Grand National

by John R. Tunis

  A driver from Lambourn’s stood beside Cobb. He had a clipboard with numerous papers. “I wonder whether I can get your signature in quadruplicate on these receipts, sir?”

  This done, Cobb left the stableboys, for the journey had taken a toll on him, too. Consequently, he turned in early, tired and anxious to be ready for the morning. Shortly after eleven that night there was a frantic pounding at the door outside, and then a brisk knock on his sitting-room door.

  “Mr. Cobb, sir. Your stableboy wants to see you.”

  Stumbling to his feet in the dark, he followed Mrs. Briggs to the front door. There in the pitch blackness was Ginger Jones, leaning on his bike and panting.

  “Your horse, sir. He’s sick like and sweating. Doesn’t look too well to me. I’ve notified Mr. Robinson, but you had better come around to the stables.”

  Hastily throwing on some clothes, Jack borrowed Mrs. Briggs’s bike and tried to follow Ginger up lanes, down shortcuts and passageways, the whole way indistinct and uncertain in the darkness. The bike was old and wobbly, and he took several tumbles that shook him up. Finally they reached the stable yard, which was floodlit. People were moving around; the horses were jittery and pawing at the doors.

  One glance at Quicksilver told him that the horse was sick. His head drooped, and he kept trying to lie down. Robinson with an electric torch in his hand was inspecting him carefully, feeling his stomach, which made Quicksilver shy away. One sick horse can send an epidemic through a stable and needs watching.

  “He’s not right—that’s plain—and he has a temperature. So I called Doctor Sanders, the vet attached to the Hall. He’s coming over in a few minutes.”

  As they spoke car headlights showed on the yellow brick walls of the house, flashing on the windows of the Hall. Then the lights of the car went out, a door slammed, and down the long corridor between the horses tramped a youngish, alert man with a torch in one hand and a black doctor’s bag in the other. Good-evenings were exchanged all round.

  “This is the horse, Doctor. Belongs to Mr. Cobb here, and just arrived from Heathrow this afternoon.”

  The doctor nodded and said nothing but felt the horse’s stomach as he tried to lie down. Then he looked in his mouth, took his temperature, felt his chest, and listened with a stethoscope carefully and competently. Obviously he knew his business.

  Next he opened his bag, pulled out a bottle of pills, and with quick, deft movements stuffed two down the animal’s throat. “My guess is that he caught a chill on the way over. Wait a minute….”

  Quicksilver tossed his head and tried to turn away from him. The doctor continued his inspection with the stethoscope. At last he declared, “Sorry to say your horse has a touch of colic.”

  “Colic?” answered Cobb. “Now how could he have gotten that? Just three days ago, when he left Maryland, he was in perfect shape.”

  The vet looked at him coldly. “Can’t tell you, sir, but he has it now. Let’s see… in four hours be sure he takes two of these.” He handed an envelope over to Chester Robinson. “I’ll look in first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, don’t let him lie down. Keep him standing, better still walk him, lead him round no matter how exhausted he seems. If he doesn’t get better, I’ll give him some different medicine, but I’d like to see the colic pass naturally. Well, good night, gentlemen.”

  And he was off in his car, briskly bumping down the lane.

  The two men and the stableboy looked at each other. “The boy and I will handle this, Mr. Cobb,” said Chester Robinson. “We’ll see him through the night between us.”

  Cobb looked up quickly. “That’s kind and thoughtful, but he’s my horse. This is up to me. Ginger and I will take turns walking him. How about that, Ginger?”

  The boy agreed almost eagerly. One would have thought that walking a horse around all night was his idea of a good time. Reluctantly the trainer left for bed. The lights in the Hall went out, first on the ground floor, then on the second floor. Only the floodlight in the court remained.

  “An hour on and an hour off. One hour is about as much as I want at one time, Ginger.”

  “Very good, sir. But Mr. Cobb, this is what I’m hired for, and perhaps I’m a little more used to it than you are. Why not ride back on the bike and get some sleep? I can hold out the rest of the night. It’s getting on midnight now, and the vet will be back at seven. That’s only seven hours.”

