Grand National

by John R. Tunis

  “How did he finish?” asked Jack quietly.

  The vet paused a moment before he spoke, trying to be casual. “Don’t remember. He placed, I believe. I’m not sure. But he wasn’t impressive, not at all.” Doctor Sanders refused to look at Jack. Quite evidently he felt his professional judgment was being challenged. Friction pervaded the room.

  Chester in his good-natured way intervened. “Fact is, we haven’t a great deal of choice at this late date. Why not state your reasons for picking young Hunting, Mr. Cobb?”

  Jack immediately sat forward in his chair. “I will. First, we haven’t many choices. Second, although Tony Hunting does lack racing experience, he’s a bold rider. Third, Hunting rode Quicksilver every day while he was at their stable. They have a rapport that I feel is important.”

  At this point Sanders exploded. “A rapport! What on earth is that? Can he ride?”

  Cobb took no notice of the vet, but continued to address himself to Chester. “This afternoon we’ve considered a dozen men, and for one reason or another none seemed suitable. Why not ask Atherton? He’s ridden against young Hunting in a race. Can we talk to him on the phone in that hospital in Weybridge?”

  “Yes, I was on to him yesterday.”

  Cobb sat back in his chair. “Good enough. Tell you what. I’ll be governed by what he says. Suppose we try him and get his honest opinion.”

  Chester rose. “Very well, I’ll call straight away.” He left the room, trailed by his secretary.

  The vet leaned over, picked up his cloth hat, which he clapped on his head, took up his black bag, and stood up. His expression plainly said that there was no doing anything with owners, especially American owners. Out loud, however, he remarked, “I really must be off. Due back at surgery in twenty minutes. Good afternoon, gentlemen. Good afternoon to you, Mr. Cobb, and the best of luck. You’ll surely need it if you put up with that young man from Cambridge.” With barely a nod around the room he was gone.

  The head lad rose awkwardly, twisting his cap in his fingers and murmuring something about looking in at the stable. Then he, too, vanished.

  It’s come down to the end of the road, Jack thought. A tough decision, and all mine.

  Violet Robinson entered with a tray set for tea. She hesitated and stood with the tray in her hands in the open doorway. “Why, Mr. Cobb, you’re alone. Where’s everyone gone? I’ve got tea for five.”

  Jack had to prod himself into replying. “Chester has gone to telephone Atherton. Miss Crane is with him. The head lad is off to the stable. The vet had to return to see clients. That leaves only me.”

  “Never mind,” she said, coming into the room and setting down the tea tray. She pulled out a chair. “Have you picked out a jockey for your horse yet?”

  He shook his head gloomily. “No,” he said. “We haven’t.” He rose and took the extended cup. “Seems to come down to what jockey has the least against him. Personally, I rather lean toward Hunting, but the vet says he’s too young.”

  “Mr. Cobb, you must be aware that Doctor Sanders is frightfully jealous. Don’t let it bother you.”

  “Mrs. Robinson, I believe in the young. Those aren’t just words either. My boy was racing at sixteen. If the young are solid, you can throw responsibility at them and they usually measure up to it. Think of those pilots years ago in the Battle of Britain, for instance.”

  “Yes,” she replied crisply. “If it weren’t for those young men, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. I was a tiny girl at the time, but I remember. I also remember when Chester’s father was ill. Chester was quite young then; he couldn’t possibly run the stables. He didn’t have any experience, he didn’t know horses, and so on. We had some unpleasant moments, especially with an overdraft at the bank, and no way of meeting it. But he took over the place, he made mistakes and learned fast, and now we’re solvent.”

  “That’s exactly it.” Jack paused for a moment. “I know this boy is not the best, but he’s the best rider we can get today, the best one who is free. And I believe he’s improving all the time. Y’know, Mrs. Robinson, he’s a young man with something old in him. Feet on the ground all the time, like his mother. But I do wish I didn’t have to make the decision myself.”

  “I quite understand.” She smiled at him, and her blue eyes sparkled. “It’s terrible for you, bringing that horse way over here and having all these things happen.” She looked at him with sympathy.

  Then he heard the office door bang, and Chester strode back into the living room. He looked around in surprise. “Where’s everyone gone?” he asked.

