ‘except worry. And you might as well do that with a glass in your hand.’
Mattie bought some champagne, and they stood drinking it in front of a television set.
‘That man,’ Mattie sighed, staring at the outrageous figure who was giving the viewers the latest news from the ring. ‘He’s something else, but I’m not at all sure what.’
‘The favourite is hardening all the time,’ the commentator told the camera. ‘There was a time you could get evens earlier on, but now The Nightingale, or Nightie to his fans, is 6/4 on, friends! This looks like being the first odds-on Derby favourite since Sir Ivor, if my memory serves me right! And now I’m told he’s 7/4 on! Well that leaves all you housewives out, right? 4/7 The Nightingale, and there’ll be some singing all right tonight in Ireland if that one wings it home! 5/4 against Millstone Grit, you can get 6/4 in places! 6/4 Millstone Grit, 7/2 Never Mind, 5/1 Russian Defector and Four To A Barre, both grandsons of the great Nijinsky! 6/1 the French horse En Vas, 8/1 Operanatomy, and there’s been hard interest for this one since this morning, when he opened at 14/11 8/1 Operanatomy and 9/1 bar the rest! For my money, you can bar the rest! Because as far as I’m concerned, if The Nightingale comes down Tattenham Hill backwards, he’s still going to fly home first! Over to you, my noble lord!’
‘Jesus God, that’s all we need,’ Mattie sighed. ‘It’s worse than being tipped by Wogan.’
Cassie handed Mattie her glass of champagne, unable to drink it. Mattie knocked it back and then followed his mother out and towards the paddock. The horses were still being led round, with Liam standing at the owners and trainers entrance, nervously watching his charge. The Royal party arrived and made their way into the centre of the parade ring, followed by a deputation of smartly dressed owners and trainers.
‘I’ve often wondered in cases like yours,’ Mattie said to his mother, as they watched The Nightingale stroll past them, ‘who gives the orders to who? Does the trainer tell the owner? Or does the owner tell the trainer?’
‘All I have to say at a time like this,’ Cassie replied, ‘is thank God you’re here to keep me laughing.’
Josephine just made it to the centre as the jockeys in their brilliant silks were filing in to find their connections. Dex arrived and tipped his cap, then stood idly chatting to Mattie and his sister while Liam adjusted the girths, and Cassie gave the favourite his final check.
‘Jeeze, but doesn’t he look like the winner?’ Dex grinned as he patted the horse’s quarters.
The Nightingale certainly looked the pick of the paddock, bulging with highly tuned muscle, and his dark coat supple and gleaming. And while several of the others were beginning to sweat up considerably on this hot June day, Nightie was still as cool as ever.
‘Remember, Dex,’ Cassie said, ‘if he stumbles, changes his leg, tip toes, if he does anything on the way to the start that makes you suspect he’s not sound, you’re to withdraw him.’
‘You got it. Now what about the race?’
‘We’ve been over that enough, wouldn’t you reckon?’
Dex grinned as he stood ready to be legged up.
‘Just keep your eye on Leonora’s second string, Second To None. Believe me, she’ll do anything she can to stop you.’
Mattie legged Dex up, and the jockey glanced over to the unprepossessing chestnut which carried Leonora’s second colours.
‘They’ve certainly put the right man up
,’ he said to his connections. ‘Nick Franklyn would ride off his mother.’
Frank led the favourite away, and Cassie noticed with some pride that the Royal party seemed to have eyes for no other horse. She also noticed that Leonora was having some long last words with the sallow-skinned jockey who was about to be legged up on her second string. He nodded, and then with a leg up from one of the lads, walked his horse on to join the others.
The parade passed without incident, although several of the horses were beginning to sweat profusely from the heat and the tension, most noticeably Major Robert, Whizz and, unsurprisingly after his antics at Newmarket, Pastiche. The horses then turned and started to canter back in order past the grandstands. This, as far as Cassie was concerned, was the make or break point. She put her race glasses up and watched The Nightingale closely as Dex stood up in his irons and asked the horse to canter away from them. She watched in total silence as the horse cantered past the winning post and round the top bend, until he pulled up at the point where the horses file across the Downs to the start.
