by K. M. Grant
‘We must be there,’ Rose corrected. She did not add ‘to comfort you when it all goes wrong’, though that was what she was thinking.
Garth seemed less dismayed than Rose. Indeed, he fingered the ticket with excitement. Daisy was glad. She did not want Garth to feel badly. Clover and Columbine, deeply immersed in one of their newspapers, wished her luck.
On the day of departure itself, the most upsetting goodbye was to Charles. He looked amazed. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘To Newmarket, then to Epsom.’
‘But why?’
‘He’s The One, Pa,’ Daisy said. ‘We’re going to win the Derby.’
Through a brandy-filled fog, a small alarm sounded. Charles scuffed his feet. ‘Where’s Skelton?’
‘In the courtyard. We’re walking The One to Manchester. I’ll go in the cart. Then we’re going on a train.’
Charles put an unsteady hand on Daisy’s shoulder. ‘Coming out,’ he said. They walked slowly together, Charles leaning heavily so that Daisy’s limp was more pronounced than ever. ‘Sorry,’ Charles said.
‘Doesn’t matter, Pa.’
In the courtyard, Charles shuffled over to Skelton. ‘What’s all this?’ He flapped one hand at Tinker and the cart, and the other at The One, who was being held by Garth. ‘Useless. You said.’
Skelton took Charles’s elbow and steered him out of hearing. ‘Absolutely useless, Sir Charles,’ he said, ‘but we must humour the little lady. She’s determined the horse should run, and I don’t want to disappoint her.’ He patted Charles’s arm. ‘I’m paying. Glad to. Anything to keep Miss Daisy happy.’
‘But he won’t win.’
‘Win?’ Skelton guffawed. ‘Didn’t I tell you what that vet said? The horse couldn’t win an old crock’s race! His leg’s all to pieces.’ He leaned in. ‘The horse only canters now. It’s all he can do. Miss Daisy thinks he’s fast only because she’s never seen a real racehorse.’
‘It’ll be awful for her. Awful.’
‘Aye, it will. But worse not to go when she’s set her heart on it.’
Charles gripped Skelton’s hand. ‘You’ll take care of her, Skelton. Real care.’
‘As if she were my own,’ Skelton said.
Charles shuffled back to Daisy, put both hands on her shoulders, said her name, and then shook, tears rolling down his face. Daisy had to pull away so that she would not cry too.
Mrs Snipper came out. She was brisk. ‘There now,’ she said, setting a basket of provisions next to Daisy’s crutches, which had been neatly tied together and already stowed in the cart. ‘Now, On You Go and Take Care. You say the cart’ll be back here by the End of the Week, Mr Skelton?’
‘A friend’s going to drive it back,’ Skelton said.
‘Skelton has many friends,’ said Garth sarcastically.
‘More friends than you’ve got guts,’ Skelton remarked in a stage whisper that fortunately Daisy did not hear.
As Skelton, leading The One, and Daisy in the cart passed the Resting Place, they heard somebody shouting. Charles was pursuing them. For one moment, Daisy thought that he was going to insist on coming with them. She hated the way her heart sank. But Charles was holding out a small, carefully wrapped roll of cloth secured with a red ribbon. ‘The jockey’s silks,’ he said. ‘You’ll need the jockey’s silks.’ Daisy took the roll, undid the ribbon and shook out a rich copper-coloured jacket with a silver H embroidered front and back, and a copper silver-quartered cap. ‘Oh!’ she whispered. She held the silks up. The breeze filled out the blouse.
‘Our colours,’ said Charles. ‘Red. Forget why.’
‘Because we’ve got a red horse,’ said Daisy softly. The One, impatient, was already walking on, and Tinker fretted to follow. Daisy smiled tremulously, rolled the silks up and gave Tinker his head. Charles raised his hand. He wanted to say ‘Hartslove luck.’ He only managed ‘Hartslove.’