  Jack explained again. “Doctor Sanders had to get back to the surgery. Henderson packed up and returned to the stables. Chester, I hope I haven’t caused any trouble with my suggestion.”

  Chester, in an unusual show of warmth, put his arm around him. “Not at all. Please believe me.”

  “Well, that’s fine. Now what did Atherton say?”

  “Says in a way we’d be lucky to get young Hunting. He thinks he’ll do well at Cheltenham and perhaps in the National too. You remember at Sandown Park he hung on to the very end. Atherton was impressed.”

  “Seems to me,” Cobb said, “that there’s something about Mrs. Hunting that put off Doctor Sanders. Still I wish the choice wasn’t up to me.”

  Unfortunately, the choice was up to him. At last, seeing no other alternative, Jack offered the job to Tony and asked him to come to the Hall. The boy arrived in his car late one evening about nine o’clock and was introduced to the head lad immediately. The next morning Henderson had him join the work ride with the stableboys, and the training started in earnest.

  Tony rode Quicksilver exactly as the head lad told him and did well. He was always in control, and his understanding with the horse was perfect. During his time at the Hall, Tony was quiet and unassuming. Nor did he attempt to presume on his friendship with Cobb as he well might have done.

  All were intent on one thing: the Cheltenham Gold Cup. They turned their gaze on this hurdle in their campaign to reach the National and kept it there.

  Thirteen

  KNOWN AS THE National Hunts Festival, Cheltenham’s March meeting was held about two weeks before the Grand National. Everyone agreed that it was one of the best steeplechasing tests and had the best entries, because many owners refused to risk their horses at Aintree on account of the toughness of the course and the height of the fences. At Cheltenham the famous Gold Cup, run on the last afternoon of the meeting, invariably attracted an immense crowd and brought together the best three-mile racers in the country, all carrying the same weight. The field seldom exceeded ten horses.

  The week prior to the Gold Cup something hit Jack Cobb. He woke one morning feverish and dizzy, unable to dress, to walk across the room. In the evening he was worse, and the local doctor dropped in, called by Mrs. Robinson. A jolly, fat little man, he listened to Jack’s chest and lungs, took his temperature, and whistled softly. He murmured that just about everyone in Sussex seemed to be down with it. What “it” was he did not explain, but gave Jack half a dozen pills and wrote out a prescription.

  “This is Friday,” croaked Jack. “Any chance of my getting to Cheltenham a week from tomorrow?”

  The doctor responded quickly and briefly. “I shouldn’t care to be responsible for you if you go. Most likely you won’t feel up to it anyhow.”

  “Actually I have a horse running in the Gold Cup. Isn’t there something you can give me so I won’t have to miss it?”

  The doctor sat up in his chair. “Of course! You’re the Mr. Cobb who brought his horse over for the National. Folks in the village all say he has a good chance, too.” He glanced curiously at the sick man as so many strangers did when discovering Jack was the owner of Quicksilver. “Ah, this is bad luck for you. Well, ordinarily I wouldn’t permit you out of doors in this wretched March weather for at least ten days, but we’ll check the end of the week and see.”

  Then he leaned over, shut his bag with a decisive snap, and rose. “Ho
w about that horse anyway? I hear in the village he’s had a bad time since his arrival.”

  He moved toward the door and turned, his hand on the knob. “Mind you, if things get worse, just have Mrs. Robinson phone my surgery and leave a message. In any event, I’ll see you before the end of the week. Good day, sir.”

  Out he went, leaving Jack alone and miserable. Bad luck that Quicksilver had had the colic, bad luck that he sprang a plate, bad luck Atherton’s ulcer kicked up at that particular time, bad luck that he himself caught a flu bug. He turned over, staring at the wall, and soon fell into a doze. Then there was the sound of a car, and Chester and his wife were coming into the room.

  “You need looking after, Mr. Cobb,” said Violet Robinson. “We shan’t allow you to be alone in this cheerless room.” So, bundled in trousers and a sweater, his overcoat thrown over his shoulders, he left the faded calendar and the oleo of the Queen Mother on the wall, and soon he found himself in a huge bed in a large room on the second floor of the Hall.