  “Thanks, my boy, but no. The horse is mine, and I should take the responsibility for him. Just pile up some clean straw for me in the corner of an empty stall, and then carry on while I rest. I’ll spell you at one o’clock.”

  “Very good, sir. If he gives me any trouble, I’ll notify you at once. Come on, old boy….” Ginger led Quicksilver by the bridle onto the cobbled stones of the courtyard.

  Jack Cobb lay down to rest. He could hear the tired clop-clop of Quicksilver’s hooves, and, worried though he was, the sound seemed to put him to sleep. Next thing he knew, he woke up with a jerk. A dim light showed through the stable windows to the east across the Downs. Sleepily he looked at his watch. Almost five o’clock. That boy was still walking Quicksilver. Or had he given up?

  Then he listened and heard the clop-clop of the hooves. But even to his sleepy ears there was a different cadence in the walk of the animal.

  Evidently his stomach had relaxed after the several hours of tramping up and down the grass-grown cobblestones, and his stride was more normal. Cobb rose and went out.

  Through the distant dawn he made out Ginger, feet dragging, stumbling round and round the cobblestones. He went over and took the bridle from the boy’s hand.

  “You shouldn’t do that, sir. I’m all right, and your horse is coming along famously. I almost had to drag him at first.”

  “Good lad. Did you think to give him those pills the vet left?”

  “Yes, sir. Took them like an angel, he did. Must have known they would help. I’ll just turn him over to you for a few minutes.” He handed the bridle to Cobb and walked toward the Hall, stumbling as he went.

  Six

  DOCTOR SANDERS KNEW his job. After three days’ rest, all signs of the colic vanished and Quicksilver was his perky self again. Nevertheless, the doctor checked him each morning. In a week the horse began to take normal exercise with the rest of the string.

  Everyone from Chester Robinson on down liked Quicksilver. He gave no trouble, ate well and regularly, and nothing seemed to bother him as he gradually adapted to his new surroundings. Standing with his neck stretched out over the top of his stall, he watched with interest the movement in and around the yard, accepting apples from the two Robinson children, eyeing the comings and goings during the day, observing the stableboys at their daily soccer game. He seemed to fit into the life of the Hall perfectly.

  For the place was alive, turbulent and bursting with characters of every kind. Jack Cobb heard some describe the Robinson stable as “a bit untidy,” but he enjoyed the place, looking forward to the daily ride with the first lot in the sharp morning air on the Downs, the light changing with the weather and the time of day. The clatter and chatter of the stable lads as they went about their work greatly interested him. These boys were shrewd, their comments on horses and owners often succinct and telling. After the first week, they treated him with ease, and he felt he had their confidence.

  Escorted by Ginger Jones and before long half the other stable lads at the Hall to the Horse and Hounds, the village pub, Jack learned a lot about the life of the neighborhood. He found that the nearby villages were known for special characteristics. Thus, Melton was famous as the cricket town and possessed a patch of grass carefully rolled and mowed in place of a village green. There everyone—men, women, boys, and girls—played cricket, and some went on to the county cricket team. Much Haddam was celebrated for its barmaid at the Crown, a rather blowsy blonde who explained the facts of life to the stableboys at the Hall in a most practical manner. Meon Valley was known for its footballers, who were rough and usually vic
torious; Kings Winn, located on a river, for its fishing as well as for its osier rods.

  The stable lads, Jack discovered, were country boys who had earned far more working in the aircraft factory at Farnborough, but they all loved horses and liked to be around the stables. Every one was an excellent rider, and a few entered the point-to-points at Musbery, the next town, where there was a small hunt. All were clever poachers, able to shoe a horse, diagnose an animal’s malady, or repair a saddle. They were invariably cheerful, usually whistling when mucking out the stables.

  Before many days the job of riding Quicksilver was assumed by George Atherton. Atherton raced the various horses in the stable, and Robinson had first call on his services.