20
The One enjoyed the walk until very late in the evening when they arrived on the outskirts of the city and he was assailed on all sides by clatter and stink. Now he bucketed and shied along the streets, splashing himself and everybody else with all manner of filth. Rolling his eyes and sweating profusely, he refused point-blank to go through the gate into the railway station, and Tinker, following his lead, refused likewise. Daisy had driven Tinker all the way. At her insistence, she and Skelton now swapped places. Skelton did not argue. He saddled The One and Daisy found a streetside mounting block to help her climb on. Hordes of beggar boys shouted rude remarks about her legs. She took no notice. Her familiar weight calmed the horse, although it was only after a good deal more fuss that he finally agreed to enter the concourse’s great vault. Once inside, he was both astounded and calmed by the fact that despite the random blasts of steam, the engine’s whistles and all the echoing racket of humanity in transit, the dozens of dray horses lined up inside were munching their nosebags with worldweary nonchalance.
Daisy was as astounded as The One, though not by the dray horses. She was astonished by the size of the place. Why, the inside of the railway station was almost as big as Hartslove. She was grateful that Skelton quickly found the stalls where The One would stay until he was loaded on to the train in the morning. Though humming with argumentative grooms and street urchins scrabbling for tips, at least they were quieter than the platforms. It was at the stalls that Skelton’s friend found them, and when he drove Tinker away, despite The One, Daisy felt very alone.
Skelton offered a hostel. Daisy refused. It was unthinkable to leave The One unattended. She sat firmly on her trunk. Skelton left her, and Daisy found it not so unpleasant, for after the crowds had dispersed, the rhythmic clip of the railwaymen’s hammers and the creak of the nightwatchmen’s lanterns formed its own lullaby. She made herself comfortable and, with the silks tucked under her cheek, slept surprisingly soundly, not even stirring when somebody covered her with a cloak.
She awoke with a start as the porters arrived, joshing and joking. She was snug under the cloak and The One was amusing himself snatching at the ticket collectors’ hats. Daisy got up, shook out the cloak and folded it up, looking around for its owner. She could see nobody likely, so she left it neatly in front of the stall. Skelton appeared soon after with a scoop of barley and dirty grass in a hessian sack. ‘This’ll have to do for the horse’s breakfast,’ he said. ‘Hey! You!’ He beckoned to a porter. ‘Take all this.’ He gestured to the luggage. The man threw everything on to a wooden trolley. ‘Where to?’
‘Newmarket train,’ Skelton said. ‘We’ve a runner in the Two Thousand Guineas.’ The porter raised his eyebrows and, later, two fingers when Skelton did not offer a tip.
Once the engines’ furnaces were lit, the night-time lullaby of the railway resumed its daytime rumble and roar. Skelton and Daisy, both holding on to The One, had to fight their way through to the horseboxes on the first of the three trains they had to catch. The One baulked and refused to walk up the ramp. Rough handlers with no time for hysterics simply lifted him bodily. Daisy was allowed into the van only to settle The One’s rug, then was hurried away to sit in a carriage further up the train. She could hear whinnying as she left. ‘I’m not abandoning you, The One,’ she cried, but she felt as though she was.
When the train gave its great starting judder, she clutched Mrs Snipper’s basket. ‘We’ve just got to bear it,’ she said, as though the horse could hear her.
Above The One, lying flat on the roof of the train, were Garth and Snipe. Neither spoke – Garth because he did not know who the man with the red coxcomb hair was, and Snipe because he never spoke to anybody if he could help it. Garth had never had any intention of letting Daisy go alone. He said as much to Rose in the note he left. Snipe had been sent by his mother, for whom he had also conducted a bit of business in the town. When the train was well in motion, Garth let himself down into the van. Snipe sat tight.
The One was very glad to see Garth. Bemused and rattled, he could not properly find his fe
et and slithered and slipped as the train lurched and jolted, jerked and blew. Only when the train’s haphazard convulsions steadied into a more regular rocking did the horse begin to relax and soon, like the other horses, he rocked and dozed, dozed and rocked as though he had lived on a train all his life. Garth was careful to climb back on to the roof before they had to change trains. Daisy did not need to know that he was here, and he did not want Skelton to see him.
Daisy remained with The One on the two remaining nights of the journey. In the morning, she always found herself covered with a different cloak. Railwaymen, she decided as she folded it neatly, imagining these to be her benefactors, were a very nice breed of people.