‘Goddammit,’ she said. ‘Goddammit.’
‘What is it, Ma?’ Mattie asked, whipping round to her in surprise.
As far as he could remember, he’d hardly ever heard his mother swear before. And now she was not only swearing, she was standing with tears visibly in her eyes.
‘What’s the matter, Cassie?’ Sheila Meath enquired, putting her hand on Cassie’s arm.
‘Nothing,’ said Cassie, fighting for control of herself. ‘Nothing at all. The bloody old horse is sound.’
The horses only had to walk now, before they reached the starting stalls, across a long track over the Downs to the far side of the course. As they did, the bookmakers eased some of the other fancied horses half a point or so in a last desperate attempt to hedge against the red-hot favourite. But the serious betting members of the public weren’t to be fooled, and by the time the horses had reached the starting stalls, The Nightingale was 1/2 everywhere.
‘He’ll cane the bookies if he wins,’ Mattie gasped, as he rushed back from the rails to where the Claremore party was in the stands.
‘When he wins, Mattie,’ Cassie said. ‘Now there can be no possible “if’ about it.’
‘Where’s Josie?’ Mattie asked, looking about him.
‘Being sick,’ one of her friends replied.
‘Great,’ said Mattie with a grin, as a white-faced Josephine returned. ‘Here comes the girl who was going to win the Grand National.’
‘They’re going into the stalls,’ Cassie announced, watching closely through her glasses. ‘Nightie looks as if he’s fallen asleep.’
One of the outsiders, Busybee, started to make trouble, whipping round and refusing to be led up. Most of the others were in by now, including the favourite, who was standing quite still and relaxed, even though the horse two berths away was trying to get up. The handlers got the blindfold on Busybee, and turning him once to disorientate the horse, soon had him installed.
They were all in.
‘They’re under starter’s orders!’ came the announcement.
‘They’re off!’
The break was perfectly even, though Cassie noticed that The Nightingale was one of the first out. Dex had him settled in a matter of strides, while one of the outsiders, a maiden called Washdown, decided, as is so often the case, to try and make a name for himself by winning the race from the front. By the time the field had swung right-handed towards the woods and up the hill away from the start, Washdown had bolted into a three-length lead.
This, thought Cassie, isn’t going to suit Millstone Grit at all, and she swung her glasses back to the rest of the field to pick up Leonora’s horse who, sure enough, was running now in second. Sweeping her glasses back further she found The Nightingale lobbing along in about tenth, on the left of the field so that he could pick up the rails as the field swung back across the course to head for the top of Tattenham Hill. Two in front of him, and already being scrubbed along, was Second To None.
By the time they reached Tattenham Hill, Millstone Grit had swallowed up the early tearaway and was beginning to stretch his field. Pastiche, running a much better race altogether than he did in the Guineas, was four lengths away in second, just ahead of another Irish horse, Quare Hawk. Then came En Vas, Never Mind, Russian Defector, Major Robert and Sing Your Song. The Nightingale, whom Dex had steered nicely on to the rails, just where he wanted to be, led the second group of horses, with Second To None now dropped back into the place behind him. Cassie could see her horse was still cantering, while the others were being really pushed along to go the scorching gallop set by the leader.
‘This is crazy,’ Mattie announced. ‘He just can’t possibly keep this pace up!’
‘He did at Ascot,’ Cassie replied, ‘and he’s half the runners beat already.’
As they started the long, steep drop down the hill, and as Millstone Grit increased his lead to a good ten lengths, the beaten horses started quickly to drop back. Pastiche was seen to be doing his best to stay with him, but Quare Hawk fell away tamely, burned out by the breakneck pace. Never Mind and En Vas passed him and went in pursuit of the leader, followed by Russian Defector and Major Robert. Sing Your Song lost his rhythm, quite obviously hating the notorious undulations of the famous course, and started to veer across the track.