  The work rides, seldom lasting more than forty-five minutes or an hour, were held twice daily and consisted of cantering, with occasional jumps, to get man and beast used to each other. Once or twice a week, when the weather was especially bad, there were longer sessions of roadwork. Robinson rode out each time, splitting the horses into groups depending on their condition and schedules. Thus one lot might sprint, another gallop, while a few worked over the hurdles.

  By ten o’clock the telephone started ringing with long-distance calls, some from the Continent or even the States. At ten-thirty Chester’s two secretaries arrived, and from then until early evening he was on the phone continually. Cobb liked his easy and relaxed way of handling owners, stable lads, the head groom, and the salesmen and furnishers who seemed to be around every day.

  In the mornings Jack watched George Atherton on the horse. They suited each other, and Cobb could see how Quicksilver enjoyed racing, head up, mane flowing. He was proud of the way Quicksilver responded, as Atherton went over some low hurdles and then galloped off into the mist over the Downs. Indeed, he was an animal to be proud of, strong, with sloping shoulders, full of poise and balance, in short a beautiful sight under his skillful rider. Jack Cobb was bothered, however, that the Robinsons had not given him a weekly bill for the work being done at the Hall.

  Robinson’s wife, Violet, worked as hard or harder than anyone. She was the one who kept the accounts, hired the lads, bought the forage, arranged food for visitors to the Hall, generally supervised the place, and did everything save write and telephone owners and track officials. Yet although he had been there nearly a month, Jack received no bill. To anyone used to American methods the friendly, casual procedure was unsettling.

  As they went into the fifth week he spoke to the trainer. “Mr. Robinson, as you know, I haven’t unlimited funds and need to watch things. Perhaps you’d arrange with your wife to tell me just how I stand at the end of the month.”

  The trainer took this request in his stride. “Oh yes, your bill, by all means. Violet tends to them, but with one thing or another she does get behind a bit at times. Sorry about that. I’ll see you get your monthly statement tomorrow.”

  The next morning at breakfast Cobb observed a large, square, brown envelope beside his plate. The kitchen at the Hall, a huge oblong room, faced due east and consequently was flooded with sunlight—when there was any. It had great rows of copper pots and pans hung on the wall opposite the table at which the stable lads sat, wolfing their meal. Two Purdy guns hung on brackets; there were a dozen sporting prints around the room. Jack sipped his coffee, made for him by Violet Robinson; although he drank the muddy Mississippi they called tea in the afternoon, he preferred coffee in the morning. He watched the tea being made. Great handfuls were tossed into a boiler kind of affair, which once emptied was filled with more boiling water again and again.

  Cobb stuffed the envelope in his pocket and after breakfast walked down the lane to what Robinsons called his “digs.” The bill seemed an imposing document. Everything he owed was detailed in a square, legible British handwriting. The fees of the vet were included, and there was an extra or two, such as rent for gallops on the Downs, plus his extra breakfasts at the Hall, plus the boarding fees for Quicksilver. The total amounted to about $650. He did some quick figuring. His money would not last forever, but it should carry into the spring and the National in April. Especially if he picked up some additional by winning a race or two.

  A second thing that bothered Cobb was that, although Chester was easy and approachable, he seldom commented upon the horse. Cobb’s life was centered now upon the animal, and he knew that Quicksilver had been over the fences hardly more than a dozen times since his arrival. True, the horse seemed fitter and had never looked better. Yet a doubt lingered in Cobb’s mind.

  Finally he consulted Robinson. “Tell me frankly how you feel the horse is getting on. Has he thoroughly recovered from that bout of colic?”

  They were in the living room of the Hall. Chester lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the big fireplace. His legs wide apart, he stood facing Jack, who sat in a large chair.

  “Very happy you asked the question. The fact is, I’m pleased with your horse’s condition. You may feel we don’t push the stock here. We don’t. I always felt that my father worked his racers so hard that they left too much behind and did badly in competition. I train on the theory that a horse needs stamina to race, and I go light on training. No doubt you’re amazed we don’t give your horse more jumping?”

  He’s reading my mind, thought Jack. “Why, yes, I’m a little surprised.”