The two first trains were filled with normal traffic. Only on the final train to Newmarket were the horse vans packed with other racehorses, swaddled and bandaged like delicate china, their owners, grooms and jockeys, along with quantities of those underfed and hopeful boys without whom no racing entourage is complete, crammed into the carriages. The One, being neither famous nor important and with only Skelton and the crippled Daisy as support, was relegated to a squashed end stall, far from a window. To Daisy’s great surprise, the horse loaded without protest and when, at last, they arrived in Newmarket, he was not only calm, he appeared to have had his white socks washed and his forelock brushed.
On the platform, Daisy regarded the other horses with dismay. Lofty and slim-legged, they were storks against The One’s sturdier heron. Neither did they show any interest in people’s hats, the scattered remains of porters’ lunchboxes or any of the flotsam and jetsam to which The One was as irresistibly drawn as a browser in an old curiosity shop. Whilst these graceful creatures stood disdainfully as their rugs were adjusted, The One had a good scratch on a convenient pillar. When Daisy picked out his feet, he twisted his neck and took hold of her blouse. Skelton tutted. The other grooms smirked.
The Newmarket racecourse was not at all as Daisy expected. In the windblown open, with wooden stands in seemingly random places, it was noisier and seemed more chaotic than the railway station. Some people had raised tents and were camped like gypsies; others marked their territory with dirty blankets or made temporary homes in carts. Horses were everywhere, and not just racehorses, but trainers’ hacks, dray horses, riding cobs, ladies’ half-breds and endless scruffy ponies. ‘Where do they race?’ she asked one of the hundreds of officious-looking men with binoculars and top hats. He vaguely gestured to a patchily railed stretch of turf on which four families were sharing a hog roast. Grease and old embers stained the grass. Daisy was horrified.
The racehorses’ stables instilled no further confidence. Tatty and leaky, The One’s stall had a gaping hole in the panelling where a previous occupant had taken a dislike to his neighbour and tried to kick him. It was hardly the cosseted accommodation most of the runners were used to at home. Nevertheless, after Skelton had filled the water bucket, put food in the manger and placed the basket full of the One’s brushes in the corner, it was home of a sort. Daisy also found her crutches, though she had no recollection of giving them to Skelton. ‘The race here is just a trial,’ she reminded The One. ‘Don’t forget that the really big day’s not until we get to Epsom.’ As she waited for Skelton to find a jockey, she hoped The One’s stomach felt less knotted than her own.
Skelton appeared at last accompanied by a man resembling a leaf of creased paper. ‘This is Grint,’ Skelton said. ‘He’ll be doing the honours.’ The jockey grunted. Skelton stripped off The One’s rug. Grint ran an unenthusiastic eye over the horse. ‘May not look much’ said Skelton, ‘but if you ride him properly he can win.’
‘Dare say.’ Grint was not unfriendly. He did not like to speak because an accident had deprived him of nearly all his teeth.
‘He’s very willing, Mr Grint.’ Daisy felt she must say something. ‘He’s going to win the Derby.’
‘Dare say.’
‘Would you like to see our racing colours?’
‘Dare say.’
Daisy got them out. The little man made no comment.
‘The horse can recover from the journey today and we’ll get him out in the morning for you to try out,’ Skelton said. ‘Seven do you?’
‘Dare say.’
‘I’ll give you your instructions then.’
The man touched his forelock and left.
Once again, Daisy refused a hostel. She was fearful of horse-tampering and slept across the rope that constituted the makeshift door. At five o’clock, she could not pretend to be asleep any more so she got up and walked The One out on to the course, brought him back, petted him, sang to him and brushed him until he shone. By seven o’clock the horse was saddled and ready and, in her eyes anyway, despite his inelegant shape, the most handsome horse on the Newmarket heath. She told him so many times as she stroked his long face and dusted invisible specks from his blaze. He blew sweet draughts into her neck and danced at the rubbish blowing between his feet.
Many jockeys appeared, yawning, most getting their first glimpses of the mounts they hoped to ride to victory the following day. Like the rest, Grint was dressed in dirty trousers, his calves strapped into leather chaps, boots sticking out the bottom. He did not speak to the horse and with only marginal help from Skelton sprang into the saddle and took up the reins. The One skipped lightly. For the first time a grin split Grint’s toothless face. Daisy liked the grin. It seemed to bode well.
