Then Dex just shook the reins at him, asking his horse to go for the kill, and in a couple of strides the race was over.
As The Nightingale swept contemptuously past Millstone Grit, the vast crowd roared even louder, exhilarated and utterly astonished by the incredible speed of the big horse. In all her years of racegoing, Cassie had never heard a volume of sound like it. It engulfed her like a tidal wave, as people all around her forgot their dignity and started to jump up and down in sheer excitement. Millstone Grit, who only moments before had victory almost certainly in his sights, now suddenly collapsed like a burst balloon, conceding second place to the unconsidered Whizz, who came with a late rattle out of the pack.
But there was no doubting the winner. From an apparently impossible position as the field turned into the straight, The Nightingale had sped through the field like a bullet, passing horses who were still not spent, until he picked off the leader as if he was a seaside donkey. Yet as he now passed the winning post the horse hardly seemed extended. Two furlongs from home there must still have been a six to seven lengths’ difference. A furlong and a half there were two. Half a furlong later, at the distance, they momentarily matched stride for stride, and then with that one shake of the reins, history was written. The Nightingale strode the last hundred yards up the hill to win his Derby in a new record time by four lengths.
As Dex eased him past the post, as Cassie had hoped that he would, as Cassie had dreamed that he would, as Cassie had prayed that he would, she covered her face with her hands, and then after a moment raised both her arms to the sky.
‘I told you that I’d do it for you, Ty!’ she cried, laughing up at the clear blue beyond. ‘Didn’t I tell you that I’d do it!’
And then with an arm tightly round each of her children’s shoulders, Cassie went to lead her hero in.
Aftermath
Jonathan Keating was one of the first to congratulate Cassie.
‘Good stuff, Cassie Rosse,’ he said with a grin, ‘but you should have won by a distance.’
‘That’s OK,’ Cassie replied. ‘Four lengths will do just fine, thanks all the same, Jon.’
She didn’t remember much else, not in clear and logical detail. The euphoria was too great. The Nightingale was cheered all the way back from the post to the unsaddling enclosure, and Cassie was besieged with reporters, and rushed from pillar to post to be interviewed by the media.
She remembered her visit to the Royal Box, and the genuine delight of the Royal party at The Nightingale’s victory.
She remembered Dexter Bryant’s unabashed tears of joy as he unsaddled his hero and then hurried off speechlessly to weigh in.
She remembered The Nightingale hardly blowing as Liam threw a sweat rug on him, before the sponsor’s blanket was draped over his back and the photographers moved in.
But most of all she remembered the man who met her at the entrance to the bar at the foot of the Members’ Stand.
She was standing talking to Sheila Meath, who was still laughing with delight at Nightie’s historic victory, when she noticed a man in black top hat and tails watching her. For a moment Cassie thought this was something she was going to have to get used to that day, since her face had already appeared countless times on the course television sets all afternoon.
Then something in the man’s eyes, she wasn’t at all sure what, made her look again, and as she did, he smiled at her and raised his top hat. Cassie half-smiled back and then continued talking to Sheila.
A moment later the man was at her side, doffing his hat.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Rosse,’ he said, ‘but may I also offer you my congratulations?’
Cassie turned and thanked him, taking in the man and trying to place him. He was in his early forties, very good-looking, and somehow well known to her.
‘You won’t remember me,’ he told Cassie, in direct contradiction to what Cassie was feeling. ‘Although we have met once or twice. On the course in Ireland.’
‘You’ll have to forgive me,’ Cassie began. ‘Obviously the nature of my job—’
‘I fully understand,’ the man interrupted courteously. ‘But I just had to come and say well done, because I don’t think I have ever seen a better Derby winner.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Cassie replied. ‘I think maybe the horse can take his place with five or six of the post-war best.’
‘He did it in record time.’
‘Equal record time, He equalled Mahmoud’s 1936 record of 2 minutes, 33.8 seconds.’
‘That record was suspect,’ Mattie interrupted. ‘It was hand timed, Ma, as against today’s electrically timed races.’
‘OK,’ Cassie agreed. ‘But I guess until someone goes faster, Mattie, that record still has to stand.’
Mattie grinned then took the rest of the Claremore party back into the bar for more champagne, leaving Cassie with the stranger.
As he went, Cassie looked from her son to the man standing in front of her, and then back at the receding figure of Mattie. But the bell still didn’t ring.
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ the man said, ‘I’m Anthony Wilton.’
‘Hello, Anthony,’ Cassie answered, shaking the man’s offered hand.
‘You might remember me better as Gerald Secker,’ he added, carefully wiping the crown of his black top hat.
Cassie stared at him unbelievingly.
‘You’re dead,’ she gasped.
‘Yes I was,’ he agreed. ‘To all intents and purposes. But how did you know?’
‘Someone told me. Someone was talking about – about your family, and I was told you were dead.’
‘I was left for dead, but it’s a very long story. And I’m sure you don’t have time to stand and listen to it now.’
Gerald smiled at her, and began to make as if to move away.
‘No – wait,’ Cassie asked him. ‘I may not have time, but I’ll find it. Why have you changed your name?’
‘That’s all part of the story, Mrs Rosse. Are you sure you want to hear it?’
‘First just answer me one or two questions. Your name. Why did you change it?’