  In the evening Chester dropped by, and said, “You were quite right. The boy does know the horse, and what’s more he handles him well. He’s an excellent choice.”

  The next afternoon Tony, in tack, came to see him for a moment. He was quietly confident and the picture of health, full of praise for Chester. “You know, this man Robinson is impressive. I only wish I had another two or three weeks on the horse, but I’ll do the best I can.”

  The trip to Cheltenham was, as the doctor had foreseen, far too much for Jack on Friday. Saturday turned out to be a fine, sunny afternoon, so, well wrapped in his bathrobe and blankets, he managed to navigate the stairs and hobble down to the living room, where he sank into an easy chair before the television set. The stable lads had a set of their own in the tack room, so Violet Robinson, Jack, the head groom, and the two Robinson children, a boy and a girl, were gathered about the fire.

  The head groom spoke sparingly. “Mr. Cobb, sir, I’ve come to believe you’ve made a wise choice. I’m greatly pleased.”

  Jack felt happier than he had for a week. He well knew the imponderables against the boy, and the terrible importance of the race. It was Quicksilver’s biggest and toughest test. Jack’s fortune and indeed his future depended upon it as he watched—with all England—before the set in the living room of the Robinsons.

  Anxiously Violet Robinson leaned over and switched on the set. The fresh greenery of the grass and the blue of the Cotswold sky now flashed across the screen. Then the commentator began to list the entries.

  “…are called Top Class, who as you’ll remember finished fourth last year in the National; Davy, an Irish gelding ridden by the veteran Harvey Thomas and owned by Lord Beresford; George Beal, up on Steady Boy, owned by Sir Philip Hudson; the American horse, Quicksilver, owned by Mr. J.I.B. Cobb, who unfortunately is laid up with the flu and won’t be here today. His jockey is Tony Hunting. Next is Pat O’Donovan, the Irish jockey, on Mr. Stephen Douglas’s Champion’s Choice, a real comer who has done some good things lately; a French horse called Pertinax, owned by Monsieur Marcel Dupont of Paris and ridden by Georges Bertrand; he is a seven-year-old, winner of several good races this past winter; and last of all, Rob Roy, owned by Mr. David MacDonald, ridden by… and here they come…. Now the horses are all out.”

  They were indeed. As they paraded in single file in front of the stands, Jack forgot everything, all his anxieties vanished as he recognized Tony Hunting with that red sash over his shoulder. He forgot his illness, forgot the many troubles of the winter campaign, forgot the long painful struggle, in fact forgot everything save his boy and his son’s horse. If Tony does nothing today, if he takes a fall and doesn’t finish, seeing that lad on the horse and the way he rides makes up for everything. It’s Stan again, the same confident youth riding before the ripple of applause from the crowd.

  “…and now they’re jogging back to the start of the three miles, two furlongs, and seventy-six yards of the Gold Cup, the forty-second running of this famous race. As you know, it is over a mile shorter than the National at Aintree, but as severe a test. A perfect day, ideal conditions, course in fine shape, and a big crowd. Remember, however, this is not a handicap race. All horses race at level weights. Now they’re under starter’s orders. Top Class a bit restless. The jockey takes a pull. Now Davy is out of line. The starter speaks to his rider. At last Davy is coming up… back in there….

  “They’re off….”

  Once more Jack had to force himself to watch the horses take that first dangerous fence in a bunch. All of them made it safely. Then the field gradually spaced out, and Davy edged slightly ahead as they raced for the second, Quicksilver lost for a moment in the crowd.

  “It’s Davy first over the second hurdle, followed by Top Class. Champion’s Choice by almost a length over Dancer’s Pet. A longish run down to the third, the first three horses over, the others come along. Davy dropping back slightly here….”

  At this point Jack caught a glimpse of Quicksilver as the riders tore for the fourth fence. There was an open ditch that seemed to be troublesome.

  Suddenly Henderson at his side exclaimed under his breath. “Ah, that’s bad, that is. Pure inexperience.”

  The announcer caught the bobble also. “The American horse made a mistake there. He tried to take the fence a stride behind another horse and was very nearly on the floor. Now he’s next to last, racing with Pertinax as they go down the hill. So now it’s Davy, then Dancer’s Pet, followed by Top Class, the leader running within himself, and a length and a half ahead….”