‘Now then,’ said Skelton, fussing with the stirrups, girth and over-girth, ‘the horse is green as a willow, I’ll grant you that, and he’s short of gallop work. But he can gallop, believe me. For a pipe-opener, take him steady for about four furlongs, then let him go. That’s all he’ll need this morning. Is that understood?’
‘Dare say,’ Grint said.
‘We’ll watch from the stand,’ Skelton told him.
The jockey rode exactly as instructed. The One cantered, then galloped without very great distinction. Daisy bit her knuckles throughout. By the time The One drew up, he was panting. Grint, on the other hand, was barely warm.
‘Well?’ said Skelton. ‘Will he do?’
‘Dare say,’ Grint said, leaping off.
Daisy was busy checking The One’s knee. ‘It seems to be all right.’ She ran her hand obsessively over and over. ‘But then, it seemed all right before when it wasn’t.’
‘Nothing wrong with the knee,’ said Skelton.
The rest of the day dragged. In the evening, many grooms purged their horses with laxatives, then swaddled them up against the night air. Skelton brought a purge for The One, but The One would not take it and eventually Skelton tipped it away. That night Daisy was convinced the knee was swelling and checked it every half-hour or so. The horse did not mind, for he, too, was restless in his draughty stall, wary of his left-hand neighbour, a big black colt who constantly bit his rope, and intrigued by the horse opposite, a grey who arrived late with a goat for a companion. Even at midnight the stables saw a procession of owners, trainers and stable lads moving in groups amongst the horses, inspecting, checking, adjusting, criticising, appraising. ‘It’s always like this, the night before a big race,’ a boy said to Daisy as somebody kicked her for the twentieth time. ‘If yer wants ter sleep, don’t stay ’ere.’
Just after dawn, Skelton appeared with extra oats. He forbade Daisy to do any grooming in case the horse sensed something special was afoot and boiled up. Still, once she saw how the black colt’s lad was braiding his charge’s mane, Daisy could not resist copying. The lads might laugh at her – which they did – but The One would be turned out properly. Skelton hissed when he brought Grint to collect the silks. Daisy was unabashed. ‘Doesn’t he look fine, Mr Grint?’
‘Dare say.’ Grint took the silks and left.
When the saddling bell rang, Skelton tacked the horse up and together he and Daisy walked him to the paddock. They were the last in. Strung up to fever pitch, the quality of the other horses was even more pronounced. They stalked after their grooms, heads high,
knowing their own worth. Daisy’s hopes were shaken to their very foundations.
Grint appeared. In the Hartslove colours and with tight-fitting breeches, there was almost nothing of him. He was also carrying a whip. ‘You won’t need that,’ Daisy said at once.
‘Dare say,’ came the inevitable response. He sprang into the saddle. Skelton tightened the girth and over-girth. Daisy put her arms round The One’s neck. She did not care who saw her. ‘Do your very best,’ she told him. ‘You’re The One. So long as you don’t forget that, all will be well.’ She touched The One’s snip. ‘This is only your first race,’ she said, ‘so just do your very best. And, Mr Grint?’ The jockey looked down. ‘Try to make sure he sees the starter’s flag drop, and say go when you want him to go.’ Grint touched his cap. Skelton led the horse out before Daisy got a chance to insist on doing that herself.
She struggled to the stand, past the bookmakers, the swindlers and the fortune-tellers. Skelton joined her when he had sent The One on his way. His face was like iron as they climbed to the top of the stand. The One must qualify for the Derby. He must. Daisy was impressed. Skelton really did care. ‘I’m sure he’ll run as well as he needs to, Mr Skelton,’ she said, noting how tightly the groom’s fists were clenched.
‘Damn right he will,’ was the response.
The horses milled about at the far end of what was called the Rowley Mile. The coloured silks glinted and clashed, green against purple, orange against pink. The starter called the horses into a rough line. Daisy could see the red and silver quite clearly. She could also see that The One had his head stuck in the air. He was not looking at the starter. Nor, Daisy could tell, was he listening to Grint. He was staring at something in the middle distance, and occasionally he whinnied, perhaps for her, perhaps not, Daisy could not tell.
The crowd held its breath as the horses inched together. There was a second of complete silence as the starter raised his flag. The moment he dropped it, the horses shot off and the crowd surged.