Halfway down the hill, The Nightingale was still idling at the front of the second group, Dex sitting still as a mouse, with a double handful of rein.
Then as Millstone Grit led the field at full gallop towards the final part of the bend, Dex made his first move, easing The Nightingale slightly away from the rails as directed by Cassie in order to keep his horse perfectly balanced as they lined up for home.
As he did so, Nick Franklyn, having kept Second To None still in touch by running him at full stretch behind The Nightingale, drove his horse up through the gap which Dex had left on the inside, whipping his horse as hard as he could on every stride. Cassie swung her glasses on to Leonora’s second string, just in time to see her jockey kick Second To None away from the rails and straight across The Nightingale’s path.
It was a suicidal manoeuvre.
An almighty gasp went up from the stands as the crowd saw Dex, in order to avoid a serious collision, snatching the favourite up. In the moment of doing so, he lost half a dozen lengths, and his perfect attacking position.
‘We’re stitched!’ Mattie shouted. ‘The bastard’s buried us!’
And as a wall of beaten horses started to fall back across The Nightingale’s path, it certainly looked as though the day was lost. But Cassie never stopped believing. She knew how fast The Nightingale could fly, and she focused her glasses back on Dex and watched as he got the horse balanced again in one moment and waited for another opening.
The field, led a good six lengths by Millstone Grit, swept off the final bend and into the straight, The Nightingale at the back, with only four behind him. As they kicked for home, Cassie watched Dex pick his way skilfully through the ruck of beaten horses, on a horse which she saw hadn’t even been asked yet for his effort. Pastiche, En Vas, Operanatomy and the weakening Never Mind were now the only horses between The Nightingale and the leader, who was still galloping remorselessly for home. Bill Langley, Millstone Grit’s jockey, took a good look over his shoulder as he passed the three-furlong marker, and obviously seeing no sign of the favourite, gave his horse one good slap and kicked him on for what looked from the grandstands now like a certain victory.
And then Dex, boldly switching his horse to the outside of the field, asked The Nightingale for his effort, and when he did, the effect was so devastating that the crowd seemed to hold its corporate breath for one split second, before unleashing a roar that must have been heard up in London. Because The Nightingale flew. He flew like an arrow past Never Mind, En Vas, and Pastiche, making them look like handicappers. And still Dexter hadn’t touched him with the whip. He had just sat down on to his horse and asked him to go.
Only Operanatomy stood between The Nightingale and Millstone Grit now, who was still four lengths to the good as they passed the two-furlong marker. Operanatomy’s jockey was extremely busy, trying to keep his obviously beaten horse straight and running. But he was fighting a losing battle, and the horse started to roll away from the rails, right across the flying favourite’s path.
‘Not again!’ Sheila cried. ‘I just don’t believe it!’
Cassie prayed for Dex to keep his head. She prayed to Tyrone. She prayed to Mrs Roebuck. She prayed to Mary-Jo. He mustn’t snatch his horse up again, she told them. He must let the other horse come right across him and keep galloping, so he doesn’t lose his vital momentum.
Her prayers were answered. While others might have lost their heads seeing a horse veering so violently across their track, Dex kept his, gambling on the horse keeping rolling. Operanatomy did just that, and as he fell away cross the course towards the stands, Dexter now asked The Nightingale seriously to go after Millstone Grit, who was showing no signs of stopping.
Nonetheless, when The Nightingale turned on the tap, the leader suddenly looked lead-footed. In one moment of blinding acceleration, The Nightingale made good the four lengths’ difference between the two horses, and by the furlong post was at the leader’s quarters. Bill Langley was hitting his horse on every other stride, but Dexter never went for his whip, riding the favourite with hands and heels only. In another few strides, the horses were even, neck and neck for just a split second, and for that one unbelievable second, The Nightingale suddenly seemed to idle, to hover alongside his adversary, rather like an eagle would before swooping on his prey.
To Hear a Nightingale Page 72