‘I had a terrible row with my family,’ he replied. ‘Have you met my father? He had a terrible temper.’
‘Had?’ Cassie asked cautiously.
‘He died a month ago. From a stroke.’
‘I had no idea,’ Cassie told him. ‘Please accept my condolences.’
‘Thanks,’ Gerald replied. ‘But I assure you, there was no love lost. I work abroad, you see, in America. In the wine trade. And I only came back to England when I heard about my father, to clear up the estate.’
‘You said you had a row with him.’
‘Yes,’ Gerald said, then smiled. ‘I got a girl into trouble, and he somehow got to hear of it. I was a thoroughly bad lot then, I’m afraid—’
‘This girl,’ Cassie enquired. ‘Was it in Ireland? Was it a girl who was working for your father? A girl called Antoinette?’
Gerald Secker stared at Cassie, and then nodded.
‘How did you know?’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Cassie said. ‘You got her pregnant? I mean you’re sure it was you?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Rosse,’ he replied. ‘I was her first. And I didn’t behave very well. I took off for India, and in fact to all intents and purposes dropped out for – well, I suppose ten years.’
He smiled at Cassie, almost timidly, as if he thought she was going to scold him. He smiled just like Mattie did, almost timidly, when he thought Cassie was going to scold him.
Cassie suddenly took his hand and shook it warmly.
‘Mr Secker,’ she said.
‘Mr Wilton,’ he smiled. ‘Tony.’
‘Tony,’ Cassie continued. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to re-make your acquaintance. Why don’t you come and drink a celebratory toast with us?’
‘I’m sure I’ve taken up far too much time of yours already, on a day like this,’ he replied.
; ‘On the contrary,’ Cassie said. ‘You’ve made my day.’
She took him into the bar and introduced him to her party. Anthony and Mattie took to each other immediately, and within no time at all were exchanging horror stories of working and living abroad.
Josephine took her mother aside at one point and asked her who the stranger was.
‘Just a friend of your father’s,’ Cassie told her.
‘How funny,’ Josephine replied. ‘I was just thinking how like Daddy he looked.’
Cassie stared at her, then started to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ Josephine asked.
‘Nothing,’ Cassie replied.
Leonora was nowhere to be seen. She had apparently left the course immediately the race was over, not even staying to see her horse unsaddled in third place.
And although there had been a legal arrangement effected over their wager, Cassie was made to wait an unduly long time before the letters were finally handed over.
There was nothing of any interest in them whatsoever. Just as Cassie had suspected.
Altogether there were thirteen letters, all of which Tyrone had written to Leonora during the period she had kept her horses with him. The content of the correspondence was entirely about horses Tyrone intended to buy for her, or horses he did not intend to buy for her. Being a scrupulous record keeper, and never knowing exactly where his flighty owner might be from one minute to the next, Tyrone had taken the precaution of putting down on paper every transaction made on behalf of Leonora.
There wasn’t a trace of affection or romance in one word of one letter. Neither was the subject of Mattie’s paternity ever mentioned.
The bluff with the letters was the last shot of a desperate woman. And she wasn’t waving, Leonora was drowning.
Sometimes, if she awoke at night, Cassie would lie staring into the darkness and wonder what would have happened to her if The Nightingale had been beaten.
And then she would smile as she remembered Tyrone’s old dictum, which he would repeat to her over and over again in a tone of mock resignation whenever Cassie proposed a supposition.
‘My dear child,’ he would say, often resting his forehead on the edge of the table to emphasise his point. ‘With the help of an “if” –’
‘I know,’ Cassie would finish. ‘With the help of an “if” you might put Ireland into a bottle.’
Epilogue
‘What was Dexter’s view of the race?’ Cassie’s shock-white-haired interviewer asked her.
‘Dex maintains he won unextended,’ Cassie replied. ‘That the horse had so much in hand, he could have picked Millstone Grit off if he’d been thirty lengths adrift coming into the straight.’
‘He was ten lengths off the pace at Ascot, right?’ the journalist continued. ‘When he turned for home in that notoriously short straight, and still won the King George VI by two and a half lengths.’
‘And the St Leger by fifteen.’
‘I’d like to have seen that. I hear it was his greatest performance ever.’
‘No,’ Cassie disagreed. ‘The Derby was the one that mattered.’
‘More than the Champion Stakes? More than the Arc?’
‘More than anything you could possibly imagine.’
‘And you resisted the temptation to sell him on to stand at stud in America?’
‘Sure. I reckoned it was time an Irish success stayed in Ireland.’
Cassie finished her champagne, and smiled at her guest. ‘Now then,’ she suggested, ‘how about going to see the object of your admiration in the flesh?’
‘I guess I’m doing that right now, Mrs Rosse,’ the man answered.
‘Nightie’ll be having his run out right now,’ Cassie said, ignoring the flattery and rising from her chair. ‘He looks a picture, you’ll see.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ J. J. Buchanan answered. ‘And thank you for your time.’
‘It’s been my pleasure,’ Cassie answered, walking to the door, and holding it open. ‘And while we stroll down to the home paddock, I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Buchanan. Like why you changed your name from Joe Harris Junior? And whether you were really going to propose to me the night my mother died?’
Then taking Joe’s arm, Cassie walked him across the hall and out through the front doors of Claremore, into the afternoon sunshine.
To Hear a Nightingale Page 73