  “Look,” Jack said to himself, “this is only the start. It isn’t over yet.” But his heart was heavy with fear as he watched Davy take the next fence superbly. Tony was riding confidently and well, not panicking, not pushing the horse or using the whip. No sir, it isn’t over yet by any means. I’ve every confidence in the boy and the horse….

  “…a great jump by Top Class there at the seventh, the stands applauding. He’s keeping in touch and gaining on Davy. There… you can see them nearly level, taking fence after fence as they draw ahead at the halfway mark. Davy, a head over Top Class, three and a half lengths over Dancer’s Pet, followed by Champion’s Choice and Rob Roy almost together.”

  Never a word about Quicksilver, Jack thought. Look, this race isn’t over yet. You don’t know my horse. He’s not out of it yet, not by any means. But inside Jack felt an aching doubt begin to grow, although he saw how easily Quicksilver was moving in the rear.

  “Hasn’t made his move yet, Quicksilver hasn’t,” murmured Mr. Henderson beside him. “Look there. There he goes now, sure enough….”

  Yes, he was. He was moving up, slowly, steadily. He passed Champion’s Choice and Dancer’s Pet, who was struggling in the rear, and gained….

  “Ah, there’s a tumble,” the announcer declared. “Top Class is down at the fourteenth. Quicksilver, the American horse, coming right after him, took off at the fence too soon, plunged through, and was very nearly a downer, too. But young Hunting managed to stay on, collected his horse, and they’re off after the leaders. Davy first, then Pertinax, followed by Steady Boy, with Quicksilver fourth. Quicksilver is running strongly now….”

  “Go on, go on,” shouted Violet Robinson.

  “Mummy, he’s gaining, he’s gaining,” both the young children shrieked together.

  Henderson, however, was shaking his head. “Doubt if he can do it. Too near the finish.”

  “And a fine effort by the American horse, a wonderful jump at that last fence. He passed the Frenchman and is two… perhaps two and a half lengths behind. Can he do it? Look at that American horse! He’s started to make a race of it. Too bad his jockey made that mistake, pure inexperience. Certainly he is gaining now, and the French horse is running too. He’s right at Quicksilver’s shoulder and is racing stride for stride with him.

  “It’s still Davy, with four to go. A beautiful jump by Quicksilver, who is perhaps one, maybe one and a half lengths back. He’s not
had a single bit of trouble since that disastrous fifth fence. Anyone’s race. Quicksilver and Pertinax close together. So it’s Davy inside… with Quicksilver pressing hard. They’re over the last hurdle, and now that awful race uphill to the finish. Quicksilver is gaining, hardly more than a head separates them.”

  Jack Cobb buried his face in his hands. He and the head groom were silent, while the children and Violet Robinson shrieked as the horses neared the finish.

  “Now Davy ahead slightly, Davy leading by a neck.” The announcer was fairly screaming into the microphone at this point. “Davy goes across the line, the winner, I think, by the narrowest of margins over Quicksilver. What a race! Here come the others. Pertinax third, now Champion’s Choice, and Steady Boy last….”

  A photo finish. An agonizing pause, as the judge waits to examine the pictures.

  “So,” the announcer intoned at last, “the Cheltenham Gold Cup results…. Davy, ridden by Harvey Thomas, owned by Lord Beresford, the winner by a head. Second, Quicksilver, the American horse, ridden by Tony Hunting and owned by J.I.B. Cobb, of the U.S.A. Third, Pertinax, ridden by Georges Bertrand and owned by Marcel Dupont of Paris. A truly magnificent race. I’ve never heard such a noise as the crowd made when cheering that gallant challenge of Quicksilver after he hit the fifth hurdle. There he goes, the crowd giving him a well-deserved ovation.”

  Then Chester came on the screen with a wide smile. In the room they all talked at once as the Gold Cup was presented to the winner, a tall Englishman in a bowler hat.

  Suddenly the telephone in the office rang. Violet stepped out to answer it. “It’s for you, Mr. Cobb,” she said on her return.

  Jack tossed aside the blanket and stumbled down the hall, weaving into Chester’s office. Like the rest of him, his voice was weak and trembling.