  “I quite understand, but there’s a reason. Quicksilver has been properly trained to jump, and it shows. He doesn’t need a lot of schooling. He just has to get used to our English fences. Is that clear?”

  It was. Meanwhile, the horse took to the twice-a-day work ride, to English oats, and to the unusual spell of sunny weather along the coast. Then one morning Robinson surprised Cobb by declaring that he was entering Quicksilver at a small race at Windsor the next week, stating that he needed a good workout over English hurdles. The news astonished Cobb. Was the horse ready for racing? Had the vet been consulted? At any rate, the decision was up to the trainer, so Jack rode along to Windsor the next week with Atherton and Robinson in the latter’s new Rover V8, 3500.

  After some careful thought, Cobb decided to speak to Atherton about Quicksilver. “I imagine you’ll find as we did at home that you’ll do better to give him a long rein.” He tried hard to be casual. “I always used to impress on my son that you cannot get good results from this horse by kicking him or using the whip much.”

  “Exactly,” replied the jockey quickly. “I found that out one of the first times I galloped him. Gave a mere flick of the whip, and he seemed to sulk off. I’ll remember that.”

  Jack knew that Windsor was far from the best English racecourse; however, he was unprepared for the lack of amenities. The stands were small and rickety, and much of the course could not be seen from the finish. In the valley of the Thames, it was low and apt to be flooded in wet weather. The day was drizzly and damp, and Jack wondered whether Robinson was wise to let Quicksilver compete under such conditions. However, the two other men took the conditions with unconcern, so Jack said nothing. The crowd seemed sparse, the field poor. Atherton didn’t appear to press the horse, yet he soon had a two-length lead and was going well.

  Then disaster struck. The field dipped on the far side of the course, and when they came in sight again Quicksilver was last. When Atherton slowly brought him back to the unsaddling enclosure, he was lame. Jack was horrified to learn that Quicksilver had hit a fence.

  The course vet felt the animal’s leg and diagnosed a bowed tendon. A somber group surrounded Quicksilver. Jack was in utter despair. They turned, watching ruefully as the stable lad led Quicksilver away.

  The next afternoon Jack, with Robinson and the head lad, stood beside the horse. Gloom was spread over each face. Doc Sanders, the vet, felt the damaged foreleg, conducting X rays in his head. The twisted plate that had shod the injured leg lay in the exact shape of a figure eight on the ground.

  A dozen fearful thoughts ran through Jack’s mind. I should have questioned his running so soon. The accident is all my fault. W
ill Quicksilver have to be rested until it’s too late to qualify him for spring racing? Half a dozen fears jammed his mind. Jack waited for the vet to rise and announce his diagnosis.

  “What I’m afraid of is a bad sprain of the digital flexor tendon of that foreleg. Mr. Cobb, sir, there’s only one remedy. He’ll have to be fired.”

  No, never, thought Cobb immediately! Once he had seen a horse fired, and he never forgot it. To fire a horse necessitates putting red-hot irons around the injured tendon. The experience is barbarously cruel and painful for an animal.

  The vet clapped his hat on his head. “True, it doesn’t always work, but this is my professional advice for a bowed tendon. Should you care to call in another vet, by all means do so. Talk things over with Mr. Robinson here, and make up your mind. In the meantime, good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  Waving to the group, his black bag in one hand, he got into his car and was off down the lane with a roar.

  Without further comment, Robinson motioned to the stableboy to take the horse to the stall and went inside to answer a telephone call. Jack Cobb remained in agony. To fire Stan’s horse seemed out of the question. Moreover, such a treatment meant keeping Quicksilver from racing all winter. It meant utter and complete failure. Cobb stood there, sick at the mere thought of what lay ahead.

  At last Robinson returned and spoke to him. “You know, he must have hit that fence very hard, but if I ran him too soon, I take full blame.”

  “Very good of you to say that, Mr. Robinson,” replied Cobb. “Anyhow the fact is I’m not about to have my son’s horse fired, no matter what.”

  “Don’t blame you a bit.” A flicker in Robinson’s eyes showed that he was thinking of the horse’s background and what he meant to Cobb. “But what are we to do then?”